Chapter Text
When the heavenly delegation arrives, Alastor is observing from the shadows, as he is wont to do. He has no desire to be introduced exuberantly by Charlie to the angels who have decided after years of terrorizing the damned that those people are worth something if they can be brought into their realm, nor does he have any inclination to waste his time being disapproved of or fussed over by the angels he’s had the misfortune to meet. That being said, he’s bored enough to want entertainment in the form of whatever trainwreck that’s sure to spring from such a meeting, given that a new player has stepped onto the board. Apparently, the seraphim Michael had expressed a wish to be part of Heaven’s representation at the first monthly meeting between the two realms. Charlie was starstruck, roping Vaggi and Lucifer into being the representatives for the royal family of Hell on behalf of the hotel, despite Lucifer’s clear reluctance.
Having only met one biblical figure and been horrifically let down, Alastor is not setting his expectations very high, but he’s undeniably curious. From his cover, he watches with interest as a bubbly figure swoops through the golden portal, almost knocking Charlie over in a hug as Vaggi tries and fails to keep her composure. Lucifer looks as though he’s been sentenced to Hell all over again as Sera steps through the portal, while she looks as sorrowful as a Catholic statue when she sees him, thousands of years of history passing in a fraction of a second before her gaze shifts with warmth to the chattering girls. Lucifer looks similarly distraught, and his thumb rubs over the top of his cane in a soothing motion.
The Sovereign of Hell, everyone. Though he supposes that the Head Seraphim is no better, from what he’d seen of her.
And then the last figure steps through the portal, and Lucifer falls still, almost deathly so.
Michael is identical to Lucifer, but Alastor's assumptions are shattered at the sight of him. Six wings, blindingly bright, shine from behind resplendent armour, pearlescent and tinged with blue, as the figure in front of him looks down his nose at them all with piercing blue eyes, standing a head taller than Sera. Imposing and clinically cold, and ignoring Charlie as she rambles to the other two angels happily. The signature curl on his cheek doesn't lend to his image the way it does Lucifer, and he's missing the doll-like spots on his cheeks, but the resemblance is undeniable. His blue eyes are trained on his smaller mirror image, like a cat watching a small creature it could dispatch with a mere swipe of its paw.
Lucifer's eyes, in contrast, are not on Michael, but on the spear he holds, and he looks as though he might faint, Alastor notes. The tip of it is the length of Lucifer's ribs, but the king of Hell is doing his best to stand tall, and like he so often does, is failing spectacularly.
"Little brother." Michael's voice is as cold as ice. "It has been...quite some time."
"For fuck's sake, you're no older than me, Michael." Lucifer's voice is quiet, tinged with irritation, but his gaze does not shift, and Alastor can only wonder why. Perhaps he cannot meet the eyes of his brother. He wonders why they look so alike, or why Lucifer, as old as he is, has not reached the height bestowed on his peers. Having only seen Emily before Sera appeared, Alastor had been under a certain impression of seraphim, thinking Lucifer below average and nothing more. Even when he had seen the Head Seraphim, he’d thought the title had bestowed the woman with her stature.
But no, the man is miniscule in every realm. His lips twitch at the thought.
"Two halves of a whole," Michael concedes, seemingly unbothered by Lucifer’s foul language.
Twins, Alastor realises. No wonder they look so alike, despite the obvious height difference. Goodness. What do they put in the water up there?
"Do you like the new one?" Michael says in an undertone, gaze following Lucifer’s as Sera allows herself to be led off by Emily and Charlie both. "I had it made after you saw fit to keep the last."
Lucifer flinches.
"...I didn't choose that," he says, softly. "That was your choice, not mine."
Michael shrugs, elegantly. "You forced my hand, dear one. No one is exempt from justice." The soft words are juxtaposed by that tone. "It was a hard decision, little star, spurred on by your own. Hell is of your own making, and you are lucky that your daughter has found a way to undo the damage you caused to our worlds.”
Lucifer swallows, once, and then twice.
“The scales will take time to balance, of course.” Michael’s finger traces the tip of the spear. “And after your actions led to a fellow seraphim losing a wing, I cannot say I’m impressed. You’ve learned nothing, little brother, despite what befell us all last time you acted as thoughtlessly. Love has always led you astray, has it not?”
