Chapter Text
“On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent me
A partridge in a pear tree.”
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There is no such thing as winter in Hell. Until now.
Lucifer curls his wings behind his back as he settles on the balcony, a ruffled Alastor stumbling in behind him through the double-doors.
The softest touch drifts onto Lucifer’s nose, and he sneezes. Then clutches at his nose in betrayal, sharing a wide-eyed look with Alastor.
A snowflake. A snowflake just floated onto his face.
And there’s more, countless more, gently settling over the tops of skyscrapers, into the blood-encrusted streets, until all of infernal Pentagram City was covered in a blanket of white. Spiraling down and down, the curl of snow one Lucifer hadn’t witnessed since the days of Eden.
Alastor and Lucifer face each other. Both are sporting the signs of one of their infamous arguments: pulled feathers, dusty suits, and stormy expressions.
They speak at the same time, fingers and wings pointed.
"This is all your fault!"
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DAY 1
"It’s everywhere," confirms the bartender as he slips back behind the bar, exhaustion showing in the taut lines of his muscles. Husk—or Musk or Tusk or something like that, Lucifer's not a hundred percent sure—flips a rag over his shoulder and shudders. He’d been out a while, checking on the city while the rest of them waited anxiously in the hotel’s lobby. "From Imp Harbor to Cannibal Town. Everyone’s convinced it’s Heaven takin’ revenge for Vox and his, uh, weapon."
Several heavy gazes land on Lucifer, who waves a hand with an uncomfortable laugh. "Oh, that? Water under the bridge! Heh… Kinda. Actually it really hurt."
"But Heaven would never!" Charlie jolts up from the bar seat, ignoring Vaggi's calming hand on her shoulder. "We work with them now, and Emily said Sera doesn't want to start a war with Hell. We're at peace!"
Husk just shrugged. The bartender seemed down ever since the whole TV-man-turned-TV-head thing, and Lucifer was pretty sure it had something to do with the sympathetic glances that kept going around the hotel crew and how the cyclops girl—Berri?—kept setting things on fire. They’d seen neither the hide nor hair of the porn star guy, Angel Dust, since the battle.
"I propose we still ask our luminous and exalted leader to fix our little problem," says the biggest thorn in Lucifer’s backside since the actual first thorn in Eden. Leering over the top of Charlie’s head stands Alastor, bellhop and daughter-stealer extraordinaire, unnerving smile fixed in place.
Lucifer slaps a hand on the bar, pointing accusingly at the demon. "I did not cause the snow. I bet it was you and your creepy magic! You want everyone to die of hypothermia!"
"Why, sire! What a heinous accusation!" Alastor puts a hand to his heart, feigning hurt. His grin stretched as he leaned closer. "Do you have any proof?"
"Okay, how about we back it up a little," Charlie’s nervous laughter sends Lucifer careening back to reality, where he is in fact starting yet another pissing match with the red bitch in the middle of the hotel.
But how could you blame a Devil? Alastor has not left Lucifer alone since he came back from being (pause for laughter) kidnapped (ha-ha! What a loser! Not like Lucifer got caught by the same guy or anything…). No, the sinner just keeps finding Lucifer in every hallway he can, taunting him over dinner or in meetings or out on the balcony while watching the city that never got below eighty-five degrees plummet into the ice age.
Lucifer clears his throat and adjusts his hat. "I’ve never seen anything like this before in Hell. It’s always been very, er, brimstone-y."
Charlie deflates. Consolingly, Vaggie pats her back. "But… that means none of the sinners know what to do! Alastor’s right, they could get hypothermia, or freeze to death!"
"It is pretty funny," says Lucifer, considering. It’s true—from the very beginning, Hell was a desolate landscape of red barren rock. At least Pride was, the ring enclosed with sharp shrubbery and a penchant for acid rain. "Hell literally freezing over."
It takes him a moment to gauge Charlie’s horrified expression, Vaggie’s wince and Alastor’s laughter to realize he said that aloud.
"Ha-ha, but, uh," he fumbles. "I’ll fix it, Char-Char! And all the sinners who are cold can come right in here, where it’s cozy and warm! How about that?"
He nudges her with a shoulder, but she still seems downtrodden.
"It’s like Christmas!" tries Lucifer, desperate now. "Or Sinsmas! We could have a whole theme."
"Sinsmas?" repeats Vaggie, but Charlie is already starting to uncurl, her tail flicking behind her.
"Dad!" she gasps. "That’s perfect. We can curate a bunch of Sinsmas-themed activities, and everyone who needs a place in the cold will come and join the fun!"
The hotel was pretty full these days after Sir Pentious’s redemption was proven, but Lucifer doubts anything less than every single sinner in Pride checking in would be enough for his ambitious daughter.
"What’s a 'Sinsmas based activity?'" Husk-Musk-Dusk asks, squinting.
Charlie flaps a hand. "Oh, you know, like wrath tag and hide and sloth and Lust’s twisters and the beauty contests in Envy…"
"Maybe we can do things a little more low-key," Lucifer offers with a wince. "Since they’re sinners, they probably don’t even do Sinsmas."
