Chapter Text
It's been a week since they got back to the hotel.
An entire week.
And Charlie has still yet to talk to him.
Not that he deserves checking up on after how he set her progress back with his major fuck-up, but hey! Not the point.
Then again! She must be busy with the influx of sinners checking into the hotel.
After the reborn snake's appearance on the live broadcast from heaven, the hotel's credibility immensely solidified, and a lot -- and he means a lot -- of inspired sinners have decided to genuinely try their shot at redemption.
So yes, Lucifer totally understands that Charlie's schedule is packed, and that her not talking to him is due to the fact that she's pretty busy and not because she doesn't care about him.
Right?
Yes, of course. What were you thinking, Lucifer! Charlie's not that heartless. Yes, she's mad but that was totally deserved because he did fuck up big time and made things worse for her, but since she hasn't told him to get lost again, that must mean that she's fine with him staying now, right?
Oh no.
What if she's still mad and his clueless ass just didn't get the memo yet? What if she just didn't get to tell him to leave again because of her busy schedule? What if she's expecting him to be gone and that's why she hasn't bothered to seek him?
Okay. Deep breaths, Lucifer. Deep breaths. Surely that's not the case. Right?
Right?
At least, he hopes so.
Unholy fuck, he certainly hopes so. Because if not, he can't even begin to measure the depth of how delusional he had been this whole time to stay with his daughter despite his presence being clearly unwanted.
There's only one way to find out. He has to talk to Charlie.
With that in mind, he trudged his way through the corridors, and down the flight of stairs. At thid hour, Charlie is usually facilitating the group processing / debriefing with the hotel staff, especially after a productive day. Which means that he still has some time to pep himself up before they talk.
He paced around, from the lobby to the kitchen, anywhere his feet took him. He's wandering on autopilot, thoughts locked on how to broach the topic.
"Hey Charlie, how have you been?". Sounds too formal. And it's not like he doesn't know how she's doing. He has witnessed how hard she's working on the hotel; planning everything, managing everyone, handling more therapy sessions and discussions than the other staff, and stuff like those. So, no. Not that.
"Hey, Char-Char, do you want to grab dinner with me?". No. No no no no no no! Stupid! Everyone has dinner together! That's one of the hotel staff's traditions, to wind down with everyone after the day's events.
"Charlieee, do you have some time?". Time to what? Walk around? Talk nonsense? Make rubber ducks with him? Be more specific, Lucifer.
"Hi Charlie, can we talk?". Oh wow. Demanding much? Come on, Big Boss of Hell himself. I thought you were better than that.
Lucifer groaned in frustration.
He. is. trying!
Yet he also can't deny that his brain has a point. Or points. Whatever. Point is! That the sarcastic thing in his head is making sense. He has to do better than that. He has to word it better. Ensure that he doesn't offend Charlie, or worse, waste her time.
Lucifer was so deep in thought that he didn't hear the hotel office door open, and the quiet chatter that followed. Nor the set of foot steps that diverged from the group, and continued towards him.
"Dad?"
Charlie's voice pulled him out of his not-a-spiral-but-definitely-on-the-way-to-becoming-one reverie. He blinked slowly, one eye at a time, unconsciously hinting to how much his brain is lagging at the moment.
By the time his consciousness managed to catch up and his thoughts finally screeched to a halt, he opened his mouth to initiate the million dollar conversation when his beloved daughter beat him to it.
"Why are you still here?"
And oh.
Oh.
His heart stuttered for a brief moment before plunging straight down to his stomach. His throat closed up just a little, and in his next inhale, he wondered -- with a hint of hysteria -- if he swallowed sandpaper earlier with how rough the breath scratched at his windpipe.
Despite Charlie's deceptively soft tone, it didn't escape him that she truly was expecting him to be gone by now. Or maybe even earlier. Or maybe she didn't even want him to come back with them to the hotel.
Maybe, when he followed them like a lost duck a week ago, she just let him be after seeing how pathetic he was, all crumpled and bloody like that.
Fuck. He fucked up again, hadn't he?
It was his pure luck that he managed to catch himself before falling down yet another spiral, realizing with a sinking that he hasn't responded to Charlie yet.
