Chapter Text
Millions of eyes blink all at once. They watch the scene unfold in countless angles, better than any footage that flat-faced sinner could produce. He fancies himself a God. It’s an exhilarating feeling; to think you’re all knowing. That you hold creation itself between the palm of your hands. That you’re more powerful than any being in this pit of despair.
There is a peculiar intoxication in observation itself, in standing outside consequence, untouched by it, watching the pieces move without ever needing to enter the board.
It was all a mistake. They are all a mistake, every single one of them who ended up here.
A finger brushes against a dark wood board.
“I think I’ve seen enough.”
*-*
Alastor spares himself the dreary trudge home by simply dissolving into the shadows at the first available opportunity. That does not, of course, prevent him from lingering just long enough to take a proper assessment of the Hotel’s charmingly disarrayed residents.
He supposes he could stay, purely for the entertainment of watching the staff slog back, one weary step at a time. Poor dear Husk looks positively primed for a few well-aimed remark. But by God, is Alastor exhausted beyond belief to even try. Not solely due to Vox’s meddling, though that little cretin did try his hardest, evidently. But it’s been a hard, hard few months.
He shakes himself out of his stupor. His attention rests upon the Hotel ensemble, as they gather their meagre possessions and begin the trek homeward. Curiously, Angel Dust is absent, but given the circumstances, one cannot fairly assign blame. Absence, after all, is sometimes the most sensible form of self-preservation.
The princess, naturally, flits about, bouncing from one poor soul to the next, bright and chattery, surely intoxicated with the euphoria of her “heroic” exploits. Alastor allows himself a condescending roll of the eyes. That child would have perished here and now if not for his ever-timely intervention yet again providing the guiding hand her incompetent father so desperately lacks.
Speaking of her father… ah, he is looking particularly pitiable. Gullible little clown. At least Vaggi has the decency of appearing concerned, hoisting the king upright and supporting his weight under one toned arm.
All are worse for wear – he himself no exception – but never has he tasted such freedom. Physical wounds knit rapidly, yes, but his soul… oh, his soul is untethered, pristine, undeniably his, for the first time since arriving in Hell. The realization sends a sharp, almost reverent thrill through him, like drawing breath after years submerged, and not even his injury on his chest could restrict that.
Rosie may not like it. In fact, he is going to rub this into her face for the foreseeable future, preferably over tea. That woman may be angry with him now, but a touch of charm, a sprinkle of persuasion... It’s just showbusiness, baby. Every performance demands an audience, even a resentful one.
He makes eye contact with his shadow, who immediately understands the task at hand. It places one cool hand over Alastor’s shoulder – then he melts into the shadows and reappears within his room. Instantly, the bayou’s musk assaults him; decaying flora intermingled with the faint sweetness of swamp blossoms. The murky waters taste positively sulfuric on his tongue, and Alastor sighs contentedly, before flinching violently. Breathing is still an issue, thanks to the First Man’s thorough seeing to.
In any case, it is certainly good to be back home, exactly as he left it.
He steps over the threshold of his cabin, managing only a quick change into his plain black pyjamas before collapsing onto the bed.
Sleep has never sounded so good.
*-*
Alastor returns to himself slowly, his consciousness a mire of molasses he must wade through to reach the surface. Every joint protests the effort. His hooves tingle unpleasantly, still singing with the memory of friction burns earned while scaling the gaudy towers of the entertainment district, the sensation sharp enough to make his jaw tighten despite himself. His chest is flaring up.
Insistent thirst soon follows, setting his throat ablaze. It claws upward with startling urgency, his body is attempting to regain autonomy after being so utterly ignored in captivity. When was the last time he had eaten? Or drank? How dreadfully inconvenient. Static buzzes at his irritation.
He hauls himself upright and, with a crisp snap of his fingers, redresses himself up to his shirt. The magic answers readily, eager to obey, fabric smoothing itself into pristine order.
The coat, regrettably, is a complete ruin; chewed and mangled thanks to that insufferable pest who apparently mistook him for a novelty toy. Still, he possesses an abundance of identical red shirts. He despises being underdressed, yes, but he despises looking dishevelled even more. Shirt-only it shall be.