"We’re gonna celebrate Christmas in Hell," says Husk, sounding dazed.
Alastor grins. "Oh, this will be amusing indeed."
Lucifer heroically resists the urge to throw something at the bastard.
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Despite the threat of horrific deaths for hapless homeless sinners, Lucifer’s actually kind of excited about this whole Sinsmas business. Back in the palace with toddler Charlie he delighted in setting up gifts under her nose; baking cinnamon pancakes for breakfast; the sleepy joy of being awoken by an excited toddler in the wee hours of the morning. Lilith always wore this specific silk robe she swiped from the Roman Empire, and at the end of the day they settled in one of the palace’s many foyers to unwind listening to tapes and playing with Charlie’s toy blocks.
Obviously, this Sinsmas won’t be anything like that. Charlie’s a grown woman and Lucifer doubts she’d appreciate him sneaking around her bedroom in the middle of the night to place candy wrappers leading back to the gift tree. Still.
"I love Sinsmas," sighs Lucifer. "We can go ice-skating, make hot cocoa, oh! Oh! Decorating the tree! My God, I’ve missed decorating the tree."
"We’re not putting rubber ducks on the tree."
Lucifer stops. He’s settled on a springy couch near the hotel’s entrance, which has been overtaken with Charlie’s planning. Papers float down from the rafters, pile on the couches, and a few are peeking out from the fireplace. The main hotel crew are spread out, sketching out ideas to spin the cold into redemption.
Instead he glares up, and up, and up at Alastor. Ugh. Why did this dude have to be so tall? Maybe Lucifer could cut off a kneecap or two…
Whatever. He’s not giving Alastor the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him this time. Lucifer grins, lazy and slow. "Try and stop me."
Alastor’s eyes narrow.
But then he leans back, checking his claws as if bored.
"You know, you talk big for a king that can’t even harm his own subjects," drawls Alastor, not bothering to look up as he turns his hand to catch the candlelight.
Lucifer fumes. He knows he shouldn’t, but the ache in his chest from Vox’s little trap is still smouldering. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Alastor says. "And to think, we all thought under your protection we’d be safe. I suppose, even in this, you’re useless to Charlotte."
Exhaling smoke, Lucifer jolts to his feet. "Oh, yeah? Like you can do any better? You were tied to a chair for, what, half a season? You did jack shit to save this hotel, bucko!"
His grin tightening, Alastor steps closer, backing them both against the couch’s legs. "Am I to assume that’s how it went with you and your wife, as well? Her doing all the work, cleaning up your messes… as you wallowed without lifting a silvered finger."
Anger, heady with its brightness, rages in Lucifer’s chest. It makes everything wobbly. He growls. "I’ll smite you."
"Will you?" Alastor’s neck tilts, unnatural. "I thought you couldn’t, sire. But please—do try."
So maybe Lucifer can’t put an actual claw on any sinner—there are still other things he can do. He’s been beating himself up over it since failing to intimidate Vox into giving up. He’d been hasty there, didn’t think it through. Although Lucifer can’t harm them, he sure can harm things around them.
Flames sprout from the ground, licking Alastor’s coat. Lucifer’s fingers tingled with power; he rose them higher, higher, until fire glimmered in Alastor’s eyes and something like wariness appeared.
"Have you ever considered," Lucifer says, "that I was lying?"
Alastor watches him from the circle of fire, still and unmoving. The only thing that twitches are his ears, swiveling as if to try and sense a way out. But he is trapped, just like Lucifer was not so long ago. The switch-up makes Lucifer dizzy.
The scent of burning wood hits him, making him blink. Was that—paper—?
"Dad!"
Oh, shit.
That’s Charlie’s papers. That’s the foyer. That’s the hotel, that’s—!
Desperately, Lucifer starts to fan out the fire with his hands, patting out the flames spurting from the couch, the floorboards, all the way up to the ceiling. People are coughing around him, voices shouting, new hotel residents poking their heads out to wonder what’s happening.
Then it’s over. Lucifer winces at the sight of the smoldered paper, sneakily nudging a particularly charred crayon drawing of Sir Pentious holding hands with a random sinner under the couch.
Blonde hair windswept in a nonexistent breeze, the tips of red horns poking out from her skull.
Charlie storms over to Lucifer, hands fisting. Her tail lashes in panicked staccato behind her as she takes in the state of her hotel.
A gulp. Lucifer’s been on thin ice since the failed intimidation tactic, but he thought that hatchet was buried after the whole kidnapping-turned-into-weapon-of-mass-destruction thing. But now—
"Dad," says Charlie, eyes darkening into a demonic red. "You always do this, don’t you? Just when I think—"
Lucifer lurches toward her, but she holds out a hand.
All at once the anger melts out of her, and she stares at the dead remains of her work instead of her father.
"I’m not mad, just disappointed," she says finally.
Lucifer manages, "Charlie, everyone knows that’s worse!"
