Chapter Text
By every measurable metric, it should have been an ordinary Tuesday.
Production on the first generation of LED televisions had settled into a comfortable rhythm. The prototype had long since become a finished product, assembly lines hummed through the lower floors of VoxTech Tower, and for the first time in months, Vox's calendar contained fewer emergencies than meetings.
It was... nice.
Suspiciously nice.
The elevator chimed as it reached the executive floor.
He returned each greeting automatically as he crossed the office, a perfect smoothie already waiting on his desk exactly where his assistant always left it.
7:43. Two minutes ahead of schedule. Perfect.
He shrugged off his coat, straightened his bow tie in the reflection of the dark monitor, and picked up the day's itinerary.
9:00 - Manufacturing update.
10:30 - Meeting with retailers.
Lunch - Ignored, almost certainly.
1:00 - Prototype review for next year's models.
3:00 - Budget meeting.
4:30 - Interview.
He frowned. “...Interview?”
His assistant, Ethan, looked up from the tablet in his hands. “Attempted interview.”
“...Meaning?”
“I cancelled it. It didn’t seem important.”
“Why?”
“They wanted to ask whether His Majesty prefers coffee or tea.”
Silence.
“...What.”
“They claimed it was relevant to the story.”
“...What story?”
Ethan gave him a look that suggested he was, somehow, the last person in Hell to know. “The one about you.”
“There are several stories about me.”
“Not according to the newspapers.”
Vox sighed. “Right.”
That.
It had been nearly a month.
A month since Charlie's birthday.
A month since he and Lucifer had carried the LED television into the palace together and someone- who of course remained miraculously anonymous- had taken a picture of him and Lucifer laughing on the front steps of the palace after Charlie’s birthday party.
A month since half of Hell had apparently decided that seeing two people within three feet of each other on more than one occasion constituted irrefutable evidence of something.
He still wasn't entirely sure what that something was, but neither was anyone else.
Every newspaper had a different theory.
One insisted Vox had become the King's royal advisor.
Another claimed Vox was Lucifer’s mistress, and that the king was cheating on Lilith.
One particularly imaginative columnist had suggested Vox was secretly designing an entirely new communications network for the palace.
That one had at least been interesting.
The rest were exhausting.
A knock sounded against the open office door. One of the newer engineers stepped inside, clutching a folder against her chest. “Morning, sir.”
“Morning.”
She hesitated. “...Can I ask you something?”
Vox looked up from the reports he'd already begun sorting. “If it's about the production schedule, yes.”
“...It isn't.”
“The retailers?”
“No.”
“The software update?”
“No…” Another pause. The engineer shifted awkwardly. “...Is it true?”
Vox stopped turning the page. Slowly, he looked up. “...You'll have to be more specific.”
The engineer blinked. “...Specific?”
“Approximately half of Hell has recently developed an unhealthy interest in my personal life. There’s much more than one rumour.”
“...Oh.”
“So, which rumour are we discussing?”
She looked genuinely thoughtful. “I… actually don't know.”
“That's remarkably unhelpful.”
“I know.”
Another awkward silence settled between them.
Finally, the engineer scratched the back of her neck. “I guess I was wondering if… any of them are true?”
Vox considered the question with complete sincerity. “Statistically speaking, probably.”
“...Probably?”
“There are currently at least thirty-seven circulating.”
“...You've counted?”
“The ones I’ve seen, yes. There’s probably more that I haven’t.”
He could see on the cameras that the engineer had barely made it back to the prototype lab before someone else appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
His marketing director stepped inside, a stack of newspapers tucked beneath one arm. “We've had a… development.”
“Please tell me it's about televisions.”
“...Not exactly.”
Vox sighed. “What now?”
“The retailers in the greed ring are asking whether VoxTech is becoming a royal contractor.”
“...We aren't.”
“I assumed as much. They're asking whether purchasing our products means they're endorsed by the crown.”
“...They aren't.”
“They've also asked whether prices are about to increase because they're now considered luxury goods.”
Vox felt his clawed fingers curl into fists. “...The televisions are exactly the same televisions they were yesterday.”
“I'll let them know.”
“Please do.”
The marketing director nodded and disappeared.
Vox managed precisely four lines of the budget report before another knock sounded.
“...Come in.”
Ethan stepped through the door. “The Infernal Times is on line three.”
“I'm unavailable.”
“I told them that. They'd like to know His Majesty’s preferred television size.”
Silence.
Vox slowly lowered the report onto his desk. “...I'm sorry?”
“They said readers are very interested.”
“...In his… preferred screen dimensions?”
“Yes.”
“...Tell them I don't know.”
“They asked if you could find out.”
“No.”
“I thought that might be your answer.”
Ethan made a note on the tablet and left without another word.
The office was blissfully quiet for almost seven whole minutes.
Then came another tentative knock. “Yes?”
His head of public relations poked his head around the door. “I have a marketing question.”
“Go ahead.”
“We're due to release another promotional image this afternoon.”
“Of the televisions?” He didn’t respond for far too long. “...Of the televisions?”
“...Actually, we were wondering if we should use the photograph from the palace. The one of you laughing with the king.”
“...No.”
“It performed exceptionally well in the magazines, newspapers, even online-”
“I don't care. Use a photograph of the product.”
“The engagement won't be nearly as high.”
“I manufacture televisions. I do not manufacture gossip.”
“...Right.”
Another pause.
“So…”
“No.”
“I haven't asked anything yet.”
“I know what you're going to ask.”
“Fine… Should we issue a statement denying the rumours?”
“Which rumours?” The head of public relations gaped for a second. “Once everyone decides which rumour they're asking about, let me know.”