The lobby greets him in near silence, positively deserted. The bar, however, is not. Husk is conspicuously absent, which earns the faintest spark of irritation – nothing worth dwelling on – until Alastor’s gaze lands upon the lone figure seated at the counter.
For a brief, treacherous moment, the air seems to thicken, a low hiss of static creeping into the edges of the room.
Not a single blond hair is out of place. Naturally. His complexion is a shade paler than usual, but those golden eyes stare straight ahead, dull, vacant, unseeing.
The King of Hell cradles a glass in his hand, and the scent confirms it immediately, it is fine whisky. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t look, doesn’t so much as acknowledge Alastor with his eyes.
And yet…
From nothing at all, a second glass of whisky manifests on the bar.
“Why, thank you, Your Majesty,” Alastor purrs, lifting the glass with genteel appreciation. “As much as I do prefer my drinks on the rocks, this is a fine choice for a whisky. Though…” His gaze flicks briefly to the grandfather clock beside Sir Pentious’ portrait. “…perhaps not at four-thirty in the morning.”
With a lazy, disinterested flick of Lucifer’s wrist, the contents of Alastor’s glass rearrange themselves. Three perfectly reasonable ice cubes settle into place.
“Better, Bambi?”
For a fraction of a second, the air around Alastor tightens, the static prickling faintly. His eye twitches just once before he schools his expression. He shall see what mood the King of Hell is in tonight. While kicking somebody who is already down is certainly fun, per se, there is a thought simmering in the back of Alastor’s head, and he needs the man before him to be…cooperative.
“The drink?” he says pleasantly. “Certainly. The attitude?” A razor-edged smile follows. “Absolutely not.”
Lucifer chuckles and then winces.
That earns him an eyebrow, slowly raised. “My, my. Are we feeling a touch sensitive?” Alastor hums, leaning in ever so close to the King. “Perhaps a little… sore?”
Alastor hardly expects the whack coming from the king’s cane, materialized from nothing, and has half the mind to grasp it one hand before it manages to hit him squarely in the chest – where it would surely cause more damage. He grips the apple at the top of the cane, snarling at Lucifer, who just glowers at him. “Says the man sporting an angelic injury.” Lucifer hisses, sounding entirely too much like a snake, especially when his forked tongue peeks out. “’sides, I heard you got chewed up by a dog. Don’t worry about me.”
Alastor’s smile sharpens, the faintest whisper of white noise bleeding into the edges of the room before receding. It would be foolish to ask Lucifer how he knows about the angelic injury. While he is currently unsure if Vox ever decided to broadcast his show-down with the First Man, he would not put it past Lucifer to feel it in the air. Angelic power drawing in angelic power, however twisted it is in the King of Hell’s case.
Something trickles between Alastor’s fingers, and he’s alarmed to find that the top of the apple cane began oozing…apple juice? He takes a step back to shake off the offensive liquid with just the bares hint of magic, and Lucifer, satisfied with the distance between them, snaps his fingers and makes the cane disappear.
“And yet here I stand,” Alastor replies lightly, “right as rain, with both intact. Can’t quite say the same for you, hm?”
Lucifer shudders a little and that hollowness deepens behind his eyes.
Alastor tuts softly. “Surely Vox’s little toy couldn’t have done more than bruise His Majesty’s sensibilities?”
“You would think,” Lucifer says, sniffing faintly as his hand comes up to his chest, rubbing slow, absent circles.
Alastor’s gaze snaps to the motion.
The gesture is familiar, way too familiar. The same grounding movement Alastor has repeated for months now, ever since the last failed extermination.
For just a heartbeat, high-pitched feedback threatens to rise at the edge of Alastor’s perception before he reins it in.
Ah. How very telling.
“To be fair, my good man, you do clean up remarkably well,” Alastor notes, his gaze leisurely tracing Lucifer’s form. Immaculate tailoring, freshly pressed fabric. Nothing out of ordinary. “If only you’d learned how to maintain a proper poker face.”
