Chapter Text
"Hey, I have a question," Lucifer posits and removes the paper umbrella from his drink, thoughtfully drawing its toothpick end through his mouth and licking lingering orange and grenadine off it.
"Mm," Alastor hums, eyes lidded and catching amber from his own neat whisky, "go on then, free yourself of your quandary." He leans forwards, elbows resting upon the bistro table between them and crystal tumbler loosely clasped in both hands.
Lucifer tips into his wrought iron chair, fingers opening and closing the flimsy cocktail decoration and eyes watching the motion with idle contemplation. This is something they do now, one activity which has spawned from wanting to spend time with each other outside of their beds - outside of exhausted cuddling and mutually beneficial sex or violence - in places where anyone could see them. The rooftop terrace situated between their rooms isn't exactly well-used by the other hotel occupants, of course, but it is open to all; anyone could walk out and find them here, sitting at its lone table and drinking with the sunset dwindling behind them.
"Were you eating people on Earth," Lucifer begins, placing the umbrella on the table, and flicks their gazes together whilst ducking forwards and drinking from his straw. With anyone else, it would be flirtatious, and whilst it is to a degree, Alastor won't be getting anything out of watching Lucifer's mouth pursing or his cheeks hollowing. "Or is that a Hell thing?"
"My niche dietary habits existed on Earth, yes," Alastor replies, low and intimate, and pauses to pull from his glass, "but they were not as regularly fed as they are here. Does that answer your question?"
"Yeah, kinda, but I have a follow-up," Lucifer taps fingertips on his hurricane glass and tilts, leaning a cheek on a supporting hand, "did you kill to eat back then, or was it a byproduct of killing people?"
"My hunger was not my primary motivation, no," Alastor's grin widens by a margin, his eyes softening above it; a genuinely indulgent smile, one reserved for Lucifer, "but, as they say, waste not."
"Right, right," Lucifer laughs, shakes his head, and takes another thoughtful drink of mellow tequila, syrupy grenadine and tangy orange, "so if it wasn't to eat, and I mean, I've seen who your victims were and there wasn't like a pattern or anything; why do it at all?"
"Why, that is rather obvious, is it not?" Alastor muses, brilliant eyes flashing above his raised glass and nose scrunched playfully, "the same reason I engage in any activities; for fun, of course."
"Man," Lucifer sighs happily and brings his hand down, laying it palm-up on the table to receive Alastor's, "you're kinda fucked up, aren'tcha?" The response to this is elegant fingers finding their place between his own, Alastor drawing their joined hands closer to himself and placing a kiss on Lucifer's inner wrist.
"Darling, I am not known for my kindness, nor my mercy," he murmurs against the fragile skin and pulse, teasing teeth, "and you were well aware of that when we first gathered in your bed."
"Funny you say that and then reference that time," Lucifer smirks, watching Alastor's mouth and not quite ignoring the fizzle in his gut which wants those teeth buried in his flesh, yet not entertaining it either, "because you were being pretty kind,"
"Ah, yes, but you are forgetting something," Alastor follows the pathways of Lucifer's wrist with slow kisses, turning his hand in his grasp until they can reach his knuckles.
"What's that?" Lucifer fondly watches the display, his smile occasionally broken by drinking, and extends a finger, lightly brushing Alastor's cheek.
"You are, in many ways," but then Alastor draws their hands down, leans into the table, and clasps them both against his chest, "exceptional. Our time in shared captivity presented a companionship with you to me in a way that I have never encountered before. My personality is flawless, of course, yet I admit it is not a flavour most find palatable."
"Of course," Lucifer smirks. "Are you saying you like me more than anyone else?"
"Do not ask that as though," Alastor's eyelids lower, hazing out smoky vermillion, "you are not exceedingly aware of the fact, ma lumière d'étoiles,"
"Psh," Lucifer snorts, tilting his wrist back and forth once to knock on Alastor's sternum, "charmer," before carefully untangling his fingers and withdrawing his hand entirely, cupping it on his curvaceous glass alongside its sibling. This isn't because he doesn't like Alastor's affection, obviously he is incredibly partial to it, but anyone could appear through the terrace door at any time; Alastor isn't against showing fondness towards him, yet prefers it minimal in case too much implies weakness.
