Chapter Text
The whole thing started, like so many things did in Hell, with an offhand comment.
Alastor isn’t a barfly, he’ll gladly save that role for Husker. Of course, he isn’t opposed to a casual whiskey or two, particularly when combined with watching the hotel residents and their various dramas. It’s almost like his very own private soap opera, without the need to turn on the television! He'll make a catty comment or two, Husker will snort or mutter something darkly, and Alastor can enjoy the free entertainment as he works on the various paperwork needed to keep the hotel running, or plan his next radio show.
Sometimes the gossip he overhears even makes it on his broadcast — one of the newer guests, one of Maestro’s thralls, had let slip some very juicy gossip about a feud between some of the Theatre of Atrocities’ leading actors. He’d been able to run that on his show, beating Zestial’s newspaper to the punch and making Maestro look bad in the process, all in a good day’s eavesdropping.
Lately though he’s found another source of entertainment — the King of Hell himself. While Lucifer’s skills at both ruling and being a father are hapless at best, he does appreciate a snarky comment or two, and could be counted on to be an appreciative audience from time to time. His sense of humour tended towards the kitschy and nonsensical, but he was funny enough from time to time, and after a few drinks it was amusingly easy to get him on some sort of wild tangent or another, which was amusing in and of itself.
Tonight he’s expounding once again on his experience as part of Heaven’s “design team”, a perennial source of knowledge both esoteric and intriguing. Alastor had been interested in animals while alive, but had only ever been able to take one general biology class during his schooling, and that had focused on covering the broad basics rather than going into any great detail. He’s better versed in anatomy, but all his knowledge there is self-taught, so to speak, so hearing the details straight from the angel’s mouth has proved rather fascinating. Certainly not the worst way to pass the evening, and between Alastor’s whiskey and Lucifer’s Beelzejuice appletinis, they’re both pleasantly tipsy.
Husker has already left for the night, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, but Alastor has been more than happy to play bartender if it means finding out just how riled up and ranting he could get the diminutive despot.
“So then I was like, but why stop at bees for pollination? Why not let birds get in on the fun? And bats! And then I thought, what if we made a bird that could hover like a bee? Just think of the physics involved, making something so small and so dextrous and they’d have to be super smart, to make all that work, and I love a good challenge, so I just got really into making it work. Because why stop there? Why not make them colourful, like flying flowers? Just buzzing around all day, sipping on nectar…sweet and feisty. They have to eat so much nectar each day just to get enough energy, and sometimes nectar ferments, so they are kind of perpetually buzzed a lot of the time, but I think that just adds to the appeal.” Lucifer is sitting on the edge of the bar, one knee crossed over the other, having decided that he “isn’t doing chairs tonight” for “reasons” he didn’t feel like explaining.
“Small, feisty, and perpetually consuming sweets — no wonder, given who invented them,” Alastor smirks
“Hey!” Lucifer protests, glaring.
Alastor laughs, not even bothering to hide his amusement at the king’s petulant expression.
“I mean….look I tend to get really into things, right? And we all had so much fun making the birds, Sahaquiel got reeeally into parrots and Raphael, he didn’t do too much on the design team but he was like ‘I think I am going to make a lot of pigeons and doves, they’re gonna be important later’ and he was right, there was all that Symbolism with those. And okay they’re not the only birds I made, but they were a concept I really liked and like…you see how I get with the ducks, well I was even more like that with the hummingbirds. They’re like tiny little beserkers! Some cultures even viewed them as symbols of war, heck the Aztecs decided their main god was a hummingbird god, that’s how much they appreciated them. And yet the smallest living bird is a hummingbird! Their eggs are the size of coffee beans! They’re so tiny and fierce and yet they make the tiiiiiiiniest nests out of spider silk and they’re so smart and they sing and they’re just like little flying expressions of joy and I just…I really like them, you know?” Lucifer is pacing atop the bar now, hands fluttering almost as fast as the birds he’s talking about.
