Chapter Text
The bright lights and multitudes of voices of the Pride Ring do nothing to help Lucifer’s pounding headache as he crawls out of Box’s makeshift dungeon.
The wounds from the wires sting with every pulse of his angelic grace. He feels like a pinned bug finally escaping his shadowbox by tearing himself out of its fixtures.
He’s vaguely aware that his body is smoking, and not in the good way that means he’s hot. Or, wait, actually he is kind of hot. Is he running a fever?
The red lights of Pride are disorientingly similar to Hell’s sky, to the point where he’s not entirely sure if he’s standing straight or leaning too much to the side.
Oof. Hello vertigo, my old friend, he thinks as all of Hell moves around him like a trapeze artist.
Heh, trapeze. He saw an imp circus once that had a trapeze artist. How did they not get dizzy all the way up in the air like that?
“Dad?”
His lovely, wonderful daughter’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears, and gives him a point to ground himself with.
“Don’t go in there!” he warns her, because he is not going to let Charlie feel the way he currently is, no sir. “It’s a place of pain!”
Oh, the world is tilting even more, that’s so weird. Oh, wait, yup, there’s the ground.
He barely feels the extra bit of pain as he lands face first on the ruined asphalt. There’s tiny shivers going up and down his muscles, lingering electric shocks from the wires that siphoned his grace from him.
His body is pulled up and steadied (though his vision still spins like a top) as Charlie grabs hold of his shoulders and sets him back up into a kneeling position. It’s close enough to a hug, he figures. He doesn’t blame her for not going in for the full experience though, she’s probably still upset with him.
Everyone is always upset with him.
“Dad, where’d you even come from?”
“Oh, you know…the Under-Hell?” He actually isn’t sure. Wasn’t he still in a building when the TV man tricked him?
She opens her mouth to say something else, but then the background is lit up painfully as a giant screen flares to life. He shuts his eyes tight against the sudden light, but his head still blares in agony.
There’s shouting, from both the person on the screen and Charlie and, oh dear, he loves her but the yelling is making his brain feel like it’s being zapped again.
He sags backwars, leaning back against some debris as Charlie’s hands leave him. He peeks an eye open to watch her go mingle amongst the sinners of Hell, leaving him to watch from the sidelines.
She really is like Lilith, in this sense. Amicable and empathetic in a way that draws everybody into her orbit. She moves with confidence amongst others that Lucifer hasn't experienced in millennia. It hits him like another wire to the chest. He is so undeniably proud.
His daughter outgrew him a long time ago. And now, he’s where he should be. Watching her success from the shadows.
Speaking of shadows.
Lucifer feels a presence appear at his side. The faint noise of background static tells him who it is without looking. Though why Alastor decided to spend this victory standing next Lucifer of all people is a mystery to him, especially when the expected snarky insult isn’t hurled his way.
Suspicious at the silence, Lucifer looks over at the sinner.
The bellhop’s left arm is a mass of shredded flesh. Lucifer has to hand it to him though, the red outfit definitely hides how truly gruesome his wounds are. Something, something, useful for hiding his weaknesses, something or other he’s sure. Lucifer doesn’t have the brain power to truly dissect how the sinner's mind wirks tonight.
The other man is staring out at the festivities with a lackluster expression. His smile is lazy, but strained. He looks about as exhausted as Lucifer feels.
“You doing alright there, Bambi?” Lucifer asks in a moment of sympathy.
There’s an eyeroll at the nickname, but Alastor doesn’t take the unintended bait, “Oh, just peachy, Your Majesty.”
Lucifer furrows his brow at the bland response and goes back to looking at the crowd.
The snake sinner-turned-angel is gesticulating dramatically as he speaks. Other sinners are cheering him on. There’s so many voices, so many moving bodies in the crowd. Everything blurs together in a mass of chatter and movement that makes Lucifer's head spin. He stops trying to make sense of who is who to save his own sanity.
That’s when he notices it. A small angel, bright white and blue colors standing out against the harsh red and black of Hell's denizens. She’s standing next to Charlie, hands clasped together and eyes shining with a very familiar innocence. An innocence he once had.
He feels himself stiffen at the sight. He thinks he remembers seeing her when he originally tried to intimidate Box at the rally days ago. And if she was here, then-
An angelic portal opens and out steps Sera.
Lucifer curses and moves in an uncoordinated hobble until he’s hidden behind the nearest available structure.
It’s only after he grabs a handful of torn fabric that he realizes his brilliant, drained brain decided that his grand plan of safety was to hide behind Alastor.
Said demon turns his head a disturbingly abnormal amount to look at the fallen angel clinging to his coattail. Lucifer is, however, surprised that he’s not immediately thrown across the Pride Ring for this great transgression. Instead, the sinner stares down at him curiously.
