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Lucifer stands in the staff lounge, hands on his hips and smiling smugly. Tonight was finally their Sinsmas party, for which Charlie had enthusiastically suggested a gift exchange. Three weeks ago she had shown up to their monthly team breakfast with a jar, neatly cut pieces of paper tucked inside.
“Gooood morning, everyone! Since it’s our first Sinsmas all together at the hotel, I wanted to throw a party! This one just for the staff—and our honorary team members, of course!” She raises the glass container and shakes it. “I think a Secret Santa would be fun! I took the liberty of writing everyone’s names down already for us to draw.”
“Must we all participate?” Alastor had asked, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he was reading.
Charlie’s girlfriend snatched the jar away from her and started walking towards the sinner. “Yes, Alastor, you’re participating. We’re all participating. And there are rules.” She narrowed her eyes and looked around the room. “No weapons. No drugs. No anything that goes against what this hotel stands for. Get something normal.”
“Or funny! Or useful!” Charlie eagerly interjects. “Oh, and it doesn’t need to be expensive, we don’t want this to be stressful for anyone or cause any undue financial burden.”
“And that,” the former exorcist agreed, before shoving the jar in Alastor’s face. “Now draw a name.”
Maggie had then gone around the room, everyone reaching in to pluck out a piece of paper. To his initial dismay, Lucifer had drawn what he thought was the worst possible person.
Alastor.
Later that day, he had held up the slip of paper with the demon’s name on it, begging Charlie to let him skip out—or trade, or redraw, literally anything—but she had just given him an exasperated sigh and told him to deal with it.
Okay, she didn’t exactly say it that way, but that was the gist of things. “Think of it as an opportunity to try and make friends with him!”
Yeah, right. Fuck that.
Lucifer hated disappointing his daughter, but the following day he realized he was being presented with the perfect opportunity to piss off the idiot bellhop. Taking advantage of that was just too tempting to pass up.
The staff room had a couple of couches and a few chairs. Like most people, everyone had their preferred spot, Alastor’s of course being one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace. That particular one was now gone, replaced with what Lucifer thought was a very funny gift.
A plain, boring, rolling office chair.
The odds of it being the same one from V Tower? More likely than you’d think.
Lucifer really knew how to put his powers to good use.
The sinner had spent several days tied to it while held prisoner. He knew Alastor hadn’t been very happy with the Box guy’s decision, and felt confident he didn’t want to even see an office chair ever again. So, of course, the fallen angel decided to run with that knowledge.
Snapping his fingers, a red box appears around it, a bow neatly tying itself into place. He considers not signing his name—there would be no mistaking who it was from once opened—but sees it as another opportunity to be annoying. He produces a tag and pen, signing his name and adding a little heart just to be cheeky. Lucifer could not wait until later tonight.
. . . . .
Alastor didn’t notice the lack of his usual chair. He was also an hour and a half late, appearing beside the bar two seats over from Lucifer. “Husker!” he yells cheerfully, effectively interrupting their conversation.
The bartender immediately pours him a drink. “Boss,” he grunts.
Angel Dust, who sat on the bartop beside Husk, flicks the glass of whiskey over to Alastor and loops him into the discussion. “So whaddya think, Smiles? Sure, we had Christmas on Earth and call it Sinsmas here, but like, why celebrate it at all now? Why call it Sinsmas, or is that really just because we’re in Hell?”
Alastor takes a sip and waves his free hand dismissively. “Oh, people will take any reason to celebrate. As you so astutely pointed out, we are in Hell. We would hardly be celebrating the birth of Jesus. So yes, I imagine that’s the reason for the name change.”
Lucifer abruptly turns to the small group of sinners, a bewildered expression on his face. “What? It’s called Sinsmas because Mary fucked. She wasn’t actually a virgin.”
Husk chokes on his drink, and Angel slaps his back, cackling loudly.
“I always fuckin’ knew it!”