It’s rather adorable, really, Alastor thinks, and then pauses, blinking. Where in the blazes did that thought come from? And yet, watching him pace atop the bar, his boots clicking against the polished wood, coat swishing behind him, all excited and hyper and going on with such passion about such tiny birds in a way that verges on maudlin, it makes him feel…..what was that phrase Niffty had used the other day? ‘Cuteness aggression’, that’s the one! He wants to pick him up and spin around with him, to catch some of the glee and passion the man radiates, and yet he also wants to bite him…and not in the usual way he wants to bite people, either. It’s a rather flustering feeling, and he’s still not sure how he feels about the fact that he’s been feeling it so much around Lucifer lately.
In what might possibly be a moment of divine mercy (or mockery), the front door creaks open, its loud groan interrupting both Lucifer’s exuberant ranting and Alastor’s interrogation of his own thoughts. In slips Angel Dust, clearly intending to sneak back in quietly without alerting the rest of the residents and just as clearly failing due to the loudness of the door. Vaggie has attempted to fix the door multiple times, but Alastor’s poppets undo her work as soon as she steps away — he likes the creaky door. It gives the hotel character (and an early warning system).
Angel arriving in the wee hours of the morning is far from an uncommon occurrence, but this time his usual skimpy attire has been exchanged for…well, a different sort of skimpy attire, Alastor supposes. A miniskirt, tube top, and knee-high boots, all in a fluffy, glittery neon pink fabric that clashes terribly with Angel’s natural fluff. His hair is covered by a bouffant wig in stripes of glittery neon pink and blue, and his eyes are framed by streaks of glitter in the same colours.
Angel looks around sheepishly, eyes widening as he finds Alastor and Lucifer at the bar.
“And what are you doing home so late at night, young man?” Alastor tsks, more to be a gadfly than anything else. Lucifer chuckles into his drink, sliding back off the counter and onto his barstool.
“I had a gig - some Goetia’s bachelorette party, and it went late. They tipped well though.” Angel sidles over, settling himself on a barstool. Alastor glares — this was not meant to be an invitation to sit and jaw.
Angel raises a glittery eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Smiles? Ya got something against drag?”
“Noooo,” Alastor drawls, dragging out the suspense. “I do have something against tacky, however. You look like you skinned a Muppet and turned it into rave wear.”
“Ahh, chill out, Smiles. It’s fashion, it ain’t gotta make sense. And besides, how would you even know what a Muppet is, Mister ‘Anything after 1935 is garbage’?” Angel retorts, pulling a flask out of his top and taking a long draw of its contents. He raises an eyebrow and Alastor rolls his eyes. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re the type to get the vapors at the sight of a man in a miniskirt. It’s just drag, it’s not gonna hurt you.” Angel winks coyly, cupping the pectoral fluff that serves as his ‘cleavage’. “And it ain’t gay if you find me hot like this, neither. You want a private show, you just gotta ask — I’ll even give you the friends and family rate”
“As ever, my answer to that is a resounding ‘not in your afterlife’.” Alastor takes a sip of whiskey, rolling his eyes. He privately suspects that Angel enjoys flirting with him entirely because Alastor has zero interest in ever taking him up on his dubious offers. Not that Alastor is inclined that way to begin with except exceedingly rarely (and to such a limited degree it’s barely worth considering), but even if this were one of those times, he’d have to be suicidally foolish to take up with anyone connected to the Vees. Compared to the ‘merry war’ between himself and Lucifer, he finds Angel’s antics to be more annoying than amusing, though that doesn’t mean he won’t take an opportunity to turn the tables in his favour if he can, of course.
“You know, you act as if your set invented the scandal, but I’m not that much older than you are, and I lived through Prohibition in New Orleans!” He raises his glass in a toast to his beloved city. “We may not have invented the party scene, but we certainly perfected it. Moreover, I have nothing against drag, as long as it’s done tastefully.” He pauses for effect, timing his next words carefully. “I’d be a hypocrite if I were, after all — I dabbled in drag from time to time myself, back when I was alive.”
As hoped, Alastor’s words catch Angel mid-swallow and he chokes, spraying his drink all over the bar (though thankfully not all over Alastor and Lucifer), filling the air with vanilla vodka-scented vapour. “Wait, what?”
