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Summary
"You are quite injured," Alastor commented, Lucifer not even bothering to bring his head up to respond. Instead, he looked at the growing golden patches brewing on his white coat, staining the fabric and making it stick to his chest. The pronged wires were falling out now, unkept by their master as they were, and left golden droplets where they hung. Lucifer watched idly as his blood plopped beneath him.
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For Lucifer, what do you do when you stop being Hell's most feared?
For Alastor, what do you do with an immortal being awfully... mortal?
