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Chapter Text

Dr. Lucifer Morningstar's departure from the Celestium Foundation

Celestium Foundation
Excerpt from the Celestium Foundation Board Minutes
Confidential Memorandum
Subject: Dr. Lucifer Morningstar’s departure from the Celestium Foundation
Date: 1^st November [ten years ago]

It is with a heavy heart and deepest regret that we acknowledge Dr. Lucifer Morningstar’s departure from the Celestium Foundation. Over the past years, Dr. Morningstar has contributed passionately to a number of our ‘city of the future’, rehabilitation and societal reintegration initiatives. His creativity and unwavering optimism, though at times unconventional, have left a distinct mark on our early outreach models.

The Board recognizes his desire to pursue independent efforts, and although his vision increasingly diverged from the Foundation’s core strategies and values, we continue to wish him every success in his future endeavors.

We remain committed to upholding a structured, compliant, and ethically sound environment for the betterment of society. While ideological differences are inevitable in any visionary field, we believe that adherence to protocol, measurable outcomes, and collective alignment are the pillars of sustainable impact.

Let it be known: this is not a dismissal. This is a divergence of purpose. And we are grateful for the time our paths were aligned.

per procurationem General Overseer of Development

Celestium Foundation

Transitional Funding Approval and FUCK YOU

Celestium Foundation
Office of the General Overseer of Development
Internal Memo, STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
To: Dr. Lucifer Morningstar
Subject: Conclusion of Tenure & Transitional Funding Approval
Date: 1^st November [ten years ago]

Dear Dr. Morningstar,

Following the decision of the Foundation board, we hereby confirm the formal conclusion of your position as a research lead within the Celestium Foundation. While your contributions in the early developmental stages of urban social engineering and sustainable environment were noted with appreciation, the foundation will be moving in a direction better aligned with our core principles and long-term objectives.

We understand that you have expressed the intent to pursue your own initiative – the "Paradise City Project". The Celestium Foundation has, in recognition of your previous service, approved funding to support the project, initially limited to the foundation phase. Please refer to the attached document for the terms of this arrangement.

Now, on a more personal note:

So, you’re building your own little Paradise, huh? Cute. Real cute. I gotta say, I admire the balls – Bold name for a rehab project run by a prick with a god complex. But hey – branding was always your strong suit. If it helps you sleep at night, call it whatever you want. Slapping gold paint on trash doesn’t make it holy, not even if this redemption kink is run by Saint Luci himself.

See, while the G.O.D.’s officially washing their hands of you, guess who’s been assigned to monitor compliance aka quality management? That’s right. Me. I volunteered >;)
Every form you file, every penny you spend in your miracle town, every weird little liberty you take with Foundation guidelines? I’ll know. I’m still responsible for ensuring our core principles are upheld. That includes yours. So, every time you or one of your little lost lambs steps out of line – It all crosses my desk. And you better believe I’ll scrutinize everything with a red pen in hand, twice, or if necessary multiple times.

You wanted out of the system? Congrats. But don’t kid yourself. This fake independence is not immunity. I know you’re oh so desperately trying to scrub your hands clean and play the savior. I know who you truly are. And I’ll make sure to watch your bleeding-heart utopia rot from the inside out.

So don’t get comfortable, Luci. You might’ve dodged the fall, but I’ll be right here – ready to kick your shiny little sandbox over the moment you step out of line. Well, you never did learn when to quit, did you? Enjoy ‘Paradise’. I’ll enjoy turning it to ash.

Adam
Vice Chair, Enforcement & Oversight
Celestium Foundation

P.S.
Tell my little queen I said hi. Must be romantic to rule over trash together.

P.P.S.
I hope you’re ready to play king in rags, Luci. Remember that international birthday party we had? – Paper crowns burn the fastest, just like your funding will after my audit!

To: Dangertits <Lutetia Castelnau>
Subject: FW: Conclusion of Tenure & Transitional Funding Approval
Date: 1^st November [ten years ago]

Hi Lute, what do you think? Saint Luci finally got his ass handed and I’m the one informing him about the transitional funding, FUCK YEAH! By the way, the first quality management audit is scheduled for the 30^th of November, but I’ll start cutting his budget tomorrow. He will overstep boundaries in no time anyway, as always. Help me with the forms, will you?

To: Adam Primus
Subject: FW: Conclusion of Tenure & Transitional Funding Approval
Date: 1^st November [ten years ago]

Hi Adam, nice work! Isn’t it a bit long though? Make sure to cut the P.S.S. at least. Of course I will help you. See you for lunch! Best, Lute

Lucifer – Doctor, scientist, city founder

It’s somewhere between 4 and 5 a.m., those glorious, ungodly hours that hover between the end of the night and the earliest morning. In about two hours, the sun will grace his city with her light, but not yet. The almost-new-moon veils the world, and a pale blue haze pours through the high windows of his bedroom, casting everything in a strange, unreal glow.

Lucifer stretches and abandons his perch on the windowsill.

Most crimes are committed in the late evening, but the night? Nothing! It’s the so-called blue hour when the oddest things can happen – or so Dr. Cartier / ‘just Bee’, fellow scientist and a long-lost friend, found in one of her studies. In contrast to him, she always had a knack for the weirder corners of human behaviour.

With a sigh, Lucifer pads down the hallway, barefoot, tap, tap, tap, until he finds them – his favourite duck slippers!

“There you are”, he mutters. The light drains them of their bright yellow, turning them a melancholy grey that fits his mood disturbingly well. Everything feels like it’s under some sort of grey filter lately. “Nah, don’t get your hopes up.”

Lucifer has no intention to put them on. Slippers to work? Absolutely not, hard pass.

“Yes, I’m on my way to work. Don’t look at me like that!”, he scolds the ducks, before picking them up anyway, to return them to their place next to his office door.
“You’re my after-work slippers, remember? ‘To help distinguish between work and life’ and bla bla bla.”

Not that there had ever been much of a life. Not when he was still working, and certainly not now, what an irony. The ducks stare up at him from lifeless eyes.

“Well, duck you too. You don’t get to judge me.”

His mansion, as always, remains silent. Thankfully it doesn’t talk back, not yet, anyway! Outside the birds haven’t started singing, and it bothers Lucifer. These days he needs their melodies, their noise to obscure the fact that the whole luxurious building around him has become a museum of stillness with too many rooms he never enters. To Lucifer all of this doesn’t feel like home anymore. It’s more like a prison, abandoned by everyone but its sole occupant. This ‘palace’ doesn't belong to him. He belongs to it, and to the chaos spreading through its corridors like mould since she left.

The office door opens with an ominous screech. “Wow, very subtle. Think you are the first one to criticise my working hours?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes, flicks on the light, and sinks into his chair with a theatrical groan.

“Is it hot in here? It’s too hot. Should turn down the heating for real…”

He shrugs out of his white suit jacket. The fact that he got dressed just minutes ago after another sleepless night irritates him.

“Oh, what’s the point?”

No answer, of course. His computer hums to life, screen flickering. A pop-up window appears and announces his second-greatest nemesis. His inbox.

“Sooo, work,” he mutters, not convincingly, and scrolls through what must be- Oh who is he kidding, he doesn’t even want to estimate how many folders of emails. He starts with the oldest one, and two familiar messages catch his attention like raised middle fingers. With a sigh Lucifer opens the second, he knows every petty line by hard.

P.S. Tell my little queen I said hi. Must be romantic to rule over trash together.

P.P.S. I hope you’re ready to play king in rags, Luci. Remember that international birthday party we had? – Paper crowns burn the fastest, just like your funding will after my audit!

Lucifer exhales through his nose, jaw tense. Yeah, sure, asshole. Whatever. His finger hovers over the mouse, then with a tired sigh he clicks “delete”. And then he hastily undoes it again.

 I should have done that long ago. He leans back. The message stares back at him.

“Transitional Funding Approval and FUCK YOU”, Lucifer reads the subject out loud. “Who in his right mind does such things anyway?”

Once again, he decides to keep the message. As a warning, perhaps, to stay careful, for his daughter’s sake. Adam Primus is a sadistic, sexist dickhead with an inflated, yet severely damaged ego. His cruelty and thirst for revenge must never be underestimated, even now, after ten long years.  

Fine, enough procrastination!

With zero enthusiasm Lucifer opens one of his many mail folders – the one at hand arrivals of last week – and opens the first mail.

“Pffff, look at this! What even is this?”, he blurts out. He quickly scrolls to the next message. And the next. This must be the underbelly of the iceberg, lowest of the low points beneath the standard of depravity in his city. No, scratch that – this is only the top of the iceberg. Lucifer rubs one hand over his already tired eyes. What time is it? How long has he been doing this? Five minutes? It's already too much.

Pull yourself together. You're not a paper-pusher. You're Lucifer bloody Morningstar.

And yet, here he sits. Doctor, scientist, city founder. Scrolling through project requests like a reluctant deity of paperwork. There’s a vandalised school, lewd slogans scrawled across the walls. They want money to paint it afresh – In mint green and white.

Sure. Let’s just give every asshole in the area an open invitation and see how long it takes before someone draws a giant cock across the façade again. Giving the pupils pastels and the liberty to design ‘their school’ themselves would be more effective. And cheaper!

Eleven applications for technical equipment later, his patience is thinner than a thread in a spider’s web. And he isn’t even halfway through the folder. He recognizes every single name, because all of them belong to daring, complete no-hopers, who keep handing in the same pleas with only slight alterations every month. And the worst? Lucifer would bet both his hands on the fact that they don’t even try to work with what he already gave them. They never fix things, nohoho. His idea of a circular economy, sharing, reusing, repairing, recycling – core values of Paradise City – trampled on. The audacity!

To re-confirm his assumption, Lucifer opens one of the applications.

Ah, that Vox guy again.

The man in question has applied every month in the past nine years. Still wants that power plant to secure his media empire in case of another colossal city-wide power outage – a power outage Lucifer is sure Vox has caused in the first place, and likely on purpose.