Lucifer exhales through his nose and nudges his drink away. “I’ll bite. Why the hell would I need a poker face?” He gestures broadly at the empty lobby. “Nobody’s here, asshole.”
He’s too easy. Alastor grins, teeth on display. “I’m not particularly accustomed to being overlooked, you see,” he replies lightly. “But I assure you, I am hardly nobody.”
“I don’t care about you enough to bother,” Lucifer snaps back. The spark in his eyes flare, then fizzle just as quickly, his posture sagging as he sinks back into his seat.
Alastor tuts, the sound sharp and disapproving. “Now, now. No need to be so dreadfully dull.” His smile widens. “Look on the bright side! Vox’s little experiment turned out swimmingly. Your daughter may continue her misguided crusade for redemption, and half the entertainment district is gone.” He hums approvingly. “An appalling waste of space, if you ask me.”
Lucifer shudders. “Only you would celebrate erasing a district from existence.”
He refills his glass; the whisky bubbles upward unnaturally, rising from nothing to brim before he takes a measured sip. “But… you’re not wrong.”
“I am usually right,” Alastor says, draining his own glass. It mirrors Lucifer’s immediately, refilling itself without having to ask. “But what of it?”
“Charlie can lead the hotel in peace,” Lucifer sighs, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
“And I won’t be harassed to star in adult films again,” Alastor adds dreamily.
Lucifer gags violently into his drink.
Alastor nods, satisfied, as a brief wash of white noise threatens to spill into the room before settling back into silence. “Yes, exactly. Had that charming little ‘I struck Heaven’ venture continued much longer, I have no doubt Vox would have eventually sold my likeness to Valentino.” His smile turns razor thin. “To do with as he pleased, in that charming little studio of his.”
Lucifer blinks, wide-eyed, his gaze fixed on Alastor.
Alastor rolls his eyes, condescension effortless. “Valentino. Overlord of the adult film entertainment industry.”
“Ah,” Lucifer nods, comprehension clicking into place. “Him.”
Then - after a beat - he turns sharply, outrage flashing across his face. “He would have done that? Sell you into acting in porn?”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Alastor replies airily. “You reject a fellow once, and suddenly he refuses to grant you a moment’s peace for the next seventy years.”
Lucifer recoils. “Oh, he is awful, awful.” He shakes his head, visibly disturbed. “Never mind what he did to the people...”
“You mean getting lasered out of existence?”
“And scrambling the minds of those who weren’t,” Lucifer says darkly. “On the walk back, people were moving around us, up and about, but vacant. Like drones. Or zombies.”
Alastor hums, contemplative. “I find it deliciously ironic that that stupid picture box’s influence kills people’s consciousness in the very heart of a city planned to manufacture misplaced serotonin and engagement.” He finishes his second drink and dismisses the glasses from existence, only for another pair to appear instantly, filled to the brim with Sazerac.
“You just said a lot of big words for the hour we are in.”
“…TV…” Alastor mimes, because he just cannot help himself. ”…Bad…”
“Fuck off, I understood you.” Lucifer spits in outrage. “You just phrased that in the most pretentious assholey way possible. Thesaurus ass deer.”
“I would have thought His Majesty might pick up a book from the time to time to broaden up his horizons in the language department,” Alastor continues, because oh, how he missed this. “But oh well.”
“Here’s a lesson in the language department: You’re fucking awful, and I’m sorry you didn’t get eaten by the TV’s pet.” Lucifer hisses, a hint of his demonic aspects peeking out; a sharp spade tails whips out and around, and he breathes fire into the air, as if he’s a great dragon of a fairy tale.
Alastor shrugs, the insult rolling off of his coat like acid rain. “Oh but then the machine would have overloaded without me! In a manner of speaking, you could thank your continuous existence for me.”
Lucifer’s roll of eye could be seen right from the destroyed gates of Heaven. “You ain’t done me a favour there, buddy. All it did was just allow me to see what my powers have done this time.”
“But it was a marvelous show!” Alastor protests. “Especially the aftermath!”
“Yeah, no. It almost felt like my last days in Heaven.”
Oh, do tell?
