Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heat from his hellfire lingered on his skin, the warmth grounding him as Lucifer stepped onto the lobby floor—whoops, slippery! Haha. Maybe no one saw that little stumble; he's fine, he's fine!—and beamed with an unnaturally wide smile, his arms out placatingly (and also a little for balance).

"Charlie, my sweet, lovely daughter! I am so so so so—"

Someone coughed sharply. Lucifer finally looked up, blinking.

Oh.

He was—huh?

"Welcome to the Vee Tower, Your Majesty," the TV sinner smarmed, the expression on his face mocking and cruel as he straightened his lapels with a showman's indifference. The two other sinners from the rally flanked him, bathed in the same bloody-red glow of the room, just as gleefully sadistic and awed by their own ham-fisted gumption.

Ugh. These mouthy mortals, always thinking they were bigger, stronger, faster than they actually were. It never changed, not once in the thousands of years into eternity.

Lucifer scowled at them, folding his arms across his chest and pointedly ignoring the quickening pitter-patter of his heart.

They knew he couldn't do anything to them now; had somehow fucking called his bluff and been right.

He was powerless here, and they knew it.

Unbidden, Lucifer felt himself shrink under the reminder. He sucked in a sharp breath to steady himself—only to cough and sputter at the acrid stench of pheromones thick with stale urine and body sweat. Gross. These sinners were so stupidly gross!

TV-head (Rocks? Talks? No, no—Box? Yeah, that seemed right. His face looked kinda like a box, and these sinners loved their irony) quirked an amused brow at him.

Whatever.

He wasn't planning to stick around to find out whatever depravity they had in mind. "Where's Charlie?" he snarled, mouth hot with the flames he kept on his tongue. "I might not be able to hurt you but—"

"But? But what?" Box purred, stepping closer with a menacing grin and starting to circle around him, making Lucifer twist and jerk his head to follow each quick, taunting pass. "You're my prisoner no—oooow, FUCK!" he yelped as he, too, nearly slipped on the wet floor, catching himself just in time.

He immediately shot Lucifer a heated glare, daring him to say something. Lucifer sourly glared right back.

"¡Vaya manera de arruinar nuestras dramáticas presentaciones, Vox!" the moth sinner muttered under his breath, embarrassed now; his smile had lost some of its earlier bravado, replaced with something more mildly annoyed.

Next to him, the last of the trio gave Lucifer a cool, assessing look, her eyes skimming over him with needle-sharp precision. "That ugly mess is your fault, by the way," she accused simply.

Sensing his confusion, she gestured broadly toward the windows behind him.

Or, well, the open space where the windowpanes should have been, leaving him staring in mild disorientation at the storming red sky of the Pride Ring. A bolt of lightning shrieked somewhere nearby, likely a few blocks away, the sound agonized and unnatural. But it was still bright enough to illuminate the glittering sharpness of shattered glass and debris strewn across the penthouse's flourishing terrace garden and spilling onto the floors.

A burst of wind brushed his face with a spray of rain, pooling on the tiles below.

Oh. Right.

('Cause I'm the serpent, I'm the flame. The mortal world is scared to say my name.)

He had blown the windows out when he had tried to intimidate Box with his fire and magic, hadn't he. Huh.

The reminder was enough to make him turn back to the trio and take in the open-floor penthouse with a more focused, baffled scrutiny.

Two couches sat to his right, arranged around a circular table that felt strangely formal beneath the modest flat-screen television. In front of him and slightly to the left, glowing an electric blue beneath all the smothering red–red–red, was a recessed nook in the wall; a desk cluttered with an obscene, absolutely unnecessary number of monitors.

And the Radio Demon, vexedly strapped to a cushioned office chair, staring right back at him.

Nearby, a spiraling staircase curled upward into nothing but darkness.

His gaze darted back to the sinner overlords. Oh wait—and the spider sinner from Charlie's hotel was also standing there too, glassy-eyed, expression drained into an unnerving sort of nothingness.

Wait, what was he doing here? (And what was his name again?) And was that—? Lucifer turned back to the sea of monitors, where Alastor was giving him a deeply put-upon look, eyes narrowed, that smile barely hanging on by a thread.

Why was the Radio Demon here? How had he managed to get captured already—he had just quit the hotel, hadn't he?

