Chapter Text
Beans and Bargains
When Alastor is about to enter the kitchen this fine Thursday morning, he senses at once something is amiss. The lights are on, and the unmistakable clatter of cutlery breaks the usual hush.
Oh no?
It is exactly 5:30 a.m., as his routine demands, and no one is ever awake before he’s enjoyed his first coffee in peace. Yet someone is clearly operating within his sacred domain, apparently unloading the dishwasher.
Adjusting the cuffs of his red shirt and straightening his glasses, Alastor steps into the kitchen with an extra cheery: “Good morning, my dear!”
His cruel smile softens just an inch when he sees Charlotte.
“Morning, Al,” she rasps, voice husky with fatigue.
Her tired wave is refreshingly charming compared to her usual sunshine, but the tangled hair and dark circles under her eyes tell him that there is a price to pay for her uncharacteristic quiet.
“Oho, a simple ‘morning’, not even a ‘good morning’? Come now, princess, aren’t you the one who usually insists ‘a morning can always be good, if you make it so’?” he teases but reaches for Charlie’s pink mug anyway, starting the coffee machine.
“It looks like someone has been entertaining a new project all night, what an enthusiasm!”
“Do I look like it?”
Charlie groans and combs her fingers through her messy blonde hair. It only makes her look more like her father—minus the height.
Alastor smiles.
“No, my dear. You look as radiant as ever.” He pauses. “Like the sun during a thunderstorm.”
Charlie gets the point and mutters a weary, “Shit.”
Her eyes follow the coffee stream with reverence as Alastor fills her mug – to the brim, unusually generous. Without comment, he passes her the sugar before tending to his own “Oh Deer” mug.
A comfortable silence settles between them, broken only by Charlie's small notices – a slurp, a wince, another sigh.
Once he’s finished his drink, Alastor swaps his suit jacket for an apron and begins prepping breakfast. He dices tomatoes, mushrooms, and—untraditionally—avocado. The fruit is included solely as an excuse to use his hefty granite mortar and pestle. He finds great satisfaction in smashing it into velvety green mash.
Preparing breakfast at 5:30 a.m. has something meditative about it, and Alastor is grateful that dear Charlotte respects his boundaries – at least on this front. She remains blessedly silent until he begins preparing the beans and tomato sauce, the chopped vegetables already roasting in the oven.
“Sooo, you already know Dad let me go to the meeting with Adam Primus and it didn't go well…,” Charlie says, flashing him a sheepish, lopsided smile.
“But of course! As your ever-vigilant hotelier, I know everything that happens beneath this roof and beyond,” he chirps with mock grandeur.
To be fair, he’d only found out secondhand. Husk had told him. One single day a week, Alastor leaves the hotel, and somehow that always ends up being the day shit hits the fan. He’s long past surprise.
“I sense there's more to it?” Alastor asks, gently cutting her off before she can spiral. Charlotte perks up and grimaces.
“Maybe?”
“Oh please. Out with it, Charlotte, dearest.”
“I want to convince Celestium Foundation that those quality management meetings are completely unfair! And I need to get the budget back! The one Adam slashed right after our talk. I mean, how was I supposed to know he’d twist every single word I said?!”
Alastor raises a brow. “Your father didn't prepare you, then?”
A small flicker of anger stirs in his chest. It takes a very specific kind of dumbassery to let your own daughter walk into a QM meeting unarmed and unbriefed. Not that it’s a new low for Lucifer Morningstar, glorious paladin of celestial brilliance. Alastor files it away for their next game session.
“Well, he did tell me that- Oh, that's not the point!” Charlie huffs. “I tried convincing Dad I can fix it! If only he’d arrange a meeting with someone higher up, I-”
“You can't.”
Slip of the tongue.
Charlie freezes. Her face falls, and she flushes with embarrassment. Fidgeting with the handle of her mug, she asks: “You think I'll fail you all again?”
“No, not in the slightest!” Alastor replies, quick and bright.
An uncertain look on her face, Charlie rephrases: “You think I can't convince Dad I’m capable of fixing this?”
