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Alastor wakes up. Whilst caged animal instincts rear inside him as a natural response upon finding his arms bound and mouth gagged, this isn't the first time he has opened eyes he should not have allowed to drift closed and found himself seated upon a mocking throne. Instincts ebb into resignation, panic twists off and becomes irritation, and although movement is restricted within Vox's reinforced bonds, he rolls what joints he can, stretching fingers or cracking his neck. His view for the evening is a floor-to-ceiling window, one which affords him a span of glittering modernity, criss-cross alleyways and roads, and all the tasteless gaudiness of Pentagram City spread towards the horizon like the world's most disjointed patchwork quilt. It is, by far, better than other views he has been granted whilst in captivity, possibly even the best given that others include - but aren't limited to - a sordid excuse for an extra-marital bed, ostentatious shark tanks or more monitors than he ever wants to see.
Still, it is odd to be pointed outwards as opposed to being offered VIP access to Voxtech's inner workings, which is disquieting. A quick check of nearby frequencies tells him his media-mogul stalker is not in the immediate vicinity, though electrical hums are everywhere anyway, and by means of running his tongue over his teeth Alastor is pleased to find them lacking Valentino's particular brand of smoke. So, he is alone. Lovely; just how he likes it. Loneliness means clarity, means focus, and despite his plans being meticulously thought-out beforehand, it never hurts to go over them again in case his synapses offer anything new.
But then there is a sound, human enough that he knows it isn't a recording or a machine, and rough around its edges in a way that raises his hackles. Any reassurance Alastor might glean from decreased solitude is quickly rescinded, however, when words follow the groan - because he is certain it was a groan in hindsight - in a timbre he really wishes he didn't recognise.
"Ugh, here again," says the one loosely-defined person who sits only a few entries below Vox on Alastor's extensive list outlining Hell's greatest idiots.
"Ah, your majesty," Alastor chirps, tipping his head back and facilitating a wall speaker he has located near the diminutive king's voice as a projector, "how generous of you to ruin an already unpleasant evening with your presence."
"What the-," Lucifer mumbles and then, louder, "the fuck are you doing here, Bellhop?"
"Why," Alastor spins merrily in his chair and throws facetious concern in his eyes in lieu of his covered grin, "enjoying the height of Voxtech's hospitality, of course!" He leans back, swinging one leg over the other, and cocks his head, making sure to drag his gaze over Lucifer's slumped kneel a few metres away for emphasis, "I see you're somewhat of a connoisseur yourself!"
Lucifer is, at present, in a heap on the floor. Covering his loosely draped hands and splayed ankles are smooth metal spheres, the same sorts which Alastor witnessed stringing him up within the ovular glass prison Vox trapped him in earlier. His hat and tailcoat are gone, likely removed during some of the borderline sexual harassment Alastor has also received during his stay, and his usually pristine white shirt and pink waistcoat have numerous golden spots tarnishing their fabrics. Some solidarity can be obtained here, of course, but Alastor prefers holding himself in higher regard and could never stoop as low as to be sympathetic. Especially not here; especially not to Lucifer.
"Ha-ha, red guy," Lucifer grumbles, head tipping beneath his eye roll, and adds, in an undertone Alastor probably isn't supposed to hear, "wish I was back in the fucking box,"
"Come now," kicking his legs out for momentum, Alastor scoots across the heavily polished vinyl floor and puts a heel down to stop a few inches shy of Lucifer's kneel, "no need to look so glum! They do say two is company, after all,"
"You?" Lucifer snorts, "company? Ah, yeah, no thanks, Bellhop. I'd rather go to bed with Satan."
"Your proclivities do not concern me," Alastor congratulates himself on maintaining blithe cheer despite Lucifer's curmudgeonly attitude, "but if you would rather await whatever our captors consider torture in silence," and also on the over-exaggerated sigh he exhales to prepare his bait, "I suppose I will just have to tell Charlotte how uncooperative you were once I make my escape." Confident in his own abilities, he starts to push himself away slowly, easing his full foot onto the ground rather than immediately speeding off, and mentally begins counting down from ten.
Ten, nine, eight, seven-
"Alright, fine," Lucifer huffs, glaring at the ground, "what d'you want?"
Four seconds, Alastor cackles internally, far too easy.
"Nothing too taxing," he muses antagonistically, "just some simple conversation, surely a being as old as yourself is capable of small talk?"
"That's it, just small talk," Lucifer eyes him with unguarded suspicion, "you're tied to a chair, gagged, and you wanna discuss, what, the weather?"