“That isn’t true, Michael–”
“It was your light that pierced our realm, I’d know it anywhere. Right through the gates, might I add. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d have suspected you had ulterior motives, and if Sera hadn’t stayed my hand in the aftermath, I would have been glad to let this spear find its home in your heart as well. But then, Sera has always been far too soft on you.” Michael leans down, and his finger curls under Lucifer’s chin, forcing red eyes up to look into blue. “Ten thousand years, and we only just reclaimed one soul. How many have been lost to your inaction? How many have suffered at your hands?”
Tears well in Lucifer’s eyes as he stands, transfixed, honeyed words dripping like poison into the air as something clicks into place for Alastor, and he takes in the size of the spear, imagines Lucifer impaled by it, the proportions of such a scene off-putting in a way that reviles the very marrow of Alastor’s long dead bones. Like a little songbird struck by a javelin, unnecessarily cruel. He remembers Lucifer’s soul-deep fear when Charlie insisted on going to Heaven and accused him of not believing in her dreams, the way he’d trusted her with deep breaths and eyes that never left her face, and he no longer wonders why.
He’s seen people torture little birds, boys with cruel grins who found sport in tormenting something smaller than them, pulling wings and scattering feathers, laughter echoing in the air as the creatures screamed for mercy. And, asshole though Alastor might be, he’s never liked a bully.
“Goodness me, Michael, has no one ever taught you that it’s polite to keep your hands to yourself?”
Alastor yanks Lucifer backwards in a smooth motion, shaking his head in disapproval as he steps neatly between the brothers. He hears a shaky breath, and no protest. He can be disappointed about that later, but right now…well. Right now, he has an irate seraphim in front of him, and a king behind him who should be irritating the hell out of everyone around him, not shaking like a leaf.
“I’ll thank you not to interfere between my brother and I.” Michael, to his credit, pivots smoothly. “I was merely warning him–”
“Strange, I don’t recall Lucifer sending an army down to erase human souls from existence because no one chose to be on his team.” Alastor examines his claws carefully. “If that’s your best attempt at diplomacy, I do fear for the future of this coalition. And you didn’t even bring a gift basket! Should I be insulted?”
Michael’s expression sours deliciously.
“Mind you, I defer to Heaven’s expertise, of course!” Alastor says cheerfully. “Clearly, when one is a guest in someone else’s realm, one must threaten the monarch!”
“You dare–”
“Yes, he does, often.” Lucifer’s voice is quiet, subdued, but present. “This isn’t between us, Michael. This is about diplomacy between the two realms, and your side has far more to apologise for than mine. And you’re right, as well.” He steps out, drawing himself up to his full height, for what it is. “My daughter has proved herself wiser than either you or me, and truly found the good in every human soul rather than condemning them as being beyond salvation as we both did. I’ll thank you to remember that it’s her lead you should be following, and right now, that’s down the corridor. And if you only came here to undermine her mission, you can leave. I won’t stop you.”
Michael, to Alastor’s delight, is furious, but turns, gliding down the hallway. Alastor turns to Lucifer, arching an eyebrow, expecting him to collapse, but to his surprise, Lucifer bows to him. Stiffly, without a hint of happiness, but polite nonetheless.
“Thanks for that. I’d better go…keep an eye on things.”
“Someone had to save that diplomatic disaster, didn’t they? Is he always such a colossal asshole?” Alastor wrinkles his nose. “I suppose it runs in the family.”
“No, no. That’s him on his best behaviour, I’m afraid. But that’s what happens when someone believes that they’re the embodiment of justice. They believe they’re incapable of doing anything wrong.” Lucifer takes a step forward, swivelling towards the direction that Charlie had headed in, and he wobbles, just for a moment. Alastor watches as he takes deep breaths until he’s steady again, and strides after his brother as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened, cheerfully smiling as he catches up to the group.
Something sinks its claws into Alastor’s chest at that point, deep and painful, but he brushes it off. The affairs of angels are not his to examine, surely. A moment of weakness springing from a deep-rooted dislike of tormentors will not change anything in the grand scheme of things.