“Indeedy!” Alastor grins at her over his shoulder. “But fret not – your reliable hotelier stands ready to assist.”
With a huff Charlie lowers her head on the table, arms outstretched like in defeat.
“Well, Al, you and Dad seemed to be, um, of very different opinions last time you met…”
Alastor certainly hopes so!
But what he opts for something more encouraging to say: “Have a little faith in your ‘friend’, won’t you?” His grin widens. “Let's make a deal! I’ll convince your father to arrange a meeting with that fool's superiors and help you to get back at Adam.”
That wakes Charlie right up. She straightens in her seat, and considers his offer for a long, tense moment, studying him, suspicious, calculating.
“You mean, you’ll help me convince Adam and his superiors to approve my ‘Getting Started in Paradise’ program?”
“Yes, that!” he replies without hesitation.
“And what would you want in return?”
Oh, the sweetest question of all! What a hellishly good morning! Alastor feels the edges of his lips curl upward with glee.
“All I need from you is one itty bitty favour. What’s a favour between ‘friends’?”
Charlie gets up, folding her arms. “I won’t hurt anyone for you.”
“Who’s asking?” he replies smoothly. “One favour at a time of my choosing where you harm no one. In return I’ll persuade your father to set up the meeting with Adam and his superiors, and I’ll help you make your case.” He tilts his head. “Do we have a deal?”
He keeps the terms deliciously vague and extends his hand, hopeful she won’t press further. Charlie hesitates, just long enough to make it interesting, then takes his hand.
“Deal!”
They shake on it and Alastor can barely contain his excitement. His newest little pawn, what a catch! So full of fire, so easy to guide! Think of the possibilities!
Charlie seems equally eager to put the deal to work, though something in her expression gives him pause. He returns to the stove and tosses the sausages into the pan. But the silence gnaws at him – nagging, crawling at the edge of his mind.
"Oh my,” he drawls at last. “I sense there’s even more to this than you’ve let on? You little minx. Naturally, I am happy to be of service, dearest. You can always confide in your ‘friend’ Alastor."
No further encouragement needed.
“It’s about Dad,” Charlie blurts out, her voice rising in frustration, and Alastor’s not surprised. "I think something’s going on with him.”
She pulls out the red phone from the breast pocket of her white shirt and thrusts it toward Alastor like a damning piece of evidence.
“Here! Look at this! First, he ghosts me for nearly a week, and then last night, out of nowhere, he actually replies!"
She waves the phone so close to his face that he has to intercept it before it flies into the frying pan. He blinks at the black screen, then hands it back with a brow arched high.
Charlie fumbles to wake the display—and finally, Alastor is treated to the honour of reading the latest eloquent exchange between Charlotte and her elusive father.
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Hi Char-Char. I hope you’re asleep already, and don’t work all night. Let's talk sometime soon. Sweet dreams my little duckling.
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Hey Char-Char 🐥
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Charlie?
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Hi, It’s me, Dad. How are you doin?
Me <Charlie>: Dad, are you alright?
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Yes, of course, am fine! And you?
Me <Charlie>: It’s 4 a.m. Dad. I’m in bed.
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Okay, that’s good!
Me <Charlie>: kk
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Talk to you soon 🥳
Me <Charlie>: 🥳🥳
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: 🥳🥳🥳🌞
"Impressive," Alastor remarks, eyes flicking over the screen. "The sheer volume of emojis is quite something. Your father must be a very creative man."
"He is, but- Ugh. Al, help me out here. Please! Why now? Why does he suddenly want to get in touch? I'm just trying to make sense of all this..."
With a razor-sharp smile, Alastor turns toward her, the sweet little lamb.
"Ah, so he didn't say hello then. Pity."
Charlie's mouth opens and closes in disbelief. "Wait. What do you mean? You met him? Are you serious? Did he come to the hotel yesterday?” She gasps. “So that’s what Vaggie was hiding from me!"
She growls in frustration, cheeks flushed.