"Well, I would offer to cut up a rug," Alastor drawls, "but that unfortunately requires some level of mobility which, as you so graciously pointed out, I am currently lacking," the scathing look he passes over Lucifer's weighed-down limbs adds a wordless, and I'm not the only one.
"Fine," Lucifer sighs, "fine!" A somewhat dangerous smirk uncoils across his mouth, "how's your day going, loudspeaker?"
"Perfectly horrible!" Alastor beams despite his face being half-hidden, "but with a breakfast of lacklustre torture, luncheon served with a healthy helping of unwarranted physical contact, and live-action amateur pornography for supper, one can hardly complain!"
Lucifer blinks asynchronously at him, jaw slack, and for a moment Alastor is filled with the wonderful hope that he has, somehow, broken the tiny monarch. But then something extraordinarily disconcerting happens: Lucifer's sharp mouth spreads into a vicious grin, splits open and spills a laugh so bawdy that Alastor doubts its authenticity into the room. Alastor doesn't quite know how to react, hadn't been expecting a response like this, yet maintains an unbothered countenance as though making Lucifer laugh in this manner is a normal occurrence.
"Fuck," Lucifer wheezes, throwing his head back, "maybe I'm, like, woozy with blood loss or whatever, but that was pretty funny," and slopes a wry smirk towards Alastor beneath his exhilarated flush, "who knew you had it in you?"
"My broadcast listeners, of course," a shrug lifts Alastor's shoulders, "I understand that high-brow entertainment is above you, as are most things, but I am quite proficient at what I do,"
"Sure, yeah, once you get past the screams," Lucifer huffs and, if Alastor's brief discernment is correct, the implications here are astronomical.
"I thought you hadn't heard of me, sire," although he cannot fully bend, Alastor cricks his neck and ducks marginally closer, "my, my, do I have a secret fan in my midst?"
"Ch'yeah," Lucifer scoffs, "you wish," but the colour dusting his cheeks darkens and his eyes, which had been effortlessly meeting Alastor's own, avert themselves in deceit. Which, as far as Alastor is concerned, is a rather delicious vindication if ever there was one.
"Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot," Alastor extends a relevant appendage and holds it in front of Lucifer's chest, startling him a little, "Alastor, Radio Demon and Hotelier. It's a real pleasure to meet you, your majesty."
Lucifer blinks at the proffered foot, cocks his head and slides his gaze up to Alastor's impassive expression, where he raises an eyebrow. For a few beats, they simply stare at each other, one not deigning to back down and the other aggrandising the platitudes behind beseeching eyes.
"Alright, I'll bite," Lucifer mutters and, with an exerted groan, lifts both arms - alongside their attached restraints - to awkwardly cup Alastor's calf, bobbing them shallowly in poor imitation of a handshake, "Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell and temporary divine battery at your service. Please," he grins, showing all teeth and lapsing Alastor's judgement enough that he briefly considers Lucifer's concessionary term, "call me Lucifer,"
"Ha-ha," Alastor takes his leg away, pointedly ignores the voice in his mind which hastens to let him know that he hadn't at all minded Lucifer's middling touch, and narrows a playfully threatening glare at Lucifer's broadening expression, "most droll, sire, but I assure you I would never disrespect a monarch by referring to him on a first-name basis!"
"Dunno why I expected otherwise," Lucifer remarks dryly and yet, for a reason that Alastor could probably work out if his intuition wasn't declaring it to be a fruitless pursuit, his grin does not fade nor sour.
There is more Alastor wishes to say. Lucifer is an ancient tome once lost in the annuls of civilisation, one he previously believed was tantalisingly barred from study, but now the cover has been opened and its vellum pages are fluttering at their corners, practically inviting Alastor to turn them. Alas, all good things come to an end and his research, which will be thorough, is frustratingly delayed by crackling, ozone blue electrical currents suddenly running up his arms.
Vox is coming.
Snapping his head up, nostrils flaring around an inhale that reeks of burnt carbon, Alastor builds radio static like an aura and reduces the otherwise biting sparks now careening off his skin. A second later, his eyes narrow, pupils ticking clockwise in their crimson oceans, and point themselves with uncanny accuracy at the accumulating lightning storm mere inches from his face. Vox's screen is blinding, LCDs enhancing its unnatural burn, but he doesn't squint, doesn't even flinch; merely growls with assisting drum rolls and violin scratches collaborating in his throat.
"Making friends, Al?" Vox leers, hands lightning fast in grasping Alastor's chair and electric comet trails shimmering into non-existent across his suit.
"Can I be blamed? Your presence is so dull," Alastor purrs, "one must seek companionship of a higher calibre." He can't look at Lucifer, is too embroiled in Vox's glitching features, which is just as well; the last thing he wants is that aggravating king accepting his embellished compliment as fact.