“I’d let Mimzy and her friends doll me up and put me onstage as a fill-in chanteuse if they were short of an act for the night” He shrugs languidly, his tone deliberately light and understated. “I already played piano there from time to time as my own ‘side gig’, and my figure quite suited the dresses of the time. Besides, the tips were higher if I played piano en femme than as my own self; I’d’ve been a fool to not take advantage of that.” He takes another slow sip of his drink. “And after I passed, well, I’ve been known to show off from time to time when I felt like it. Why, you’re looking at the winner of Mister Cannibal Town 1953….and Miss Cannibal Town 1954!”
This time Lucifer chokes on his drink, and Alastor’s grin widens. He smiles, batting his eyelashes and placing his hand over his heart dramatically. “Alas, after that, Rosie said I wasn’t allowed to compete in either again and I was relegated to the role of emcee forever after. I’m simply just too pretty and talented, no one else stood a chance against me! Though it was always amusing to watch them try, of course.”
Angel laughs. “All right, all right, Smiles, ya got me, point taken,” his tone is skeptical. “Serves me right for making assumptions. Good to know it’s only your sense of fashion I offend at least, and hey, the feeling’s mutual, Mistah Bluenose.” He slides off the barstool, wobblier than before. “I’m gonna hit the hay. You two have fun doin’…whatever it was you were doin’, I guess.”
“Ask Niffty if you don’t believe me,” Alastor calls as Angel saunters out. “She has the photos in her scrapbook!”
Angel’s only response is a middle finger, and Alastor laughs.
Soon enough it’s just him and Lucifer at the bar. Soft jazz plays over the radio, and Alastor feels himself relaxing into the companionable silence.
“So, uh…Mister and Miss Cannibal Town?” Lucifer asks, refilling his glass. “You like to play both sides of the aisle, then? Or is it more you were one way while you were alive, and now you’re…I mean, if you wanted to be called something different, or…” he trails off, as if unsure of where he was going with his words.
“I was many things while alive, including ‘alive’, but somehow I gather that’s not what you were asking,” Alastor replies, being slightly pedantic because he feels like it. “If I wanted to be known as something else, believe me, I would have made it clear already. I am a demon of many skills and aspects — some of which have come up during my residence at the hotel, others that have not. Surely you understand — you wouldn’t wear the same mien in your dealings with, oh, I don’t know, the Sins or the Goetia as you would here at the hotel.”
Alastor pauses, recalling that while Lucifer may be in his jacket and tailored white pants now, just yesterday he had inadvertently interrupted Lucifer while he was on a video call regarding some sort of theme park-related copyright infringement lawsuit. Despite it being midafternoon, Lucifer had been wearing a shirt that proclaimed ‘DEPRESSION SUCKS BUT I SUCK HARDER’ and duck-printed pajama pants. “Or perhaps you would, nevermind.” He refills his glass, gathering his thoughts.
He’s not the type for voicing his introspection, he’s always kept his cards close to his chest. But there is something about Lucifer, about the quiet, eldritch way the man looks when he’s fully present, when you can tell he’s listening…it makes Alastor want to show off, want to tell him things, want to…eurgh…be honest, if it means more of that attention, more of the rush he feels when he can tell Lucifer is focused on him.
Lucifer’s aura sings with power, ancient and eldritch, quiet and deadly, slipping past your defenses and inviting you in, and Alastor has never met a boundary he didn’t want to push, a door he didn’t want to open, a button he didn’t want to push. He’s the raven tweaking the tail of the dragon, not from antagonism but from curiosity, and from the sheer exhilaration he feels whenever he’s the focus of Lucifer’s attention. It’s probably for the best that Lucifer’s attention span is so flighty, lest it overwhelm mere Sinners, but to Alastor, it’s a rush like no other. The quiet warmth of Lucifer’s power flaring into searing brightness as it focuses on you, like the world’s biggest spotlight, and when has Alastor not loved the spotlight? For someone who can be painfully self-aware, who has always had to be very aware of how he is perceived, doffing and donning masks to suit the situation, to be the focus of such power is like tapdancing on the edge of a knife, risk and reward and adrenaline all at once. Because when he’s quiet, when he’s listening…that’s when Lucifer is at his most dangerous, his most fascinating. That’s when you realise that behind the short attention span and insecurities lies a being older than time itself, older than all Creation except the very first wave. And it’s waves that are the important bit here.