This is a compromise in of itself, being here in full view of the world as opposed to hiding away. Lucifer, a being who shares any joy he finds with his loved ones - mostly meaning Charlie but extending somewhat tentatively to include Vaggie - had asked Alastor if he could tell her. Alastor, on the other hand, is private by nature and was disinclined to broadcast their shared affections with anyone, not trusting that Charlie might keep her new knowledge secret.
The discussion which spawned from this didn't devolve into an argument and, though Lucifer would not say this outright, he was a little bit proud of Alastor for considering his side pragmatically rather than throwing his powers around like pillows at a slumber party. In the end, they had concluded that the easiest way for Lucifer's openness to work alongside Alastor's caginess was not hiding any touches, rare kisses or terms of endearment around the hotel. If anyone asked, they could gauge how honest to be in the moment depending on who, specifically, drew attention to it.
Charlie, Lucifer's greatest creation and - sometimes naively - forgiving person that she is, is apparently still unaware that her father and her hotelier are romantically involved. She clearly got her observation skills from Lucifer's gene pool. Even Vaggie, who defers to Lucifer like the soldier she used to be and doesn't look at Alastor without narrowing her eyes, once walked past them standing together on the lobby's upper landing, paused, stared at the arm Alastor had tucked into Lucifer's lower back, and they both witnessed a lightbulb flickering on behind her eyes.
Either Vaggie hasn't told Charlie what she witnessed, or Charlie had dismissed it. Either that, or Charlie does know, has accepted the new normal, and is actually exhibiting restraint in not acknowledging it outright which, whilst not impossible, Lucifer believes is unlikely. Alastor's poised influence hasn't had any effect on Charlie's day-to-day exuberance, much to a pity he hasn't expressed aloud yet Lucifer sees in his eyes any time Charlie showcases one of her many overzealous emotions. In other words, she can't know, because if she did she would be following them around with hearts replacing her pupils any time they so much as glanced at each other.
There is also, despite how much Lucifer doesn't want to consider it, another option: that she is somehow holding onto the belief that her parents will reunite, rekindle their long-snuffed flame, and rebuild their little family. But Lilith isn't coming back, isn't even returning Charlie's calls, and, well, it took Lucifer centuries to realise that there were key aspects of his existence he was deliberately suppressing or outright betraying during their marriage. Aspects which, for all his sarcasm and penchant for the horrific, Alastor welcomes or actively encourages. Which is... Nice. Comforting. Like hearing your favourite song after years of silence, or finally sleeping in your own bed after too long away.
"Lu, my darling," Alastor murmurs, sounding distant and obscure, "you are awfully quiet and your eyes have begun burning."
A hand carefully closes over Lucifer's atop his hurricane glass, warm and purposefully tight. Music swirls, rising into the air as though someone is gradually turning the volume up; Elgar's Salut d'Amour. Blinking, suffusing the gilded dawn from his eyes, Lucifer's veins tingle as they remember how to carry blood and at first his gaze flickers when it finds Alastor, a split-second of unfamiliarity before they dull, returning scarlet irises and dark pupils alongside mollified fondness.
"Ugh, sorry," he grimaces, ducking his head, "got stuck in the ol' noggin,"
"That's quite alright," Alastor's expression, which had been razor-sharp and intrinsically concerned, softens, "we are fortunate that my grounding abilities are exemplary; I would hate for you to drift away indefinitely."
"Thank you," Lucifer sighs, meaning every syllable, and takes Alastor's hand, leading it to his cheek. Eyes closing, face partially turned towards those humanly warm claws and a palm which covers his cheek entirely, he draws in a deep breath infused with Alastor's mossy scent and, on the exhale, murmurs, "I love you, Bambi,"
"And I, you," Alastor hums, interlacing Elgar's harmonious composition with rolling static.
"Oh-," says a new voice, but by no means an unfamiliar one, and Lucifer's eyes snap open, initially landing on a now frozen Alastor before sliding sideways, scrutinising the figure in the doorway whilst taking Alastor's hand away.
"Hey, Char-char," he smiles, forcing himself to stay relaxed despite the erratic tempo being kept by his panicked heart, and struggles to ignore the wide-eyed, utterly shocked stare Charlie is whipping between himself and Alastor, "whatcha doing way up here, kiddo?"
"I um," Charlie swallows and exhales a laugh exactly like Lucifer's own anxious one in a higher register, "you know what? It can wait! Not important at all, I'll just ah-," her hand slaps blindly at the door handle behind her, "be going now!"