Or at least, that’s what he thinks before the piano appears in his room, three days later.
It’s beautiful, really. Well-kept, old, and perfectly in tune. And real, with not a hint of magic to the dark wood it’s made of. He’d have been baffled if it weren’t for the tiny duck made to look like him, its sharp grin drawing his eye immediately from where it’s sat on the keys.
It’s a trap, he’s sure. Some kind of prank that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with Lucifer’s ridiculous contraptions. He still remembers when the man set fire to his own bedding with a backflipping duck that for some reason had a miniature flamethrower in its beak. (The purpose, as always, being to find out if it was possible without considering whether it should.)
He lets his shadow brush the keys, perch on the stool, examine it from every angle, but nothing happens. It’s truly a beauty of an instrument, similar to the one he remembers playing under golden lights while Mimzy draped herself across the top, laughing as the music flowed through the air and the alcohol poured just as freely. Not that it makes him trust the thing in front of him any more, but it’s certainly bringing back memories. After a moment, he picks up the duck, examining the foolish thing before squeezing it and watching as its eyes glow red at the touch.
It’s made to not like being touched, then, he supposes. How astute.
How ridiculous, too.
He hasn’t seen Lucifer since the visit - no one has - but it’s to be expected. Lucifer’s known to isolate himself when things go badly wrong, and images of Lucifer’s expressions in front of Michael flit in front of Alastor again, making him bare his teeth. Yes, things had gone rather wrong, hadn’t they? And somehow, this gift, perfectly proportioned to his rooms, perfectly suited to his tastes, would seem to be the first he’d heard or seen of Lucifer in three days. In fact, he’s willing to bet it’s the first anyone has seen of the man.
Alastor brushes the matter from his mind as best he can, and goes about his day, checking in with Niffty, watching as Husk and that infernal girl who insists on sticking to him like glue serve the ungodly number of guests, as Vaggi flits here and there, shadowed by the small gaggle of new employees Charlie had finally hired after seeing how exhausted their small group was. There’s a few, mostly hellborn, with a small number of sinners, and it’s still not enough to plug the gaps, but at least they’re no longer drowning, he supposes. For himself, he’s still playing the fairy godfather every so often, when it suits his tastes, a role he’d stepped back into with ease, and thus the rod he’d made for his own back comes bounding up to him with a smile on her face, bouncing around him like a baby goat as she often does when she wants to hug him and holds back just in time.
“Alastor, can you believe it? The meeting went so well! Emily’s going to come by once a week now to help out - we want her to be the diplomatic relations person-thing-whatever - and Sera’s been so helpful when it comes to reworking all the legalities around Heaven and Hell! Of course, the exterminations have been rescinded, and oh, it went so well!” She took a breath. “Oh, right! You two live on the same floor, have you seen Dad recently? I’ve been trying to track him down, but he’s not in his room, and you two are kind of neighbours – I know you don’t get along, but…”
“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Alastor says, cheerfully. “I must say, the heavenly delegation certainly were interesting.”
“I know! Apparently Michael really wanted to come see what we were doing!” Charlie lights up. “Can you believe Heaven is actually interested in what we’ve achieved? What we’re doing? I just know we’ll be able to help everyone, but now that they’re listening…”
Ah, yes. Michael had practically insisted, and then pulled the little intimidation stunt, poking and prodding at Lucifer without even a hint of glee, but something wholly unnecessary had flickered behind those cold eyes. Surely, a grown seraphim hadn’t come all the way to Hell to do something like that? No, of course one of Heaven’s finest would never be a hypocrite. Surely not. His shadow rolls its eyes behind Charlie.
“But Auntie Bel called me to tell me he’s not been answering her lately and she doesn’t want him to miss his appointment tomorrow…” Charlie taps a finger on her chin. “And he’s been really good about responding to everyone and going to his appointments recently, he hasn’t missed one, so I just wanted to know.”
Hm. So he really was the first one to ‘see’ Lucifer.
“Not in his room, you say?” he says, brightly. “I’m sure he’s about, my dear. I’ll be neighbourly and check in on him, shall I?”