"God, you're fucking relentless," Vox snaps upright and gives Alastor's chair a petulant shove, "it'd be impressive if you weren't trussed up like a bitch right now,"
"Your vocabulary is as loquacious as ever, Vincent," Alastor sighs as if this is his greatest woe, "such a shame my exceptionally eloquent influence never sunk into that flat skull of yours,"
The backhand he receives was planned before the words left his mouth, of course, and whilst its sting isn't dampened enough that Alastor doesn't taste blood where his cheek met teeth, no reaction exudes past his enforced nonchalance. Plus, Vox is unquietly seething, the air singed between them, and this, in of itself, is a victory Alastor relishes.
Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment, he forgot their audience and must put every focus on not closing his eyes in annoyance when Lucifer speaks, "are you two like," which becomes increasingly difficult thanks to his topic of choice, "exes or something?"
"No, we're enemies, you little-," Vox grits out, screen glitching erratically in Alastor's peripheral vision.
"Not for lack of trying on Vincent's part," Alastor interrupts and flops his head over to his other shoulder, directing his gaze at Lucifer's unconvinced eyebrow raise, "you must forgive his temper, Lucifer, I am to understand that I am quite the loss,"
Surprising Alastor exponentially, Lucifer is quick on the uptake and not only bypasses the use of his name - an act Alastor previously dismissed - but unspools a knowing, delightfully smug smirk towards Vox. Something odd prickles Alastor's gut as he scrutinises it, comparing it alongside similar expressions he received mere minutes ago; an unfamiliar sensation that he is unable to pick apart at present but takes note of for future analysis.
"Sure, yeah," Lucifer is saying, "don't I know it," which holds negligible sense, almost as little as his follow-up, "I get it, Box, he's got his whole- tall, creepy and charming thing going on. Plus, I mean, those teeth, am-I-right?" He lets out a low, appreciative whistle and Alastor privately entertains the belief that Vox's slap may have actually knocked him out cold.
"What is happening," Vox says, clearly as confused as Alastor, "let me get this straight," flicks an illustrative finger at Lucifer, "you, the Devil himself, have the hots for," and throws both hands in a frankly offensive gesture indicating Alastor, "that?"
"Charming," Alastor grouses.
"Mhmm," Lucifer nods and furtively glances at Alastor, which becomes - much to Alastor's bafflement and partial horror - a longer, contemplative stare, "yep, yep that- that is exactly," before releasing Alastor from its uncomfortable hold, returning to Vox, "what I'm saying. Yup."
And then Vox joins the staring at Alastor party, which is far, far worse because Alastor is regrettably attuned to that particular face - all 1,920 by 1,080 pixels of it - and has borne a deliberately ignorant witness to that specific darkening around the eyes and unfocused slackening upon its two-dimensional mouth many times in their bloodied history. He didn't like it then, when curiosity outstayed its welcome and made itself at home with intentions a bit too close to platonic, and now, when its scalpel precision is dragging across his bones, he abhors it.
"Is there a point to your existence today," Alastor grinds out, not really wanting to sound quite as angry yet unable to wield a willpower reduced under duress, "or are you here to swap lovesick simpering with our vertically challenged monarch?"
"Psh," Vox scoffs, adjusts his tie, "fuck you, Al, I'm not even here for you," and crouches, placing cobalt fingertips under Lucifer's chin, "it's playtime for my favourite royal pet,"
"I told you already, TV guy," Lucifer replies in decisively bored tones, "I'm flattered, but I'm not interested in your kinky insect fetish."
"Oh, don't worry," Vox chuckles, catching thunder in its timbre and conjuring aquamarine spindles along his fingers, jagged threads which unravel up Lucifer's cheeks to play with his golden hair, "this is a different kinda playtime; we can find something to fit your," he glances sidelong at Alastor - which Alastor feels more than sees - "cervine tastes later."
In a blink, great unwinding spires of pure azure lightning flash and snake around both Vox and Lucifer, snatch them from the air, and disappear into a wall panel like frightened serpents running for cover. Lucifer's pained growl continues to echo in the vast, empty room behind him and when Alastor closes his eyes, white blotches holding Lucifer's shape have burned themselves onto their lids.
Quiet absorbs all; steadily humming machinery, Alastor's omnipresent static and the hiss-hush stemming from his lungs as he struggles to control his breathing. He has no idea what Vox is planning for Lucifer aside from stealing power that does not belong to him - typical, if you ask Alastor - and his unhelpful imagination has personal experience by the bucket load on which it can feast. Nausea is a clench beneath his skin, a sickly tension that ebbs and flows like an oozing ocean, but there is confusion here too because, well, to be sickened by Lucifer's potential harm is to be concerned for his wellbeing.