She pierces him with a glare. "I know that. I just really thought this time that you…" she trails off, hands picking at her arm. "But it doesn’t matter, does it? You don’t change. Not really."
"Charlie—!"
"I’m going to bed," Charlie says firmly. "We’ll pick this up tomorrow morning," she tells the assorted group. Berri gives a thumbs-up. Husk shrugs, Niffty perched on his shoulder.
Lucifer tries to salvage the situation. "That’s fine, I can—"
"Not you," says Charlie, without looking back. Lucifer staggers back, pain lancing through his chest.
His hand falls from where he was reaching out to her.
"Oh," he says weakly. "Yeah. Okay."
Still without facing him, Charlie leaves. Hooves softened against carpet as she leans against Vaggie, who sends Lucifer a sympathetic look.
Then it’s just him in the abandoned foyer.
"And here I thought she couldn’t get more inspiring," pipes up Alastor.
Right. Just him, and that asshole.
Lucifer slumps back into the ruined couch, head in his hands. His hat falls off and flops to the ground. There’s blissful silence for a moment, then to his right he hears someone sit down.
"Just leave," Lucifer mutters. "I’m not really in the mood."
"Hmm, no thank you."
"You’re the fucking worst, you know that?"
"Why, sire, what a compliment!"
"Just go."
"I know you didn’t make the snow."
Lucifer’s head shoots up. Now the anger’s back, trickling as it is. He scoffs. "Um, duh. No-one thinks I did!"
Infuriatingly, Alastor makes a so-so motion. Then he says, "It was Charlie."
For a moment all Lucifer does is stare dumbly, eyes blinking out of sync.
Then: "What?"
"Charlotte froze Hell, my dear!"
"That’s ridiculous," says Lucifer, before pausing. Slowly, he picks up his hat and dusts it off, staring into the distance. "Huh… Wait, no—but… Hmm…"
Sitting beside him the entire time is Alastor, smile smug.
Dreamily Lucifer says, "My first display of magic turned all the waterfalls upside-down."
Damn him, but Alastor’s not slow. After only a moment he says, "But this isn’t Charlie’s first display of power."
"No, it’s not, but for a while it can be—uhh, unpredictable." Lucifer laughs at the absurdity of it, running a hand through his blonde hair before plopping back on his hat. "If she didn’t realize it must’ve been unconscious—during sleep or distraction. Sometimes, when fed by a subconscious desire, the spell can be amplified tenfold."
"And will it fade?"
Lucifer inhales sharply, thinking back to the days, years he'd spent stumbling about with his own magic, the other angel’s. "...No. If no-one counteracts the intention of the spell, it will continue getting stronger. In this case, that could mean covering Hell in a snowstorm—forever."
The realization hangs heavy between them.
"We can’t tell Charlie," realizes Lucifer at once. "She’d—" Blame herself forever. Devolve into self-hatred. All things Lucifer was intimately familiar with. He shivers. "She has no reason to know. I can fix this on my own."
"Mmm, I don’t think so," Alastor says. While monologing Lucifer almost forgot he was there, and jolts, before squinting. Right. Why did this suspicious asshole even tell him anything? Clearly the knowledge didn’t come for free. "I propose a deal. I help you reverse Charlotte’s spell and to do so, I borrow a bit of your angelic power."
"No way," says Lucifer instantly.
But Alastor doesn’t relent, just grins wider. "Think about it, Your Majesty. We may have to, mm, dispose of some people to help the princess rid Hell of its frostbite—and you certainly can’t do that. Neither of us wish her to know what her actions have really done. We’d be working together, as allies."
"Like a truce," Lucifer muses. He frowns up at the demon, whose ear flicks irritably. "I won’t make a deal with you, sinner. I’m not that stupid. But a truce—"
He brightens, straightening in his chair. An old phrase springs back at him, and a smile creeps up his face. "A Christmas truce. That I can agree to."
Alastor raises an eyebrow. "And what would this truce entail, my lackadaisical liege?"
"We reverse Charlie’s spell before Sinsmas eve, and during that time, you can use a little of my power specifically to help me."
It’s risky. God, but it’s risky. Yet Lucifer can’t even imagine telling Charlie she was the cause for what will be so much chaos and, likely, bloodshed. When the sinners realize the snow isn’t going away, what will they do? He’s pretty sure none of them own heaters, or gloves.
Alastor takes a long moment to reply, calculating, before his grin ticks up. The expression on his face makes Lucifer glad he put a time-stamp on the offer—even if it all goes wrong, his power won't be indebted to Alastor indefinitely.
Alastor holds out a claw-tipped hand. Lucifer is about to refuse, but Alastor clicks his tongue. "Formalities, my knavish king. At least do me this."
And so, reluctantly, Lucifer takes the demon’s hand in his. Alastor’s palm is surprisingly soft; not roughened or sharpened over the years in Hell but rather smooth, slotting perfectly in with Lucifer’s. His grip, however, is unforgiving.
"Truce?"
"Truce, Your Majesty."