From across the room, Charlie looks up when she hears Angel’s laughter and sees Alastor at the bar. Realizing everyone has finally arrived, a bright smile blooms across her face. She claps her hands together to get their attention.
“Alright, everybody! Now that we’re all here, it’s time for the gift exchaa-aaange!” She singsongs the last word, bouncing up and down in excitement.
“When I draw your name, come on up to the table and find your present!” Charlie dances over to a bowl on the end and sticks a hand inside. “And the first person iiiiis… Angel Dust!”
The spider saunters over, scanning the small pile of gifts for his name before picking up a small one on the end.
Lucifer tunes out, mostly just keeping an ear out for his or Alastor’s name. As the table empties, the pink guy seems to be the only one who received something that would actually be appreciated and used—a gift card to some sex shop or whatever, Lucifer thinks. Otherwise everything was well-intentioned, but not quite on brand for whoever was receiving it.
“Dad! Come grab your present!” Charlie's voice pierces through his consciousness, and he perks up.
“Ohhhh, my turn!” He walks up to the table, the last gifts being his and Alastor’s.
Wait. Alastor.
He picks up the long box, flipping it to the side to see a tag with the bellhop’s name written on it in perfect cursive with a few (in his opinion) excessive flourishes. Old-timey bastard.
Eyeing him suspiciously, Lucifer tears back the red and black paper to reveal a plain cardboard box. Pulling off the lid, he freezes mid-motion.
What. A. Dick.
Inside lay a pair of boots, quite similar to his own. Except…
Except they were platforms, and the heels on them were fucking tall. Like, the things would probably grant his height an additional foot if he bothered to put them on.
Scowling, he pulls one out and spins towards Alastor. Lucifer waves it in his face, the sinner wearing a delighted, shit-eating grin, clearly pleased to see him angry.
“Merry Sinsmas! Do you like them, your highness? I thought perhaps if you added a little height, guests might take you more seriously! As we’ve learned, that seems to be an itty bitty problem.”
“Little!? You fucking asshole!” If he could, he would be throwing one of the shoes at Alastor hard enough to do some real damage. Or maybe he’d throw both. Charlie, who stood beside him, likely noticed his hands twitch and gently touched his wrist.
“I think what he means is thank you. Right, dad?”
He grits his teeth. “Yeah. Sure.”
She frowns at him, then stares at the remaining box, her expression apprehensive. “Ooookay. It looks like you're last, Alastor!”
Alastor taps the box. “Well, well, isn’t it just perfect that Lucifer and I had each other! Let’s see what our tiny resident clown got for me!”
He stares down at the tag for a moment before shooting Lucifer a withering glare, and he taps the gift again, this time with his microphone. The box vanishes, revealing the chair.
Lucifer thinks he hears a couple of what the fuck’s—he forgot that aside from himself, Charlie, and Maggie, the others might not have been aware of Alastor’s mobile prison—but doesn’t pay it much attention. He’s carefully watching Alastor’s face, chuckling gleefully when he sees the muscles around one of his eyes twitch.
“Soooooo? Do you like it?”
A clawed hand digs into the top, slicing through the stiff fabric. Alastor looks about two seconds away from hurling it at Lucifer, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He almost wanted him to try. Charlie would be pissed, and while he didn’t want her upset, it would result in her being unhappy with Alastor, which was always a win.
“I’ll take that silence as a yes. Merry Sinsmas, Alastor!”
There’s a long pause, everyone in the room nervously looking back and forth between the pair. Then, with a manic laugh, Alastor snaps his fingers, and the chair is engulfed in green flame.
— — — — —
Alastor didn’t actually burn the chair. He had come extremely close to doing so—he was far from thrilled about being reminded of his time at V Tower, and the claw marks carved into the armrests and sides made it clear this was somehow the exact one he’d been bound to—but thankfully he had a moment of clarity. Lucifer thought he had one-upped him, but he was the fucking Radio Demon. No one could outdo him. Anything else was simply unacceptable.