And... That isn't good. In fact, Alastor would even go so far as to suggest it is troubling.
The first word which manages to break free of lingering storm clouds and wriggle its way up into Lucifer's conscious is moss. Which, being that it was his mind who produced such a thought, leads his memories towards his last interaction with said fauna or, specifically, Eden. There, where trees not yet named whisper to each other and grass curls lovingly towards his pale, bare feet, his past self kneels amongst bright wildflowers and cushioned clover, crinkling joyous frames around cerulean eyes as his untarnished fingers learn what life feels like when packaged in tightly-coiled, verdant fronds. It is a beautiful day in Eden, just like every day. As the saying goes, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the low-level static hum is... Wait, that isn't right; that isn't how the idiom proceeds at all.
Lucifer opens eyes burned red by an unholy descent to see not warm sunshine, happy trees and blessed undergrowth, but matte carbon fiber, emotionless floor panels, and cold fluorescent lighting. Oh. Of course. He is in Hell, held captive by some sinner who views his cosmic energy the same way most categorise lithium ion batteries, and so far away from Eden he could never fly there even if he spent the rest of eternity trying. And the rumbling static persistent enough that it broached his mind is probably coming from the same thing he can feel breathing against his back.
"Fancy seeing you here, Bambi," he says, emotionless and wan.
"Au contraire, my good man," Alastor chirps behind him, "our circumstances dictate you cannot see me at all," and the shoulder blades currently resting where Lucifer's trapezoid sits shift slightly, "Vincent's handiwork, I have no doubt."
"Who the fuck," Lucifer sighs and hates that his hands are back in those hefty angelic steel cuffs again because he can't rub his eyes in exasperation, "is Vincent,"
"Why, our resident television personality, of course!" Alastor lets out a merry little chuckle, "surely you weren't of the belief that his real name was Vox, were you?"
"Right, sure, like there's anything wrong with Vincent," Lucifer snarks sotto voce, "but hey, what do I know, maybe it's cooler to be called voice than victorious,"
"If he were to go by Vincent, the name would therefore be ironic," Alastor continues in his typical chirpy tones, "but, I digress, I was wondering if you could indulge my curiosity for a moment?"
"Sure, why not," sighing, Lucifer tips his head back and pretends not to notice Alastor's flinch when his crown strikes warm, embodied fabric, "not like I'm going anywhere." He isn't, either; thin yet heavy wires are encompassing his arms and torso, tying him to both Alastor and the stationary office chair he is sitting on.
"It may have escaped your inattentive notice, but we appear to be tied together," points out Captain Alastor Obvious, "so my question is: does your head reach my shoulders?"
"Fucking-," engaging Charlies much-emphasised breathing exercises, Lucifer inhales for four and exhales for six, needing the mental support to answer, "you know it doesn't; I just headbutted your spine, asshole."
"Quite," even without seeing it, Lucifer knows what a voice - even one as consistently patronising as Alastor's - sounds like when impacted by a smirk.
"Any big ideas tucked under those ears of yours," Lucifer turns his head, almost resting his cheek on Alastor's coat, "or are we stuck until Victor shows up?"
"Mm," Alastor hums. A moment later, there is the faint crackling, dimmed whistling and garbled language which accompanies a radio being tuned between stations, occasionally catching song snippets or sound effects, and Lucifer isn't sure whether this is genuinely what Alastor does when thinking or - quite likely, given how he behaves on a regular basis - he is taking the piss. Clarity arrives in the form of Dusty Springfield's I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself playing through every speaker in the room.
"Pff," Lucifer snorts despite himself, "alright, very funny, Bellhop, I get it."
"Are you sure?" Alastor drags out his vowels, teasing and amused, and a record scratch slices through Dusty's mellow vocals, replacing it with Dean Martin's crooning rendition of Confused.
That breaks Lucifer, sending his head forwards and bubbling laughter past his lips without warning, even though the voltage which scraped through his veins last time he was awake tries to make a resurgence in his lungs. He is spluttering, tears jumping down his cheeks, as Dean continues singing away over the sound system, right up until a deafening screech cuts the song in twain.
