Chapter Text
Lucifer stares out at the wreckage of whatever gathering this mess had started out to be while he was in his box of pain. There’s an empty stage, a big screen with a whole corner missing, fallen plaza arches, crumpled decor and, oh, whole chunks missing from nearby and not-so-nearby buildings.
That can’t be good.
Light shining down from Heaven glints off the fallen steel and broken glass and while there’s very little that’s pretty in Hell, his (ex?-)wife and daughter excepted, Heaven’s light always is.
He hates it. He’s hated it ever since he lost it.
He thinks about trying to get up again. He managed to stand, briefly, after escaping his box and crawling out the endless-seeming hole it had been under. But that ability hadn’t lasted. His entire body, his entire being, is so sore he can barely move. He’ll just lay here for a while longer, he supposes. He’s found a relatively comfortable bit of rubble to lean against, a few more minutes (hours? days?) resting here won’t hurt.
Or at least they didn’t hurt until a tinny, staticky voice says, “Well, if it isn’t the King of Hell down on his luck.”
“Wha--” Lucifer turns his head, only to find the voice belongs to exactly who he feared it would. “Ugh, Red Guy.” Still, he supposes, better the bellhop than that TV head. Marginally. “Got free of your bondage chair, I see.”
The ever-present grin widens. “Among other things.”
Lucifer doesn’t even want to know what that means. “I’d congratulate you, but I don’t actually care.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” Red comes a bit closer, planting his microphone staff thingy between his feet at an irritatingly jaunty angle and leaning over to peer at Lucifer. “Speaking of not caring, shouldn’t your daughter be helping you? You look like, well, Hell!”
“She was.” For a brief, beautiful moment, Charlie had been very concerned about him. She’d rushed over and her care had been a balm on his wounds. But then she’d been distracted by the snake guy on the screen. That had hurt, even though Lucifer is hardly in a position to judge anyone for getting distracted and he supposes getting confirmation that her dead snake friend has been redeemed is a big deal. A really big deal. One Lucifer is going to have to unpack once he has the energy to think about much besides the pity party his depression and his sore everything are currently throwing him.
Sinners are scum. Sinners have no good in them, at least none Lucifer has ever been able to see beyond brief glimpses here and there. Long ago, so very, very long ago, those glimpses had been enough to give him hope. But after an eternity of that hope being dashed over and over again, Lucifer stopped looking for it. Sinners are damned to Hell and Hell is forever.
But at the hotel, at Charlie’s hotel, he’s once more witnessed small kindnesses, small choices for the good that can’t easily be explained away by selfishness or dealmaking. It’s never been enough to make up for lifetimes that earned damnation, obviously, but it’s something. And if the snake guy has actually managed to be redeemed, that means…something much more. Something Lucifer's whole mind shies away from as Too Big and Too Much to think about while he is this fucked.
Fucked up.
Whatever.
In any case, regarding Charlie, Lucifer’s a motherfucking seraphim, Fallen or not, and neither his wounded body nor his wounded feelings will kill him. And he’ll Fall again before admitting there is any sort of problem between him and Charlie to this motherfucking asshole. “I told her I’d meet her at the hotel.”
“Mmm hmm. And will you?” Red asks.
“Will I?”
“Meet her at the hotel.” Red shifts so only one hand rests on his staff, his other twirling a vague circle in the air. “It’s just that you’ve been lying here for some time, making no apparent progress except perhaps in leaking more blood onto your suit.”
Lucifer closes his eyes against his steadily worsening headache. “It’s been a rough day.”
There’s a pause, filled only with the background hum of static, and then Red says, “That it has.”
The sudden agreement is unexpected, and something in his tone further catches Lucifer’s attention. He makes the effort to reopen his eyes and look at the demon, really look at him.