Being the Radio Demon is more than just a moniker, it’s a literal description. Alastor can feel radio waves the way other beings can feel electrical signals, a constant and steady hum in the back of his mind, sometimes louder, sometimes softer. It used to be quieter, but now, everything runs on radio these days. Television, mobile phones, the Internet…they all rely on radio, they all emit it, and that means Alastor can hear it, can eavesdrop on it, can control it if he wants. It’s why Vox can never tune him out entirely, no matter how hard he tries — 5nd vice versa. Nothing strong, especially at a distance, but enough that back in the days when they were something approaching friends, they could flick Morse code messages back and forth, like a private game. At this distance, it’s more like a low bass chord, unmissable even against the raucous symphony that is the background radiation of Hell.
But if the rest of Hell is background noise, the echoes of an album played on a stereo three rooms away, Lucifer is like having a front row seat for a violin concerto. In 1932, a year before he died, scientists discovered radio signals emanating from the center of the Milky Way. Alastor had even reported on it, speculating as to the source — was it a sign of another civilisation, broadcasting into the ether in hopes of finding companionship? A warning from an invading force? He’d gleefully expounded on the possible causes of the signals, eagerly speculating as to what radio waves from outer space could portend for life on Earth. It had been like War of the Worlds all over again, what fun! And then he’d died before he could learn more, more’s the pity. Decades later, thanks to a thrall of his, he’d learned that the stars themselves emitted radio, singing out into the night sky, not just light but the beautiful roar of radio, echoing through all creation. But there are no true stars in Hell, and Alastor mourned the fact that he would never feel their song against his skin. Until he met Lucifer.
The moment Alastor met Lucifer, he knew what it felt like to be in the presence of a star. Certainly, in the visible range, Lucifer doesn’t seem anything terribly special: short, comedic, more like a clown than a king. But in the electromagnetic spectrum, he’s something else entirely. Morningstar isn’t just a moniker, it’s a literal description. Lucifer radiates power, but not in a flashy, obnoxious way. It’s a quiet power, a subtle power; always present, always able to be felt. A power that knows how to wait, that has been around far longer than the mortal mind can hope to comprehend. Like a river of magma, so hot it makes the air shimmer, but soft and inviting, making you wonder just how close you could get before being burned.
Zestial told Alastor once about a stretch of river called the Bolton Strid, in Yorkshire, that he had visited once when he was alive, following Queen Elizabeth on progress. At a glance, it looked like a quiet patch of river, peaceful and serene compared to the rushing rapids found upstream. But its peace was deceptive, Zestial had warned: just under the surface lay the full raging power of a mighty river, tipped on its side, a serene surface hiding deadly depths beneath, and that none who fell in ever survived to tell the tale. At the time, Alastor had appreciated it as an amusing bit of lore from a respected colleague, but now it makes him shiver, because when he looks at Lucifer, he thinks of that river, and can’t help himself wondering how close he can get before he falls in.
There’s danger in confession, danger in letting someone get too close, danger in handing them too much of yourself, lest it be used to hurt you, lest your own words become a chain to hang you from. That was Vox’s weakness, back in the day: so eager to curry favour, so eager to force closeness, saying ‘you can call me Vincent if you want’ and telling Alastor all about his life on Earth, all about his grand plans, never noticing how Alastor never returned the favour, never realising he was giving Alastor the perfect how to guide for pushing his buttons for decades to come. Alastor prides himself on never being that foolish, and yet…maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the lateness of the hour, maybe it’s Lucifer himself…he’s not sure of what he wants, entirely, except that he doesn’t want to stop.