With a sharp burst of static, Alastor turns sharply toward him, eyes wide. “Surely Heaven is meant to be a place of constant joy and relentless positivity,” he says. “Excluding the exterminators, of course.”
“Not before they threw me down here,” Lucifer replies quietly. He sips again. “Those final days… I could feel everyone watching me. Everybody was staring at me, but nobody was seeing me. People zoned out the moment I entered a room, and those who didn’t were very curt with me.” His grip tightens on the glass. “They already knew where I was going to end up.” He exhales. “Straight into the pit I created with my gift.”
Lucifer folds inward on himself, desolation settling like a weight.
Alastor doesn’t allow it to linger.
With Vox effectively dealt with, certain priorities have shifted; and Lucifer Morningstar has climbed a rung or two higher on a very short list. Supreme being or not, law incarnate or otherwise, despair sets the stage just right for Alastor, finally being able to make decisions on his own.
And he is nothing if not an opportunist.
“I’d say it’s a rather handsome pit your back has carved out, sir.”
“You’re joking,” Lucifer deadpans. “Have you looked around? Are you blind? Can deer be blind by nature? Asking for a friend.”
Alastor’s traitor ears flick in annoyance. The little clown certainly has a mouth on him.
“I suggest you perish the thought before I decide I test you the same way Vox has,” Alastor hisses, hackles raised. “But I must reiterate – this pit you so generously created is far from dull.” His grin widens. “Look at last night’s carnage alone. Heaven couldn’t host parties like that if it tried.”
Lucifer lets out a surprised little squeak of laughter. “Yeah, Red Guy,” he says, shaking his head, “I don’t think they’re going for the bloody-gory vibe up there.”
“Dreadful,” Alastor comments lightly. “No bloodshed. Nothing to truly get the pulse racing. Hell is lovely precisely because of its endless possibilities. I do so revel in the screams, as a good fellow of mine would say.”
Lucifer rolls his eyes. “At least someone gets to mess people up.”
Checkmate.
They drink in silence for a while. Alastor studies the tips of his claws, gaze unfocused, seeing nothing at all. The conversation has gone remarkably well. His restraint, reining in his more condescending instincts, has been… taxing, but worthwhile. Lucifer is infinitely easier to speak with when Charlie is absent. Her presence turns him into a posturing, babbling fool, desperate to prove himself worthy in her eyes.
This version of him, morose, folded inward, is far more manageable.
And far easier to prod.
Alastor lifts his gaze, sensing the opening in the comfortable quiet. “On that note, sir, I find myself compelled to ask something.”
Lucifer waves a hand vaguely, granting permission.
“Now that all of Hell has borne witness to your unfortunate tendency toward inaction, through no fault of your own, of course,” Alastor drawls. He notes, with satisfaction, the way Lucifer’s spine stiffens at the words. A delightful tell. Almost cherubic, the way he sits there now, porcelain skin paling as the golden warmth from the alcohol fades. “Where might you retreat, away from the masses?”
For a heartbeat, the air around them tightens, and Alastor cannot decide if it is because of his words, or his anticipation manifests in the radio-waves.
Lucifer swallows, then laughs, a brittle, hysterical edge creeping in. “Retreat? A-ha, I’ve no idea what you mean. Retreat to my room, maybe?”
“Oh no, sir.” Alastor’s tone softens, falsely reassuring. “I am quite certain you understand the danger you’re in.”
Lucifer grumbles. “You let yourself become a battery one time-!”
Alastor nods sagely. “One moment of weakness is all it takes to awaken the masses. You understand now that Hell has learned angels can be killed.” He leans in just slightly. “And that its King is… injurable.”
Lucifer’s pallor turns deathly pale.
“Your life,” Alastor continues pleasantly, “may be in grave danger.”
Lucifer stares ahead at the shelves behind the bar. “Not unless they have angelic steel,” he mutters. “Otherwise, I’m nearly indestructible.”
“I digress. All it takes is a well-placed order with Carmilla Carmine, the woman who crafted the glass box that kept you so delightfully snug as a battery.” He tilts his head. “And worse…”
Lucifer’s eyes widen. “And worse…?”
