Chapter Text
Angel Dust had not returned. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours if you were counting, which, of course, Cherri and Husk were. The bastard wasn’t answering calls. Texts. Cherri had tried reasoning with him, Husk had tried guilt, Niffty had tried emotional manipulation. Vaggi had gone as far as putting her phone on ringing while dramatically staring into the void, waiting for Angel’s return like some kind of soap opera angel-withdrawal montage. Alastor, in a fit of spectacular craziness, had a phone specially ordered from the Greed Ring that he christened “The Abomination”, only for his texts to be left on read.
And still nothing.
Husk, predictably, was unraveling. But instead of the usual grumpy drunk routine, he had graduated to the depressive, pathetic drunk routine.
He manned the bar like a zombie who’d once been a charming cat demon but now poured whiskey with the soul of a soggy sock.
At night, he’d drag himself into Angel’s room and curled up with Fat-Nuggets. Husk had never looked smaller. Not in the fifty years Alastor had known him. Not even that one time Husk got stuck in a laundry chute chasing the red dot.
Alastor, who had seen Husk do a lot of dumb stuff, including—but not limited to—betting his soul in a game of uno (and losing), could not stand it anymore. He simply could not. The sight made him twitch.
Cherri, ever the optimist-slash-crazy pyromaniac, swore up and down, sideways, and diagonally, that Angel Dust would return. “He always comes back,” she said, with the unwavering conviction of someone who had clearly lost touch with reality somewhere between week one and week two of this disappearing act.
But, for the first week, they had all tried believing her. They really did.
Then week two hit.
And week three.
And somewhere in that time, hope became a sticky, irritating thing. Something that stuck to your palms and refused to leave.
That was the “Angel Dust Problem”. The reason why the hotel staff looked like the Walking Dead. Well, that and the “Lucifer Problem” who was quietly seething in the corner.
After being used as a living battery for Vox’s stupid, oversized, world-threatening weapon—the “Might of Lilith,” because apparently naming a cannon after the queen of hell is a good intimidation tactic—Lucifer was not doing great. To say the least.
He wasn’t dead. That was a win.
But he was sore, exhausted, and had the emotional range of a half-drained battery. The first week, standing up caused him to swoon and faceplant.
Alastor, with the patience of a demon who had been part of way too many real-life soap operas, had—for some reason even he himself had no answer to—taken it upon himself to care for Lucifer.
Bandages changed, wounds cleaned, minor insults delivered to the healing process to keep the mood balanced.
Lucifer’s only real concern wasn’t if he was actively dying or not.
No! Why would it be?
It was Charlie.
Not him.
Not his wounds.
Not the fact that Hell had just narrowly avoided total annihilation by a deranged TV demon with Alastor issues.
Charlie.
And whether she was mad at him still.
Charlie hadn’t so much as checked in. Not once. She hadn’t visited, called, texted, or sent one of those “I hope you’re okay” social media thoughts that pass for concern these days. The woman had basically ghosted her own dad.
At this point Vaggi suspected her girlfriend had completely forgotten she had a dad.
Amongst other things.
Alastor—ever the diabolical schemer and liar—filled him in with the precision of a mad librarian. Charlie was fine, he said. Vaggi confirmed she wasn’t mad. Then Alastor, seizing the opportunity, hijacked Lucifer’s phone.
Yes, hijacked. Like a common street thug.
Vaggi held the Duck King™ back while her partner in crime dialed each of the Seven Deadly Sins personally.
“Hello, Queen Belphegor? It’s about Lucifer. He needs a quiet, safe place. Yes, like… a hospital. No, I’m not kidding.”
Every single Sin—yes, the literal manifestations of human vice—showed up. All six of them. Ready to take the King of Hell to the Sloth Ring, because apparently, someone actually cared about his health.
Alastor and Vaggi had to talk Lucifer down from refusing to go. He was convinced that Charlie needed him more than he needed to not die.
In the end, logic prevailed—or at least the logic Alastor manufactured. Charlie didn’t want him in the Pride Ring while he was wounded. Especially since the sinners now know he can’t hurt them. Alastor’s logic was flawless. Lucifer, begrudgingly, agreed to go. Promising to be back “as soon as he’s healed,” as if the other Sins would let him leave in one piece after nearly a decade of no contact.
So, the "Lucifer Problem" was temporarily solved as long as Lucifer didn’t attempt to escape custody.
Now, the Angel Dust Problem.
Charlie, blissfully unaware, didn’t know he was gone. Probably wouldn’t notice unless Husk, Alastor, and Vaggi all disappeared and left a giant “Gone Fishing: Staff Edition” sign at the front desk.
Which, admittedly, was tempting but also a little hurtful. Because if they could find replacements for the jobs they did, Charlie might never even notice them.
Ever.
Which is a little sad when you put it like this.
Alastor, leaning against the bar, sipped a black coffee he hadn’t touched all day and watched Husk sit in Angel’s chair, petting Fat-Nuggets like a therapist who’d failed every patient. “He’ll come back,” Cherri muttered again, for the eighth time today.
Alastor smirked, which in his case, looked like someone had polished a knife and handed it to a clown. “Yes,” he said, eyes glinting like Pennywise without the makeup, “any minute now, he’ll burst through the door, singing show tunes.”
Husk groaned, a sound somewhere between a cat being throttled and a cork popping. “You think he’s gone for good?”
“No,” Cherri said, but even she didn’t sound convinced. “He never stays gone. He’ll be back.”
“I do hope he comes back soon,” Alastor said, mock-innocent, “otherwise Husk might start demanding compensation in hugs. Or worse… pity shots.”
Husk flipped him off without even looking up.