That fucker! I should give him the compost shift!

Then again, there are already enough people working on it.

I need to find him another unpopular shift. Let’s put him on the list of ‘volunteers’. Serves him right!

Lucifer’s smirk is cruel. There’s satisfaction in strategic pettiness. You don’t run Paradise City without a little divine punishment. And yet, even this victory feels stale like most things lately. Another sigh, and Lucifer scrolls through the messages. Here come the heavy hitters – serious projects with serious funding requests. More wind turbines in the P-District? Oh yes, great idea.

But unless the gangs and their overlords – yes, he knows everyone calls them that, they are the mobsters currently running some of the essential infrastructure of his city – stop competing for the state-of-the-art science and sabotage each other’s projects at every twist and turn? Nope, sorry not sorry, not gonna happen.

Lucifer isn't that stupid. They destroy one wind turbine of a rival, ask for money to build a new one under their own control and then the whole circus starts afresh. Fuck them!
Green energy and red blood still don’t mix well in his opinion.

Lucifer massages his temple, opens the next file.

“Application to stop violence against cats.”

What?

Lucifer stares. Blinks. Re-reads.

They gotta be kidding him. His shoulders start to shake. The laughter comes uninvited, bubbling up like the tea Charlie loved so much when she was little. It’s maniacal, echoing in the empty office. He wipes away a tear with a duck-embroidered tissue from his breast pocket.

This city is mad. That must be it. Just pure, unfiltered madness. Nothing more, nothing less. Fuck. He is so over it.

He tries to stop, really, he does. But the absurdity overwhelms him.

“These hypocritical, self-righteous sinners! Can you imagine – an application to patrol the streets to save cats, when the hospital is barely running? And here in the p-district of all places!”

That’s new. His monitor vibrates from the force of his laughter. He steadies it, exhales, and fishes the duck-embroidered tissue out of the breast pocket of his vest to dab the tears off his eyes. A ray of sun peeks through the high window of his office and reflects in his golden wedding ring. It gives Lucifer’s fit of laughter an uncomfortable pause.

Ah, shit. Not today!

He gets up, dims the blinds. Darkness settles. He won't circle back into the apathic, depressed spiral he has been in for the last week. Their anniversary will be next month, yes, but only because Lilly and he got to know each other on a sunny day exactly-

Nope! No anniversary memories allowed, thank you very much.

Back at his desk, he opens his self-programmed app and slams the red button with gusto.

“Rejecteeeeeeed!”

Twenty-ish applications more to go. If he finishes these, he might almost appear productive. Carmilla and the city council wouldn’t notice either way. They’re too busy being at each other’s throats over the additional founding – breadcrumbs! – Celestium Foundations offers them.

Lucifer rereads the cat application.

“Will you look at that…”, he mumbles, while skimming through the text.

Painted cattails. Tortured animals. Heavens.

Lucifer bites his lip. The funding is minor. Barely a drop in the remaining budget.

Alright! Five percent. If it stops the lunatics with spray paint.

Hastily he removes the digital red stamp and hits the ‘accept’ button instead, before he can overthink it. Then he marks the rest of the emails in his folder and presses ‘delete’ without ever taking a look at them. Nobody expects him to actually read those ridiculous pleas, do they? Besides the pressing, urgent tone of the applications and messages he receives en masse, nobody seems to care about him or the lack of replies coming their way.

Typical.

Nobody cared when the ‘outside press’ started their smear campaign against Paradise City. Nobody cared when Lilly left him and took their daughter away. Nobody cared when she abandoned Charlie as well. And even less people cared when Celestium Foundation placed their coup de grace, finishing what little hope Lucifer had left with a dirty stab, giving Adam even more power over the evaluation of the rubble of Lucifer’s dreams. Adam's triumphant laughter still rings in his ears when he thinks of it, but over the years even that has lost its edge.

Lucifer closes his eyes. Nothing stirs. No hate. No fire. Just dust in a chest that’s long since hollowed out. Maybe this is what happens when you stop caring, defeat after defeat after defeat. You become the thing you used to mock. A mere signature. Like mother.

“Anyway, if anyone has important business, they could have sent a letter. Or called.” With a guilty look at the unplugged phone Lucifer grimaces. “Fine… They would need to send a fucking raven.”

Having seen enough funding requests for several lifetimes, Lucifer spins in his chair. His very mature action is interrupted by a single, dreaded sound that freezes him to the spot.

A message from Adam.

Ugh! What does he want?

It’s a give take and take

Lucifer blinks, surprised that all of sudden it’s half past ten. What happened to his morning? At least he is still suuuper productively trying to tame the beast his inbox has turned into. Maybe I should take a break. Alright, one last glance!

A certain message catches his attention. Ah shit. The reason why he is still doing literally everything else: A message from that fucker.

“Come on, Luci, this is probably important…”, he scolds himself, while at the same time a tiny voice in the back of his head is making promises about avoiding his inbox.

“Nope, I got this! I’m Lucifer Morningstar – look at me, the bravest guy in history and I’m also not afraid of emails, AHAHAHA!”

Keeping his momentum as long as he can, Lucifer skims said message and manages to overread most of the insults.
“Wait, what?! Another ‘quality control’?”, he all but yells at the screen. “Why?”

He’s got to be kidding him! The message is all about integration policies and welcoming new citizens again. Unholy hell, how many times is Adam going to harass him with this? When he tries to install something, Adam shuts it down. When he does nothing, Adam shows up to criticise.

“Fuck him!”

Still… Lucifer’s eyes flick to right corner of the screen. 10:43 a.m. A decent time to reach out. What if he handed this one to Charlie? She’s been asking, scratch that, begging to be more involved in the politics behind Paradise City.

These days, it feels like he’s riding a skeleton horse, but a decade ago, when they’d just started rebuilding the ghost town? Back then, everything felt possible. To her, anyway. To him, it had always felt like penance, with Adam breathing down his neck. Lucifer will never forget the judgmental stares of his former team, the insults they confronted him with, the disappointment of being cast out and isolated. Back then it felt like his chest was an open wound, and every single sharp comment a cut in his heart. Today? Lucifer shrugs off Adam’s latest effort to get to him with practiced indifference.

Maybe Charlie really is the better person for this.

“Fuck it. I’m calling her right now!”, Lucifer declares and checks his breast pocket. He checks his trouser pocket. His other trouser pocket.   

“Urgh, where’s my phone?”

Lucifer gets up, his limbs feel like they’re glued to the chair, and it’s an immense effort to get back to his bedroom. Is his body hijacking his productiveness? Nah, it’s probably just a protest response to sitting for too long. To his relief, his phone is still on the nightstand – reliable and orderly, great! – and he gives his duck slippers a superior smile, as he heads back into the office, already dealing Charlie’s number.

“Hi Dad.”

To his shock, his daughter picks up immediately.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Lucifer freezes, mind reeling.

“Um – hello? This is Charlie.”

What do I say? Come on, say something clever!

“Heeellooo!”

“Hello Dad.”

“Er, hi honey!”, Lucifer can’t shake the awkward laugh. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Um, I’m in the middle of preparing a 90s party with Vaggie, but it’s okay. What’s up?”

“Oh! Better make it quick then! I, uh, wanted to ask a little favour.”

Charlie immediately agrees, no questions asked, but even if Lucifer doesn’t know his daughter, he at least knows her voice. He can spot the tiny signals that unmask the chipper tone as what it is: exasperation. It breaks his heart, yet they have been acting this play out for too long to escape their roles. He gives her a task, she accepts, he transfers her some money, she sends him a thumbs-up emoji. It has become their way of communicating, and Lucifer feels their unhealthy routine reaching for him as if he were being pulled along on a fishhook.

“The G.O.D. Office sent me a memo.”

“Celestium Foundation contacted you again? Um, what was it, the office of the general overseer of development, right?”

“Yes, yes, they want to do another QM of our IPs. It’s nothing big, just one meeting, shaking hands, that’s all.”

“Okayyy Dad...”

Ah, the blasted integration policies. If he could decide who was allowed into the city, there wouldn’t be any trouble to begin with! But no, his former oh-so-benevolent foundation had made it crystal clear that they were not letting him out of their net, only because they cast him out in the first place. Quality management his ass. The sole cause of Adam’s department was to tighten his chains regularly.

“Dad?”

Then again, Adam has mellowed – slightly – over the years. He’s still a bitter, vulgar, petty man. Still the same resentful bastard. But he’s lost some of his bite. And Lucifer knows his rights well. He can’t decide who is joining his city project, HAH! He can run a thorough background check and assign them individually tailored occupations. Adam doesn’t even protest anymore. And most of the new residents these days? Just misfits. People who didn’t belong out there.

Just like me… Oh fuck – Charlie is still on the line!

Patiently waiting for his mind to catch up.

“Sorry, sweety! Can you pull that off for me?”

“Sure, Dad, but what’s a QM again? And an IP?”

Ah yes, abbreviations. Lilith hated those, too. One explanation later, Lucifer tries to sweeten the pot, all the while feeling dirty with guilt. 

“It’s the perfect opportunity to pitch your ideas about the new hotel and your ‘Getting Started in Paradise’ program. I think they’ll love seeing a young, ambitious, high-spirited woman for a change. A fresh face, so to speak.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course, sweetie”, Lucifer replies immediately, and he means it. 

“YES! I can do it!”

Lucifer yanks the phone away from his ear. Charlie’s excited squeal rings through his skull like a fire alarm. While the past tugs at him with cold fingers, Lucifer can hear his daughter literally bouncing with joy on the other end. She used to do that a lot as a child.

“Just- maybe don’t mention my name, and you’ll be fine. Haha.”

No, just like her mother Charlie Magne will not fail a quality management trial. Lucifer exhales, long and deep.

“I’ll send you the details via sinstagram. Hm, sorry, sweety – I’ve got another critical task scheduled for today, soooo....”

“Sure, Dad, I know you’re always busy and I gotta go, too! Please don’t forget to send me the details. And, um, thanks for letting me do this! I’m going to win them over!”