On first impression, he almost looks like his usual, infuriating self. But as Lucifer looks closer, there are signs that not all is right in Red’s world. His smile is still present, of fucking course it is, but there’s a weariness in his expression and a tightness in his stance. His suit is torn in various places, especially his left sleeve. He’s leaning on his staff at an angle that suggests more need than affectation. And when Lucifer looks down, he notices that while Red’s bizarre shadow is behaving mostly like a shadow for once, Red’s every movement lags just a fraction of a second behind it, like his ability to move is slower than his intention and he’s struggling to coordinate with the more two-dimensional aspect of himself.
He’s hurting. He’s hurting enough that there are beads of sweat on his brow despite the relative chill in the morning air. He’s hurting enough to openly agree with Lucifer. It’s amazing that the air is merely chilly rather than frozen over.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lucifer asks.
“Hmm?”
“You look like shit.”
A red gaze sweeps Lucifer from head to hoof and back again, followed by a well-sculpted eyebrow rising pointedly.
“Yes, yes,” Lucifer says from very much not the high ground. “Pot. Kettle. I’m aware. Why do you look like shit?”
Red places his free hand on his chest, fingers spread in gentlemanly offense. “I’m merely winded from all the effort I put into saving the Pentagram from your folly.”
Uh huh. No doubt Red’s a real hero. But first, a point of clarification. “My folly?”
“When you walked straight into the most obvious ambush of all time and were used as the unwitting power source for a doomsday device that nearly killed us all.” Black-tipped ears perk forward. “Ring any bells?”
Oh, fuck him. Also, no, not really. “Well, excuse me for underestimating what you sinners are capable of. None of you have ever managed to hurt me before in all the millennia you’ve tried. I’m not used to ambushes meaning anything.”
“Hence, folly.” Red tilts his head to the side at an inhuman angle, canned laughter swelling in the background. “You’re so good at it!”
“Whatever. You’re not just winded, you’re hurt.” Lucifer squints at him, shifting his perspective to a more infinite view. “Your stitches are showing.”
“What?” The laughter abruptly cuts off and Red looks down, ears splaying to the sides. He twists one arm, then the other, examining their lengths (and only narrowly avoiding whacking Lucifer in the groin with the end of his staff) and then checking his legs. “They are not.”
Lucifer groans as he’s forced to dodge the flailing staff, but once his pain settles, he says, “You’ve hidden them from the average sinner, Bambi. But some of us can see things as they truly are, not just the form currently on display. When we’re interested enough to bother looking, that is. Which in your case is rarely.”
The responding snarl of static makes Lucifer smirk, but Red doesn’t otherwise reply.
“Did the TV man kick your ass that badly?” Lucifer asks.
“I kicked his, I’ll have you know,” Red retorts, voice thick with interference before returning to normal. “Though I had a bit of trouble with his shark dog thing.” He shudders, then cuts a sideways glance at Lucifer, ears finally perking back up. “Also his idiot-powered light beam.”
Lucifer feels his lip curl into his own snarl at ‘idiot-powered’. He’s not sure about the light beam part -- was that what the pain box was about? -- but something about this is delightful. “So you’re saying it’s my power that has you in such dire straights?”
Red rolls his eyes. “You wish.”
Lucifer does wish. But instead of saying so, he wiggles his fingers until he can catch hold of a loose thread in Red’s being. A little tug later, and the green stitching currently holding him together shimmers into plain view.
Reality glitches and skips under a violent squawk of outraged feedback and for a brief moment, the rest of Red’s more demonic form bleeds into being, shadowed antlers growing wide and limbs elongating before fading back, leaving only the airwave distortion behind.
Lucifer ignores the dramatics and peers at the stitching. There’s the obvious set across Red’s mouth that does whatever it is that it does. But that was already there when they’d first met — the only other time Lucifer bothered looking at him in full, and that was just a glance — so it’s probably a permanent fixture rather than an indication of Red’s level of health. But unlike that other time, there’s now also stitching across his waist, his elbows and knees, and his wrists and ankles. His left forearm is crisscrossed with additional layers of green thread and, most prominently, an even thicker slash of stitching bisects his chest.