“Really? But you two–”
“I’ll be on my very best behaviour, Charlie dear.” He grins, and he knows that such reassurances don’t sit as well as they once did with her, but it amuses him to see her slowly get a better grasp of his true character over time. Occasionally, mistrust flashes over her face, like a flicker of a candle, and it never fails to put a true smile on her face. Good, she could do with questioning someone’s motives from time to time. She’ll need it with the chaos she’s unleashed on both realms.
Still, she lets him go, and he makes his way to Lucifer’s tower, rolling his eyes in earnest at the sign on the wall, shining in bright defiance. He knocks once, twice, and then lets his shadow slip under the door, only for it to retreat, tilting its head, as a shining snake slithers forth from under the crack in the door, eyes wide and curious. It winds up Alastor’s staff briefly, flickering its tongue at him as though it’s merely tasting the air, tilting its head this way and that. He glares at it, but it slithers back down without a care and winds around the base of his shadow before touching its head gently to the door, which glows as letters appear in the air from a language he couldn’t begin to fathom. They whisper in such a way that his stomach drops in a mix of reverence and fear, neither of which he likes feeling, but the sound and feeling of them in the very fabric of the air commands it for a mere moment before the snake does something that makes them peel away, curling up into blackened ash.
“And here I thought you were an ornament,” he says, as he realises where he’s seen the little thing before. The snake from Lucifer’s hat, robe, and halo flicks its tongue at him in a gesture that reminds him of when his mother made that little exasperated noise when he’d pester her. Gallantly, he extends his staff to the little thing, who winds around it once more as he opens the gaudy door.
Inside is the same, familiar travesty of decoration and taste, and a clear absence of annoying monarchs. He frowns, looking down at the snake, who is clinging to his staff as though it might stay there, and takes a closer look. Not that one can see much for ducks (and my, but there’s more than there were the last time he made his way in here).
“I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m looking for, my dear,” he says, eventually. “Do you know where Lucifer might have gone off to?”
It slips down, reluctantly, and he follows it to a small crystal set into the wall, shaped like a halved apple. He touches it very briefly, warily, and the wall shimmers, a crystal-like portal appearing before him. An Asmodean Crystal, or some such, he supposes.
“If this is outside the Pride Ring, I won’t be able to leave,” he tells the snake, who slips through the portal of its own accord. Sighing, he lets his curiosity make the decision for him, and finds himself in an undeniably cold room. Going from one to the other is jarring. Dark purple furnishings do little to diminish the austerity of the marble walls. Elegant, yes, but in a way that reminds him of the lifeless mansions he’d once been to as a lowly guest. Wherever he is, it’s rich and soulless. A carved balcony overlooks a lobby with a chandelier hung with blood-red crystals, and some sort of scene is depicted on the floor, though he can’t quite make it out. This lobby makes the hotel look like a shabby little bed and breakfast.
A soft sound brings his eyes back to the snake, which is waiting patiently for him halfway up the corridor, and he follows it. This place, hauntingly empty as it is, is a labyrinth of rich velvet curtains and unfeeling marble, and the sound of his footsteps echo uncomfortably. In a way, it reminds him of the tower he’d trapped himself in, though not quite as corporate. It’s uncomfortable to exist in, in much the same way. Still, his little guide checks often to make sure that he’s keeping up, past portraits covered in dark cloth and dusty bannisters.
It feels almost like he’s walking through the halls of a long-abandoned museum, and he feels quite certain that he’s alone, save for his shadow and the bright little serpent who seems determined to lead him ever onward. If he knew how to get back without it, he would return, but somehow, he seems to be following a scaly little white rabbit into a particularly upscale Wonderland. Well, at the very least, the snake seems sure that Lucifer is here somewhere, if he’s any judge, but he wouldn’t have guessed, given the lack of apples and ducks in the general vicinity. It reminds him of something, though, but he can’t put his finger on it for the life of him. Still, twists and turns, staircases and corridors, slowly going up, up, and up. Eventually, a curling staircase is before him, and the snake curls its way up the bannister slowly. He can tell it’s tired, though, and allows his shadow to pick the little thing up in its hands to carry it. Slowly, he makes his way upwards, finding himself in front of an unassuming wooden door. He steps through it slowly, and finds himself surrounded by stars.