“Of course you are!”

Lucifer smiles, it feels bittersweet and a little broken. No matter how detached they have become over the past years, he is still so very proud of his daughter and her never ending enthusiasm. Even if the reason why she’s wasting her talents on those lowly wretches is beyond him. The things she could do, if she decided to work in another field… Before his voice cracks, he hangs up.

How very convenient that he can busy himself with forwarding her the time and date of the meeting immediately. It’s a perfect distraction from the sinking feeling that he is letting his daughter down again. Or worse – tasking her with things that are his duties. Before he finds himself spiralling down down down the self-flagellation maw, Lucifer snaps out of it. He at least has to send her the details in advance and without any spelling hiccups this time! With a critically raised brow Lucifer double-checks that it's all correct. There, done and delivered.

“Fuck you, Adam, haha!”

Only one more thing to do, Lucifer thinks, then I’m done for today / this week / this month?

He sighs deeply and, with the energy of a man signing his own damnation, he opens Adam’s message again. “The sender has requested a read receipt”, Lucifer reads aloud in his best imitation of his former subordinate, only a little more high-pitched. “Awww, poor little Adam is afraid to be ignored.”

Lucifer responds with one of his pre-written autoreplies: Your message was dutifully noted.

Short. Cold. Satisfyingly impersonal. It would be unwise to really piss Adam off. Their little Cold War has long since lost its thrill. And honestly? The bastard’s not even worth the hate anymore. You’ve got to save what little emotion you’ve got left for someone who matters.

“Look at me, such responsibility and efficiency – truly remarkable”, Lucifer says dryly and shuts down his computer. As if the machine and he share the same source of power, Lucifer suddenly feels drained and he hugs his knees, while spinning in his chair.

Ah, yes, maybe it’s time for that break he was thinking about earlier… It takes him several spins to finally stop and get up. Lucifer walks past his door, closes it with a final click, and turns to his atelier, his duck slippers all but forgotten.

Inside the atelier he is greeted with the scent of fresh paint. Most tables, shelves and chairs are covered with his smaller projects: there are handmade children’s toys – horses and dragons and angels – with still missing eyes or limbs, several clocks that tick erratically, cracked snow globes, a dozen half-sculpted busts with smoothed out faces, artificial flowers, and, of course, his favourite sound installations – small everyday objects that play animal sounds, angelic choirs, or, if he accidentally broke them, soothing static.

On one of the tables the brushes from yesterday’s painting session are still soaking in a glass of cloudy water, after he abandoned his latest idea – Canvas painted with one colour only. Lucifer recently acknowledged to himself that he won’t paint 60 canvases, as was his original plan. The recombination options would probably be unsatisfactory anyway, and he can’t possibly convince himself to remove the family pictures covering his walls, even if they fuel his depression.

“When did I get so sloppy? Don't answer that!” Lucifer hastily fishes one of the brushes out and turns it between his fingers. “I will fix this!”

Then he laughs, low and tired. Who am I even talking to?

No answer. Just the silent judgment of white canvases and ruined sketches. He shrugs, rolls up his sleeves, and begins cleaning the brush. He can't pretend he is fine, but he can fix this brush from dying a soppy, miserable, self-loathing death in yesterday's water glass. What an achievement.

Chapter Text

When you miss me, just turn on the old radio

7 years ago. A letter written in a neat, cursive handwriting, left behind on a side table.

Dearest Maman,

By the time you read this, I’ll be on the road. I couldn’t bear to leave without a goodbye, but I knew if I looked you in the eyes, I wouldn’t have the strength to go through with it.

I’m headed to Paradise City. Mimsi thinks I should give this ‘Reintegration Project’ a shot. It’s a place run by someone calling himself Morningstar – a name that carries more than a touch of irony, don’t you agree? They claim it’s meant to help people like me find redemption and Mimsi says it’s a place where people like us might finally fit in. I remain... unconvinced. Still, it’s a direction. 

I’ve already found someone – Rosie – who’ll take us in and help me send money home regularly. It won’t be much, not at first, but it’ll help cover things. I know how tight it’s been lately, and I don’t want you to worry about me anymore.

There’s always been a heaviness in this house that I can’t seem to shake. I see him in every corner. I know you do too, though you never say it. And I know they still whisper. About what happened. About me. About that night. It follows me like a shadow, and it touches you, too. I can’t bear to see that anymore.

I know what the town might think, but I’m not running, Maman, I’m choosing. Maybe for the first time. And I’m choosing to go somewhere that doesn’t know my name – not yet. You’ll be better off without me there to stir up the past. That thought gives me peace, even if it breaks my heart.

Do you remember that summer by the bayou, when I caught fireflies in a jar and you let me keep them in my room overnight? I cried when they stopped glowing, and you told me it didn’t mean the light was gone, only resting. You always had a way of saying the right thing at the right time. I will hold onto that memory, that feeling, that light. I hope you can too.

I’m sorry for everything, Maman. For what I brought into our house, for the things I never found the words to say, for leaving like this... I love you more than I’ve ever been able to say out loud. I want you to be safe, to be free of all of this. That’s why I’m going.

I’ve always tried to be good. I don’t know if I succeeded. But I swear I tried.

Please take care of yourself. When you miss me, just turn on my old radio. I’ll be there, somewhere in the static. And if you ever truly need me, I’ll come back.

Your son, always

Alastor

I See Fire

"I pull the lever anyway,” Alastor declares, his tone matter of fact, hands neatly folded on the table. His voice cuts through the soft crackle of the fireplace in the back of the room, the warmth of it a stark contrast to his cold amusement. Oh, sweet perfection!

“Are you serious?” Vox asks, his composure wavering, fists clenched, knuckles white. His bowtie is awry, his trademark red-and-black-striped shirt crinkled. How distasteful.

Like a lot of people, Vox doesn’t cope well with the natural heat of an actual fire. It’s messy, but the air filters are working and will turn the burnt material into a useful part of their hotel’s energy cycle. Alastor has no clue how it’s working exactly, but he has ensured to get the room extra cosy, just to make Vox sweat. How positively devilish of him! Despite his own satisfaction, Alastor is well aware of the fact that his current audience does not appreciate his efforts. Well, it’s their loss.

Seemingly pressing on, Alastor doesn't bother with a reply but turns his attention to Husk, a wide grin on his face. “Proceed,” he demands and readjusts his round, thin-rimmed glasses.

Husk shakes his head in disbelief, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke that always clings to him wafts into Alastor’s nose. Alastor bets he’d love to light one right now, and grins. Torturing Vox and testing Husk’s nerves at the same time? He dares say he's on a roll today. Literally.

Before Husk can fulfil his duty and continue, Vox makes a last desperate attempt to save himself.
“I try to escape through the door with the others!” he declares. His eyes behind his rectangular glasses dart between the table and his notes. A bead of sweat crawls down his temple.

“Afraid, Voxy?”, Alastor jabs and throws him a sinister smile that is graced with a positively murderous glance – to his disappointment nothing more. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by Vox’s lack of creativity when it comes to verbal sparring. For a man made entirely out of pretence, energy drinks and ego, Vox has almost impressed Alastor with his stubbornness. A trait that is now beautifully leading to yet another character death.

Delicious irony.

Alastor wished he had been plotting this for weeks, but it merely cost him an hour and half his wit to seize an opportunity presenting itself. How underwhelmingly boring. Then again, perhaps there was still time to stir something truly wicked from the ashes.

Husk looks down behind the screen, where he keeps track of all the challenges, enemies, riddles and whatnot, and pulls out a single ten-sided die. The plastic clinks softly against the hardwood.

“High or low, Vox?” he asks, presenting the die.

“Come on, I run!” Vox tries to dodge the inevitable, but Husk ignores his protest.

“Which result will be in your favour? High or low? It’s your choice, Vox, a 50% chance. That’s what the house rules demand.”

After giving his flat nose a nervous rub, Vox decides which numbers his luck will depend on – and it’s so annoyingly obvious that Alastor groans.

“High!” Vox says, trying to sound enthusiastic. Of course, that pathetic 404.

Tension rises as Husk rolls the die – this time not behind his screen, but out in the open for everyone to see. The grey die rolls over the table with a satisfying click-clack. They watch. Angel covers his face with one hand, his lilac nail polish a stark contrast to his pale, freckled skin.

Husk’s poker face has been dissolving with every action Alastor took during game night, and now it can barely hide the exasperation behind his beard. Then again, Alastor muses, in contrast to Vox, Husk is a castle of composure. Moss-covered stone, perhaps, but dependable nonetheless.

The die slows, tumbles, tumbles. Alastor’s smile widens, while Vox’s shoulders tense. A red one appears on top.

“NOHO!” cries Vox.

“A pity,” Alastor sneers, barely masking the delight oozing through his tone.

All eyes turn to Husk, who must wrap this unfortunate turn of events up. As game master, it’s his job to pacify the group. “So…” Husk starts, but the crease on his forehead says it all. “Let’s see… While the other vampires take cover, Remmer engages in the fight with four members of the Inquisition. Those hunters are out for blood-”
“Just like us!” Angel intervenes, trying to ease the tension with a wink and failing spectacularly.

Vox seizes the opportunity and shoves the tiny miniature representing his character Remmer over the battle map. “Come on! He has what, like five dexterity? And superhuman speed!”

“Anyway,” Husk proceeds, “unfortunately your reflexes are too slow this time. You sprint for the door, inquisitors at your heels-”

“Must I repeat myself?” Alastor interrupts the narrative, stealing Husk’s attempt at giving Vox an epic – or merciful? – showdown. “I pull the lever and activate the fire trap immediately. The security of the city is of utmost importance to my character. The Godfather would never risk letting those dangerous forces escape and spread the word that vampires exist. We cannot have that, and you all know it.”

For a moment, they seem to contemplate his words, taking him a little too serious. It’s just a pen and paper game after all, dice and mediocre narration included. And yet, how easily the line between fiction and reality begins to blur… Alastor can enjoy that fact, especially in the face of Vox losing his temper. In contrast to the other party members, he is very entertained.