"Charlie-," Lucifer starts rising from his chair, but Charlie is faster, slipping through the now open door before he can finish. "Shit," he hisses, hand coming up to rub fore and middle fingers into his squeezed-shut eyes.
"Ah," says Alastor grimly, "I see obliviousness is an inherited trait." There is a short scrape as his chair is pushed backwards, then a warm arm snaking around Lucifer's shoulders and a light push guiding his head onto a lean yet sturdy chest. It has not escaped Lucifer's notice that his height is perfect for listening to Alastor's heartbeat and he does now, using its steady rhythm as a binding agent that can strengthen his fraying mind.
"I need to talk to her," he murmurs after burying his face in Alastor's shirt, eyes still closed but for the sake of embroiling himself in all those comforting elements which make up Alastor's being rather than exasperation.
"Are you requiring an accomplice," Alastor murmurs, rumbling pleasantly against Lucifer's nose, "or is this a task you must tackle in solitude?"
"I think," Lucifer tips his head back and looks up at him, enjoying - as he always does - the way Alastor's hair frames his face at this angle, "yeah. But I'll find you afterwards. She'll either be fine once I explain, or she'll need time, and I'll..."
"Understood," Alastor presses a lingering kiss to Lucifer's hairline and his thumb skims Lucifer's deltoid, "I will make myself useful around the hotel in the meantime. I have no doubt that you will find me wherever I roam."
"Always," Lucifer smiles warmly, reaching an arm around his favourite trim waist and giving it a squeeze which remains along his bones even after Alastor melts away into shadow.
Alone, he slopes a weary gaze towards where the blood red sun is being swallowed by the horizon's uneven silhouette, coaxes a lungful of dusty, sun-warmed evening air into his chest, and uses the exhale's releasing momentum in turning, swirling out of existence in unspooling scarlet and gold.
Charlie is not in her room when he deposits himself within its chamber and he believes this is a good sign; she hasn't locked herself away. He could separate himself amongst the elemental forces which usually interlace and form everything, distributing his perception between a reality most are bound by and the multichrome energy signatures that bind them - some of which can be controlled by power-wielders in Hell, such as Alastor with his domain over frequencies - but he is too recently returned from the beyond and cannot risk thinning that particular veil again. So, instead, he takes the mortal route, wandering the hotel's labyrinthian hallways and corridors in search of his progeny on his feet.
Murmured voices lead him to the lobby, his eyes skimming its inhabitants for Charlie's colour palette. Angel, all long limbs and skimpy wardrobe, is lounging on and across the bar as always, chattering animatedly to a Husk's imperceptibly blank expression. He glances up at Lucifer on the stairs, flicks a toothy smirk his way which Lucifer returns by means of a clicking finger gun salute, and returns to Husk-bothering. It doesn't surprise Lucifer that Angel noticed him and Alastor changing before anyone else; the spider has a keen eye for interpersonal relationships and a vigilance that only those who have reasons for paranoia possess. Not that he has said anything save for a few tongue-in-cheek jokes, this is, and even those had been muttered as though intended solely for Lucifer to hear.
The kid clearly understands discretion and Lucifer tries not to think about why.
"You guys seen Charlie?" He asks as he approaches the bar, hands tucked into his pockets in casual misdirection.
"Last I heard, she was lookin' for Smiles," Angel replies, something hidden yet knowing in his eyes, "take it she didn't find ya?"
"Something like that," Lucifer sighs, starting to move away, "thanks," and heads for the kitchen door without looking back. He doesn't know if Husk knows, either through Angel or using his uncanny people-reading abilities alongside his familiarity with Alastor, but now is not the time to find out.
In the kitchen is Alastor and Niffty, the former making coffee at the stove whilst the latter excitedly explains the plotline of her latest roach-based theatre production atop the counters beside him. The fondness Alastor directs at his tiny companion doesn't fade as he acknowledges Lucifer, simply changes a semitone and adds an angle to his grin which Lucifer reads as: our elusive princess has not been found yet, I assume. In Alastor's transatlantic accent, of course; Lucifer's mind can mimic it perfectly these days.
Rolling his eyes and smiling, Lucifer communicates an affirmative and carries on through to the door set into the opposite wall, the one which leads to the downstairs communal spaces.