Alastor’s grin sharpens. The static rises just a fraction, high, thin, held taut.
“And worse, should you die,” he says softly, “our dear Charlotte would remain here, in Hell. Orphaned. Alone, as the new ruler in Hell.” His voice drops a couple of octaves lower, honeyed and cruel. “And the sharks so adore easy prey.”
The only thing filling up the resulting silence is Lucifer’s quick, agitated breathing.
“You wouldn’t want to do that to her,” Alastor finishes. “Would you?”
“Charlie’s never going to be the Queen of Hell. If someone manages to do me in, it’s the end for everyone.” he says dryly, making Alastor’s eyebrows run to his hairline. “you really don’t want to murder me in cold blood if you’re keen on keeping that pentagram over your head.”
“Me?” Alastor replies smoothly. “Only in my nicest dreams.”
Lucifer hops off the barstool and Alastor follows suit, movements unhurried. They stand facing one another now. Up close, Lucifer barely reaches Alastor’s shoulders – features delicate, porcelain-fine, unmistakably crafted. A handmade creation, through and through.
“All right, Dealmaker,” Lucifer says, meeting his gaze. “Don’t mistake me for someone who can’t see straight through this.”
“With your inability to see through Vox’s little trap, forgive me for assuming.” Alastor drawls, and Lucifer bares his teeth at him.
“So I guess you don’t want a favour from the Devil. Is that it?”
Alastor hums, fingers tracing the smooth, unmarred surface of his staff. Rosie flickers briefly through his thoughts, and their unfinished deal. He will complete the task regardless, but oh no. Not for her sake, though it would be convenient to have her favour again. No, Alastor certainly sees the potential for himself now, what Rosie was looking for might be in Alastor’s reach. And who knows? Maybe he can turn it up a notch, and push Hell into anarchy… it would so very entertaining.
“Not just any favour, King of Hell,” Alastor says. “I pride myself on being exceedingly adept at magic.” He drums his fingers against the staff. He flares his magic up, and green threads mar his finally repaired staff and Alastor’s whole being. Lucifer follows the stitches with his eyes in surprise.
“But it would elevate my understanding considerably to glimpse even the faintest traces of its inner workings.”
“You want to see magic in the air?” Lucifer asks, dubious. He folds in on himself, arms hugging his middle in a solitary, defensive gesture.
“Right on the head, my good man!” Alastor cackles jovially. “But let me clarify; I want to see its residue. A vision I may enable or disable at will, one that reveals threads of magic, unique to every source.”
Lucifer’s eyes sharpen on him, trying to see through what he surely cannot even begin to fathom. “You’re trying to locate something. Or someone.”
“I am,” Alastor admits. There is no point in denying it. “It’s regrettably elusive.”
Lucifer is silent for a long moment. The room feels oddly still, like waiting for the other shoe to finally drop. Alastor’s radio filter bleeds through, and he has a hard time reigning it back into submission.
Finally: “And what do you offer in return?” the king asks. “That’s no small gift.”
“Allow me to be the hands that smite the sinners in your way,” Alastor says, grin sharpening to painful levels. “You needn’t detach yourself from Hell merely to avoid the frustration of being unable to smash someone into the ground when they so richly deserve it.”
Curiously, Lucifer’s face goes slack and blank. The ball is in his court, as they say.
Alastor revises his earlier assessment of Lucifer not possessing a good poker face. He simply wasn’t trying.
“Where would you want this gift placed?” Lucifer asks at last, thoughtful now. That is an excellent sign.
“Hmm.” Alastor taps his staff, thinking. It’s not a small offer. “I suppose my eyes are out of question?”
“Maybe. Or you’ll end up blind.” Lucifer drawls, and Alastor growls at the imagery of a helpless Radio Demon, blind in a world full of predators. Oh, Vox would love that. “No skin off my back. But that does give me an excellent idea. Your monocle.”
“My monocle?”
Lucifer nods to himself. “Yeah. That’ll work. Hand it over, big guy.”
Alastor recoils instantly. “Excuse me?”