“I can’t believe he didn’t even say hi! It’s like ever since I became an adult, I don’t exist to him anymore! When I was younger, we did so many stupid, fun things – duck races, polka nights, pizza with ridiculous toppings, Sunday breakfasts with peanut butter, jam, and the best pancakes… He built me a million different toys. Made up bedtime stories about a little princess and her two tiny dragons…”
She pauses, breath hitching.
“But all of that was before Mum left. Now, all he does is toss me tasks he doesn’t want to handle himself. There’s so much to talk about – Paradise City, and, well, EVERYTHING – but we never really talk. Not like two adults should.”
“Well, he did agree to speak with you, dearest,” Alastor replies, even if it’s just to stop the rant.
The best pancakes? Dubious.
He files away each detail with eerie precision.
The timer goes off, and Alastor pulls on crimson oven gloves to retrieve the roasted vegetables.
“If you want my humble opinion, I believe your dear father is riddled with guilt. It’s practically dripping from every emoji.” He shrugs. “He even joined our little pen-and-paper group without asking if you’d be all right with it, after all.”
“He WHAT?”
Alastor turns, carefully plating the food into their new thermos containers, lips twitching at the corners.
“He joined your trust exercise after Vox left? That’s AMAZING!”
His smile freezes. He must have misheard. Alastor turns on his heels in slow motion, fists tightening inside the gloves.
“Is it?” he says thinly. “He became so entranced by the game, he forgot to say hello to his own daughter. It’s very gracious of you to act like it doesn’t sting, but you don’t need to play pretend with me.”
If anything, this only energizes her. She rushes to his side, grabs his mitten-clad hands – thankfully dulled by fabric – and shakes them.
“So?! How was the first session? Did you get along? Is he one of your vampires now? Let me guess – Clan Ventrue? Or a Toreador? Ooh, maybe a Salubri, because of the healing powers?”
Alastor groans and gently frees his hands.
“None of the above. We’ve returned to Dungeons and Dragons, if you must know. And it was tolerable, thank you for the considerate question. Credit to me, of course, for being the sole voice of reason.”
As he recounts the session, he notices her enthusiasm falter – again. At first, he assumes she’s simply remembering why she should be furious with her father, but then she pulls out her phone and scrolls through their messages with a frown.
“DND? That’s not good,” she mutters, eyes darting to her digital calendar. “Not with next week coming up.”
Alastor has no idea what that means and raises a brow. “Do enlighten me.”
The question seems to snap her out of a private reverie. She quickly tucks the phone back into her pocket.
“He used to play DND with Mum and their friends. Before-”
She trails off and Alastor doesn’t press. There will be plenty of opportunities to extract this particular kind of information. In a move that would make both Lucifer and Vaggie physically recoil, he pats her on the head like a father placating a worried child.
“Don’t you trouble your pretty little head about it. I’ve got it handled. And I’m sure he’ll say hello next week.”
Urgh, why did that come out nice? He didn’t actually mean to be supportive!
Charlie stares at him with eyes so wide and hopeful, he nearly recoils.
“So… he’s not quitting?”
“Not if I have a say in the matter, my dear. And I still owe you that meeting, remember? Now, would you mind typing out a message for me?”
Charlie studies him for a beat, then nods. “Sure. What’s the message? I’ll, um, translate it into Dad-speak so he doesn’t get suspicious.”
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: Talk to you soon 🥳
Me <Charlie>: 🥳🥳
Dad’s private phone <Dad>: 🥳🥳🥳🌞
Me <Charlie>: Hi Dad, I heard you’re playing DND with my some of my friends at the hotel now. That’s amazing! Hope you’re having fun!
Me <Charlie>: What about meeting next Wednesday for dinner, before game night begins? 18 p.m.? Love you.
Happy Anniversary, Darling
Lucifer sits alone in the kitchen, elbows braced on the wooden table, an empty glass of wine beside him. The silence presses in from every corner of the room and it is deafening – so heavy it seems to swallow the world. Even the scratchy song of the magpie outside his open window, bright and clear in the sunset, feels distant.
Lucifer sighs.
The overhead light is off. He hasn't turned it on since he wandered in about an hour ago. The only illumination comes from the screen of his phone and the last rays of the sun outside.