Lucifer waits for the audio-visual temper tantrum to fully subside, and then says, “Y’know, that really does not look comfortable.”
“How the--?” Red’s jaw clenches into a hateful grin as he battles for control of his obvious rage until finally his smile relaxes into something more…smile-like. Smile-adjacent, maybe. Another few beats, and the genteel mask slips entirely back into place. Placid. Polite.
Not going to work.
When Lucifer doesn’t back down and the green stitching doesn’t fade back into another plane, Red eventually sighs and lets himself slump, his stance more clearly betraying his fatigue in the angle of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. He waves a hand down at himself. “If you must know, most of this is wear and tear from my recent captivity as well as tonight’s battle. Nothing I can’t regenerate with some rest.”
Uh huh. “Most of it?”
Red’s shadow lengthens, wrapping around a nearby pole like it’s trying to hide itself in its own darkness. After another beat of silence, he gestures to his chest and admits, “I may have taken a hit during my encounter with Adam that has been more bothersome to heal than anticipated.”
Wait, what? “You took a hit from Adam?”
“That is what I said. Has your hearing failed along with your sense?”
“Archangel Adam? First man, worst man?”
Red snorts, looking amused despite himself. “That’s the one.”
Impressive. Lucifer’s not sure what to do with that information. Unlike the Elders of Heaven, the Sins of Hell have never promoted a human soul to power levels approaching their own. At least not any human who died a mortal death rather than being directly cast down with their dashing, handsome husband. For Red to have survived this long from a blow struck by likely the most powerful human soul to ever exist is both intriguing and disturbing.
And oh, when Charlie’s friends were discussing the events of the battle, absolutely none of them had seen Red after his shield broke. So when he returned to the hotel seemingly unscathed, the logical assumption was that he’d cut and run as soon as demonically possible, like the coward Lucifer knows him to be.
Except it seems he was not, in fact, unscathed and not, in fact, a coward and Lucifer doesn’t know how to process that information either.
The wound has to be killing him, and not in an ‘ouch, this is so painful’ metaphorical sort of way, but in a literal ‘make peace, thine end is nigh’ fashion. The question Lucifer has as he lets Red’s stitching fade back into the non-visual plane, ignoring the way Red squints at it as it disappears, is what to do about it.
On the one hand, Red is an asshole. A violent, twisted, mega-gross sinner who seems to especially delight in fucking up Lucifer’s relationship with Charlie in between psychopathic episodes of wanton destruction. On the other hand, his little girl appears to like the asshole and will probably be upset if Lucifer lets him die the slow, agonizing final death he no doubt deserves.
It’s too bad, really. Lucifer would have been happy to watch that play out. Not that he’s going to have the best view, what with this current angle of collapsed-on-concrete that he has going on.
What he says is, “You should, uh, you should probably have that looked at. Angelic wounds can get dicey over the long term for the not-so-angelic among us.”
Red smirks. “I’ve managed so far.”
Pretty admirably, actually, although Lucifer will sacrifice everything of value in the entire Pride ring except for Lilith, Charlie, and maybe Charlie’s girlfriend -- what? He’s a supportive dad who’s totally cool with his baby girl having a life partner -- before saying so out loud. Instead, he shakes his head. “Your power level is what’s saved you so far, but the more you use, the more will become infected with angelic grace as it replenishes. Been feeling especially bad a day or so after major exertions, by any chance?”
The smirk slowly fades to nearer a grimace and Red’s ears twitch fully upright and then flatten back against his head. “Shit.”
Ha! “Hadn’t put that pattern together? And here I heard you were supposed to be clever.”