He takes a sip of rye, savouring the sweet burn as he swallows. “The point is, I’ve not been hiding some grand secret, it just simply…isn’t relevant to daily conversation. I’m not one of those souls who feels like a woman trapped in a man’s body, or vice versa. I knew a few of that sort when I was alive — Mimzy’s friend Daphne started out as a farmhand from Arkansas before she ran off to the big city, and the best banjo player I ever heard was a young man who first learned to play at a convent school.” He takes another sip of his whiskey, shrugging. “The way they described how they felt…I could empathise, certainly, but it didn’t quite ring true for me. I never had the same desire to change myself that they did.” He pauses, mulling it over. It’s mostly true, and yet, somehow this feels like a night for truths. “Not all the time, at least.”
Certainly he’s wondered from time to time what it would feel like to have a body other than his, who hasn’t? He’d been intrigued by the clever artifice and padding some of Mimzy’s friends used to give themselves additional curves, and had found the sight intriguing when they’d done the same to him, but it hadn’t sparked any latent longings in him or alleviated any heretofore-unknown discomfort with his body. Certainly it had been fun, in its own way, but what he’d liked was being able to change his presentation when he felt like it rather than being locked into one way or the other.
Lucifer takes another sip of his appletini. “I mean…I don’t know about the other models, but my generation of angels wasn’t really created with gender at all. They introduced that whole thing with the prototype humans. And then I met Lilith, and she liked men, or rather, she preferred me as a man, so I went ‘sure, why not’ and over time it just sort of stuck.” He pauses, clearly trying to find the right words. “It’s like…it’s like wearing a jacket, right? I’ve worn it for thousands of years, it’s comfy, it fits well enough. But I’m not the jacket, there’s no inherent jacket-ness to me. It’s just an outfit that I’m comfortable enough wearing. And if it’s comfortable enough, then why change it?” Now he shrugs, knocking back the rest of his drink and pouring himself another. “Not to mention people have...certain expectations of the King of Hell. I’m sure you had some.”
“Some,” Alastor concedes. “That you’d be taller, mostly.” He smirks, laughing at Lucifer’s outraged ‘Hey!’ “More involved in the day-to-day running of things. Crueler, too. More of an iron fist than a velvet glove…or duckie sweater, as it were.” Another sip, thinking. He’s not sure if he’s had too much to drink or if Lucifer is actually making sense. “So you’re saying you identify as male less due to any inherent…male-ness and more due to…societal expectations and inertia?”
Lucifer mulls it over, taking a sip of his own drink. “That’s pretty much it, yeah! No inherent dude-osity here, but if people want to call me a man, then why not just go with the flow?”
Alastor considers this. It’s not too far off from his own perspective, actually. “I suppose that’s something we have in common then. I don’t think I’d particularly care to identify as a woman, or…what is the word that new guest used…non-binary? No, I don’t quite think that fits me either. But ‘male due to ontological inertia’ suits well enough I suppose. It doesn’t capture the entirety of it, not exactly, but then again, what word ever does?”
“Exactly! And that means you can decide what bits of ‘being a man’ you want to identify with, and which you don’t. It’s a buffet, not a set menu.” Lucifer takes a sip of his drink. “That’s the point of free will - the freedom to choose. To not be locked into a set definition of who you are and what you are. Why do we need to put people in boxes? There is no box! Or at least, if there has to be a box, why not put stickers on it?” He shakes his head. “Or like the jacket from earlier — if I’m gonna wear a jacket labeled ‘man’ I might as well pick what patches or buttons I wanna put on it….”
He pauses, and Alastor can almost see the gears turning in his brain. “I lost the metaphor there somewhere, but you get me, right?”
Alastor nods, not entirely sure where this is going but not necessarily disagreeing either.
Lucifer looks at Alastor, a sly, considering look on his face. “You know, Charlie was telling me about something the other day — she said that there are some folks who call themselves genderfluid, or genderqueer. That they might feel like a man sometimes, and a woman at other times, or something that’s both but neither, or somewhere in the middle but it changes. Either way, they don’t really fit into a neat category the way some folks do, it’s more…fluid, I suppose. Certainly interesting! Not saying either of them is the right word for me, necessarily, but…”
Alastor hums in the back of his throat, tossing the idea this way and that in his mind. “Genderfluid…sounds like something you’d put in a motorcar. Or a drink…perhaps in one of the excessively fruity ones Angel Dust prefers.” He laughs. “But genderqueer…” He mulls it over, idly twirling the little cocktail stirrer with his finger, making the ice clink against the sides of the glass as he does. “It’s an intriguing word…there’s potential there, certainly. I do like the word queer.” He nods. “Yes, I’ve always felt a bit of a queer sort, neither entirely one thing nor fully the other. Neither fish nor fowl, so to speak.” A life lived in the grey areas, always too much of one thing, not enough of the other, forever blurring the lines between categories wherever he went. “The label ‘man’ suits me well enough for now, I suppose…”
“But it doesn’t fit all the way?” Lucifer’s voice is casual, inviting but not pressuring.