Lucifer stares back stupidly before forcing his hands to let go of their anchor, “Ah…sorr-”
He gets cut off as tremors wrack his body again. The leftover electricity trapped in him still wreaking havoc on his nerves.
Lucifer can't hold back the small, pained gasp when the tremors eventually subside and his muscles unlock.
Alastor raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t snark or tease. Which, at this point, is kind of worrisome to Lucifer. Did the sinner get his own concussion or something? Has he lost too much blood? Why does Lucifer care? He shouldn’t care. Does he care?
Alastor, choosing to ignore the clear weakness in Lucifer's body, side-eyes the other angels, “I assume that you’re hoping to avoid unpleasant conversations?”
Lucifer hates how right he is.
“Well, you know, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of Charlie’s celebration. And me talking to a Seraphim would definitely cause some...issues,” he mutters as he peaks around Alastor’s side to make sure the angels still aren't looking their way.
Alastor hums in what seems like agreement.
“In that case, perhaps it’s best to leave dear Charlie to it,” he suggests.
Lucifer’s body gives another sharp shiver at the suggestion. Yeah. The less of his patheticness his daughter sees, the better.
“For once, I think you’re right, Bambi.”
Lucifer takes a breath to try to steady himself, and he searches deep down to see how much of his angelic grace is left after the damage done to him. It’s…worryingly low. Oh, shit, he hasn’t had this much of a dip in his grace since the Fall. What did those bad tingles do?
No, don’t think about that now. That’s a tomorrow problem for tomorrow's Lucifer. There's still a some left. He might faint the moment he gets back to the hotel, but -
Before he can lift w shaky hand to conjure up a portal, he finds his body sinking into a cool darkness. There’s a sensation of movement, like going with the current of a river as it brings him downstream.
It's soothing to his overstimulated nerves, and ends too soon as the darkness lifts to reveal Lucifer's room in the hotel.
The leftover shadows slide off of him like oil from water as they flow back to their master.
Alastor's shadow decides to explore the room, silently giggling as it flits about from one corner to the next.
“Oh my, it's so much more bare in here compared to the last time I visited. What an improvement,” Alastor cajoles.
Lucifer whirls on him. “You snuck in here? When?”
Alastor points to his shadow, who has taken it upon itself to knock a few leftover ducks off the bookshelf like an eldritch cat.
“What- it- you….there's a sign!”
“A keep out sign in Hell? Why, you should know that's basically an invitation, Your Majesty.”
Lucifer growls and flips him off.
“You’re usually much more clever with your comebacks, sire.”
“Oh fuck you, bellhop.”
“You're bleeding onto the carpet.”
That startles Lucifer out of his steady glare to look down. Indeed, there's golden blood dripping from the bottom of his coat and vest, staining the Persian motif below.
Well. At least the color matches.
He curses and undoes the buttons of his coat and vest. He tosses the ruined garments near the fireplace to burn later. Can't let any sinners get their hands on his blood, even if it's old and dried.
The golden streaks are even worse against his white button up. He feels the fabric stick and tear at his skin as he peels the last layer of clothing off.
He hisses in distaste as he takes in the damage. There are matching puncture wounds all over his chest from the wires, like his snake went haywire and decided to bite anything she could get her fangs on. They look shallow, but Lucifer knows exactly how deep the prongs went once they broke skin. He’s pretty sure one went into the area where a human’s heart would normally lay. He’s not sure how Mox would expect to siphon energy from him by impaling his heart, but either way, the wires had indeed done all they could to drain him dry.
Each wound is haloed by a dark orange bruise and a circumference of deeply burned skin . They’re not smoking anymore, but the smell of burned flesh still permeates the air and makes Lucifer’s nose wrinkle. Even more worrying are what look like small cracks spiderwebbing out from each point.
Ah shit, that’s not good.
Alastor notices the cracks the moment he does, and Lucifer can see the intrigue gleaming past his nonchalant expression.
Lucifer hurriedly turns so the wounds are out of the sinner’s sight. He dabs at the bloody streaks on his skin with his already ruined shirt.
“It’s impolite to stare, you know. Though, I shouldn’t expect much from a cannibal like yourself,” he says.
“Oh please, I have much more refined taste than you.”
Lucifer huffs a laugh, the jab helping the situation feel a bit more normal. With the bleeding mostly stopped, he throws the button up into the pile of other ruined clothes. He eyes a leftover, oversized shirt hanging off a chair and grabs it.
“If you were talking about literally anything else, then I'd be inclined to be insulted,” Lucifer says as he pulls the shirt over his head, hiding the wounds from view.
Lucifer signs heavily and plops himself onto the bed. Oh, he was so smart to leave the bed here. He thought about packing it up with all of his other things when Charlie told him to leave the hotel, but some small, desperate part of him had hoped he’d be invited back.