“A pattern was not yet apparent.” Red’s gaze shifts into the middle distance as he thinks. “I rested as much as I could afford to after receiving the wound. My being ‘Mr, Useless’, as you so kindly put it.” And oh, Lucifer does not wince, because he’s not going to feel guilty about how he treated this asshole just because he’s acquired new information. He’s not. “But after my fight with Vox and his supportive little friends…I thought my worsened state was due to the treatment I was receiving in captivity.” Red’s smile shifts back to something resembling amusement. “I’m reassured to learn Vox’s childish humiliation tactics and electrical interludes weren’t impacting me as much as I feared.”
“Well,” Lucifer says, not having the context to understand ninety percent of that and still not feeling guilty. Not at all. Nope. “Now you know, so, uh, try not to use much power and you’ll be able to slow the inevitable.”
Red, for some reason, turns his head to survey the cityscape around them. His eyes seem to linger on the long arc of seared and broken buildings encircling them before landing on the remnants of the machinery sitting atop Lucifer’s pit of despair. “How long did you say the delay between power usage and consequence was?”
“A day or so, usually.”
“Wonderful.” He abruptly straightens, refocusing on Lucifer. “You still can’t get up, can you?”
Right. That.
Lucifer tries, he really does. But the muscles in his arms and legs aren’t cooperating, the multitude of little circular wounds in his forearms, calves, and torso all flare in protest, and he can’t even scrape up the energy to summon his wings. A moment later, the scant inch of verticality he’s managed to gain vanishes as he collapses back to the ground.
Red clucks in something that might have resembled sympathy if he was anybody else and holds out his hand, red-clawed fingers spread. “Tell you what, let’s make a deal!”
Oh, fuck that. “You can’t buy the Devil’s soul, idiot. And even if you could, it would cost substantially more than the price of a ride home.”
Red laughs and it’s the most honest-sounding thing Lucifer has ever heard from him. “Not for souls, don’t be ridiculous! Even I’m not arrogant enough to try to hold your soul, tempting as it is with all that power. I merely meant a trade. Quid pro quo: I get you back to the hotel, and you tell me how to heal my wound. My angelic wound.”
Huh. “We don’t need a deal for that. I’ll tell you, you just need to be patient.”
The surrounding static flares again, threat level matching Red’s darkening eyes. “I will not be strung along and I will not owe another angel an undisclosed debt. State your terms.”
Ooookay. Touchy. “I don’t currently have the energy to properly examine your wound, so I can’t assess what it will take to heal you right now. It’ll have to wait,” Lucifer clarifies.
As fast as it had left, Red’s mood snaps back to that of a chipper, ever-pleasant radio announcer. “Well, how about this? I get you back to the hotel today, discreetly and without further harm befalling you, all while ensuring that no one who might feel guilty about failing to provide adequate assistance becomes aware that it was required at all.”
Charlie never knowing that she’d left him to fend for himself when he absolutely could not seems like a mercy. “I’m with you so far.”
“And in return,” Red continues, “Once your power regenerates enough to be useful, you come to me, just as discreetly, and determine what it will take to heal my angelic wound. An honest and forthright assessment, mind!”
“That’s it?”
“Well, depending on what you find, and if you would be willing to further assist for the right price, we could discuss another deal from there.”
“What could you possibly offer me in return for further ‘assistance’?”
“That would depend on what you want, sire.”
Lucifer has never previously appreciated how much ‘sire’ can sound like ‘dumbass’ with the right emphasis. He still doesn’t, but he decides to ignore it because someone needs to take the high road in this ridiculous and exhausting conversation and he supposes it can be him just this once. “What are the options?”
“Any number of things. For example, you’re immensely powerful, obviously, but as Vox recently demonstrated, you can’t smite sinners, even those harming people you love?”
Fucking fuck. Really not great how multiple people know that now, especially people such as TV Head and Radio Asshole. “I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation.”