Did Lucifer feel guilty about that? No! (Maybe.)

…Y'know what, what was happening right now?

From behind him, Box pushed at his back, claws curling possessively over Lucifer's shoulders. "See, Alastor—" he was beginning, dragging Lucifer toward the chained Radio Demon and doped-up porn sinner. "You don't know shit! I was right and you—"

Why was Lucifer still standing here, letting himself get shoved around? Charlie clearly wasn't here, at least not obviously. The sinners could handle themselves. Probably. His daughter was the one who needed him.

"—and I'm going to be the God of the new world, while you're stuck here being my bottommost bitch—"

He should probably check the Hotel first and then come back here with backup, if he actually needed to. His soon-to-be daughter-in-law would likely know what to do, even if they both had messed up and Charlie—she—

A familiar nervousness twisted in his chest.

He'd promised her he wouldn't make things worse this time.

And yet, here he was. Surrounded by the overlord media demons who had started this whole thing in the first place. Giving them the leverage they needed to hurt her, again and again.

He ruined everything. Charlie was right, of course she was. He had fucked things up enough for her.

Best to alert the others and then leave the heavy lifting to them. He was okay being the messenger; less chances to make a mess of things, despite how much he's trying to be better and support his darling girl.

(She was never going to talk to him again, was she? This was going to be the final straw, the proof that he wasn't just a bad father, he was the problem.)

Trying was never enough. Of course it wasn't. The road to Hell. Good intentions. Ha. He would know.

He stepped to the side, starting to move away—

"Lu," Box grinned, sharkish, the unsolicited nickname grating on him. "I didn't say you could leave yet." He lunged lightning-quick and clamped a hand around Lucifer's arm.

Lucifer wrenched himself out of the sinner's grip—or tried to—only for the next second to dissolve into a blur of electric blue jolting sharply across his face, his vision going spotty as the world stuttered and snapped, his scattered thoughts burning away into numb, tingling shock (hah! haha!).

Being electrocuted didn't hurt, not really. It prickled like a phantom touch across his skin, unpleasantly ticklish. It was the audacity that stung—the sinner daring to lay hands on Lucifer, the motherfucking Devil and King of Hell, like he was some common lackey he could taunt and abuse.

"I have a plan for you," Box told him importantly, spinning him, dipping him low in a grotesque imitation of a romantic dance. Razor-thin angelic threads snaked around him, tight enough to hold him in place yet flexible enough to allow his struggles, a silent acknowledgment that he could be dangerous if he cared enough to, to, to—

Lucifer's feet unwillingly stumbled, tripping awkwardly after him. Another burst of electric heat danced along his skin, his vision streaking in and out of focus.

He was chained down here, couldn't touch them, couldn't hurt them.

(You're weak, you're weak, you're weak.)

The moth overlord caught him, leaning in as red smoke curled hot and choking over Lucifer's face. Another loop of angelic thread wrapped around him. He flailed instinctively, arms scrabbling for purchase, but the world tilted and see-sawed all around him.

Lucifer seethed. The King of Hell, reduced to being spun like some infernal marionette. These—fucking—pests!

With a miserable shove, Lucifer fell into the other, tinier overlord's waiting arms, her poofy dress flaring dramatically as she spun him—spun him—spun him.

Somewhere around him, everywhere around him, his thoughts moving both too-fast and too-slow, he heard:

"You should be honored. You're going to be my—" the voice warped into buzzing static, crackling with gloating menace, "—ᵽøwɇɍ søᵾɍȼɇ. Knock him out, Val."

"My pleasure," the other one hummed, getting right up into Lucifer's face, the whimsy of his heart-shaped glasses at odds with the disgusting hunger etched across his sinful expression.

No. Nope. Absolutely not. He was not doing this again.

(No, no, no—stop—)

He refused—he refused—

The world streaked from hellish red to a cold black, colors draining like spilled ink, until all that was left was a thin, brittle wash of faded monochrome and his rabbiting heartbeat, loud in his ears as the last tether to a world being swallowed by the void.

(Charlie—)

He was so, so sorry.

Chapter Text

"Carmine…really outdid herself…didn't she?...The weapon…that's going to…bring down…God."