Then Husk quietly repeats, “You pull the lever and activate the fire trap. Within seconds, the whole room is ablaze. Alongside the inquisitors, Remmer burns to a pile of ashes, knowing that his sacrifice-”

“Fuuuuhuck! Again?!” Vox yells. He hammers his fists into the table, shaking the battle map. Miniatures fall left and right. He’s so frustrated he can barely contain his emotions, as usual. The sound echoes like a toddler tantrum in a church.

“Why, but it’s only a game,” Alastor reminds him sweetly. Vox throws him another death-glare.
“If you hadn’t thrown yourself into the centre of attention again, your character would be safe – like us,” Alastor teases, waiting for a worthy comeback. Again, there is none. How disappointing.

“You know what? This is it!” Vox suddenly gets up, tipping his chair backwards without a care and grabbing his miniature and his dice. “I quit!”

“Vox, wait-” Angel tries, but Vox is already heading for the door.

“This was the third character!” he yells. “The third!”

And with that, he’s out the door, slamming it shut. He storms through the cellar, every step echoing so loud, it’s audible even through the closed door. Music to Alastor’s ears. The sudden draught following Vox makes the fire hiss, and the shadows dancing across the walls elongate menacingly. His black heart flutters with joy. How I love good theatrics! 

Alastor smiles innocently and waits for the finale of the charade. This must finally be the end of his demise! Yes, he did lose that bet to Angel, and yes, he did agree to participate in their silly little game – even with Vox being one of the players. They had never specified how he would enact his vampire character, though. Their loss.

“Actually, this was a lot of fun,” Alastor admits, slowly collecting his belongings. “I assume our bet is done for. Now that Vox has unfortunately left our party, how could the two of us possibly keep the city safe? There’s no point in continuing this little game.”

“No fucking way!” It seems to be Angel’s turn to raise a temper. “You did that on purpose! I’m not letting you out of our deal, after you just crushed our party!”

Alastor smiles. “Me? I would never enact such a ferocious plan. I was merely acting according to my character’s best interests.”

“Your death count speaks for itself,” Husk comments, lowering the screen. “If I wasn’t so upset with your bullshit, I would be impressed how you managed to bully Vox out of our group. And that in two entirely different campaigns, settings and rule systems.”

Alastor smiles proudly. Yes, he probably looks like the cat that got the cream. Getting back at Vox has indeed been delicious. Another job well done, what can he say? This has been worth his time. 

“Urgh, don’t give me that smug look! Do you know any decency?” Husk sighs and scratches the back of his head. “Well, I never expected you to make it through more than ten sessions anyway. Shouldn’t be surprised really…”

At this, Angel pouts, clearly unpleased. “No, no, no! This can’t be it! Only because freaky face bullied Vox out of our group! I’m not letting this slide!”

Alastor props his chin on his hands, relishing the fact that Vox’s exit didn’t raise any concern over the man himself. “Fine,” he offers with his scariest grin, all teeth. “Then I shall play with only the two of you next week. Let’s find out how the Godfather and Friedrich get along.”

At this, Angel shrinks back, afraid and appalled. Perfect.
Searching for help, he looks at Husk. “Oh, come on, I really need this! It’s the single fun thing I do! Please, Whiskers!”

Husk huffs at this, always the softie under his hard shell. But this race is run. It makes no sense to continue the game with only two players, and they all know it.

Satisfied, Alastor gets up and adjusts his coat. “See you around, gentlemen.” He tries to make a graceful escape, but Angel calls him out.

“Maybe we can find a new teammate!” he pleads.

It’s that goddamned moron Husk who puts the nail in Alastor’s coffin. “Nah, Angel. He will find a new teammate,” he demands, pointing at Alastor.

“Who? Me?” Alastor turns to face the door. “You are well aware that I don’t entertain any other friends willing to participate in such impish wastes of time.” He also doesn’t entertain many friends in general – because, honestly, who will repay him the ridiculous amounts of energy necessary to keep up interpersonal ties?

“I will tell everyone that you broke our deal!” Angel replies, and this makes Alastor turn on his heel. He grimaces involuntarily, as his one weakness is exploited. Yes, he is a sucker for reliability – or at least his impeccable reputation of keeping his end of a bargain, no matter the circumstances. Letting a callboy ruin it is not an option Alastor can allow, now, can he?

“Oh my,” Alastor replies. “If you insist so vehemently, I will bring someone along next time.”

He flashes a smile, and Husk as well as Angel get the message.
I will bring someone along next time, but you will regret this!

One for Sorrow…

The harsh call of a bird cuts through the silence of the mansion walls. It's not a sweet, melodic tune, but a jarring cry that claws its way through Lucifer’s noise-cancelling headphones and bursts the mellow bubble he’s been wrapped in for the last hours.

“Thank you for nothing, Vox technology!”

He rolls to his side and groans as he sits up from the couch. His back protests the movement despite the twice-weekly workouts his smartwatch insists on. A man needs routine, doesn’t he? Even if there’s little left of anything else.

The bird cries again and Lucifer turns his head toward the window, peeking past the curtain. A magpie, perched on the railing just across, stares straight at him.

“Helloooo, shut up, maybe?”, he demands.

The sun is barely brushing the horizon, casting its light behind the green hell his garden has turned into.

“What is it, still before seven, isn’t it? This is definitely not your time to shine!”

Another caw is the only reply he gets. Loud, rude, and completely indifferent.

“I’m in the middle of something important, you know. Noblesse obliges and stuff.”

Still no mercy, fuck him. The magpie keeps screeching without a care in the world.

“Aaaaand I didn’t get any sleep, you drama queen. So kindly fuck off, please?”

To drive his point home, Lucifer presents his mobile and the Sinstagram messages he’s been obsessing over the past night. 

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Hi Dad, how are you doing? You didn’t reply to my last texts about the meeting with Adam… It didn’t go well, as you might know by now, and I have kind of a big ask.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Yeah, of course! Anything in my power is yours for the asking. You just name it.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: I need to speak to the G.O.D. office. Whoever is in charge above Adam.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> : Er, I don’t know Charlie… 

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Look Dad, I don’t ask you for much, I never have. But this is really important to me!

The magpie seems to have misunderstood and continues her calling, robbing him of the peaceful silence he’s been floating in to compensate for his inability to sleep. It’s not as if he can use such nights for anything productive, but Lucifer has a hard time to call this ungodly time of the day the morning.

“You did win this battle!,” he mutters, the magpie tilts its head and throws him an unimpressed look. “Urgh, fine, you will probably win the war, too. Buuuuut you’re risking your meals! If you continue to misbehave, I will give all the cereals to your bird friends, is this what you want? Nah? That’s what I thought!”

Pointing a warning finger at the magpie, Lucifer drags himself to the kitchen. He should probably get a meal as well. Still in his baby blue pyjamas and duck slippers, he boils some water and searches the selves. Heavens, he needs to go buy supplies if he doesn’t want to subsist on porridge with water alone.

The smug magpie returns and continues her ‘song’ in front of his kitchen window.

“Urgh, yes, yes, I know!”

Lucifer grabs the cereal box and steps outside. The custom-built feeder – a series of birdhouses mounted on a gold-rimmed, multi-level platform – stands proudly under the lilac tree. The roofs are painted red, gold, and purple, admittedly no natural colours, but Charlie used to love the gaudy and theatrical look.

With a sigh, Lucifer fills the compartments with their respective blends. It’s a little obsessive, but the tiny robin that appears a moment later doesn’t seem to mind. She hops toward the feeder, head tilted.

“Hello, you,” he greets softly. A smile touches his lips before he can stop it. “At least someone’s having a great morning in this damned city.”

Back inside, the house greets him like a mausoleum he’s too proud to leave. Yep, it’s still a nasty assemblage of too many dusty rooms and lurking memories. Not really his mansion, too, he doesn’t want to acknowledge the mess belongs to him. Lucifer feels like he is trapped in the quickly increasing chaos ever since she left him, but how could he possibly give up their home? And where should he go, anyway? Lucifer avoids to look at the pictures on the wall, since misty eyes don’t exactly help with his intention to work on the computer. Makes perfect sense to ignore them! With the same determined ignorance, he passes several doors he keeps closed at all times. One to Charlie’s old room. One to her room. One to the bedroom that used to be theirs. Finally, the stairs. His office awaits, ever the holy temple of order he so vehemently defends against the chaotic maelstrom the rest of his mansion has become. But first – his working attire, shirt, vest and suit!

“I'm baaaaack,” he announces to no one, leaving the duck slippers beside the door, while smoothing his lapels as he enters the office. He runs one hand through his hair and finally drops into the high-backed chair behind his desk.

“Oh, thank you, thank you. Hold the applause, please. Time to check in on my favourite city!” he trills, feigning cheer.

For a moment, a flutter of hope sparks in his chest, the kind that once meant something. This was the dream, wasn’t it? Paradise City. A better world. A second chance for almost everyone. Then reality hits. 4,752 unread messages.

“What?! But I deleted some just yesterday!”

Lucifer buries his face in his hands. His paradise has turned into hell, his contract into a formal agreement of eternal punishment. The dreams he once entertained for this former ghost town have successfully been turned into a bureaucratic nightmare, a self-imposed punishment some would say.

Yet, if he quits now, where would he go? He cannot possibly return to the outside world. And leaving Charlie behind? No fucking way! There are no options left. So he stays. Even if it costs his sanity. Because in the end, who else would keep this shithole running, if barely?

A single quack pulls Lucifer out of his downward spiral. Without some hesitation, Lucifer reaches for the mobile he had placed in his breast pocket. He already knows who it is, and guilt curls his lips into a pained grimace as he opens Sinstagram. The last unanswered message catches his eyes first.  

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Look Dad, I don’t ask you for much, I never have. But this is really important to me!

Lucifer exhales deeply and braces to continue the troublesome conversation with his daughter.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Please, I need your help. Come see what I’m trying to do? You’ll see why this hotel is a really good idea! And everyone is bound to agree, if I get a chance to talk to them!