“Oh, but what label ever does?” Alastor gestures dramatically with his free hand, wishing he had a cigarette to put in it and cursing Charlie’s ‘no smoking in public areas’ rule. “It’s easy enough to round down to ‘man’, after all. Or why not expand the definition? After all, if I must broaden my definition of my own self-image to include having hooves and antlers, why can’t I expand the definition of ‘man’ to include things like ‘likes wearing eyeliner’ or ‘looks stunning in an evening gown’?”
“Hey you don’t gotta tell me twice!” Lucifer agrees, grinning. “I think you’d look really nice in a pretty gown…” He gives a sly wink, and Alastor’s smile widens, appreciating the slide from introspection back into banter.
“Well, Mister Morningstar,” Alastor teases, tone coy and coquettish. “Play your cards right and you might just get to see that sometime…”
Lucifer summons a deck of playing cards. “What game? Poker? Blackjack? Go Fish?”
Alastor laughs. “Probably best for our sake that dear Husker has already retired for the night or we’d never get rid of him otherwise. But I’d not say no to a round or two of gin rummy, if you know how to play.”
Lucifer does in fact know how to play, and it turns out that playing cards with the Devil himself is surprisingly pleasant. As tipsy as they both are, they’re still able to give each other a good challenge, and they’re both familiar enough with the rules that they’re able to keep up with conversation as they do. Lucifer reprises his earlier loquacity, responding to Alastor’s earlier admissions with more of his own.
“I mean once you make the switch from the whole ‘multi-dimensional being of starstuff and celestial energy’ to having a physical body, in the end it’s all kind of much of a muchness, I suppose. All sorts of weird biology stuff that you have to get used to, though. Like the hiccups, or sneezing when you go out into bright light. Or when I was pregnant with Charlie! Oh man, that was a whole wild ride there, being pregnant is nooooot easy let me tell you that.”
Alastor pauses in the act of drawing a card, almost dropping his drink in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“What? Oh, the whole pregnant thing? I always forget that isn’t common knowledge, oops.” His tone is almost sheepish. “You okay there? You look uh…a bit…poleaxed.”
Alastor is grateful Lucifer didn’t make the inevitably cliched ‘deer in the headlights’ joke, as his brain freezes in a mess of static. “...How?” he blurts, almost but not quite a bleat, much to his personal dismay.
Alastor had always assumed Lilith had been the one to carry Charlie, not that he’d ever thought much about it in the first place. Though given he’s learned that Lucifer views gender as more of an optional add-on than anything inherent, he supposes it would make its own sort of sense, especially considering the fact that Sinners can’t procreate, though of course, Lilith was no mere Sinner.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, a wicked grin on his face. “Do you really wanna hear about what me and Lilith used to get up to? Because I tell you, she could get very creative, and she might not have wanted her own organic cock but she had a pretty impressive collection of— ”
A blat of radio static stops Lucifer from completing that sentence. “That won’t be necessary! I just… assumed, I suppose…” That you had a cock, Alastor’s brain finishes for him, but he can’t bring himself to admit that out loud. Why is he thinking about the Devil’s cock? Or potential lack thereof? It must be the whiskey. Yes, they’ve both indulged a bit more than typical, that must be it, because they are certainly not at the ‘discussing genitalia’ level of their semi-antagonistic-semi-friendly-not-quite-rivalry-mutual-attention-seeking…whatever this is.