There was low-level humming in the back of his head, staticky and hissing. The white noise of his blacked-out mind trying to claw its way back into consciousness.

"Oh, I think he's…waking up…" he heard, vaguely, like he was underwater.

"Hmm, faster…than expected," was the disgruntled answer, "Angel…bring him…closer…"

Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut, the noise swelling into a dull roar as a soft hand ghosted over his shoulders. His legs dragged helplessly behind him as he was hauled unceremoniously across the tiled floor.

"Sorry, Short King," the spider sinner muttered under his breath.

Lucifer tried another deep, wheezing gasp.

Charlie.

He needed to make sure she was okay—that she knew her dad wasn't in any real danger—but also warn her that her friends were here, taken by the media overlords. Lucifer gulped in a hiccuping breath, each inhale shaky and skipping in acute little bursts. The thin angelic threads tightened just enough with every attempt at a full inhale, reminding him how restrained he was.

He peeked an eye open, only to stare blankly in confusion.

A domed ceiling towered above him, red swirls spinning hypnotically, blinding him, each pulse stabbing a sharp, jagged pain into his head

They weren't in the Vee Tower anymore. The space around him stretched into an enclosed, observatory-like chamber, every inch of walls and ceiling consumed by massive, glowing screens. In the center of the room rose a conical tower, covered in a chaotic mosaic of flat televisions, the blocks stacked haphazardly atop one another.

And, Lucifer squinted blearily, at the very top perched a stately cushioned throne.

That was—ridiculous, really. He'd shake his head if only the headache burning through his skull would let him.

"What do you think, Lu," Box approached him, a grin stretching across his face as he arched his lightning-topped cane (wow, copycat) toward the rounded-out ceiling.

"Ugh," Lucifer rasped, shifting against his binds, trying to eke out a single deep breath instead of only the panicky little gasps he was currently managing.

His mind was starting to fray at the edges, worry bubbling like molten fear just beneath his skin.

(Charlie—he needed to—)

The knife-edged tip of the lightning bolt was nudged under his chin, forcing his eyes up to meet Box's smug grin. Around him, above him, on every screen and curve of the ceiling, the unending red swirls blinked; perfectly matching Box's own cutting gaze.

It, surprisingly, hurt.

Lucifer had almost forgotten the sting of pain; it had been so long since anything could really touch him. Now, his skin didn't feel like his own anymore, fever-hot, biting at him with every tiny little movement he made.

Thinking was just so hard.

"You're not going to pass out again, are you?" the overlord asked, frowning down at him. He then cut a look to the side and snapped suddenly, startling him, "Angel, hold him up. And don't let him get away this time."

The porn sinner dutifully locked the bottom set of his arms around Lucifer's middle, tightening his hold as he held the King against his chest, keeping him in his lap. Lucifer's breathing hitched again as he tried to twist to the side, to pull away from the both of them.

Box reached for his face, slowly, telegraphing his movements, like he didn't want to spook him; like he wanted Lucifer to know just how powerless he really was. The hands on his chin were cold, the tip of Box's fingers sharpened into electric-blue talons that sparked against Lucifer's warming skin, electricity dancing in tiny zig-zagging streamers that snapped through the air.

"Vox," Angel whispered. Someone was trembling, frenetic and restless. Was it Lucifer shuddering in the locked hold, or the spider sinner pressing into him, coiled tighter than even the angelic thread?

"Shush," the overlord snapped back, and then Lucifer's entire world bled red.

He needed—his daughter—no, he needed—to help the sinner overlords create order.

Hell: his cruel punishment for gifting mortals free will, for dooming humanity. The place was overflowing with the depraved, beaten down by those who would exploit and punish them. He would find some shred of peace in helping end their eternal suffering.

Yes. He would make things right. For once.

"Good, good," someone sang to him.

He was being good, wasn't he? No longer always making a mess of things and fucking up his—daughter's ħø–ħø–ħøŧɇł?—no longer failing Hell with his pathetic attempts at ruling.

"I'm sorry, this is all my fault," he vaguely heard from above his head, the accented voice choking and unending, like an old memory threading through the feathery haze behind his eyes. Everything was red and washed out, the edges of reality dissolving around him.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

His body felt like it had been replaced with the immense weight of a black hole. Every limb was lethargic and sticky-slow, his mind trailing behind, severed from himself. He felt like he was drifting off into the empty cosmos. Something had been stolen from him, he thought, though he couldn't say what.