Instead, he opted for a bit of sleight of hand, vanishing the chair and replacing it with a shadow manipulated into its shape. He burned a decent portion of the rug as well so that, when the flames receded, there was nothing but ash on the floor.
And with that, Alastor successfully faked the death of the office chair.
He could destroy it later. Meanwhile, Alastor would come up with a method of destruction that would both frustrate and inconvenience Lucifer, and take advantage of the opportunity to be as obnoxious as possible.
Lucifer may not realize it, but he had provided the sinner with something that had the potential to be an endless source of entertainment. For both of them, really. While the fallen angel would never admit to it out loud—and nor would Alastor, for that matter—they both found their rather catty, silly little game to be quite enjoyable, a refreshing break from the generally boring day-to-day of life at the hotel.
Lucifer had shouted at him, yelling something about how inconsiderate he was, and in retaliation set the box with the shoes on fire. He was so amusingly petty. Truly pathetic.
The following day, Alastor puts the chair in his office. During reconstruction of the hotel, Vaggi requested Lucifer add one for the Radio Demon in the hopes it “actually gets you to do your fucking job” as she had put it. Alastor felt that he did plenty at the hotel, but arguing with the ex-exorcist was always a waste of time.
Then, to ensure Lucifer came to bother him, he slipped an obscene amount of salt into his coffee while the man wasn’t paying attention, and made a point to loudly mention he would handle the latest incident report (a requirement courtesy of Cherri Bomb). That was roughly five minutes ago, so it was only a matter of—
The door bursts open, and Alastor’s permanent grin widens as he watches Lucifer storm in.
“What the FUCK is your problem? You fucking dick! Do you know how disgusting that was? I should start adding salt to your coffee, see how you like it! Actually, fuck that, maybe some arsenic! Let’s see how you fucking feel then—”
Lucifer rants and raves, horns fully extended, eyes red, and fire occasionally flaring from between his lips. How unnecessarily dramatic. It was clear that, in this enraged state, he had not yet recognized the chair Alastor sat in. Fighting the urge to laugh, the demon decides it’s time to make things a bit more obvious.
Alastor pushes away from the desk and spins around so that his back is to Lucifer before kicking his feet against the floor to roll in his direction. He tilts backwards and grins up at him, the tips of his ears almost brushing Lucifer’s chest. “Good morning, sire! Are you here to assist me with today’s paperwork?”
He raises a hand and taps a finger in the center of Lucifer’s face where his nose would be. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, my dear, but perhaps you ought to find something else to do. You can scarcely remember your own name, and today’s reports require actually knowing who the residents of this fine establishment are.”
He sits up and spins around again, legs out so that he most definitely, accidentally, kicks Lucifer. “Oops! I wasn’t paying attention there, ha ha!”
The fallen angel is positively seething, clearly furious that he couldn’t smite Alastor.
Lucifer reaches out and spins him around to look at the top of the chair, which still sported the claw marks Alastor had carved into it at the party.
After a moment, Lucifer abruptly twirls it back so that he’s staring the sinner dead in the face, hands clutching the armrests. Leaning in close, similar to how Vox had that first day, Hell’s idiot ringmaster lets out a low growl. “I fucking hate you."
“Such crude language and needlessly aggressive behavior! I can only imagine how disappointed our dear Charlie would be!” Alastor laughs maniacally, thrilled to see the flames erupt between horns. He was just too easy.
“You should be pleased to see that your gift is so appreciated! Why, it is quite a practical and thoughtful present. After all, more mobility is always useful!”
“I thought you destroyed it?”
“A simple sleight of hand, nothing particularly difficult. A rather clever trick, no?”
“Trick? I’ll fucking show you a trick,” Lucifer grumbles, trailing off as he clearly didn’t have much in mind in the way of a threat.