Wait, what? His jaw drops. Lucifer rereads the message, his fingers already flying over the touchscreen.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> : You’re inviting me over? ABSOLUTELY! I’ll be there! Just name a time and place.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: What about 20 p.m. tomorrow?

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> : Okidoki!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> : Which place?

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: My hotel, Dad!  

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> : Of course, sweety! I’ll be there!

The Meeting Part 1

So, he has to find someone to replace Vox. Another idiot who’d rather gamble than use his free time for something actually useful. It could be oh-so-easy for Alastor to manipulate someone – anyone – into joining their little game, but he prides himself on having class. And that’s why he intends to turn this simple task into a challenge.

I will find the perfect victim. Just you wait.

Arms crossed behind his back, Alastor stalks the hotel halls, grinning ear to ear. The few guest that currently reside here know better than to approach him. Seeing their steadfast hotelier coming, most outright flee in the opposite direction or turn on their heels to shut the doors to their rooms from inside, acting as if they forgot something, the measly wimps. Not that he’d have it any other way. Within the microcosmos of this fine establishment, he is gladly inspiring a bit of terror. After all, what’s a little fear between friends?

The red carpet and chandeliers are spotless, thanks to Niffty dearest, and currently they only have a few rooms that need repairs. Alastor has already scheduled the necessary actions, and he even dares to hope someone might finally get the sixth-floor apartment opposite to his under control. Tomorrow he will join Rosie for dinner with a bunch of the big players in the city, and he has reserved Sunday to get back at Vox for quitting by recording a new podcast episode.  What a positively blazing way to spend his time.

As Alastor casually stops at the front desk, well, his front desk, something curious catches his attention. While he pretends to double-check bookings, he eavesdrops on a conversation between his unaware mentee Charlotte and her worried girlfriend Vaggie.

“He’s late,” Charlie sighs, checking her golden watch for the umpteenth time. Next to her, Vaggie shifts uncomfortably, while her girlfriend is losing her nerves.

Interesting.

“I bet Dad’s stuck in a meeting”, she tries to rationalise the sorry excuse for a father her dad is. “Or traffic. It’s probably the traffic!”

“Charlie, his mansion isn’t even in another district. All he has to do is ask his chauffeur to drive him.”

With a pout Charlie waves her off. “He hates going by private transportation if he cannot drive himself. And he dismissed our chauffeur years ago.”

This is going to be hilarious, Alastor thinks. He’s heard all the rumours about ‘Mister Morningstar’ but never met him in person. Unlike their amazing founding father Alastor is actually involved in running Pentagram City alongside the other ‘overlords’.

Well, well, well…

Alastor considers comforting Charlie – after all, she does own the hotel he’s managing – but before he can come up with a half-cheerful remark, the front doors fly open. A blonde man with a ridiculous cylinder and white three-piece-suit enters, commanding attention instantly.

“CHAAARLIE!”

“Dad, you made it, I- hmpf!”

Alastor watches as father and daughter embrace. He’d call that a stage-three strangulation.
So this is THE Lucifer Morningstar? That cannot be.

“It’s SO good to see you, HAHA!”

“You too, Dad…”

He is short and corny and pathetic and weak – Alastor would like to add that he is smooth like an oiled snake for the fake smile that’s plastered across his face, but it would be a lie, since Lucifer Morningstar is anything but smooth.  The man in question pulls Charlie down to his eye level – he really is short – and squeezes her even tighter. Yikes.

All the fearful murmurs, the whispers about their cruel and sly founding father? What a scam!
Alastor is outraged with disappointment, his mouth outrunning his wit, as he snarls: “You are late!”

The dud before him looks up, startled. “Hmm?”

Alastor pours all the disdain he feels in his reply: a venomous smile. More importantly than expressing his honest opinion on their high and mighty founding father, Alastor’s timely intervention ends the repulsive family reunion.

Charlie escapes her father’s chokehold and throws Alastor a half-thankful, half-annoyed glance. It’s not hard to observe how taken aback her father is by being confronted with the truth. He has the audacity to blush and Alastor wants nothing more but to rip the awkward smile off his face.
Does he even know how much he is hurting his child with his blissful unawareness?

Meanwhile Charlie manages to present the entrance hall with a sweeping gesture. It doesn’t take an expert to see how awry things are between them. “Er, anyways, welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Dad!”

Probably he has never wasted a single thought on how it feels. Alastor narrows his eyes.
Oh my, what a positively delightful tragedy!  

Alastor follows her motion and surveys the lobby. It’s tidy. The leftover balloons from the last party are still there – some have shrunken. The chandelier hangs polished and a little crooked. The red colour scheme from their latest renovation shines brilliantly. Perfection.

Instead of admiring the interior, the man turns to pet their lobby cat first – of all things! – and coos some gibberish, calling Miss Purrsephone ‘KeeKee’, the insolent little clown! Alastor is as stunned as Charlie and Vaggie, apparently, since nobody cuts in, they are all staring, as the man next turns to Charlie’s bodyguards. At least they’re going to show him a proper amount of rebuff, Alastor thinks, watching horrified as Charlie’s dad wraps his white-sleeved arms around their shoulders and effortlessly pulls the bulky men down to his level.

“Razzle! Dazzle!” he says in a sing-song voice. “Are you taking good care of my little gurrrl?”

The two overly muscular guards nod, half-bowing, faint smiles on their faces.

“YOU BETTER BE!” the small man threatens, then giggles and shoos them away, just like that.

Alastor bites his tongue until it hurts. What a frivolous prick, shamelessly pulling rank like that.

Why is he here at all? He never showed up for Charlie’s birthdays, holidays, social events – nothing. What annoys Alastor the most is that said prick continues to ignore him – him, the goddamn hotelier, future ruler of the overlords, keeper of precious little Charlie! – and starts inspecting the lobby instead.

Alastor's wide grin falters and morphs into something twisted.

“WOW, this place sure looks, uh…”
Their clod of a guest doesn’t finish the sentence, just stares at the red wallpaper, tapping his chin as if searching for something nice to say.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, walking deeper into the hall, glancing everywhere. “Eh, yeah, uh-huh. It’s got… a lot of character.”

Then he stops in front of the new bar – Alastor’s pride and joy. Skulls loom above the stools, sharp teeth and antlers pointed menacingly downward.

“OH! What in unholy hell is THAT?”

Alastor adjusts his smile and steps forward, unable to endure this any longer.
“Just a few renovations”, he offers sweetly. “Adds some colour, don’t you think?”

He takes a grand step toward him, his multitool / microphone / classier cane in hand, towering over the smaller man. This is his domain, after all.

“And you are?” the insufferable man asks, as though he’s only just now noticed him.

Alastor’s smile tightens. “Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you, sir. Quite a pleasure!”

He grabs the ridiculous apple-shaped cane the man carries instead of shaking his hand. Who buys such nonsense? Is this meant to be some sort of sceptre? Is this because even the overlords treat him like he is some sort of royalty?

Wiping his palm on his sleeve in an open display of disgust, Alastor continues: “So good to finally put a face to the name! You’re much shorter in real life.”

The man finally looks at him, really looks at him, and frowns. Oh, he’s clearly a man who’s heard all the height-jokes before, but Alastor still scores. A little satisfaction at last!

“Who is this? Who is this nut?” he demands, turning to Charlie. “Is he the bellhop?”

Alastor’s grin twitches. “AHAHA, no. I’m the host of this hotel. You might have heard of me from my radio broadcast.”

The man pauses, pretends to think, then shrugs. “Nope! Guess that’s why Charlie called it the Has-Been Hotel, ahahaaa!”

He nudges Charlie, but she doesn’t so much as blink.

Very funny. Something inside Alastor snaps. “HAHAHA! Actually, that was my idea.”

“Well, it’s not very clever!” her father retorts with ease.

 Alastor feels the strain in his voice as it rises. “HAHA, fuck you!”

“Okay, that’s quite enough!” Charlie cuts in, unusually sharp, everything about her is tense. It’s a strange mixture, Alastor has never seen on her before. Is that her angry and disappointed? In contrast to himself, still categorising her emotions, Charlie’s father immediately stiffens, like a switch was flipped. His proud stance crumbles, shoulders slump. As if he has burned himself, he shrinks back, the fire of their heated exchange snuffed out by nothing but his daughter scolding.

“Charming,” he mutters, swallowing whatever comeback was on his tongue, and he denies Alastor another glance.

How dare he!

Alastor doesn’t want this man to back down. He wants him to fight!

This isn’t the hate-worthy devil Alastor has imagined Lucifer Morningstar to be. And somehow the pathetic shell makes it worse. His fury cools down fast, turning to a desert of ice shards. He is not going to lose this!

Chapter Text

“Okay Dad, I invited you here to get to know the hotel. Look at this lovely parlour where people can get to know each other and share secrets and stories and intimate feelings!” She points at the area of their lounge that is decorated with all sorts of motivational quotes, colourful drawings and other oversentimental nonsense. “Without Alastor, we wouldn't have been able to pretty it up this much.”

Her voice dances with excitement, but there’s a faint, nervous twitch at the corner of her smile.

At this Alastor’s head perks up and he approaches Charlie, the impersonation of a benevolent fairy godmother. He tilts his head theatrically, adjusting his coat with a mock flourish. This little game has gone on long enough. I can do better. It’s time for him to observe and prepare an early curtain fall.

“Our dearest Charlotte has a very unique vision,” Alastor offers, his trademark smile back in place. There’s a sharpness to his tone, veiled beneath honeyed words. “I am happy to fulfil her bizarre requests.”

In contrast to other people.

To drive the point home, he pads her on the shoulder, provoking a frustrated growl from her wannabe father. How perfectly satisfying!

Charlie doesn’t seem to notice. She looks at Alastor with those huge puppy eyes, folding her hands in front of her chest like for prayer. “Oh, thank you, Alastor!”