Lucifer laughs. “I mean, I’m a man…ish…but like, let’s revisit the jacket metaphor from earlier. This shape, it’s a jacket, it’s not the me of me. And so that doesn’t mean I always have the bits that people assume are underneath, right? I mean I do sometimes, but I wasn’t made with them. They were an aftermarket add-on, as it were. Angels don’t go to the bathroom, anything we eat just becomes part of our essence, and we weren’t supposed to procreate, so when I was created, I was smooth as a doll down there, because hey, why would there need to be anything? Sex for fun hadn’t been invented then either. But Lilith wanted me to have a cock so ala-ka-schwang, tada, I had one!”
Lucifer draws a card and discards one, rearranging the cards in his hand. “I still shift things back to that state sometimes, or a pussy; makes my pants fit better, less hassle, less worry about things getting tight in the trousers if I get all hot and bothered. But it’s easy enough for me to give myself a cock when I want one!” He grins. “Or a pussy. I can even give someone else one if they want to try it out! Ever wanted to know how the other side feels? Easy enough to give it a go — doesn’t have to be permanent if you don’t want it to be, but if you ever wanted to take one for a spin yourself…” His tone isn’t prurient, more…amiably enthusiastic, like someone offering you a bite of their dessert, and the utter lack of leering is the only reason Alastor doesn’t react with the same annoyed vehemence as he would to one of Angel Dust’s innuendos.
“No thank you!” Alastor’s face is flushed. He rarely ever takes his own equipment for a spin, so to speak, and he’s never done so with anyone else. The idea of trying out other equipment temporarily is an interesting one, but firmly to remain in the realm of fantasy for the foreseeable future. He has no desire to ‘give it a go’ right now, and certainly not if that would involve Lucifer doing it to him…though a traitorous part of his brain wonders if Lucifer is offering himself as part of the package, and what that might feel like… He shakes his head; he’s clearly had too much to drink tonight if those are the kind of mental images racing through his brain!
“Hey, don’t knock it til you try it.” Lucifer waves a hand magnanimously. “Just figured I’d offer, no worries if you don’t. Maybe the switching back and forth thing is an angel thing…or a fallen angel thing. Don’t really know, not like there’s a ton of them to ask. Whatever Carmilla and Zestial get up to between them is theirs to know and me not to ask, I don’t want them to think I’m inviting them to a threesome again…hooo boy was that an awkward misunderstanding! And I’m not gonna ask my daughter or her girlfriend what they get up to between the sheets either, that is noooone of my business, nope, nope.”
Alastor’s brain fixates on a particular nugget of information amidst the verbal flailing. He’s suspected Carmilla was a fallen angel for quite some time now, but it’s good to have confirmation. He debates bringing it up to Lucifer, asking what he might get for Alastor being quiet about that little omission, but it would sour the jovial mood and besides, keeping on Lucifer’s good side for now is more important. He could always keep it in his back pocket for later leverage or gossip, he supposes, though he’s not certain with who just yet.
It would make a fine tidbit of gossip for Rosie, if not for the fact that he’s reasonably sure she already knows. While Rosie’s reputation as a maneater is well-deserved (in both the literal and figurative senses), he had inadvertently learned that her tastes were more varied than one might suppose. It had been a particularly awkward moment of his early days in Hell, back when he was still learning how his shadow powers worked. Injured after taking down another Overlord, Alastor had been aiming for Rosie’s parlour, hoping to ask her for assistance in patching himself up. Instead, he’d overshot and landed in her bedroom, receiving an unexpected eyeful, followed by him promising to keep schtum about what he had seen. Rosie had then added insult to injury by sitting him down for a talk about ‘ethical non-monogamy’ and ‘colleagues with benefits’. It had been reminiscent of the time his mother had given him ‘The Talk’ when he was alive, except somehow even more awkward, and he’d been so mortified by the whole experience that he’d been unable to look either Zestial or Carmilla in the eye for quite some time after that.
Yes, best to let sleeping angels lie for now and avoid raising the ire of his patron. Still, he will have to find something to use as leverage — she’s so far refused his requests to heal him or his staff, and it was getting extremely frustrating. Maybe if he lets Lucifer keep talking the king will drop another tidbit he could use to his advantage…and if not, at least he’ll have the satisfaction of beating the king at cards.