"Will you cut that shit out?!" Vox's voice shouts on the speakers, "you're meant to be prisoners, not whatever the fuck this is!" And then, in the second before his transmission ends, "fucking shit,"
"You really did a number on that guy, huh?" Lucifer scowls, pointing his best glare at the nearest speaker panel. Alastor says nothing, merely fizzles behind him, and the quiet rubs Lucifer's skin up the wrong way, pushing a restless fidget into his bound arms. "Hey, Bambi? That didn't uh- hurt you or anything, right? I figured you were tougher than that,"
Still, no reply, only a soft tapping somewhere near the seat of Lucifer's chair. Biting his lip, worrying it in his teeth, Lucifer rests his head on Alastor's tense spine and wonders what someone should say to a cranky radio demon having a sulk. The tapping persists, itching the back of his mind, and the request for Alastor to stop so that he can think prepares itself on his tongue. Then, comprehending with a bright immediacy which may as well be a lightbulb pinging on above his head, Lucifer realises the steady pit-pat isn't random; it's morse, because of course Alastor knows morse code.
Not hurt, Alastor's fingers say, angry. Overheard.
Scraping the vast barrel known as his memory, Lucifer frowns and haltingly sends a reply with his own fingers. Which, thanks to his cuffs, does nothing.
"Ugh," he groans, "fuck whoever invented angelic steel," and screws focus into his face, giving it a look most associate with sourness, "okay, okay hang on, I've got this." Hoping it works, he sounds out passable morse code by clicking his tongue off his hard palate.
Can't keep good deer down.
A huff jumps through Alastor's shoulders and Lucifer smiles, understanding it as a laugh.
Quite. A pause, during which Alastor's arm spasms alongside Lucifer's, then... Good company also.
A new song, its volume lower than Dean or Dusty had been cranked to, begins flowing from not a speaker, nor any visible sound system. In fact, based on the reverberation spanning across his shoulders, Lucifer can only assume it is somehow playing within Alastor's chest. Sinners, he thinks pleasantly, always surprising. The new track isn't one he recognises and seems too modern for Alastor's tastes, but momentary concentration pointed at its muffled lyrics indicate why, above any others, Hell's most imposing radio host chose it: after I count down, three rounds, in hell I'll be in good company.
Situations are less than ideal, his hands are numb within their casings, and there is a distinct lack of anything worth looking at in Lucifer's immediate vicinity. All these things are true. Yet, regardless of inopportune surroundings, there is a warmth to Alastor's wiry frame that supplies a little comfort, the vocalist crackling through Alastor's internal speakers has a nice gravel in their timbre, and Alastor himself is actually being somewhat friendly. Any moment now, ice might start forming on the windows, but, well, things could be a whole lot worse.
B-hop, Lucifer clicks.
Yes, Alastor taps in response.
Said things, Lucifer bites his tongue in thought, wondering whether he should be honest or if Alastor might use it against him later, and does the unthinkable; he pushes down his pride and clicks, not true.
Yes, Alastor replies and then, out loud, "I am aware. Fret not, there was no misunderstanding; I have played this game many times."
"Oh," Lucifer's chest clenches, surprising him, "good. Didn't want you thinking-,"
"Your apologies are irrelevant and unwarranted," Alastor interjects sharply, "please refrain from embarrassing yourself."
"Alright, fuck me I guess," so much for good company. Lucifer might as well be back in the box, at least the tickles are consistent. "Why are you even here? Not that I'm impressed by your whole- freaky reindeer schtick, but Mr Electroshock Therapy is, like, a bug zapper by comparison,"
"I am here because I'm meant to be," Alastor says and Lucifer rolls his eyes at the cryptic answer that he should have anticipated.
"Okay, fine," he huffs, partly annoyed by Alastor's cagey mentality but equally stung by his own scorned trust, "I don't wanna talk to you either." This lasts all of ten seconds, during which Lucifer wriggles like a fisherman's bait and pouts sulkily at the security camera he can see blinking away near the ceiling before the quiet turns itchy under his skin, "And even if I did, what's the point when you're a damn porcupine all the time."
"And yet, you persist," this particular drawl is typically aggravating, yes, but Lucifer is benefited by Alastor being, to use a somewhat tongue-in-cheek term, a chatterbox; he can hear its scathing undertone or, rather, the lack thereof. It isn't an overly clear invitation, barely even counts as one, and Lucifer shouldn't be placated so easily. Shouldn't being the operative word.
"So," potential small talk rolls around on Lucifer's tongue and, from its eventual pearl, an objectively bad reference emerges, "d'you like jazz?"
Silence. If his life were a movie and not some sick game contrived in a higher being's broken imagination, there would definitely be crickets chirping, maybe even a tumbleweed rolling across Voxtech's pristine floor.
"Do I," Alastor enunciates slowly, pouring absolute disgust into his tone, "like jazz,"
"Yep," Lucifer pops, "don't have to answer right away, I know it's a super tough question,"
And then, a miracle, a blessing, a straight-up gift from a father who owes him far too many at this stage: Alastor, pinnacle of elegance and composure, snorts. Loudly. Glee as yet undiscovered bubbles up inside Lucifer's chest like shaken champagne, overflowing its effervescent high into his extremities until his grin defies gravity and his wings twitch in their pocket dimension as though preempting flight.