"Ah- hahaha! I was just-", he cleared his throat, "I was just looking for inspiration for my next duckie!", he exclaimed, hoping against all hope that his voice didn't break. "Y'know, aesthetics-wise. There's been quite a lot of new sinners lately, huh? And they all look so different too! I figured I'd try to recreate those looks on my next batch of duckies hehehe."
Sins below, he hopes his laugh didn't sound too awkward and forced.
Charlie just looked at him weirdly, eyebrow arched elegantly and smile unsure. He kept beaming brightly back at her.
"Oookay, then. Anyways, I'll uh- I'll be going now.".
Her intonation went high at the last part, almost like she was asking him, but that could only be because of the awkward atmosphere he put her in. Fuck, he keeps making mistakes on top of mistakes, ohmygod stop-
"Goodnight, Dad."
His clogged throat barely croaked out a "Goodnight, duckie" that probably went unheard with how quiet it was, plus the fact that Charlie was already walking away.
Away.
From him.
Alright. He may be oblivious sometimes, but he does know how to take a hint! That was a dismissal, albeit a very gentle one at that, which he's very thankful for! Charlie really is way too considerate to the likes of him. She knows he's not good with rejection, so she did what she could to let him down gently, undeserving of it as he was.
She truly deserves a father better than he could ever hope to be. Not an absent father who keeps fucking everything for her. Or fucking everything up for her. Whatever the saying was.
The heavy feeling within his chest only grew as the seconds ticked by, slowly spreading all over his torso and down his extremeties, suffocating him and leaving him feeling like he's slowly sinking into quicksand.
His eyes stung, and the edges of his vision had started to blur.
Fuck. He can't cry now.
With shaking hands, he conjured a portal to his hotel room, haphazardly stepping through it before it even finished forming.
And sadly, as much as he wants to just drop to his knees and sob the pain out of his system, he must not. He can't cry now. Not when he still has more important things to do.
Like wrap up his bullshit and finally leave Charlie and her hotel alone.
So he braced himself, pushed his tears down, and got to work.
Looking around his room, from his scattered clothes to the mountains of squeaky rubber duckies, had him wishing he has fully recovered from being used as a battery to power a narcissistic, power-hungry with a fucking god-complex sinner's delusional fantasies.
Oh boy, that is a lot to clean up.
.
.
.
Muscles screaming, throat parched, and dark spots dancing across his vision; Lucifer collapsed in a heap beside his bed, groaning as he curled up on his side -- bleary eyes darting all over his room.
He did it.
He actually did it.
He finally gathered enough of his wits to actually pack his things.
Okay, he may have delayed the inevitable task for a week, but now that it's done, he honestly feels a little lighter -- scratch that, he feels a whole lot lighter. Alright, maybe that's an overexaggeration, but it's most definitely better than a little. Like, maybe a teeny tiny little bit better than little.
But still, lighter all the same.
Really, it feels a lot like he has taken his first step towards the right direction after several hundred fuck-ups and he thinks this act may have made the inevitable painful experience feel more bearable and less straining on his psyche.
At the very least, this pseudo kindness he's given himself serves to stave off the steadily increasing chill he's getting from laying on the cold, hard floor.
Like, things could be so much worse right now.
Blinking, Lucifer briefly wonders if he could throw rocks at the boisterous sinners causing a ruckus outside the hotel. That wouldn't be smiting them now, would it?
Eugh.
Fucking shitheads, do these sinners not sleep at all? Why in the ever loving fuck are they so damn noisy at this hour of the night?
With a frustrated groan, Lucifer moved to push himself into a sitting position.
Note to self: do not work on a very physically taxing activity when your power reserves are depleted as heck, because damn these stiff limbs are going to be the death of him.
Ridiculous as it sounds, it's not like Lucifer doesn't know the downsides of working without using a hint of his magic, but doing so in actual circumstances rather than doing so in simulation is very very different.
Like, in his current circumstance, he's cursing not unlike a raging sailor as he stumbled towards the open windows.
Windows that showed him it's currently daytime.
Now cursing for entirely new reasons, Lucifer quickly opened a portal connected to the palace, pushing all his luggage through before entering himself.
A wave of gentle magic blanketed the room right before the portal closed.
.
And that, folks, marks the end of Lucifer's stay at the Hazbin Hotel.