He should actually talk to her and make sure he’s allowed to be here now…if not he can just blame Alastor.
Said deer demon is still standing in the middle of the room like he’s about to keel over and desperately pretending not to.
His right hand is covering his left arm, and Lucifer suddenly remembers the sinner is probably even more wounded than himself.
“Come here,” Lucifer sits up and waves him over.
“Oh, is the Devil inviting me into his bed? Why how scandalous. What would my good, Christian mother say?” the demon says as he places a hand over his heart.
“Shut up, it’s nothing like that and you know it,” Lucifer rolls his eyes at the theatrics, “I’m just going to heal your arm.”
Alastor, ever the skeptic, narrows his eyes in reply, “Why?”
Lucifer stares him dead in the eyes, “I could ask you the same question. Why bring me back to the hotel? Why not try to kill me where I stand? I’m alone, injured, low in power. You know I can't hurt you back. Any sinner worth their salt would at least try. So why haven’t you?
“Perhaps I'm simply reveling in how low the king of hell has fallen,” Alastor replies casually.
“Yeah, yeah, why don't we try tying your life force to a giant cannon and see how you take it.”
“Oh, don't tempt me, sire.”
Lucifer gracefully sticks out his tongue at him.
“Charming,” Alastor shoots back with an eye roll, though it seems to lack its usual fire of contempt.
Lucifer signs and leans back against the mattress, “Whatever the reason, you brought me back. You didn’t have to, and I certainly didn’t expect you to. But you did. And I want to give you something in return. Simple as that.”
“It’s never that simple,” Alastor scoffs.
“Maybe for humans,” Lucifer says as he reaches inward to catalogue the last dredges of his grace. “Angels never had reason to be deceptive before. It goes against our nature.”
“Says The Devil himself.”
“And have I ever pretended to be anything different than what I am?”
“Tragically, yes. Or do I need to remind you of the silly pantomime you perform every day you visit your daughter?"
Lucifer groans and sits back up to stare the sinner in his stupid eyes, “Look, what I'm trying to say is, even if I could hurt you, I dont want to. Im not like you. You have nothing I want. I'm the King of Hell, I can get whatever you have from literally anywhere else. And it'd be easier to get too. Power? Money? I’ve got enough of it. I don't need anything that you have. So let me just do this for you. There's no lies, no tricks. I swear on the life of my daughter.”
Alastor is uncharacteristically silent for a moment, sizing Lucifer up like an opponent in a boxing ring.
Lucifer decides to let the demon debate by himself in peace and ventures to the bathroom while he waits. He comes back with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, which he sets on the bedside table.
He’s about to rescind the offer when Alastor finally moves. The demon takes his time in removing his tattered coat and rolling up the sleeve of his left arm.
“Fine,” he says with a wary resignation, “But try anything and I won't hesitate to make you regret it.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you loud and clear, Bambi,” Lucifer says as he reaches for the arm to inspect it. The wounds have stopped bleeding, but they’re wide open and raw.
He notes how Alastor tenses when they make physical contact, a deer freezing at the sound of footsteps in the woods. He has short fur like one, Lucifer muses. There’s dried blood matting it down, but it’s fine and feels soft under his fingertips.
He dips the washcloth in the water and starts gently cleaning the dried blood from the sinner’s arm.
Alastor stands in silence as he watches him work, and Lucifer is too tired to try and fill the void between them with his own ramblings. It’s surprisingly comfortable after a while. Most of the blood washes away easily from the sinner’s fur, revealing the margins of the wounds clearly.
The washcloth makes a soft plop as he sets it back into the bowl, the clear water now pink. Golden light encompasses Lucifer’s hands (he ignores the way it flickers unsteadily), and he uses his fingers to gently trace the jagged bite marks marring Alastor’s skin, taking extra care to make sure his hands don’t shake. The skin knits itself together under his touch, turning into fresh scars.
As he works his way through the wounds, he starts to notice something in Alastor's essence. There’s another wound, broad and rotten. A parasite that's dug deep and made its home in the dredges of Alastor's undead soul. It feels familiar. Lucifer pokes a little more at it.
Upon closer inspection, he recognizes the signature of an angelic wound, old and deep. Oh, this stupid asshole.
Leave it to a prideful bastard like Alastor to slowly die of a festering angelic wound instead of asking for help.
He’s exhausted, and maybe his brain has been more than a bit scrambled by TV Guy’s machine. But all he can think about is all the ways Alastor has helped Charlie in the past year. Fighting Box, holding off Adam, helping out at the hotel and encouraging her dreams. Lucifer may be the King of Pride, and Alastor may have done those things for his own, twisted benefit, but the result is still the same.
He kept Charlie safe when Lucifer couldn't. The gaping wound soaked in Adam's essence is evidence enough.