Lucifer shifts impatiently, gesturing in a ‘give it to me’ motion with his hands. “Unless you’d prefer it to be painfully obvious when in use, embedding it into your monocle is the cleanest solution, and I don’t want to waste time. Gimme.”
“And what happens,” Alastor asks coolly, “if I lose it? Or break it?”
Lucifer rolls his eyes. “I don’t take you for someone who misplaces his belongings.” A pause. “But if it soothes your nerves, we can add a clause to the contract. You’ll be entitled to my optician services for as long as this deal remains active. I would like to make a note here that it may take some time to re-do the magic, but if you’ve got time, I can replace it.” He tilts his head. “Are we agreeable?”
Alastor’s smile deepens, extremely satisfied. He hands over his monocle, trying to not let the difference between the dioptres bother him. He’ll have it back sooner enough.
Static rumbles around him, almost a purr.
“I’ll give you the gift you want,” Lucifer begins.
From nothing, a contract blooms into existence, brilliant and vivid, its glow recalling angel blood splashed across dark earth months ago. As Lucifer speaks, the words etch themselves into the page, an unseen hand faithfully trailing every syllable.
“The gift to observe even the smallest traces of magic,” he intones, voice steady, “to see and distinguish differing magical flavours, through any corrective eyewear of choice nominated by the contracted present. Said object shall henceforth be entitled to repair and replacement, embedded with the magic that allows access to this gift. This contract is not fixed term.”
Alastor’s blood burns in his veins, but not from anger.
That was the most exquisite contract proposal he has ever laid eyes upon. Comprehensive and elegant, and most importantly, precise. The legends of the Devil’s bargains suddenly seem woefully understated. Lucifer Morningstar, it appears, is no amateur.
“If.”
Alastor blinks down at him, lashes fluttering deliberately. Lucifer’s gaze tracks the movement despite himself. Lucifer lifts up his pointer finger in warning.
“If,” Lucifer repeats, “the contracted agrees to the following terms.” The words continue to unfurl. “He shall defend the contractor to the best of his capabilities – physically if required, to the point of bodily harm or, where necessary, his impermanent death. The contractor may summon the contracted regardless of time or place.”
“I can agree to that.” Alastor grins. As long as it wasn’t a soul deal, Alastor will make it do.
Lucifer nods. “Should the need arise, you will defend my right to live.”
At the bottom of the document, beneath contractor, a looping signature forms.
Lucifer Morningstar.
Alastor’s heart leaps straight into his throat, but he has to keep it cool. He twirls his cane once, twice, three times, and when God doesn’t strike him on the spot for making a deal with the devil, he extends his hand. Green fire curls up the length of his palm, licking eagerly at his skin.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, my friend,” Alastor murmurs.
Lucifer’s charcoal-dark palm meets his.
Pain blooms as stitches tug sharply at Alastor’s mouth. His antlers lengthen, spreading with grace outwards. Across from him, Lucifer’s demonic aspect ignites, with his eyes inverting colours and horns tearing free, light flaring from within him to seal the deal. Alastor prides himself that in less than a year, he got two deals out of two Morningstars.
At this rate, if Lilith somehow reappears, he might just strike a deal with her to complete the set. Alastor has never done things by halves.
A second signature scorches itself onto the contract, directly beneath contracted, written in hellish green.
Alastor Chassé.
A deep, resonant hum rolls outward from the core of the earth, like a signal broadcast across every frequency at once. The hotel shudders violently, and if it weren’t for Lucifer’s fortified foundation, it would have collapsed right in on itself. Alastor’s personally crafted sigils blaze to life across the bar and lobby, flooding the space with vast, endless green. All of Hell convulses in a single, titanic quake, the land itself buckling under the weight of a once-in-a-lifetime deal.
“I believe we have roughly thirty seconds,” Alastor remarks calmly, “before the hotel’s resident defender angel arrives to assess the situation.”
Lucifer nods entirely composed. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Am I invited for a drink?” Alastor laughs, satisfaction threading his tone.
“You know what? Sure. Whatever the fuck you want.”
“How delightful. Perhaps a bit earlier, though. Husker does insist on closing the bar at one in the morning on finer days.”