Each room yields few results, containing apparently every being in Hell except the one he wants, until he reaches the library right at the end of the corridor. This is one of Alastor's designs rather than his own or Charlie's. Originally, Charlie's plans involved a lot of blocky modern bookshelves, white walls and beanbag chairs in bright colours, closer to a school or public library, and then Alastor had returned to the hotel hiding that putrefying wound, took one scathing look at the room, and completely refurbished it. Lucifer hated it on instinct then because it came from Alastor, but has since rescinded this opinion.
Where Charlie's version was all unassuming decor and borderline clinical aesthetics, Alastor's is dark, elegant wood tones, towering yet well-crafted bookcases reaching all the way to the mezzanine floor, and split into two sections. One, the initial chamber, is books covering every wall, an iron staircase at its centre which spirals up to the mezzanine, where campaign-era writing desks and wingback chairs in dark emerald leather can be used by anyone doing research. Not that Lucifer has known anyone other than Alastor or Baxter to use these, this is. The antechamber is accessible through the two archways which flank the stairs, polished parquet giving way to panelling on three of its walls - those either side bearing wide, fragrant wood burners set under mantelpieces not dissimilar from the one in Alastor's bedroom and extremely comfortable arm chairs - whereas the fourth wall, the furthest, is enormous windows overlooking the hotel's shabby gardens.
The entire space is closer to the hotel's vaguely Victorian Gothic leanings than any others, scented by vanillin and woodsmoke, bathed in strawberry-red light through the windows, and where Lucifer finally finds Charlie. She is curled up in a window seat, back against the inset wall and knees tucked up with a book propped open on her thighs. A book which, as soon as he is close enough to see, makes Lucifer undecided on whether he should throw up or cringe; the one he wrote when she was knee high to a grasshopper about his and Lilith's fall. That... Does not bode well for the conversation they are about to have.
"Hey, sweetheart," he calls, dragging his initial syllable through uncertainty, and tentatively seats himself on the bench beside her, not touching yet but holding out in the hope that it isn't off the table. "Whatcha got there?" He asks like he doesn't know.
"Is any of this true, Dad?" Charlie asks, controlled and quiet as though she does not trust her own voice to be steady otherwise.
"Well, yeah, of course it is," Lucifer chuckles oddly, and suppresses the urge to get defensive, reminding himself that she doesn't mean his fall; Charlie is not cruel and would never imply that his rejection from Heaven was anything but excruciating, both emotionally and physically. "What makes you think it isn't?"
"It says you and Mom fell in love," Charlie frowns and her eyes are shiny when they rise to meet Lucifer's, "but you- I heard what you said to Alastor, Dad,"
Oh. Fuck. The gravitational pull of those words is truly wretched, yanking Lucifer's heart into his stomach's unfathomable Tartarus and trapping it there. His sweet, sheltered child is looking at him with tears in her eyes and betrayal shaking in her cheeks not because he has moved on, but because she genuinely believes you only ever love once in a lifetime. A side note pops up in his thoughts, reminding him to increase his efforts with Vaggie going forwards and he commits himself to remembering it later.
"Charlie, honey, I-," how does he put this without sounding patronising, "I did love your mom. I really did, she was my everything, my driftwood when Heaven tried to drown me, but she was my first love, y'know? And ha- turns out it's easy to wear rose-tinted glasses when no-one else exists,"
"But she's not gone, Dad," Charlie closes the book, though keeps it in her lap with one hand on its cover as if it might be used as a reference later, "she's still out there somewhere, and you-," her bottom lip wobbles, she closes her eyes and, after leading by example and practicing her own breathing exercises, steadies herself enough to establish eye contact again, "you don't even like Alastor,"
"Uh, well, that's-," confusing, Lucifer is confused, because whilst this was true a few months ago, surely she hasn't been blind to the tactility, pet names and lack of actual fighting going on, "not true though, is it. Yeah, we got off to a rough start, heh, but we're not- Charlie, I call him Bambi; you caught us dancing in the parlour last week,"
"That's an insult, Dad," Charlie's frown deepens, "you can't give sinners nicknames about their non-human attributes, that's so rude, and Alastor wasn't even alive for Disney! And I thought-," she looks away then, indignant embarrassment high in her cheeks, "he was bending over you and leering at you. I thought you were fighting."
Is it rude to call Alastor 'Bambi'? Lucifer really hopes that isn't true, that Alastor would say something if he hated it, but then again, maybe he has just been willfully ignorant. Shit. Now he's worried about it. This isn't where he wanted this to go at all. And yeah, maybe the low dip Alastor was holding him in when Charlie walked in was a bit concerning without context.