As a parent, he refuses to let a debt like that go unpaid.
“This might kill me. But fuck it.” he says determinedly.
“What?”
The one word is all Alastor gets to say before Lucifer places a hand on his chest and reaches in with his power.
Alastor flinches and grabs onto Lucifer’s wrist, but Lucifer’s already reached deep, his grace digging in like roots burrowing into the ground. It spreads deep, seeking, reaching. He feels the shards of Adam’s grace embedded in Alastor’s chest. They shine like fireflies against the green and black magic of Alastor's own soul.
Lucifr takes his time pulling them out, one by one, and healing the flesh and soul beneath. He removes the necrosed tissue, teases out the infection, smooths out the newly healed areas with his grace like a soothing balm. It’s a delicate process not meant to be done quickly. He feels Alastor’s grip on him tighten, even as Lucifer's magic keeps the rest of him frozen.
Lucifer is running on the fumes of fumes by the time the last bit of angelic energy is eased out. He pulls back on what little of his own grace is left over from the process. When he does, he feels that all traces of Alastor’s angelic wound are completely gone.
Lucifer opens his eyes and sways. He files away Alastor's stunned expression for later enjoyment. He looks funny with his ears flat and sharp teeth bared.
As Lucifer’s hand leaves his chest, the sinner shakes out of his stupor.
Lucifer thinks he’s being yelled at, but he can’t tell past the ringing in his ears.
Something feels weird on his face. He touches his fingertips under his nose and they come away with glistening gold blood.
It gets hard to focus on Alastor's angered smile as splotches of color start dancing across his field of vision.
“Thank me later, Bambi," he mumbles past numb lips.
Lucifer feels his legs buckle under him before his consciousness decides to finally let him go.
This absolute moron.
Alastor just barely catches the smaller man as Lucifer loses consciousness. For someone that barely comes up to Alastor’s shoulders, he’s heavier than he looks.
It instinctly feels wrong, being in the same vicinity as an unconscious angel. Like he's seeing something that should be fundamentally impossible.
Even moreso, he doesn't feel himself immediately bristle at the foreign touch as Lucifer's full body weight collides into his chest.
And, oh, he almost forgot how it was to live without that damned chest wound searing into him at every moment, flaring with every twitch of his magic.
That idiot better have been making a bad joke about the healing killing him, but Alastor wouldn't put it past the idiot to do so anyway.
He places the angel on the bed with little elegance and scrutinizes the damage before him.
The Devil is passed out cold. His normally already pale complexion is even more pallid, but Alastor can see the faint rise and fall of his chest.
He looks less like a devil and more like a cursed china doll. His grandiose demeanor having been stripped away easily in the wake of Vox’s machine. Its left him too still, fragile, matte instead of shining.
He can see the faint gold outlines of his wounds through the worn, white material of the king’s shirt as the he breathes.
Feeling less like a lecher and more like an archeologist uncovering an ancient tomb, Alastor lifts the edge of Lucifer's shirt up to look at the injuries marring the angel's chest.
It's easy to guess where each puncture came from, though Vox must have had to integrate angelic steel into his cables to do so, which is fascinating in and of itself since his wires were a part of him.
Wires that made Lucifer sweat, made him bleed. Wires that made him tremble and gasp, making him as human as an archangel could ever get. Wires that left third degree burns that would be agonizing for any normal creature. Hellborn or not.
Also fascinating are the cracks reaching out from each of the king's wounds. Were they larger than they were just moments before?
They look deep and stark against the pale tone of Lucifer's skin, like cracks in porcelain.
Alastor wonders how an angel's body is made up. Is it that of a human, with nerve endings, muscle fibers, and organs? Is it an indifferentiable copy, down to the mitochondria in the cells? Or is he just a facsimile? A mass of light and hiding behind illusions to gain trust, like a snake in the grass (pun intended of course).
How does it compare, Alastor wonders, in taste. He was bereft of the chance to skin, study, and, most importantly, eat any of the exterminators thanks to the First Man butchering his chest. Alastor is still bitter over it.
Would the muscle have nice marbling? Do angels even need or have a fatty layer just below the skin? Are they lean? Gamey? Is there a sweet undertone? Oh, so many answers that Alastor missed out on due to his injury.
An injury that Lucifer healed without hesitation, even though there was a chance it would destroy what little life he had left after becoming Vox's battery.
Such a curious little King of Hell. So much power with no pragmatic ways to use it.
A warble comes from his side, and Alastor frowns as he watches his shadow slide up the bed. It reaches out to poke curiously at the pink spot on Lucifer's cheek.
The shadow's hand is smacked with the head of Alastor’s staff. With a shall shriek, the creature pulls its hand back and bares its teeth at Alastor.
“Leave it be,” he says as he glances back at the sleeping devil. “You know better than to get attached.”