How easy it is to get back on her good side. How boring. But bothering Lucifer Morningstar, reducing him to the pathetic nobody he is beneath the false bravado? Stripping him of that inflated ego? That, at least, offers a bit of sport. And if Alastor plays his cards right, it might even score him additional points with Charlie, how perfectly cruel! A plan is already forming in his mind, as Alastor observes the delicious expression on the face of his new chewing toy, when he praises Charlie, cosying up to her some more. “Quite an impressive young lady. We’re all very proud of her.”

As Charlie’s eyes grow misty, her father’s angry grimace falters for a second, but Alastor captures it like a prize. After clearing his throat, the snooty behaviour of their founder is back in place. Seemingly without a care in the world, he turns Alastor his back and addresses his daughter. “Charlie, dear, why don't you introduce me to your OTHER friends?”

Friends? Jumping to conclusions fast, aren't we? Or is it wishful thinking that dear Charlotte and him are friends? The delusion that the stuff consists of ‘friends’?

Lucifer gently places a hand on Charlie’s arm and leads her away. Everything about him screams ‘emotionally unavailable father’ and Alastor finds yet another aspect to despise, for he full-heartedly hates unreliable fathers.

His smile flickers – just briefly – but inside, something twists. He would never admit it out loud, but the thought lingers as he follows them, the air thick with awkwardness, while ‘The Saddest Excuse for a Father in Human History’ continues to play.

“Of course, Dad. First things first, Husk is running our bar, and if you ask nicely, he is able to get a hold on anything you like, isn’t that amazing? We even have our own brand of rye! Oh, Husk’s more the silent type, but he has such a good heart!”

She’s doing it. Introducing them one by one. Like children introducing their dolls.

Lucifer puts on a “That sounds fantastic, Sweetie,” but Alastor can spot a fake smile a mile away – and this one is as fake as it gets. They reach the bar, where Niffty is currently cleaning, her black uniform with the white apron spotless as ever. She’s probably hunting down some of the roaches, the good girl. Vaggie shies away from the group, and in her stead Angel Dust makes a dramatic entrance from behind the counter, waving.

Not him too, Alastor thinks and barely manages to suppress a sigh.

“Everyone, say hi to my dad!” Charlie beams with pride.

Oh my. Alastor’s resentment is fuelled further by the way everyone courteously bows to the man with the ridiculous tophat. He doesn’t deserve the cautious respect people are giving him – not even for Charlie’s sake!

Even Husk, antiauthoritarian Husk, sticks his head out from the adjacent kitchen and nods silently.

“Helloooo,” Angel greets, in his excruciating flirty mannerism. “What an honour to have the overhoncho visiting our lil’ establishment! How’s it going, my short king?”

“Err…”

Charlie’s dad suddenly proves to be as eloquent as a toaster. And while Alastor enjoys watching someone else suffer through Angel’s – well, antics, let’s say – it’s time to step in. Alastor clasps his hands together with rehearsed elegance. If he has to witness one more of Angel’s hopeless flirt attempts, whether it’s with Alastor’s new verbal punching bag, a hotel guest, or even a non-player-character from their dumb game, he might just snap.
Gosh, sometimes he really wants to strangle Angel. He does have a great neck for strangulation.

Alastor shakes off the thought, his smile stiffening. No one is to interfere with his plan! He cannot allow the exchange to continue. “Charlotte, dear, must I remind you that we still have some important matters to discuss?”

“Oh, sure, uh-”

She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, knowing full well that her wimpy father won’t survive a minute without someone babysitting him.

You’ve earned yourself a front-row seat, my good sir. Watch how easily I take her away.

Performing his most daring move yet, Alastor links arms with Charlie. “Apologies for not bringing this up earlier, but I fear it’s quite urgent. But don’t worry, I have prepared everything upstairs in your study.”

His remark is graced with another death-glare, while Charlie rewards Alastor with a genuine smile. “Thanks, Alastor!”

Yes, eyes on me, your Highness. Let’s see if you can come up with a comeback to this.

“As I said, don’t worry that pretty little head of yours,” Alastor says in a chipper tone, eyes, in contrast to his words, directed at her father. “I’m always glad to help – and honoured that we’ve built such a strong bond.”

Charlie’s eyes grow wide as she breaks into a radiant smile. “Oh, you! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“My, don’t mention it!” Alastor flutes.

Yes, their high and mighty founding father is practically boiling by now. He can almost hear the hiss. And Alastor plans to up his ante even more. He leans a little closer to Charlie, lowering his voice. He has pampered his prey enough, now it’s time to go for the kill. Slowly, though, he wants to enjoy every second of it.  Alastor grins. He has saved the deepest cut for the finale.
“You’re like the child I wish I had, dear Charlotte. I’d do anything to keep you happy.”

Almost anything that is.

“Charlie, sweetie,” her father cuts in, apparently unable to bear it any longer. His eyes betray him. If it weren’t so incredibly rude, he’d likely try to pry her out of Alastor’s arms, his growing frustration seeping through the cracks in his mask yet restraining from any openly harsh moves. “You know you can always call me if something serious comes up?”

He forces a smile, but it’s wrecked, an ugly grimace – perfectly broken. 

“Um, maybe,” the words sound all breathy, bordering outright shaky. “Maybe I can be of assistance with this urgent matter before I get the tour of your hotel? I mean, I certainly know how to run things, projects, hotels, you get the idea. A problem is only a challenge that needs an efficient solution after all!”

Alastor lets go of Charlie – only to pinch her cheek. “Thank you for your generous offer, my good sir. But there’s no need. As you can see, dear Charlotte’s doing just fine.”

Charlie's eyes glisten with genuine adoration, and now the tears are flowing, while her father's burn with limitless fury.

“If something is awry, I am at her disposal. At all times, no exceptions,” Alastor continues sweetly, and with a malicious smile reaching from ear to ear he finally goes for the coup de grâce: “You know, she can practically call me Dad.”

It pushes Lucifer Morningstar over the edge. And Alastor feasts on his fury. Apparently, he’s played his cards right – he knows it, when he is grabbed by the collar and pulled down, down, down, until he finds himself face to face with the mightiest man in Paradise City, piercing blue eyes glaring at him.

So good to see eye to eye. 

“YOU-”

To Alastor’s enormous chagrin, they never get to the real confrontation, because as it’s about to get interesting, a guest storms in. It’s no other than Mimzy – trouble incarnate and one of the few people Alastor would call friend.

“Oye, is poor little me interrupting something? Did you miss me that bad, my doves?” she singsongs, waving cheerfully. Her short blonde hair bounces in rhythm with her low-cut neckline, a sight Alastor registers with indifference.

In the past months, she's tried to hide behind him more than once for old times' sake. It’s no secret that Mimzy tends to attract people and problems, the worst kind, usually loud and violent.

Ah, but who is he to deny a flapper girl of the old school a little fun?

“Don’t worry, I’m here now,” Mimzy exclaims, and with a pout in Alastor’s direction adds: “No need to replace me with some random stand-in!”

Despite himself, Alastor starts laughing. Mimzy, still the best! Does she really not know who she’s talking to or is this one of her acts? Alastor can’t tell, but either is hilarious and the genuine indignation on their founding father’s face is priceless. With a huff he lets go of Alastor and dusts off his bruised ego / suit, as if it had been tainted.

Before the situation can get any worse Charlie jumps in. “Oh, Mimzy, isn’t it?” she says, remembering Alastor’s friend, but not in a good way. “What is it this time?”

She doesn’t even bother to hide her exasperation, knowing even their irregular guests too well by now.

“Um, there might be some naughty people at the entrance who could use a lesson in manners. Oh! And I think they started breaking things…”

Charlie, Angel, Niffty, Vaggie, everyone tenses – except for Alastor and Lucifer that is. They all sprint toward the entrance, to spot three brutes in cheap three-piece suits, having already broken the doorknob and now going for the glass.

Next to him, Charlie’s dad shakes his head, and the corner of his lips pull up in a cruel smile. “It’s always the same…” he mutters and shrugs, not showing an ounce of concern.

“My windows!” Nifty cries. A broom already in her tiny hands, she looks both terrified and absolutely murderous. Before she can launch herself into a fight, Alastor turns away from that failure of a father and retrieves his cane from behind the reception desk.

“I must insist you stop immediately” he commands, stepping forward with a grand gesture.

“Hand over that little pest and we’ll leave! Otherwise we’ll have to set an example” a lanky woman with a sidecut demands. The way she’s positioned behind her two comrades, she seems to be the leader of their team.

“Boss wants to see her! She has to pay for what she’s done!” the man to her right demands. He is definitely the muscle of the team, Alastor observes.

“She has to pay for ridiculing his cats!” the second woman exclaims. Alastor readjusts his glasses. She might be posing the greatest threat, if the scars on her arms and face are any indication.

“My sincerest apologies, but I cannot allow such crude behaviour on hotel grounds. Leave now and I will only sue you for the material damage” Alastor offers, tone all pleasant, smile on his face.

When they start laughing, Alastor sighs and rolls up his sleeves. Either they don’t know who he is, or they’re too stupid to care. Doesn’t matter.

“Alastor, wait!” Charlie shouts, but it’s too late.

Let the fun begin.

Alastor is at their throats the next second. Finally, a chance to blow off steam and make Charlie’s dad look like the passive idiot he is. A swing of his cane trips the man, who crashes to the ground. Alastor doesn’t hesitate and follows up with two kicks to the chin, which knock the man out cold. Too easy. Two to go.

Ah, he was right about the scarred woman. She pulls out a dull, knife-like devise – obviously a weapon she crafted herself – and smoothly dodges his first hit with the cane. Playing unfair that early, how uncivilised.

“Dad!” he hears Charlie pleading, but there is nobody coming to assist in the defence of the hotel. Fine with him. Support would only get in his way. Alastor’s cane hits the woman’s arm, but she manages to keep her hold around the knife-thing.

“Alright, look, Char-Char,” Charlie’s dad has the nerve to comment, “I admire your optimism, I really do. But these people? They’re the worst – walking cautionary tales! Just like everyone else in this cursed city! They got gifted a second chance and look what they do with it!”