"We weren't fighting, Char," he sighs, rubs a hand over his brow, ironing out its concerned creases, "I mean, hell, Strauss was playing, I don't-," and stops himself, hearing the defensive sharpness in his voice wanting anything except the escalation brewing behind his teeth. "That's not relevant, sorry, I just," he meets her anxious gaze, heart aching beneath the shimmer gathered around her eyes, "I can't love someone who isn't there for me, who hasn't been for a long time. I know- I know we're your parents and that hasn't changed, will ne-ver change, but your mom would agree; the love in that book hasn't existed in centuries."
"But why," Charlie presses, a child's question, "I don't understand, Dad. Love can't just die, that doesn't make any sense! And- and, Alastor? Dad, he," her voice drops, hushed and worried beneath a persistently concerned stare, "he eats people,"
"Yeah, yep," Lucifer pops and strongly advises himself to not laugh and definitely don't think about his usual reactions to Alastor using those gorgeous teeth of his, "he does do that, that's true, you are- correct, about that,"
"Then-," Charlie tries to interrupt, leather squeaking as her grip tightens on the book.
"Why do you love Vaggie?" Lucifer counters, thinking that maybe if she can discern her own feelings, they will help her understand his for Alastor, if only a little.
"That's different," she emphasises - not the best start, in Lucifer's opinion - and clutches the book to her chest, "Vaggie is supportive and kind, she grounds me when everything gets too much and helps me focus when I'm tangled up in a problem." The incredulity in her frown doesn't abate, "I know she made mistakes in the past, but she helps me be less afraid and comforts me when no-one else can, and I do the same for her. She's my world, Dad."
"Okay, well," Lucifer turns, bringing a leg up to do so and placing a hand on Charlie's knee, "have you considered that all those things you said Vaggie does for you, Alastor does for me? Like, yeah, I get it, he's a freaky-deaky cannibal nightmare, and yeah, he's violent and a bit condescending, and gets real uppity if you insult jazz, but," he shrugs, smile turning fond, "I love him, Charlie, I really do. He's sensible and- and charming, and I didn't tell you this because he will get revenge, but fuck, he's so damn adorable all the time my cuteness aggression goes crazy,"
"Are we talking about the same Alastor?" Charlie asks, though her gaze is no longer teary-eyed and a very small smile has found her mouth, "with the-," she makes scrrr-ksssh noise that Lucifer assumes is meant to replicate Alastor's static, "and the," and fans her hands out atop her head, "rarr I'm a demon in hell,"
"Yeah," Lucifer bites his lip yet a giggle still slips through, "that's the one, as much as I'd ah-," don't say enjoy, don't traumatize your daughter, "think it'd be funny if there were two running around," good save.
"And he's... Nice to you?" Charlie says slowly, like the words have a bad taste, "I know he- returned what you said upstairs, but how do you know he's not manipulating you, or-,"
"Charlie, please," Lucifer sighs, "I'm older than Hell. I get that you're having trouble seeing Alastor like I do, but he does love me. Genuinely. If you don't trust him, trust me; it's the truth."
"I do trust you, Dad, of course I do," at long last, Charlie puts the book aside, tucking it between her hip and the window, "it's just difficult for me, okay, because I guess I thought- if Mom came back...'
"I'm sorry, kiddo," Lucifer tells her and squeezes her knee, "but the only reason I'd want that is for you."
Charlie nods sadly, lets out a slow breath and studies his hand for a long moment. When she does speak again, she slides her own hand up to place it over his and makes sure their eyes find each other too, "does he make you happy?"
Lucifer thinks about Alastor. This is very easily done since his image is always lurking at the back of his mind, but right now he calls it into more detail and provides animation through memories. Here, Alastor's indulgent smile, the one that crests his eyes and shines for Lucifer alone; there, a calming buzz of that omnipresent static beneath the fingertips Lucifer skims along his ear. Warm, faintly crackling laughter reserved for late-night or early-morning intimacy, a badly sewn-together smirk twitching side-to-side in case its full realisation vindicates Lucifer's bad puns, and tensed limbs finally relaxing as sharp yet somehow affectionate teeth sink into Lucifer's skin. Each one is like a single star bursting with life within Lucifer's chest, and when viewed together the constellation they form cannot be read any other way.
"Yeah," he answers, blinking a singular, overwhelmed tear down his cheek as he meets Charlie's awestruck gaze, "yeah, Charlie, he makes me really happy."