Happy anniversary, Darling <3
The calendar reminder blinks up at him like a cruel joke, and yet Lucifer doesn’t swipe it away. He must have been staring at the screen for minutes now, but the light won’t fade and so he has to peel his eyes away forcefully.
Friday, September, 19th.
He should’ve deleted the reminder. Hell, he should’ve deleted the whole calendar. But part of him still needs the ritual, just like he still wears their wedding ring. The habits have festered over the years, hollow comforts worn into routine. And yet, Lucifer is too afraid to find out what’s left of him if he ever lets them go. Seven years since Lilith left, and what does he have to show for it? A city barely limping along – and the kind of miserable parenting he dares to call love, poured into their brilliant, fiercely independent daughter.
Serves me right to spend my wedding anniversary alone…
Lucifer eyes his phone again, screen glowing like an accusation with an exclamation mark on top. He tries to type a message.
“Hope you’re well.”
“Thinking of you.”
“If you AND Eve ever feel like visiting…”
Each draft more pathetic than the last, and all ring false.
Lilli really doesn’t deserve to be bothered by this!
Eventually, Lucifer just sets the phone down beside him, and time stretches again. Long, shapeless minutes bleed into each other. His limbs feel too heavy to move, as if grief has curled itself around his bones.
I deserve this.
At some point, his vacant gaze lands on the second wineglass – the one he still sets out, always, just in case. He looks across the table. It's empty, of course. But he sees her anyway: elbows propped casually, one hand curled around her favourite diamond-cut glass, legs tucked beneath her. She'd roll her eyes at him for being stuck in his own head again, she’d make a joke and then they’d order some food, and she’d tousle his hair, and-
“What the hell am I doing?” he whispers. So much for promising himself that this year would be different.
Lucifer grabs the glasses. He doesn’t even like their oh so special shape. Lilli did. He’d meant to give them away years ago, but somehow he didn’t. And somehow, he doesn’t have it in him to actually put them away now.
“Fine…”
He places the glasses back on the table. Time to get himself a treat, like the reasonable person he is.
It’s not the first time I’m dealing with this, Lucifer reminds himself, as he approaches the fridge.
His gaze lands on the corner of its white door, where a small, faded magnet still clings. Bright yellow. Duck-shaped. It holds a scrap of paper, one of Lilith’s old notes. Most of them are gone, boxed up or thrown away years ago. But this one? He never had the heart.
“Don't forget your umbrella and the wine, darling! See you later 💋 Lilli”
Her lipstick kiss is still there, smudged dark violet at the bottom.
Lucifer stares at it. His jaw tightens. Chest rising. And then, like a crack forming in ice, his breath hitches, hands flying to his mouth in shock as the barely audible sound tears through the silence.
No.
Lucifer can practically feel his face crumpling, slowly, like a tower folding in on itself. The tears are hot on his skin, as they trace down his cheeks, catching in the corners of his mouth.
He’s crying in his kitchen on a Friday evening, while the whole city must be having dinner with their families, preparing for the next party or simply staying home with their significant others – going on about their businesses, just as usual.
Wow. Congratulations, Luci. This is bad. This is really bad.
Sarcasm doesn’t help, and neither does the chocolate ice cream he never bought.
Lucifer grabs his phone and flees like the room is suddenly on fire. He finds some peace in the living room, where he collapses on the floor, not the couch, and wraps his favourite snake blanket around his shaking shoulders, the hug of the wool giving him a little comfort. But the ache won’t dull and so he sits there and continues to cry, tear tracks adding up like layers of invisible make-up.
After an eternity, his phone buzzes.
Delusion propels Lucifer into action immediately.
Could it be her?
The message crashes the tiny spark of hope. It’s from Sir Pentious. Fellow inventor, fellow awkward fella. Again?
He already received several messages from him over the last two days. Lucifer sobs. “What now?”
Sir Severin Pentious <Dr Snek>: The Egg Boys discovered something!!!
Three exclamation marks. Lucifer ignores the hashtags, marking the message as “important” and “urgent”. Pentious always had the worst timing.