“...Understood.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence returned.
He missed when people only wanted to ask him about televisions, but now this was his reality.
Finally, after a few minutes of actually being able to be productive, no one had knocked.
No phones had rang, no assistants had appeared with newspapers, and no one was asking him questions about what coffee the king liked.
Vox exhaled quietly.
He knew this wouldn’t last, so he got as much work done as he could- making notes on manufacturing costs, approving a request for a budget increase, docking an employee’s pay, things like that.
A knock sounded at the door.
Vox didn’t even bother looking up this time. “Yes?”
Silence.
His pen paused.
That was… unusual.
Everyone answered immediately.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
Lucifer stood in the doorway.
A large brown paper bag rested in the crook of one arm. He smiled. “Hi!”
Vox stared. “Lucifer?”
“Good morning!”
“Morning. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I brought lunch!”
“It’s barely breakfast?”
“Oh, I know.” Lucifer lifted the bag slightly. “I was on a walk and I got distracted by a bakery and bought a bunch of stuff. I thought we could eat together.”
“...Lucifer.”
“Yeah?”
“How did you get in here?”
“Uh, the front door?”
“There were- are- reporters outside.”
“Yep.”
“...You walked through them?”
“They said hello.”
“Lucifer.”
“I said hi back.”
Vox sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “...Please tell me you didn’t stop to talk to them.”
“I would’ve, but they kept asking strange questions.”
His eyes snapped back open. “You answered them…?”
“I tried.”
A horrible feeling settled into Vox’s stomach. “Define ‘tried’.”
Lucifer frowned thoughtfully. “Well, one of them asked if we’d had breakfast together. I told them not yet.”
Vox could already hear the phones ringing three floors down.
“Oh, and another asked how often I come here, and I wasn’t sure, so I estimated.”
Shit. Vox could almost hear tomorrow's headlines writing themselves.
“There was also something about whether I liked your smile?”
Vox’s pen fell out of his hand. “What.”
“It was an odd question, but-”
“Lucifer.”
“-I said yes.”
There wasn't a hint of calculation in Lucifer’s expression.
No political maneuvering.
No attempt to manipulate the press.
Just a man who had wanted to surprise his whatever-they-were with lunch and had accidentally wandered through a crowd of journalists on the way.
Fuck.
“Oh my god… You told them all of that?”
Lucifer nodded. “I didn't think it was a secret.”
“Well, it wasn’t, but it is now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither of us were trying to hide it, but it makes for a more interesting story if we were, so the media says we’re hiding it.”
Vox reached across the desk, picking up one of the newspapers that had accumulated over the past month. He unfolded it and turned it around to show Lucifer.
The photograph from Charlie's birthday took up nearly half the front page.
The report didn't mention VoxTech once. Maybe if it did, it would’ve been bearable.
“...That's not what happened though.”
“I know.”
Lucifer looked down at the newspaper again.
The photograph itself wasn't dishonest.
They had laughed.
They had spent the afternoon celebrating Charlie's birthday.
None of that was the story.
“They've made it sound like…” He frowned, searching for the right words. “...Like we were trying to hide something.”
“They're hoping people think we are.”
“But we aren't?”
“No.”
Lucifer's gaze drifted to the stack of newspapers scattered across Vox's desk, then to the untouched reports beneath them.
“...Does this happen often?”
“Not until recently.”
Lucifer looked back up. “...Just ignore them.”
Vox laughed, but not from amusement. “I wish I could.”
“Why can't you?”
“Because they aren't just writing stories anymore.”
He slid another newspaper across the desk.
Then another.
Then another.
One headline claimed the Royal Family had quietly purchased VoxTech.
Another insisted Vox had become Lucifer's political advisor.
A third claimed the King intended to appoint Vox to some entirely fictional government position.
Lucifer's smile faded. “...Oh.”
“They're calling investors.”
“They are?”
“They're calling suppliers.” Lucifer didn’t respond. “They're calling retailers.”
Lucifer slowly lowered the newspaper.
“They're asking whether my products are becoming royal property.”
“...What?”
“They're asking whether buying one of my televisions means they're supporting the crown.”
Lucifer stared. “...That's ridiculous. They can't actually believe that.”
“They don't have to; they just have to wonder. My marketing department wants to use photographs of us instead of the products.”
Lucifer blinked. “...Why?”
“Because they perform better.”
“...Oh.”
“My public relations department wants to issue a statement.”
“Well that’s one thing that sounds reasonable.”
“Yeah, but they don't know which rumour to deny.”
“...Oh.”
“The newspapers have stopped asking me about televisions.”
Lucifer looked at the paper bag in his hands. “...And I made it worse?”
Vox hesitated, but he didn’t lie. “...Yes.” After a moment of silence, Vox continued. “It shouldn’t work like that. You should be allowed to walk around town without it becoming front-page news. It shouldn’t have to mean anything, but it does.”
Lucifer let out a long sigh. “So…” He looked between the newspapers, the office windows, and the lunch he'd brought. “How do we fix it?”
Vox raised an eyebrow. “...Fix it?”
Lucifer nodded with increasing confidence, as though assembling a puzzle in real time. “Well, if people are making things up because they don't know what's happening, then maybe it’ll calm down if we tell them what is happening.”
Vox stared at him. “...You think that will stop them?” He said, almost incredulously.
Lucifer smiled sheepishly. “...Actually, probably not.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Vox's mouth. “But…?”
Lucifer continued. “...at least they'll know about the sponsorship.”
For the first time that morning, Vox actually considered someone else’s words without brushing them off. “...Go on.”