Chapter Text
CRASH!
Not the ideal sound you want to hear coming from a box that has a big fat “FRAGILE” label slapped to the front. Lucifer freezes midstep, hands scrambling uselessly in the air as if that would rewind the last 20 seconds.
“...I'm sure that wasn't important…,” he says through a grimace.
The moving truck outside speeds off, leaving him alone in his new home.
Home.
It looks like a guaranteed safety hazard. Deep purple bricks stacked against each other, rusted and cracked at the edges. Countless windows surrounding the front of the house, the majority of them arched and cracked, framed with wood painted black, half chipped off. The tops of the walls separate in threes and spiral into a triangular shape, adorned with black, broken shingles. The porch stands crooked with wide wooden boards as stairs that dip when stepped on. The railing remains mostly intact, vines wrapped around the bottom. The doors are huge, tall and wide with colored class panels and brass handles that have worn out over time.
Okay, so it's not the best house. But hey, there's a reason it was so cheap for a seemingly large house. The previous tenant seemed pretty desperate to get rid of it anyway, frantically so. Probably not worth thinking about too hard. Besides, it’s massive. Plenty of rooms and spaces, like a small castle, fit for a king.
Even if he has no use for extra rooms anymore.
Lucifer Morningstar, recently divorced. His daughter Charlie lives on campus at her university, and his former wife, Lilith, has kept their old house, at least until she finds somewhere else to live. Honestly, Lucifer doesn’t know if she already has or not. The fall out wasn’t…
Best not to dwell on the past!
He takes a few steps inside, admiring the large, empty interior. The foyer stands bare, with the exception of an intricate chandelier dangling from the ceiling, and scattered boxes and pieces of furniture. Two staircases lay near the back on either side, spiraling up to the second floor. He drags all the boxes in the middle of the foyer, slumping down against them with a tired huff. Who knew moving took so much heavy lifting? All the heavy furniture was moved already, but still, walking back and forth while lifting boxes gets tiring the longer you do it.
He lifts a small crate up off one of the boxes, setting it down and opening it. A light yellow snake slithers out, climbing up into Lucifer’s hands, spiraling up his arm, before resting on his shoulder with a content hiss. Lucifer had just wanted to hold Basil in his arms as they drove here, but the taxi driver refused immediately, glaring at the serpent. So he resorted to putting Basil in an old crate Charlie used to use for KeeKee.
“Well Basil, it’s just you and me now,” he says solemnly. Basil hisses in response, poking his head outwards. Lucifer perks up. “You’re right! We should give ourselves a tour!” he exclaims eagerly, momentarily forgetting about the boxes and tripping over one in his excitement, falling flat on his face. A concerned Basil slithers up and around onto his back to avoid the blow. Lucifer groans, lifting his head up. “Change of plans, boxes first…”
“What’s with Mr. Moneybags down there?” Angel muses aloud, sprawled across the dusty carpet in the attic with his hands behind his head. He peers through a gap in the floorboards, looking at the newcomer struggling hopelessly with a stack of boxes. Fancy, wealthy looking clothes, countless amounts of luggage, all leads toward a rich man who is now living at the mansion previously filled with broke, desperate, or straight up unhinged tenants who had nowhere else to go. Sometimes it was all three. “Fancy pants must be a real idiot comin’ ‘ere after that last guy,” he chuckles at the memory. All of them had scared the last guy enough to have him run out screaming only a few days after he moved in.
Cherri grins in response, “Poor bastard ran out screaming like his ass was on fire!”
Husk takes a swig from a bottle Alastor had conjured up for him earlier, “So when do we wanna start workin’ on the new guy?”
Niffty pops up from behind the bar counter, “Oooh, fresh meat already? I just finished cleaning up the messes from the last one!”
Vaggi looks up from sharpening her golden spear, “We’ll deal with him soon enough.”
Sir Pentious hesitates before speaking, clearing his throat, “Perhaps we should...wait a bit?”
A crude silence fills the room.
“...Wait?” Angel repeats.
“Wait?” Cherri echoes. “The fuck do ya mean, wait?”
“Since when have we ever waited before? I ain’t sitting around while the new blood loiters around the place,” Husk speaks up with a grumble.
Pentious shrinks slightly beneath the collective outrage. “I merely meant that perhaps we should observe him first—”
“Observe?” Vaggi cuts in, skeptical yet curious about his idea. “For what exactly?”
“This new resident seems…,” he phases his ghastly head through the floor, watching Lucifer struggle with the boxes as if he’s never dealt with manual labor in his life. He nearly topples backward trying to carry three boxes at once, catches himself, grins in pride, then immediately walks into the doorframe. The snake loosely coiled around his neck hisses in concern. Pentious then pops back up to the attic. “..intriguing,” he finishes.
Husk scoffs in response, leaning against the bar counter. “Intriguing my ass, the kid has spoiled brat written all over him.”
“Actually,” Baxter pipes up, adjusting his goggles as he steps beside Pentious, “his apparent wealth could prove beneficial! Perhaps he'll invest in repairs and restore this establishment to its former grandeur!” he exclaims with a determined glint in his eye. A chunk of wood chips off the ceiling and almost falls on an idle Niffty until Husk yanks her away. Baxter clears his throat, “Or at least a slightly less terrible state…”
Cherri groans dramatically. “Can we at least scare him a little?”
“I second that!” Angel says immediately
“Oh, absolutely.”
The ghosts jump at the voice, turning their head towards the previously empty doorway that’s not so empty anymore.
“After all,” Alastor says, amusement dancing in his tone as he adjusts his monocle, “it would be terribly rude not to give our newest guest a proper welcome. But give it a moment.” He twirls the staff in his right hand, stepping into the room. “Let him get settled first. A few days, at most. Once he's unpacked all those lovely possessions of his, we'll kindly show him the door and divide up whatever he leaves behind.”
Angel sighs. “Fine. But when we get rid of him, I call dibs on his fancy clothes!”
Pentious and Baxter sigh and shake their heads in unison, realize the other did the same, and both huff and turn away from each other. But they’re thinking the same thing. They know that they don’t have enough persuasion to change the other’s minds, and that’s just something they’ll have to accept for now.
The others continue to talk between themselves, conspiring about what valuables they think he'll have and who wants to keep what.
Meanwhile, Alastor's attention drifts elsewhere. He twirls his cane idly, but his eyes flicker towards the floorboards beneath them. The newcomer had arrived only a few hours ago, and already, the house was acting strangely.
Alastor knew the house was alive. How, he had not a clue. It wasn’t exactly living and breathing, but it had a mind and conscience of his own. Though for at least a century, the manor had remained silent. Unmoving. He'd seen it alive the day he had been trapped here, yet after that, it stood stagnant. No creaks or moans, no shaky drawers or levitating furniture.
That is, until the new arrival.
He hums to himself, feeling the floor bounce gently beneath his feet. Brief enough for it to be subtle, but direct enough to catch the attention of him and only him, as if the manor itself has decided that this particular tenant might be worth keeping around.
Perhaps this will be more interesting than initially thought.