"Yes," Alastor replies, indulgent and warm in a manner befitting spiced cider, "I like jazz, you ridiculous creature,"
"Whoa now, Bambi," Lucifer rolls his head on the sturdy shoulders behind him and looks up at the scarlet curtain of Alastor's imperceptible tresses, "slow down on the compliments or I'll think you've been replaced by a clone,"
"Come now, sire," Alastor purrs and partially tilts his head, not quite giving Lucifer his full attention yet instilling delighted disbelief in him anyway, "you said it yourself, I am charming. One compliment amongst many insults is hardly cause for concern," and, so briefly Lucifer could be convinced he imagined it, his cheek twitches as if his grin has been impacted by honesty, "unless, of course, you were not being truthful to our esteemed host?"
"Oh, no-no-no, obviously not," maybe Lucifer shouldn't let his guard down quite this readily, but hey, he did make Alastor laugh, "you're dangerous and I dig that. What can I say? I like it when my snacks bite back."
Alastor snickers this time instead of snorting, shoulders shaking beneath it, and Lucifer beams like the light he is named for. He makes a critical mistake then and considers himself so weightless, so buoyant in Alastor's infectiously good mood, that he can't possibly come back down again. His plight is therefore one that only Icarus could understand when Alastor's softly-spoken response reveals his prideful estimations had been wrong.
"Finally," is what he murmurs, intimate and incendiary, "something we can come to an agreement on,"
But the heat which trickles down Lucifer's spine like molten wax isn't shock and can't be defined as repulsion or fear either. He doesn't whip his head around, facing forwards and breathing stilted, because Alastor has frightened him, though he really wishes this were the case; apprehension would be a whole lot easier to handle than this, this expansion of interest and hastening of blood flow.
Shit, his disorientated thoughts babble, oh shit, oh fuck, I'm attracted to Alastor. Oh, Hell.
The cause of this unmitigated crisis, who cannot see the gilded blaze burning upon Lucifer's cheeks and has vastly misunderstood the tension laying waste to Lucifer's shoulders, wears a self-congratulatory smirk, believing he has simply disturbed his conversation partner. Whilst Lucifer was out cold earlier, somehow sleeping through Vox's cables tightening their chairs together, Alastor had praised the quiet to the point that he rationalised any uncharacteristic comfort felt where his limbs were bound to Lucifer's as being solitude-based. It is therefore a source of mild confusion and surprising adrenaline that the world seems oddly brighter now, with Lucifer awake, amicable and, dare Alastor think it, amusing.
Vox's interruption had irritated him, which was normal. What wasn't ordinary was Alastor's readiness for any alternative communication methods; he could have very easily used the excuse and stopped engaging the monarch currently bound to him, but instead dragged morse code from where his memories left it. Curious. This isn't friendship, such things aren't possible in Hell, and Alastor isn't soft-hearted enough that he would attribute fondness here, and yet... There is a tiny flame lit within his core that would surely sputter and die if anything irreversible happened to Lucifer. A flame which, alarmingly, increased and burnt away his carefully maintained indifference, allowing complimentary undertones regarding the king's not unpleasant companionship to slip into his encrypted messages.
And if Vox has, after all these years, actually learned morse code - if he were able to parse what Alastor revealed - he will inevitably add it to his limited arsenal. Sloping a guarded glare up to one of Vox's cameras, Alastor calls forth what little power he still wields control over, conjuring sickly green symbology around his darkening countenance as a threat.
"Uh, Bambi," Lucifer pipes up, "you good? Your shadow is looking at me kinda funny,"
In an instant, Alastor snaps back to himself with rapid alacrity and recalls his power. His shadow; how could he have forgotten such a treasonous beast?
"Please pay it no mind," he suggests sunnily, "it has been cooped up for so long, I believe it may have contracted cabin fever."
"It's waving at me," Lucifer continues, dull yet shaky, "and-," he chokes, clears his throat, and wriggles, sending tremors through their interlocked chairs. The sound of hastily scuffing boots clutters through the air.
"Lucifer," it is only after this leaves Alastor's mouth, and Lucifer stiffens against his back, that he realises his lapse, and swiftly covers it, "forgive my informality, but I must insist: the shadow has a mind of its own and that mind is currently absent. I assure you, its actions are meaningless."