Someone was screaming.

"I'm sorry," the voice cried again, tucking him into soft fluff. It tickled pleasantly against the back of his neck.

Lucifer was floating away, but still the question bubbled up into his untethered awareness: Who was trying to talk to him...?

"So your master plan was to trick your way into stealing someone else's power? Really! What kind of God siphons power from others instead of wielding his own? Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering how much you rely on the other Vees just to feel even a single shred of strength."

"Shut your whore mouth," V–Vo—Box snarled, storming away from the two of them and towards the—the red-clad demon settled primly on a wheely chair, his legs crossed and a withering look of condescension painted across his expression.

"You're really nothing without your friends, aren't you, chum?" the voice charmed back, filled with radio static and something oddly familiar.

Lucifer swallowed, blinking.

"Alastor, don't," the one still holding him whispered in concern.

"You old-timey fucker," Box tantrumed, before forcibly taking a ragged breath. With deliberately false poise, he continued, "I thought you didn't believe in friends."

"Oh," Alastor answered back cheerily, "I don't. I'm not foolish enough to think the people around me aren't already plotting my demise. Especially while I waste my time tucked away on my own, leaving them to their machinations."

"And just what the fuck do you mean by that—?"

"Aren't you curious?" He demanded at once, "They said they'd be running last-minute checks, didn't they? But really—what could they possibly be checking, when anything they could ever need is already here?"

With a flash of white light, the TV overlord dissolved into pure electricity, leaving the air thick with ozone and the acrid tang of burning wires. One second he'd been looming over them, steeped with poisoned arrogance—and the next, he was simply gone, leaving the three of them alone with each other.

"Haaaaah hah," the Radio Demon cheered, spinning his chair around in celebration. "Finally! Some peace and quiet!"

With the other overlord's absence, Lucifer felt himself instinctively relax into the fluffy sinner's warmth, tilting his head up just enough to settle comfortably against him. He blinked slowly, trying to shake off the lingering red haze still shrouding his vision, the cobwebs in his mind sluggish to clear. He tried another blink and then—oh. Two mismatched eyes were staring down at him, wide and wet, tears gathered in the corners.

"…Wha?" Lucifer managed, voice surprisingly hoarse, his brows knitting together in sympathetic distress. "What's wrong?"

"Spoke too soon," the captured Radio Demon sniped pointedly from his spot a few paces away, his chair squeaking as he slowed his spin into something slightly more respectful but no less obnoxious.

Lucifer ignored him.

"TV scrambles… the brain…" Lucifer heaved, wishing he had his hands free so he could give the porn sinner a few gentle pats on the knee. Just a little comfort. No hard feelings; really, there was no need for the tears.

"Ha hah!" Alastor cackled, "If that isn't the smartest thing I've heard you say all day! Though I suppose that isn't saying much, considering you fell for one of the oldest scams in the book."

"...Hey!" Lucifer snapped, just a beat too late, as the insult finally registered. His head throbbed at the outburst, but he ignored it, kicking his feet out for leverage so he could twist around and properly scowl into the radio sinner's dumb face.

He'd thought he was talking to Charlie, okay? It had been her number and everything.

And okay fine, maybe he should have realized she'd be at the Hotel instead of wandering around the middle of Pentagram City. But—! She'd only kicked him out a few hours ago, and he didn't know what she and Vanya might've gotten up to in those messy, post-argument moments. She could have been in danger.

(She could have wanted to make amends.)

Alastor had no idea what he was talking about.

Lucifer snarled, the sound catching low in his throat as he jerked around—only for the Radio Demon to laugh at him again.

Asshole.

The porn sinner behind him suddenly hissed, sharp and horrified, "Hey—stop moving like that, you're cutting yourself into fucking ribbons!"

Lucifer froze mid-twist, blinking down at himself. Oh. The angelic thread, so thin it may as well have been a trick of the light, had etched macabre little rings of gold around his arms, legs, and neck. It… looked kind of awful, actually. Disturbingly awful.

A little spike of unease crawled through him as he realized he had no idea what the parts he couldn't see looked like.

But, well, nothing to do about it now.