It’s as though he stands in the night sky itself, his feet resting on a golden cloud that seems to be supporting him well enough, and on that same golden cloud is a curled up figure, hidden by white and red feathers.
Patience is a virtue, and Alastor’s virtue only goes so far, and it certainly doesn’t go far enough not to march over to the king and knock on his wings with his cane. They flare open, the impressive wingspan only matched by the eyes that open along them, angry and yellow among the shine of the stars.
“Good evening, Your Majesty!” Alastor says cheerfully. “So sorry to interrupt your solitude, but your daughter sent me to tell you that–”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Lucifer looks horrified. “You– I set up wards– No one–”
“Ah, your little friend brought me here!” Alastor takes the snake from his shadow, and lets it curl around his arm. It feels strangely warm in a way he hadn’t expected, like holding your hand just over a bonfire. How odd. “It was rather insistent, in fact.”
Lucifer says something in a language he doesn’t understand, but that Alastor’s willing to bet should not be said in polite company. Still he reaches out for the snake, wings almost sagging with relief as it slides back onto his arm and around his neck, curling up as he whispers to it, soft words that slowly slip into something Alastor can understand. Reassurances that crawl to a halt as he looks up at Alastor, gaze hardening.
“She shouldn’t have brought you here,” he says, quietly. “You need to leave.”
“About that, where are we, exactly?” Alastor asks, brightly.
“How the fuck do you not know where you are?” Lucifer stands upright, horns springing to life. “Do you have any idea what kind of place you’ve broken into? This isn’t just my room at the hotel, asshole, this is the palace, and my private quarters at that!” He gestures around him at the stars. “Are you seriously that dense?”
Ah, well. That explains the empty hallways and dust, he supposes. He’s lightly surprised that there aren’t any staff taking care of the place, but the crushing loneliness of the place does make sense in retrospect.
“I have no idea why Astra brought you here, or how you got past the wards–”
Astra gives a guilty little wriggle, and Lucifer stops dead, staring at her.
“Why?” he asks, voice a whisper.
“She seems to like me, and I was looking for you, as was your daughter. You’ve got an appointment, according to her, and you’ve not been answering your texts. Reliance on technology aside, I was quite certain you’d crawled into some hole or other.” Alastor tilts his head. “Why did you give me a piano?”
“...You did me a favour.” Lucifer closes his eyes. “I needed a distraction, so I restored one for you.”
Alastor’s mind stutters as the claws sink into his heart again, digging deeper as though they’re growing hooks and thorns.
“You what, now.”
“I need to keep busy. Get all the thoughts out. All the stuff.” He waves his hands around. “And…I didn’t want it to be ducks this time. They wouldn’t have come out right, I can’t make ducks when it’s him, I just can’t. He was awful when I made ducks, he’s never liked anything I made but the only thing I could hear was his voice, I had to focus. And something like that, it takes so much focus–”
“That takes months.” Alastor’s voice fuzzes into static, but Lucifer doesn’t seem to notice.
“Eh, not always. I just had to pick it apart a bit and look at its harmonies. Man, it really needed some TLC, you know?” He wiggles his fingers. “Just had to look at it and figure out what made it tick. Like a little musical clock, you know? And besides, I like putting musical stuff back together, helping it sing again. Hell, at around hour thirty, it was more for it than you, really.”
“...when did you last eat or sleep?”
“Not sure, not important. But then I sent it to your room, and suddenly the space was all empty and quiet, and then I was falling, so I had to come sit in the stars. It helps.” Lucifer gestures around them. “I really want to make ducks, but every time I try, I can just hear him, I can’t do it. I love doing it, and I can’t do it.” He looks at Alastor as though he’s explaining something quite common and normal. “Besides, if I sleep, I’ll have nightmares, so that’s a no go. You said I have an appointment? Shit, when’s that, where’s my phone?”
Lucifer can’t make ducks.
That fact lodges firmly somewhere in Alastor’s throat like a rock, wrapping itself in anger and resentment. For all his barbed words and insults, he’s never managed to get the man to stop creating the stupid things, to step away from his workbench, and yet five minutes in front of a self-righteous seraphim and Lucifer’s obsession has fallen out of reach.