With the excuse that Pentious’ assistants discover “important things” every week, Lucifer makes a last attempt to focus on something productive. Because he knows one thing for sure: Like this he cannot possibly meet his daughter. And neither can he participate in a pen-and-paper game.
“I never should’ve joined their party in the first place,” he whispers.
Perhaps that’s why this year hits even harder than the last…
Suddenly it all makes sense.
Of course!
Lucifer almost laughs at the stupidity of it all. He is playing their game – DND – he is playing their favourite race – Aasimar – and he didn’t even think that would affect him – the week of their wedding anniversary?
The solution to this is extremely simple. If he plays it right, he can slip out of this mess before it turns ballistic and into actual bonding, all strings attached. Lucifer pulls up the hotel’s staff login page. Technically, he still owns the hotel chain, even if Charlie’s running the place. He finds Husk’s number and types:
Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Hi Husk. Won’t be able to make the next session. Got sick. Sorry ~ Lucifer
He’ll ghost them and return to the peace and quiet of his own loneliness, and this time he’ll stick to it. Easy as pie.
Because anything is better than disappointing people (even more). Because solitude is safer than getting hurt again. Unfortunately, he already is at rock bottom, and he is all out of ice-cream.
Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>:
Lucifer stares at the screen. His eyes burn, vision blurring as he blinks back a second wave of tears.
He can’t bring himself to cancel the meeting with his daughter. Maybe he’ll feel better by then. Wednesday is still days away. And if not, he can always cancel last minute. But he hopes he won’t have to. Because she’s the only one still worth fighting for.
Lucifer’s phone buzzes again, and expecting Husk’s reply, he dares to take a look, after hastily wiping away the tears. Another message from Pentious.
Sir Severin Pentious <Dr Snek>: I need your assistance with some experiments, sir!
Even knowing that such a message once sparked a flicker of excitement does nothing now. Lucifer buries his face in his hands. The urge to quiet all of THIS claws its way up again. Maybe now is the perfect time to help Pentious with another experiment.
Lucifer rises on unsteady legs, drifts through the dark, and only switches on the bathroom light once he's inside. The bright orange warning label on the small white container stares back at him from the drawer: FOR LAB USE ONLY. DO NOT INGEST WITHOUT SUPERVISION.
Well, who doesn’t love a good old game of Russian Roulette?
He palms a single round pill. It’s almost innocent-looking. Two of three left. A humourless smile tugs at his lips as Lucifer recalls how long he had to argue until Pentious gave them to him “for emergency experimenting”...
Hypothetically, Lucifer knows how the miracle works – ultra-rapid onset, hyper-dense REM induction, designed to trigger immediate rest and recreation in a brief window of time. But Pentious had also warned him – each pill varies in substance and effect.
Not without supervision, no kidding.
Those pills are dangerous. Lucifer knows it well.
Should he know better? He does know better. Only he doesn’t care.
He never meant to test them like this, let alone unsupervised. But now? Now, all he wants is silence. Fuck it. He deserves it!
For a long moment, Lucifer stares at his reflection in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, flushed nose, deep lines carving hollows into a face he barely recognizes. Like a painting left too long in the sun. Then, without ceremony, he pops the pill into his mouth and chases it with cold tap water. The chill hits his stomach like a stone. Lucifer leans back against the counter and waits.
Will it work?
With the grim certainty that he’s crossed yet another line in his slow descent, Lucifer returns to the living room and sinks into the couch, pulling his favourite blanket around himself once more. Suddenly it feels too heavy for comfort, but at least it’s something he can cling to. Anything. Searching for his own pulse, Lucifer presses his hand to his chest.
The sky fades into that soft, dead blue of early evening. Outside, the world is shutting down, and so is Lucifer. Like a wave breaking over him, the pill hits – no gentle slide into sleep, just a sudden, brutal rip from consciousness. Too late, Lucifer realises his phone – his supposed safety net – lies just out of reach on the floor beside the couch. Its faint buzzing filters through the haze like a sound from another universe.
The magpie outside cackles sharp against the windowpanes.
You’re too late…
His eyes fall shut mid-blink, lashes fluttering in one final act of resistance.