No answer. Charlie is probably too overwhelmed to confront her useless parent. Meanwhile, Alastor parries another stab directed at his chest, a close call. Who knows what that thing will do to him!

Behind him, the man slowly comes to again and their group leader bares her teeth after looking at her watch, cracking her knuckles. Fun.

“You bend over backwards – offer them clean tech, cleaner slates, endless opportunities – and THIS is the return on investment?"

“Please, Dad, they’re destroying my hotel!”

At least she doesn’t assume I’m in trouble, sweet Charlotte.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, Charlie. They bring nothing but violence and chaos to your doorstep. It doesn’t matter how well intentioned you are! They are always gonna disappoint you!”

Alastor’s eyelid twitches. To him, the backseat lecture is more annoying than the three thugs. He has to take a step back, as he suddenly is facing all three opponents at the same time. Scarface proofs to be tougher than expected. Well, not tough enough. With a malicious grin, Alastor presses a button on his cane. An electric hum sounds and a second later, he jabs the taser tip into the woman’s chest.

Wzzzzzt.
Down she goes, her comrades freeze for a second. Oh, you didn’t see that coming? Poor things.

“Mhm. You see?” Charlie’s dad remarks, and Alastor throws him a death-glare over his shoulder. The man is completely unconcerned, checking his nails in an exaggerated gesture, while Alastor launches his next attack. “They are ALL violent psychopaths, hellbent on causing as much pain and destruction as they can. It’s not pessimism if it’s always accurate. These types don’t evolve. They just find new ways to drag others down with them. Really no point in trying.”

As much as Alastor would love to share his opinion on the matter, he is busy dodging the swings from that bear of a man. Alastor meets him head-on. Right. Left. Right again. The brute absorbs the blows from his cane with a growl and lunges.

What a pain in the ass.

It’s a fraction of a heartbeat. Alastor sees the glass shards flying at him out of the corner of his eye – that clever woman – he sidesteps them, if barely, but the next moment he is send staggering backwards by a painful impact on his right shoulder. For a second stars are dancing in front of his vision, his whole arm pulsing with an unpleasant heat.

Alastor must admit he has some respect for the thugs. Unfortunate for the heavy hitter, his cane has recharged by now. With a manic laughter, Alastor ducks down to avoid another hit and slams his cane into the side of the man.

Wzzzzzt.

Ah, he is enjoying himself!

His audience gasps and Alastor catches the eyes of their founding father, whose expression remains deeply unimpressed. With a small nod he gestures towards a point to Alastor’s left – likely the position of the remaining opponent. How magnanimous.

“This was inevitable, Charlie. I warned you. Those parasites you call insurance agents, journalists, police officers, and politicians, even your friendly neighbours – our ‘citizens’? They’ll let you down. They’ll kick you when you’re already on the ground.”

“You don’t know that!”

“But I do…”

Alastor is feeling inspired. He raises his cane in a mock-attack, spins to the side and ends the fight with a satisfied grin and a vicious kick to the lanky woman’s throat.

“DAD, STOP! At least Alastor is defending the hotel! How come he can have faith in me, but my own father can’t?”

The force sends the woman flying. She crashes through the front door window, thousands of shards rain down into the lobby with a prolonged tinkling cascade, over the unconscious bodies and Alastor himself. At least it stops the ridiculous conversation Charlie and her father are having.

Not quite how I planned this to end, Alastor muses. He’s counting it as his victory anyway. A second of absolute silence follows, until everyone spins back into motion.

“Police and ambulance will be here in 5!” sober-minded Vaggie exclaims, just returning from the telephone at the reception, Angel at her heels. Ah, so he didn’t stay to watch the entire fight – unlike others.

“What a shame! I just broke our billiard cues!” Angel huffs and hands one of the improvised weapons to Husk. “Anyway, nice moves, Smiles!” he praises, deeply impressed. Niffty applauds and fishes a black marker out of her pocket. With a wicked smile she begins to draw the unconscious woman a moustache.

Alastor puts on a little show and bows to Charlie, glass cracking under his shoes. Ah, he’d better remove his suit coat, before anyone comes too close. The shards glint across the fabric like deadly ornaments, as he shakes the coat off and Alastor notices his hand is bleeding.

How uncharacteristically clumsy of him. His smile doesn’t fade, though. There’s no pain, just the fading thrill of adrenaline. A pity.

Of course, Charlie notices the injury first. “You’re hurt!” she gasps.

“It’s nothing” Alastor tries to play it down. “I must have been distracted by someone lecturing.”

“Shit, that’s a lot of blood, Al. Let me get something, I’ll be right back!”

Charlie doesn’t leave him an opportunity to protest and dashes off, but not before shooting her father a sharp look full of resentment. Alastor watches gleefully as his face crumbles. With a hollow expression on his face, the man seems to age ten years in an instant, which makes his ridiculous tophat look even more laughable, like a sad clown.

Only now, the pathetic wimp spins into action. Wordlessly, he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a white handkerchief. Without a word, he extends it toward Alastor. Certainly not!

Their fingers brush as Alastor hesitates, unwilling to accept the unwanted charity. With an eyeroll the man presses the cloth firmly into the palm of his unwounded hand.

“Press this onto the wound until it is properly treated. Make sure no shards remain otherwise this cut might become quite the nuisance.”

“Oh my, what an honour. His highness is being helpful at last” Alastor retorts, but Charlie’s dad seems to have had his fill for today.

“I should be going” he mumbles and turns away.

Alastor looks down at the handkerchief and blinks, completely dumbfounded. The rims of the handkerchief are embroidered with ducks and apples. His blood ruins the innocent image, as it spreads like a crimson blot of ink on pristine white paper. An unpleasant crunching sound announces the opening of the door, and Charlie’s father steps out of the building.

Is he thinking I’d let all of this slide that easily?

“Sir, one moment!” Alastor calls out, following the small man out of the hotel. More glass crunches beneath their shoes, the faint scent of blood lingers in the air – enticing.

“What do you want?” Charlie’s father doesn't even bother to look back.

“Mh, me? I want to suggest a way to make amends.”

It stops his prey mid-step. The silence stretches for a second. “You what?”

“You heard me, sir. I demand your apologies.”

“How pathetic. Forget it. You were clearly enjoying yourself.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on! What’s wrong with having a little fun?”

“And showing off like that - after trying to embarrass me in front of Charlie - was completely uncalled for. Was it really worth getting hurt?”

At this, Alastor pauses for a moment. Is he that lucky? Has he found an intelligent opponent at last? Someone who sees through some of his schemes and has the nerves to call him out for his actions? It sends a shiver down his spine and Alastor’s fingers curl into fists in a thrill of anticipation. Pain flares up. Yes, this is an opportunity he most certainly wants to seize.

“Not a good listener, are we, sir?”

With two steps, Alastor catches up with the smaller man. There’s no point in playing hard to get now because the bait is carefully selected and handcrafted to hit the spot.

The man starts to dial on his phone, checking for the next transport connections, or, more likely, acting uninterested. With the dark shadows under his eyes and the frown on his forehead, he looks utterly defeated, and more so than the three brutes now lying unconscious in the lobby behind them.

Alastor lowers his voice. “You want to reconnect with your daughter, don’t you?”
From the flicker in Lucifer Morningstar’s eyes, he knows this does matter. Perhaps more than anything.

“What’s it to you? Didn’t you just claim to be Charlie’s new dad?” His gaze shifts away, his hollow display of indifference not even convincing himself. It certainly is a weak retort, but Alastor enters it in his books anyway. The man has some nerve to bite back after a defeat like this.

“You now have plans for Wednesday evening,” Alastor replies coolly. “8 p.m., hotel bar. Bring something to write. You’ve just earned a seat at our gaming table. Be there and prove you care enough to be part of Charlotte’s life.”

“Charlie’s a gamer?” her father asks, sceptical.

“But of course,” Alastor purrs. It isn’t exactly a lie. “Think of the doors that open, once you become a regular in our little circle.”

He’ll let that flicker of hope in their founding father’s eyes burn bright just long enough to snuff it out in the perfect moment and with exquisite precision. This arrangement will guarantee Alastor massive amounts of fun. For a bonus, he can keep his promise to Angel. What a win-win situation!

Alastor takes another step, the lights from the hotel cast his shadow on the man before him, as he extends a hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“I’ll think about it.”

It’s not much, and by far not the reply Alastor has hoped for, but the quiet response and the vigilant look he is met with have to suffice for now. 

“A pleasure to see you next week,” Alastor says, turning on his heels, his steps light with new enthusiasm. His lips curl up in a devilish, delighted grin, as he follows his own blood trail back inside.

Oh, this will be fun.

Chapter Text

One Week Later

Of course the man is a no-show.

Alastor drums his fingers against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each sound grates like a metronome of rising irritation.

“So, you didn’t bring anyone,” Angel observes unnecessarily. He and Husk both watch him with the hawk-eyed curiosity of men expecting a twist. Alastor loathes being studied like an insect under glass. He exhales sharply and rises.

It’s Wednesday, and like every week they have gathered around their gaming table in the dim cellar room Charlie has so generously allocated for their ‘trust exercises’.

Yes, Alastor should have double-checked. He should have made a formal deal. And he definitely should have tried harder to convince Charlie’s disgrace of a father that joining their game night wasn’t optional. That it was something he needed more than anything.

“Where are you going?” Husk growls.
Angel points at him, smug. “You broke your end of the deal!”

“Fear not, my most esteemed gaming compatriots!” Alastor replies, baring a too-bright grin. “Next week, I shall grace this table with the most exquisite company. Trust me.”

Angel leans in, eyes narrowed, practically salivating. “But who is it? Someone we know?”

Husk scratches the back of his head, clearly not buying it. “If they are that great, why didn’t they show up today, huh?”

Alastor's smile turns syrupy and sharp. “Patience, gentlemen,” he purrs. Then, spinning a lie with practiced ease: “He called in sick, that’s all.”