“Hmm, well. Millions of souls watched Charlie and her little angel friend saving sinners from Vox’s insanity, on Vox’s own broadcast, and then they saw Sir Pentious’s broadcast from heaven. The hotel will no doubt be crawling with sinners suddenly interested in a redemption arc that’s now more plausible than pathetic.” Red’s lips purse into an overdone pout, corners still smiling. “Oh, but some of those sinners won’t be the redeemable sort, will they?”
Lucifer really hates this guy. “Says the least redeemable among them.”
“Well spotted!” Canned applause backs up the brighter smile Red puts on. “I’m willing to protect Charlie and her little hotel from those you can’t smite for a period of time to be mutually determined, in exchange for one teeny tiny bit of healing. Anyone wise would see my lack of redemptive potential as a selling point. You wouldn’t want your daughter’s head of security traipsing off to heaven instead of watching her back, surely?”
That’s…that’s not a bad point, actually. But it also means this asshole will be hanging around everywhere, influencing Charlie and generally being an irritating menace for however long ‘mutually determined’ turns out to be. “Any other options?”
Red rocks back on his heels, ears quirking to one side. “I must admit I assumed the defend-your-daughter thing would do.”
“It probably will.” Lucifer shrugs, regretting it immediately as all his muscles protest. He shifts uncomfortably, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position on the hard ground. “But I’d be remiss in not considering all the options.”
“I suppose it would depend on your wishes, then.” Red’s head tilts as he thinks, inadvertently (and amusingly) realigning his ears. “Need anyone killed? I have no qualms in doing so, with a few exceptions. An accompaniment to your fiddle? I play a mean piano. I’d offer to teach you to dance, but given how many souls have met their end dancing with the devil, I’m sure you’re already quite skilled. Hmm, a history lesson on jazz? How to efficiently dismember any given demon’s body type? A recipe for gumbo? How to adjust said recipe based on the dismembered body types available? I truly don’t know what you’d like.”
Lucifer takes a moment to digest the options, although perhaps ‘digest’ is the least appealing verb he can think of here. “That, uh. That runs the gamut, huh?”
Alastor shrugs. “Deals can take strange forms. Why, I once had a sinner offer to sell their soul for the chance to pet my ears.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Did you let them?”
“Whatever do you take me for?” Red asks, clutching pearls he isn’t wearing. He holds his faux offense for a long moment before rolling his eyes. “Of course I did. You can rarely acquire a soul for such a bargain basement price.”
“Good to know that ear prostitution is on the table.”
There’s a distinct thickening in the buzz of surrounding feedback. “We’re getting off track. The details of the second deal don’t need to be worked out right now.”
“No, I suppose not. A discreet ride to the hotel in exchange for discreet and honest angelic wound assessment once I’m capable, as you stated before.”
Red nods and holds out his hand again, power stirring in the air. “So, we have a deal?”
“Fine.” Lucifer grimaces in pain as he reaches up, but he manages to clasp Red’s hand.
A burst of shadow magic writhes into being, forming a black dome all around them. Green symbols flare and whirl in the unnatural wind that always howls around the powerful when a deal is struck.
“Show off,” Lucifer accuses.
“That was on the subtler side, as these things go,” Red says. He waits a beat until they both feel the deal draw tight around them, then withdraws his hand, wiping it on his jacket like the absolute asshole he is. Lucifer is still trying to work out how offended he should be by that — is it personal? Does the fastidious dipshit do that to everyone? — when Red asks, “How long may I expect to wait for your power to sufficiently return?”
Lucifer thinks for a moment, flexing his wrists to test the strength in his arms. Fuck, fuck that hurts. He’s never used as much power as has been taken from him today, not since his Fall, anyway. Still, even his greatest outputs over the millennia haven’t weakened him for long. “Three days should do it. Perhaps two.”
“Three days, then.” Red cocks his head to the side again. “Ready to go?”
More than.
At Lucifer’s nod, several black tendrils rise out of the ground and encircle him, one under his shoulders and head, one at his waist, and a third under his knees. It’s too much pressure too soon and he hisses in pain.