Lucifer watches, breath frozen, as the shadow pauses with its spectral hand still held beside its head and its tongue holding a very licentious protrusion in its cheek, rolls its empty eyes, and slinks under his chair out of sight. Between Alastor's legs, it emerges, flips him a one-fingered salute, glowers and melts into a formless ink stain upon the floor.
"Is it, like," Lucifer manages, "like, a person? Or just a thing?"
"I am unsure," Alastor lies without hesitation, "it has been tethered to me since my arrival, occasionally causing mischief and often sulking."
"Huh," is all Lucifer says before his head is once again resting upon Alastor's back, though his reticence is anything but peaceful to Alastor, who can already hear the forthcoming sentence before it leaves Lucifer's mouth, "has it ever tried to-,"
"No," Alastor snaps, "no, it has not."
"You don't know what I was gonna say," Lucifer turns his head, imposing that all-too-warm cheek on Alastor's lower shoulder blade in a way that suffuses the obstructing fabric between them with heat regardless of how many layers there are.
"In my experience, simpletons such as yourself only ask two questions regarding my shadow," Alastor begrudgingly explains, all the while wondering why he even bothers, "whether it is a reflection of myself, and whether it is... Promiscuous. I assumed it was the latter. Was I wrong?"
"Well, I mean, that's- um," another pointed round of throat-clearing breaks apart Lucifer's utterance, "yeah, okay, guess I am kinda predictable."
"A glaring understatement," this comes absently, distracted. This isn't because of anything particularly thought-provoking at hand and is, unfortunately, thanks to the horribly familiar scent emanating off Vox's desk a few feet on Alastor's left. Sighing, he mutters, "speaking of predictable," under his breath.
Cobalt spiderwebs gather upon Vox's custom-made, imported leather desk chair - an exemplary gift from Sloth's ergonomic design factions - and send signals through its intricately embellished LED wiring until the entire desk is illuminated; a visual overture leading up to Vox himself sparking into being behind it. Much to Alastor's inherent disgust and hatred, his perfectly tailored suit is absent, bearing every loathsome inch of his cybernetic torso.
"Apologies for dropping in on your little tête-a-tête," Vox grins winningly, "but post-nut clarity had me thinking," and leans on his desk, propping what counts as his chin on steepled hands, "and I think I've figured out a way to well and truly break our outdated supercentenarian,"
"How delightful!" Alastor croons, sinking into his restraints and crossing his legs, "I can't wait to hear what you have in store for me this time, Vincent. More boring sex acts to witness, hmm? Yet another one of your whimsical gadgets which backfires within seconds?"
"Wait, wait, hold up," this is Lucifer, apparently unaware that interrupting is impolite, "you've been fucking bug-guy in front of Alastor?" Though Alastor can't say he isn't intrigued by the raucous flames caught in Lucifer's growled, "what the actual fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Sorry," Vox stands, slow and threatening like a volcano's first quakes, "I missed the part where this was any," and rounds his desk, fists coiling and lightning-laden at his sides, "of your fucking business," until he reaches Lucifer, throws a hand into his hair, and sends - if Alastor's nose is correct - enough electricity through the angel's system to short-circuit a small country.
And Lucifer screams. It isn't an ordinary, mortal scream either. Those are singular, jarring and blood-curdling, yes, but nowhere near powerful enough that entire rooms tremble and mortar flurries from ceilings, or carrying an entire chorus within their cacophony. When Lucifer screams, Alastor fears not only for his own delicate hearing, but for his ancestors' as well; when Lucifer screams, he gains new and chilling insight into what it means to fall.
"Vincent," Alastor coughs, tasting blood and bile, "Vince-," he retches, his bones vibrating and his internal organs making a bid for escape, but Vox doesn't stop. This calls for something else, something bigger. All at once, Alastor reaches into every frequency which spans Voxtech's over-compensatory tower like a nervous system, and pushes. "V0X," he bellows, synthetic and warbling; digital and analogue combining in unholy matrimony, "L3T H1M G0."
There is a crash. White light absolves every nook and cranny of their shadows. That wretched scent quintessential to melting plastic makes oxygen scarce. Alastor's ears are ringing, probably bleeding, and although the wires coiled around his torso are frustratingly unscathed, the ones which had tethered him to Lucifer are now snapped, smouldering at their broken ends, and lying across his lap like dead serpents. With this new freedom, he spins, almost upending himself, and subsequently loses the ability to breathe. Vox is on the floor, propped up on one elbow and furled inwards, his other hand clutching his screen at the top right corner where its glass has shattered, its jagged edges smoking. This obscures one eye, but the other, widened to the point that it takes up most of his remaining face, is pointed at Lucifer with nothing short of abject horror.