Alastor, on the other hand, had a few more snarky remarks, but their beautifully entertaining moment is interrupted by Vaggi.
“Alastor! Can you— Oh no. Nope. I’m out.” She spins around, only to collide with Charlie.
“Vaggi, what is it? Oh… Are you guys, uh, good?” she asks, peering over her girlfriend’s shoulder.
“Juuuust fine, sweetie,” Lucifer grits out, still glaring at Alastor.
“Aw, I’m sweetie now?” he asks, laughing again when he’s shoved away. The back of the chair hits the desk, and Alastor crosses an ankle over his knee.
He looks past Lucifer to meet Charlie’s concerned gaze. “What can we do for you, my dear?”
“Um, Vaggi just had a question for you, I think? I was just tagging along. How is the chair—”
“Babe. Don’t ask. And I don’t have a question anymore.” Vaggi places a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, then snaps her head back towards the two. “Alastor, you need to go take care of the window in 103. The guy shattered it again.”
“Why not ask him?” he asks, jabbing a finger into Lucifer’s chest, who had moved backwards with him. “He’s far more efficient than I am when it comes to repairs! One can hardly compete with the ability of creation.”
“Ugh!” Vaggi throws her hands up in frustration. “One, because you’re the host, and that’s your fucking job. So go do it for once. Two, I’m the hotel manager, so what I say goes. I’m your boss. Want to argue about it? Fine. I’ll just make you do the real stuff a host is supposed to do, like greet the fucking guests.”
Well. Alastor hadn’t been expecting that. Even Lucifer seems to have forgotten his anger, eyes golden once more. They were still face-to-face, and they blink at each other in surprise.
The idea that he was managed by anyone left a sour taste in his mouth, but Alastor needed to be at the hotel. Leaving was simply not an option.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, Alastor turns to the side and tips back in the chair so as to make direct eye contact with Vaggi. “Very well, no need to get so worked up. I understand my role perfectly.”
She raises an eyebrow skeptically, but only mumbles to herself in Spanish. She grabs Charlie by the elbow and begins tugging her from the room. “And you’re fixing it today. And finishing that report.”
With that, she slams the door shut behind her, leaving Alastor and Lucifer alone in the room once more.
“Well—”
Alastor doesn’t get to finish his sentence, Lucifer tugging the chair sharply to send him toppling backwards onto the floor.
When the demon looks up, he is already gone, pink smoke lingering in the air where he had stood.
. . . . .
For the remainder of the week, Alastor made it a point to roll into Lucifer’s presence as often as possible.
He even went to a therapy session when he learned Lucifer would be shadowing. Of course, they were promptly kicked out.
Alastor had sat beside him, spinning in his chair and kicking his feet up onto the king’s lap. This had resulted in some dirt marring Lucifer’s otherwise pristine white pants, and the fallen angel shoved Alastor’s chair away as the sinner laughed wildly. Then Alastor sent his shadow to pull Lucifer’s chair out from underneath him.
And Charlie, because the foolish girl was no fun, broke up their fight.
There was another instance where Alastor had fully intended to tie Lucifer to the chair and send him careening down the lobby staircase during peak check-in time. He was unsuccessful, but even he had to admit that opening a portal beneath him, sending Alastor tumbling right into the center of Baxter’s odd little lab, was both clever and amusing.
Now, it was New Year’s Eve, and all the hotel’s staff and guests were crowded in the main lobby to celebrate.
Alastor was going to make this final day count and, if he played his cards right, start the next year off with an entertaining fight.
The mass of sinners made it impossible for him to break out the chair, but he wasn’t worried. The hotel was large, and Lucifer was bound to sneak away from the crowd at some point. When they weren’t chatting with the same people, Alastor sent his shadow off to keep track of the king. He needed to know where he was at all times if he was to succeed.
And sure enough, just a few precious minutes away from midnight, Alastor’s shadow alerts him to Lucifer’s new location overlooking the lobby, not far from the top of the stairs.