Lucifer slapped on a brave face.

Luckily, he would be fine. He'd had worse and this was nothing for someone like him. He already knew he couldn't die down here, not even from angelic weapons. Lucifer opened his mouth to say exactly that, breezy and dismissive: "Don't you worry 'bout th—"

"Just—stop! Let me help you," the sinner blurted, voice cracking as the upper set of his arms landed onto Lucifer's shoulders and gave him a quick, startled shake; it was firm enough to silence him, but careful enough not to hurt him.

Lucifer bit his tongue, blinking up at him, utterly confused as his thoughts struggled to solidify in any helpful way.

The fluffy spider sinner gently—so gently—helped Lucifer to his feet, his expression scrunched into something tight and desperate. As the sinner fretted over him, carefully combing the hair matted to his sweaty forehead away from his eyes, Lucifer squinted, forcing himself through the stubborn little headache that he was reminded still lingered behind his skull.

Uhhhh.

What was his name again? C'mon, he knew this! Angie—or, no… um—Ant Eater? Lucifer shook his head and let out a frustrated sigh. No, that was stupid.

The sinner, smoothing down Lucifer's electrified, frenzied hair back into place, flinched slightly at Lucifer's unhappy frown. Lucifer didn't notice, instead feeling his energy slowly returning to him, one heartbeat at a time as he cast his mind back to his time at his daughter's redemption hotel.

Wait—he's got it!

"Anthony!" he shouted triumphantly, a grin spreading across his face. His voice cut distinctly through the tentative quiet. The sinner who also went by Angel Dust! Yes, yes, that's it! He's still got it!

The pornstar's eyes widened, the forced relaxation in his posture faltering. Instead of smiling back, he stared at Lucifer cautiously, as if trying to get a read on him. "What?"

"What, what?" he parroted back.

Angel's gaze drifted away, the faint crease in his brow tightening as he hunched slightly, making himself smaller.

Lucifer blinked, unmoored by the odd reaction. He smiled wider like that would help at all. Was this a bigger deal than he had thought? Had he just dead-named him or something?

"I remembered your name. Anthony—or wait, Angel Dust! Right?" He faltered, suddenly unsure if he even had the right sinner in mind. Had he just confidently called someone the wrong name to their face? That would be embarrassing, oops haha. "You live at the Hazbin Hotel with my daughter, Charlie… don't you?"

"Yeah, yeah…that's me," the sinner answered, stepping back and letting his gaze linger on the lines tracing Lucifer's skin like golden-spun spiderwebs, rather than meeting his eyes. "Look, I'm—"

He broke off, jaw tightening. His fingers twitched, then his hands flew up, yanking at the fluff of his hair in frantic clumps. Lucifer instinctively leaned away from the outburst, startled.

"I'm sorry, okay!" he burst out, pacing the floor. The mismatched glow of his eyes was bright in the observatory's dim, sterile light as Lucifer watched him back, trying to catch his gaze and understand just what the fuck was happening right now.

"I… I didn't mean for him to find out," Angel Dust whispered, voice tight with shame. His eyes darted everywhere but at Lucifer's. "He made me follow Vaggie using his dumb hypnosis shit, and I—I heard you tell her you couldn't hurt sinners. But I… I didn't—I wouldn't…" the fight suddenly went out of him, his shoulders slumping in miserable defeat, "I did this."

There were three fresh, scabbed-over scratches marking one side of his cheek.

Lucifer frowned, the impulse to reach out gnawing at him. "What… what are you talking about?"

"I should probably go… check on Alastor. He's being awfully quiet over there, y'know," Angel interrupted, stepping back just a fraction, hesitant. "Try not to move so much, Short King."

Lucifer frowned, his confusion shifting into alertness as his mind scrambled to catch up with the earlier conversation. "Go? Why do you need to...?"

Angel laughed, mean and too loud, like it was scraping at something raw inside him. "C'mon, don't pretend. I ratted you out. Vox used me to spy on the Hotel, and I didn’t even know it, and now you're the one tied up and bleeding because of it. 'Sorry' doesn't even cover it anymore. There's no fixing this."

He stepped back. Behind him, Alastor hummed quietly, uncaring, as though he were nothing more than an inconvenient backdrop.