The tendrils, surprisingly, slacken. “My apologies.”
It takes Lucifer a moment to parse that. “You’re apologizing for causing pain? You? Isn’t that your whole thing?”
“Yes, well.” Red examines the sceptre-y end of his staff like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I prefer any pain I cause to be intentional. Accidentally causing pain is…sloppy.”
Lucifer might have appreciated that admission if it wasn’t punctuated with a very intentional jab to his gut with the tip of a shadowy tentacle. “Ow!”
“Ah ha, that’s better!” Red looks pleased with himself, eyes bright, and Lucifer decides not to comment on how the jab curiously missed everywhere that he’s punctured like the celestial pincushion he currently resembles. He wonders for a moment how Red knew, before realizing golden blood stains leave a pretty big clue as to where his wounds most likely are.
Damn it, he’ll have to have his suit professionally cleaned, a power cleanse just isn’t going to do it. Or maybe he’ll have it burned instead. Yeah, probably that.
The tendrils around Lucifer tighten again, but this time they’re softer, the pressure on his wounds minimal as they slowly lift him into the air. He hangs there a moment, suspended, before Red steps forward and carefully wraps a red-clawed hand around Lucifer’s bicep. Then the shadows swell and deepen, sweeping them both down into their midst.
It’s dark and cold in between, but a short time later, Hell reforms around them, still chilly but much brighter. Except it’s not his room or any part of the hotel surrounding them. Instead, it’s a random-seeming alleyway. The tendrils lower Lucifer nearer to the ground, shielded from wider view by a wall, but they don’t release him.
Red crouches nearby, peering out beyond shadows both natural and not.
“Where are we?” Lucifer asks, trying to find the will to care. He should care, the deal hasn’t been fulfilled. He’s still not home. But he’s just so tired that caring is getting harder and harder to maintain, and it’s never been his strong suit to begin with.
Red keeps his attention on whatever he can see beyond the alley, although one ear briefly swivels in Lucifer’s direction. “Partway to the hotel. While I’m exceedingly good at acquiring and manipulating power, I am not, what was the phrase? A ‘living aspect of the infinite’.”
Ah, crap. “You were there for that?”
“Everyone was there for that.”
And fuck him for that reminder. Lucifer doesn’t respond immediately, instead watching Red watch the street. He’s hiding it well, but the flatness of his ears and the sweat at his brow have now been joined by a tremor in his hands. Lucifer should probably leave it alone, but then he’s never been great at doing what he should. “Too weak to fulfill your end of the deal?”
“You’re in no condition to mock me for weakness, Your Majesty.” And okay, wow. Red is apparently the living aspect of the sar-cas-tic with that tone on the honorific. “It’s been, as you said, a rough day, and my methods of travel do not easily accommodate passengers. Also, you just warned me of the cost of using too much power, so transporting us both across the city in one go seemed ill-advised.”
That? That actually makes sense. And as much as Lucifer is loath to admit it, Red’s energy isn’t the only thing starting to fail. Darkness is beginning to narrow Lucifer’s field of vision in a way he suspects has little to do with Radio Demon-caused shadows. He blinks, and blinks again, and it doesn’t fix anything.
Lucifer can feel Red’s gaze focus on him, though he doesn’t try to meet it. He hears a soft snort, and after a moment an instrumental version of something vaguely familiar starts to play, a sweet, muffled trumpet crooning half speed jazz complete with piano accompaniment filling in the background beautifully. He hums along to it vaguely, unable to place it until almost halfway through when a lyric suddenly pops fully formed into his head.
“I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you rascal you.”
He has just enough time to contemplate the effort Red’s put into custom mixing a Louis Armstrong cover just for the insult value, when Red’s hand is on his arm again, followed by the world shifting as shadows re-assert themselves in full.
Somewhere in that darkness, aided by a vindictive yet somehow thoughtful lullaby, Lucifer feels the last of his consciousness slip away.
***
Thoughts?