Will it be enough this time?
His breath evens too quickly. A ripple of unease washes through him.
Will it be too much?
The last thing Lucifer feels is his body going slack, head lolling to the side, all tension bleeding from him.
He’s falling.
Relentlessly.
Finally.
Unholy Intervention
The glass shatters into a thousand shards as Alastor slams his well-deserved whiskey down, positively murderous. Husk’s eyes widen, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. In complete silence, he fetches the mop and begins cleaning up Alastor’s mess.
“It’s still Friday – almost a week until our next session,” Husk mutters, leaving the rest unsaid.
How dare that arrogant ass ditch him again?
Alastor hasn’t even begun to enjoy the fruits of his investment – like tolerating that ridiculous hat or enduring Angel’s excitement for an entire evening.
How dare he take the reward for Alastor’s patience away?
“You’re bleeding,” Husk remarks and offers Alastor a tissue, blessedly free of ducks or apples.
“Oh my, how clumsy of me! Get me another whiskey, and make it a double, will you?”
The flicker of emotion on Husk’s face is fear, something Alastor appreciates. He inspects his fingers, plucks out a large shard without flinching, and wraps the tissue around his palm. In seconds, the white is soaked in crimson.
Screw that man!
Husk delivers the drink, as is his job, and they sit in tense silence, finally a melody to Alastor’s ears.
“So, my dear comrade, how do you plan to handle this situation?” he asks sweetly, obviously referring to the abrupt and a priori cancellation of their game night.
“Uhm, what exactly do you mean?”
In a swift gesture, the game master hands over another tissue, pours himself a refill, and takes a sip. Alastor smiles.
“Well, our darling new party member appears to be in dire need of assistance, I’d say.”
A shrug is all he gets.
“How obvious must I make it, you buffoon?” Alastor hisses.
“He said he’s sick, probably down with the flu,” Husk retorts and presents the message as if that makes it more believable. Honestly, who signs a text with a tilde? Not that Alastor claims to understand the finer details of mobile communication.
“I already wished him a speedy recovery, but by the look of it, he didn’t read my reply yet.”
“That’s it?” Alastor asks sharply.
“What, you want me to interrogate him about missing one session or send him a 'Get Well Soon' basket?”
“Of course not!” Alastor snaps, then the idea hits him like a lightning strike, sudden, uncomfortable, and rash – which means it’s probably brilliant. “I want you to pay the good man a visit.”
Husk raises an eyebrow and starts polishing glasses to busy his hands.
“You don’t actually expect me to waste my time traveling uptown just to catch the flu or worse, do you, boss?”
“Afraid your hair will fall out?” Alastor teases, knowing just how sensitive Husk is about his hair and especially his beard. “Besides, you didn’t really buy that sorry excuse, now, did you?”
A huff. A small admission.
Good pet!
“I propose our next game session takes place uptown,” Alastor continues with sudden cheer. “We can order food, our generous host will pay, naturally, set up in the garden, space out the seats a bit, bring a lovely gift basket... be the best and most welcoming party to ever grace Pentagram City-”
“Awww, that’s so sweet! Who’s the party for?”
Charlie’s just entered the bar, eyes already glimmering with joy.
“Not a party,” Husk corrects, “we are the party, and-”
“A party for your father, of course!” Alastor interrupts smoothly, adding with impeccable flair: “He’s terribly ill, and we thought we’d cheer him up a bit.”
Brilliant.
Charlie’s eyes grow even rounder, already starting to mist.
“That’s so kind of you! Thank you! I’ll ask Dad if he needs anything – maybe herbal tea? Wait, no, he hates that... but he likes honey! I think. Or-”
As Charlie begins to babble, Alastor and Husk exchange a look. They both know this is a total fabrication, but there’s no way to back out now without coming up with a very good explanation. And luckily, Husk isn’t exactly known for his improvisational finesse when it comes to Charlie.
“Not to worry,” Alastor beams, raising a finger. “We’ll take care of your father.”
Kawaii995 on Chapter 5 Wed 09 Jul 2025 11:33PM UTC
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