Something inside Lucifer lurched. His mind was racing.

"Just, hold on now," he said.

(Charlie wanted him to stop fucking up her life. He'd managed only a single, pitiful month back in her life before screwing up enough for her to send him away. Alone, once again. Even now, he couldn’t stop hoping she'd change her mind, even though he knew she wouldn’t.)

He wouldn't watch Angel Dust slip away the same way. Not this time.

Lucifer quickly stepped forward—only to be halted as a sharp jolt of pain shot up from the foot he held poised in the air. Those stupid angelic threads! He veeeeeeery slowly set his foot back down.

Angel Dust stared, wide-eyed, back at him.

Okay, fine. He'd stay all the way over here, then.

"You told Box about me?" Lucifer asked, wanting—needing—the world to slow down so he could think; untangle this mess; fix it at least a little bit.

"Box? Hah!" Alastor barked from the background, laughing nonsensically, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

Angel Dust didn't seem to hear. Or maybe he was choosing not to. He stayed still, both sets of arms wrapped around himself in a trembling self-hug. "Y-Yeah…" he murmured, voice cracking. "I did. Not… exactly redemption-worthy, I know. Kinda my fault things are going to shit, huh."

Lucifer's chest tightened.

A heavy silence settled between them. Angel's confession hung in the air.

But he couldn’t be more wrong. Sure, there was plenty of blame to go around, but it was time to set the retribution squarely at the feet of those who actually deserved it.

Lucifer was struck with the painful fact that these were the sinners he had failed: people like Angel Dust who cared about Charlie and her dreams almost as much as he did. Box hadn't been entirely lying; Lucifer had left them to suffer alone. In the past, he had tried to bring playfulness, levity, and small comforts into their brutal little lives. Lu Lu World had worked for a moment—until it hadn't. And now… now it felt like only the splintered edges remained. 

"Angel Dust," Lucifer said softly, his voice careful, deliberate. He let the name linger, as if saying it aloud could somehow anchor them together.

(Charlie had asked him to leave. She hated him.)

He would do better now.

"I forgive you," he said softly, the smile on his face gentle, tentative, and full of quiet longing.

"You—what?" Angel Dust said, thrown, like that was the last thing he'd expected from the King. He doubled down, voice barbed. "I betrayed you, I'm… I'm putting Charlie in the middle o' the firing line. She could get hurt because of me and my stupid decision to work for Val in the first place!"

Lucifer caught the fraction of hesitation in Angel's back step, the barely-there twitch of his hands at his sides. He held himself with this small, subtle tension, like he'd learned to coil himself against invisible blows by lashing out first. The sinner's eyes flicked to Lucifer repeatedly, scanning, questioning. 

When Lucifer only blankly stared back, Angel Dust scowled fiercely. The sinner raised his chin, finally settling his gaze coolly onto the short fallen angel. He went for the throat: "What kind of father don't even give a damn that his daughter's in danger?" 

Lucifer's smile curved faintly, keeping his voice light and airy, letting the words float over the serrated edge. "I'm not perfect here, either."

There was such a familiar self-hatred in his eyes; a self-loathing that Lucifer knew too well.

Angel Dust frowned, "What are you trying tah say?"

Lucifer sucked in a bracing breath and shuffled forward in careful little hops, trying not to let the threads bite too hard into his skin. Tiny golden beads dotted the dirtied white of his pants and waistcoat where the threads had grazed him. He had to make sure the sinner understood what he was about to say.

"Box is the one at fault here," Lucifer said, his voice steady. "If Charlie’s in danger, it’s because he set the trap and plans to spring it. I gave mortals free will—and damned millions, no, billions of souls down here to this hellish, absolutely god-awful pit."

Angel Dust's eyes went wide, a sudden intake of breath escaping him as Lucifer's foot twisted awkwardly, the threads biting into his skin. But Lucifer didn’t stop. He pushed through the pain, forcing himself closer.

Lucifer stilled dutifully, letting the threads slacken just enough to ease the pinch. He didn't wait for him, "And I'm going to use my free will to forgive you."

"Yeah, alright, alright, I get it," Angel Dust finally managed, breathing out slowly, realizing he had been holding his breath for too long if he was feeling this breathless. He used the lower half of his arms to stabilize Lucifer’s unsteady position. The King wobbled, looking up at him with something ancient and unfathomable in his eyes.