Hang on.
“What about the duck on the piano?” he says, quietly. “Surely you made that?”
Lucifer stops short, and his face flushes gold as he stumbles for words.
“That’s, well, yes, I did, but not…” He waves a hand, as if it might magically make a solution or explanation appear for him. “Shut up. Shut your face up, okay? I’ll go back to the hotel, but you need to get back first. Message delivered, Ga–”
His face flashes with horror, and he coughs.
“Alastor,” he says instead, and looks even more horrified. “Red guy. Fucking–”
A portal shimmers into existence under Alastor’s feet, and he falls through it onto his own bed with a thump that nearly knocks the breath out of him, before Lucifer splats onto his floor, face first.
“Fuck, I meant this to be my room,” he says, voice muffled by the floor. “Hang on. I’ve got this–”
This is not them, Alastor knows. Lucifer is meant to throw ducks at him, growl, flare with temper and respond in all the delightful ways he usually does, but this is setting his teeth on edge. The thorns twist, and he exhales through his teeth before rolling off the bed, yanking Lucifer up none too gently.
“You need sleep.” He snaps the words out. No point playacting at being polite, not when the king of Hell is swaying in his arms like a drunken debutante.
“No.” Lucifer pushes his arms away, blinking. “Not going to happen, bellhop.” His eyes land on the duck on the piano and he visibly shudders. Alastor hates the twisting feeling that he gets in his stomach. Lucifer shouldn’t be like this, not at all.
“Not yet, you’re right.” He lets the shadows wrap around them, and Lucifer squawks with indignation as the cold sensation rushes through them both, and deposits them in the staff kitchen, and he marches Lucifer to a chair, forcing him to sit.
“Stay,” he says, and when Lucifer opens his mouth to argue, narrows his eyes. “I’ll be telling Charlie if you don’t. You are having a hot meal, and then you are sleeping. I will be washing my hands of you if you don’t do as you’re told, but then it’ll be your daughter you’ll deal with, and she has enough on her plate without adding your basic needs to it. So you will eat and you will sleep, and you will go to your appointment.”
“...Why are you being nice to me? Are you going to poison my food?” Lucifer asks, suspiciously. “It won’t work, by the way. You can’t kill me, you know?”
“Don’t tempt me to try.” Alastor pulls vegetables out of thin air, dicing vegetables with no small amount of frustration. It goes a little smoother when he imagines bright wings under his fingers and a pleading seraphim begging his forgiveness for landing him in this mess. Perhaps this soup would benefit from some chicken.
Lucifer doesn’t ask any more questions, though he can sense the man’s eyes on him, curiosity and confusion clear on his face. Alastor would very much like answers himself, but the fact of the matter is that Lucifer has spent at least thirty hours working on something purely for Alastor, and quite possibly driving himself insane with sleep deprivation while doing so. He knows Lucifer sleeps, because he spent about a week asleep after he was hauled home by Charlie and Vaggi. Apparently, being a battery for a superweapon strong enough to blast the gates off of Heaven itself can really take it out of you. Who knew.
The silence becomes stifling, and Alastor waves a hand, setting some music going to at least quiet his thoughts if nothing else. His shadow curls up on the chair opposite Lucifer, eyeing him as though he’s something shiny, and Alastor does his best to ignore that. Let it entertain itself by treating the king like a shiny bauble. He has work to do, and the sooner that Lucifer is fed and resting, the sooner Alastor can put this whole thing behind him.
To his surprise, the threat of telling Charlie seems to have worked. Lucifer eats the soup without complaint, making a little noise of appreciation at the first bite, and Alastor exhales, turning his back as he stores the rest of it in containers and sets the pot to one side, a long standing agreement with his dear little Niffty. Putting away ingredients and carefully cleaning the knives (the one exception to the rule - a good craftsman always takes care of his tools), he loses himself in the gentle rhythm until his shadow tugs his sleeve.
“What now?” he snaps at it, only to turn and see that Lucifer has fallen fast asleep at the kitchen table, brow furrowed and head resting gently in his arms.
Well, fuck.