Lucifer is completely still. His body, miraculously held in his chair, is slumped over the last remaining cable, cutting it into his stomach, and his wings - his beautiful, seafoam white and poppy red wings - are being crushed between his arched spine and the seat's back. There is no time for Alastor to conceive delaying. He digs his heels into the floor, pulling himself along until he can skid, only stopping when his knees clunk into Lucifer's. And then, relief, sweeter than the rush of a kill, more satisfying than rare steak; Lucifer is breathing.
"Your majesty," Alastor implores, ducking his head in search of Lucifer's eyes, "now is perhaps not the best time for a beauty sleep,"
"Ugh," groans Lucifer, exhaling pure white smoke as he swings upwards and slumps against the chair, wings fluttering away to a place beyond Alastor's comprehension, "my mouth tastes like I blew a robot,"
"Have much experience in that area, my liege?" Alastor muses, idly flicking scrutiny across Lucifer's form and adding gratitude every time he acknowledges an unharmed aspect. The scream he heard should have meant grievous, perhaps even deathly, wounds, but Lucifer is seemingly unscathed, which is more than can be said for the stuttering wreckage of Vox behind him.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Lucifer grins lazily and descends his gaze into Alastor's, "radio boy," before taking it away again, directing it, unseeing, at the ceiling beneath a frown, "my ears are ringing. Are your ears ringing, Bambi?"
"Ah yes," Alastor concedes politely, "that would be, as the youth say, my bad,"
"What the fuck!" Vox shouts, deciding to join the conversation, and brings one mildly bemused angel down to him alongside a blank-faced radio demon, "there are no friends in hell, that's your fucking words, from your fucking mouth!"
"What?" Lucifer huffs.
"I believe he is addressing me, dear," Alastor tells him, not taking his eyes off Vox except to briefly glance at Lucifer, "give us a moment, would you?"
"Uh," Lucifer looks at his bonds, at his encased hands, and then at Alastor, where he shrugs, his smile off-centre, "sure."
With one push of his feet, Alastor scoots over to where Vox has gathered enough awareness that he can stand again and is now swinging his head between Lucifer and Alastor as if they are playing tennis. His cracked screen is oozing coolant, Alastor notices with barely-contained joy.
"You were quoting me, Vincent?" He urges calmly.
"You know what," Vox snaps his fingers, removing all of Alastor's bonds except those around his wrists, and grabs him by the shirt, hauling him onto his feet, "I came in here to get you, now I've got you, let's go."
"Aw, is the little TV man scared of the big, bad archangel?" Alastor simpers, pouting egregiously and watching Vox's unbroken eye twitch, "you always were too easily ruled by your emotions, Vincent."
"Fuck," Vox tugs on Alastor's shirt, yanking their faces within inches of each other, "you."
Lucifer observes, showing nothing of the electrical currents sending spasms through his muscles or the excruciating pain spiralling around his bones. When lighting embraces the two figures before him, casting their faces in eerie sapphire glows and siphoning them off into the aether - when he is alone again, without even Alastor's static to keep him company - only then does he sigh, weary and agonised, and allow his body to tremble. Nothing has ever compared to eternal starlight, that which coalesced within God's hands and bore him, and this still holds true. But the scolding, purifying power that Vox strangled his essence with, the hot radiance which poured over his skin, blistering and bubbling, was the nearest approximation he has felt since his creation.
Face reminiscent of a funerary mask, eyes containing every variant of red known to man - and some beyond mortal imaginings - Lucifer gazes through Vox's floor-to-ceiling windows using a supernatural sight he rarely engages and listening to every laugh, sob, whisper and shout rising from Pentagram City outside. Philosophers in this life and the one before might look upon this endless being, aggrandise his perfectly focused face and set shoulders, and assume he is plotting vengeance. But only one thought persists in the incomprehensible expanse Lucifer calls his mind: I hope Alastor is okay.
He never has this quandary answered. Vox returns some indeterminate time later, screen replaced, grin manic and stinking of adrenaline, without Alastor. After that, Lucifer's waking moments involve being ferried through echoing hallways, riding in state-of-the-art elevators, and being forceably strung up in that hellish glass bubble again. Pain is more continuous now, barely giving him a chance to breathe between sharp shocks, and the electrical whirring which inhabits his prison cell is nowhere near as warm or comforting as the radio static he once thought was irritating. Any memories he hopes to make are hazy, garbled by pain, and don't stick around for long.
If he ever makes it out of here, he will do three very important, non-negotiable things: one, hug Charlie and apologise profusely, two, find and smelt down every last piece of angelic steel, and three, stop being such a dick to the one person who has managed to keep him sane whilst in captivity.
If he gets out.
And that's a big if.
Fuck.