"And I'm sure Charlie would agree with me," he asserted with quiet confidence.

"Probably," the sinner replied. The tension on his face had smoothed out, just a bit. "Princess is made of rainbows and sunshine and shit."

Lucifer beamed up at him, the light stings finally catching up as he wavered and barely managed to steady himself.

Without needing to be asked, Angel Dust guided him gently to the floor before he could go completely limp in his arms and tear himself up any further on the angelic thread. A single heartbeat later, and then Angel Dust was following after him, letting Lucifer slump against his shoulder, feeling just as sapped and wrung-out as he did.

"Hug?" the Devil (from the motherfucking Bible) asked, almost childlike, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

Right now, Lucifer couldn't hug him himself—not with the way his arms were immobilized to his side—but maybe, once they were rescued and back at the Hotel, they could make this into something real and honest.

Angel Dust blinked over at him, thrown.

They stared at each other. Neither moved.

Angel’s hands twitched, hovering uncertainly for a moment. Lucifer felt a small hitch in his chest at the hesitation, a faint echo of what had just happened with the TV overlord flickering between them. Then, slowly, cautiously, the sinner wrapped his arms around the fallen angel. The lower set of arms slid hesitantly around Lucifer’s waist, the motion far softer than it had any right to be. The upper arms brushed over his shoulders—careful, tentative—as if testing the waters.

Lucifer exhaled softly, the air shaking slightly as he let his head rest against the scratchy fabric. The layered dress the fashionista overlord had made for the pornstar for his big debut was made up of far too many teal colors, but that was okay. The simple warmth, the gentle pressure, it all grounded him in a way he hadn't realized he needed.

Angel’s grip tightened, not forceful, just enough to hold on. Lucifer felt the tension between them ease, a quiet, unspoken understanding settling in. He waited, breathing evenly, hoping Angel would feel it too. Finally, Angel relaxed fully, and Lucifer closed his eyes, letting the fragile moment of connection stretch out.

It was brief, but no less real.

"Well, isn't that just a disgustingly pathetic display of affection? I should have known better than to expect anything else from our failure of a King."

"Alastor, you're next," Lucifer called over, still with his eyes closed, his voice carrying a playful command.

"I would rather kill myself," came the immediate, dry response.

Lucifer peeled open his eyes, gaze drifting through the shimmering layers of fabric and then over to the wheely chair. Alastor was lounging happily in it, comfortably bored, nose upturned and eyes narrowed with that infuriatingly arrogant look of his.

"Only after you kill Vo—I mean, Box," Angel Dust tossed back, giggling. Lucifer couldn't quite understand why that was funny, but he was glad to see the sinner's mood had improved somewhat.

"We have ourselves a deal!" the Radio Demon delighted right back.

Lucifer laughed into the dress, his body shaking slightly. They sure were in a pickle here, what with the upcoming Heavenly war and the trap Charlie was about to walk into, but. But. Angel Dust looked down at him, his pale eye wide and worried, the expression on his face tender, softened by the bruises of his own suffering. Lucifer felt a flicker of warmth, a fleeting sensation of being seen, of being held without expectation.

These were his people.

Charlie had been right to challenge him to see them as more than the horror stories he'd been entrenched in.

"Erm..." Angel Dust eventually began, quietly, his voice hesitant. The sinner was giving him a sheepish look, one of his many arms scratching the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the shared vulnerability of the moment. Lucifer sleepily smiled through the awkwardness. Angel Dust snorted, but he did smile back, finishing with a meaningful, "Thanks."

"Call me Lu," he requested.

Box had said his name like it was a taunt, but Lucifer knew the only way to reclaim it was to take it back, make it his own again. To share it with the people who mattered to him.

It was going to be an uphill battle to reclaim his royal title, though, wasn't it?

He sighed deeply.

"Lu," Angel Dust tried out.

Lucifer glanced at Angel, then at Alastor, feeling the weight of their presence in a way he hadn't before. For the first time in a looong while, it didn't seem like they were bound to tear each other apart. These sinners that were meant to be part of his eternal punishment.

He said quietly, almost to himself, "Together, then."

"Together," the sinner echoed back, unhesitatingly.