Without bothering to excuse himself, Alastor simply disappears from the center of the group he’d been engaged in conversation with, reappearing in a doorway behind the king. He snaps his fingers, and the chair materializes from a swirl of shadow. He drops into it and glides over to Lucifer, smiling up at him when he leans back and rests his head on the balcony railing.
“Good evening, your majesty! Are you enjoying the festivities?”
Lucifer looks down at him and grunts. “Fuck off, bellhop. I’m not in the mood.”
“Tsk, tsk. Shouldn’t a king mingle with his subjects on such occasions? Or does your hatred for us lowly sinners run deep enough that you’ve no interest?”
“I said leave me alone.” Lucifer turns to face him, crowding close, eyes narrow. “The only sinner in this room that I hate is you.”
He pokes Alastor in the chest, then shoves him hard enough that he rolls a few feet backwards. Lucifer follows.
“A surprising amount of sinners here are somewhat tolerable. And I’m even starting to like some of Charlie’s friends.” He shoves Alastor back again.
“It’s you that I’ve got a fucking problem with. Aren’t you special to have the attention of the King of Hell like this—in a way like no one else in this room does or probably ever will? How does that make you feel, hm?”
Alastor grinds his jaw. It felt good. Really good—if he was being completely honest—to know that he occupied Lucifer’s mind to such a degree.
Annoyed at the twinge of pride he feels at the comment, Alastor spins with the intent of ensuring his hooves connect with Lucifer’s kneecaps. He is caught off guard, however, when he’s spun in the other direction, coming to a jarring halt as the fallen angel roughly grabs the armrests.
Lucifer leans in close, smiling, face inches away from Alastor’s.
“Three!”
His grin widens, wicked and all teeth.
“Two!”
“Happy fucking New Year, asshole!”
“One!”
And with that, Lucifer shoves the chair once more, sending it and Alastor tumbling down the lobby staircase.
He really should have seen that coming. The king had literally been herding him towards the steps. Amidst the cacophony of cheering and yelling, Alastor can hear Lucifer howling with laughter. From his position midair, he can see him doubled over, hand slapping a knee. The sinner is roughly jolted as the wheels finally connect with a step.
As the chair starts to flip, Alastor quickly vanishes into the shadows. He reappears at the top of the stairs several feet away from Lucifer, who hadn’t noticed his escape, eyes too filled with tears. He shoots a tentacle out towards the chair and, quickly looping the inky tendril around it, uses his momentum to swing the piece of furniture around and launches it at Lucifer, the chair slamming him backwards into the wall with a loud crack!
Dazed, Lucifer stumbles forward, coughing and dusting the powder from the plaster off his face. His horns and tail suddenly appearing somehow only made his appearance even more comical, and Alastor takes his turn to start cackling.
It’s only then that Alastor realizes it’s quiet, and that they were, in fact, at the top of the stairs where the flashy New Year's ball was located. Where everyone would be looking.
He doesn’t stop laughing, of course, not particularly concerned with what any of the hotel’s residents thought. Besides, Alastor wasn’t sure he could stop, even if he wanted to.
Lucifer’s eyes were now burning, fire erupting between his horns and from his mouth. He was so dramatic, so delightfully entertaining!
The fallen angel says something—Alastor isn’t sure what—when suddenly six magnificent white and crimson wings burst from Lucifer’s back. As soon as they’re out, Lucifer launches himself forward, heavily colliding with Alastor’s chest. He falls back—
And hits stone. He realizes Lucifer had portaled them outside in front of the hotel.
Well then.
He grins up at Lucifer who is sitting over him, straddling his hips, fists tightly clenched into the front of his jacket.
“You piece of shit—”
Alastor’s shadow finally catches up, office chair held high above its head and wearing a grin more feral than his own. Feeling cheeky, the Radio Demon gives Lucifer a playful wink.
“Happy fucking New Year, asshole!”