And perhaps that’s not entirely false, Alastor muses. There’s a sickness in that man – pride, but also pain, wrath and passion. Time to pay Charlie a visit and collect some leverage.

He slips out and lets the door click shut behind him. His fingers brush over the fresh cut on his palm, a nasty little souvenir of his clumsiness. Being accused of breaking his word, that cuts deeper than the wound on his palm.

Someone – namely, Charlie’s fragile little excuse for a father – will bleed for this.

The Call

Thursday.
Friday.
The day after. And the day after that.
What day?
Whatever.

Lucifer pays no attention to the time passing. Nothing exciting happens. And even if it did – he’d be damned if he got involved. Not after letting his daughter down like that. Again.

He transferred a generous amount of money to pay for the repairs, but all he got in response? Not exactly Charlie’s usual ‘thank you’.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Dad, can we talk? 

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> :

The message has been hanging over him like the sword of Damocles for days now. Fuck. Lucifer has been drowning the guilt in busyness, throwing himself into the endless demands of running Paradise City. There are always important things to do when you’re the founder of a utopia that never quite lived up to its name.

“Oh, who am I kidding?”

With a sharp flick, Lucifer tosses the paintbrush into a murky glass of water. Droplets splatter across the desk as he scowls at his latest creation: a classic yellow rubber duck.

“This is useless!”

Is he talking about the duck? The act of painting it as a distraction? Or himself? Likely all three. He picks up the duck and inspects it, eye to soulless eye. Its beady black stare offers no comfort, and the orange beak is crooked, one side painted lower than the other.

Can’t even get this right.

With a sigh, Lucifer pinches the duck’s tail. Instead of a cheerful squeak, there’s a sharp bzzzt – a burst of static that sounds far too much like a certain bellhop's taser.

Urgh!

He hurls the duck across the room where it smacks into another duck. Bzzzt, squeak.
A flash of blue. Confetti explodes. A third duck launches like a bottle rocket.

Alright, alright, I get it. Time to clean up. Or burn the place down.

Lucifer, ever the responsible adult, strolls out of the atelier while chaos unfolds – more ducks go off in a ridiculous chain reaction behind him. His life in a nutshell.

Well, maybe food will lift his mood? Or maybe the bedroom is closer.

On his way, Lucifer passes one of the photo walls. One frame holds a picture of Charlie when she was little. Another shows the three of them, his family, before it all cracked apart.

Lucifer blinks. Hard. But the tears still sting.

I broke us – our little Paradise. It was never enough. And now I’ve hurt Charlie again.

Drubbed, he shuffles into the bedroom. The chaos reigning the room is politely ignored. Live and let live, and all. Lucifer just flops onto the mattress, face-first.

Hmpf.

After a moment, he flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. If only Lilith was still here…

Back when they worked for Celestium Foundation, she lit up every room. Even when they started Paradise City from scratch it was their shared dream for second chances. A dream that crumbled. Another sigh escapes him.
Lucifer turns onto his side, idly tracing the pattern on his blanket with one finger. Time blurs.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Dad, can we talk? 

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty> :

Another hour. Another day.
He eats. Paints another duck. Lets the unopened mail pile up. And then suddenly – something breaks the loop.

Lucifer’s sprawled on the couch, half-lost in thought, when suddenly the unmistakeable ‘Entry of the Gladiators’ blares from somewhere. He jolts upright. It’s Charlie’s ringtone.

She’s calling?! She’s calling! Oh shiiiiit!

Where the hell is his phone?

Panicked, he ransacks the clothes on the floor. Nothing.
Under his hat? Nope. Under the couch? Dust bunny.

“Oh, come on! This has to be perfect!”

Finally, he spots the phone beneath a chair. Nearly fumbles it. Catches it just in time and manages to swipe it up and answer. And then, in the most unfortunate burst of nerves, he blurts: “Heeeeeey, biaaaatch.”

OH NO!

A beat of silence.

Lucifer covers his mouth in horror.

That’s it! She’s going to hang up. She’ll never want to see me again. And she’d be right!

“Is this a proper way to address your daughter, my good sir?”, a male voice asks. Polite. Smug.

Lucifer freezes. He knows that voice. It takes only a second for recognition to dawn - and with it, fury. “Why do you have Charlie’s phone?”

“A pleasure to speak with you, sir. Good morning.”

“Has something happened to my Charlie?” Lucifer’s voice breaks with panic. “Where is she?”

He’s already moving – duck slippers off, boots on, white coat snatched from the rack.
Ready to storm the gates of Hell itself.

“Oh my, jumping to conclusions again? How dull you are.”

The embroidered fabric of his coat crumples under his grip.

“What. About. Charlie?”, Lucifer presses out through clenched teeth. He throws the coat on the hallway shelf. Useless. He won’t need it to save his little girl.

One hand on the doorknob, Lucifer hesitates for the first time since he picked up the phone, as the man on the other side of the line starts laughing. That horrible, syrupy, mocking laugh.

“She is as fine as morning sunshine after a storm,” the bellhop finally chirps, after making Lucifer suffer through yet another agonisingly long moment. “Except for the heartbreak about her wimp of a father, that is.”

“What- Oh.”

Lucifer blinks. Once. Twice. Then, without another word, he hangs up.
He’s had more than enough rude conversations in his lifetime and he doesn’t need this one. Certainly Not through Charlie’s phone and especially not with that insufferable piece of shit.

Lucifer turns and glides down, back to the door, until he reaches the floor.

What the actual fuck.

A second later, the phone rings again. Lucifer stares at it in complete bewilderment.

Why in hell would Charlie give someone so rude, tacky and Alastor-ish her phone? Something has to be amiss. Even if the bellhop isn’t telling him shit. Finally, his anxiety wins, and Lucifer finds himself answering the phone again.

“Why are you pestering me?” he demands, getting up at once and pacing toward the tall windows. As he parts the violet curtains blinding sunlight floods the room. Argh. Like a vampire he shrinks back into the shadows of his home.

“You missed our game night.”

“Game night?!”

“Game night on Wednesday” the man retorts. “Don’t act all surprised! Thou shalt not lie.”

Ah, so it is Thursday. Well, fuck him.

“I never promised to come,” he states flatly, which gives the bellhop some pause. Unfortunately, he regains his wit quickly and brings up an argument, Lucifer cannot ignore.

“Well, Charlotte would be very disappointed if she found out you turned us down.”

Lucifer can practically here the quotation marks around the ‘if’.

Wait- She doesn’t know? Did she skip game night, too? Does she avoid me now?

Or worse – has his good-hearted Charlie asked the irritating man to reach out on her behalf, offering him another chance?

Nah, don’t be delusional, Luci!

“I knew it” he retorts, seizing on the one truth he can stomach. “Charlie is not playing boardgames with you.”

The bellhop doesn’t even hesitate.
“Correct, sir! This is precisely why we wanted you – to bring her in, to help her relax. Relieve herself from the many burdens she so dutifully works on every evening.”

Lucifer can feel his expression drop.

“Charlie is... overworking herself?” he blurts, concern barely covered. Is she drowning herself in work, just like he used to do? Does she have anyone to lean on?

Once again, Lucifer curses himself for being this cracked, diminished version of who he once was. And the worst part? Most of the bellhop’s jabs hurt because they’re not wrong. But there’s no time for self-loathing now.

“Hello? Are you still on the line? What about Charlie?”

“Yes, yes! You know dear Charlotte’s enthusiasm. Of course she is overworking herself.”

A beat, then: “Will you be there next Wednesday?”

Ah, fuck me.

Is this karma, circling back for another bite? Perhaps. After all, he let that Alastor-guy go too far. Hurting those poor bastards who only wanted payback for the painted tails of their bosses’ cats. Yes, Lucifer has done his research. ‘The loan sharks’ are certainly no angels, but neither is that Mimzy person.

“Your reply, my good sir?”

Lucifer exhales sharply. “Alright, I’ll be there. But... I’m not sure I’m the right person to convince her to stop drowning her sorrows in work. And manipulating her into playing board games as a coping mechanism? That’s questionable! But- Well, it might actually work. Except-“

Except she probably hates me even more by now.

A certain yet unanswered message comes to mind. He really should have replied immediately. Why didn’t he?

But instead of handing the bellhop more ammunition, he shifts gears.

“What if she finds playing with her old man is cringe?”

“Oh, I am quite certain it’s a marvelous idea and in her best interest. Sooner or later, you will lure her in to join our pen-and-paper game, and she’ll have no more to time to overwork herself. However, I must point out that the adjective ‘cringe’ should not be misused the way you just did.”

“Pen-and-paper? What system- Wait! Excuse you?”

No response. Lucifer stares at the screen.

He hung up.

The audacity of that bellhop!

It’s been a long time since someone hang up on him, and yet, the question echoing loudest in his mind has nothing to do with pride-

Which pen-and-paper system are they playing?

Despite himself, Lucifer feels a flicker of excitement warming his chest.

Shit.

He didn’t even get to ask if he should bring a character. What level are they? Is this a one-shot or a full campaign? Is he the only new player? Do they want backstory?
Of course they want backstory!

He paces the room, thoughts racing.

No, no, he mustn’t get swept up in that.
This isn’t about the game.
This is about Charlie.

It might be his only chance to set things right and talk to his daughter again. This is, what he should be worrying about, what a good father would put at the forefront of his mind.
If she truly asked that bellhop to invite him – if she’s still open to seeing him again – then he can’t mess this up.

It needs to be perfect.
He needs to be perfect.

Game Night

After the utterly exasperating ordeal of having to contact their oh-so-mighty founding father via Charlotte’s phone again the previous night, Alastor is admittedly somewhat relieved when the small man actually shows up in the hotel lobby. Tacky white suit and ridiculous tophat included. Naturally.

Alastor raises a single brow. The man brought his apple cane, clipped to his side like one of Charlie’s emotional support plush animals, and Alastor’s patience begins to erode before a single word is exchanged.  

Is that a snake brooch on his hat? Oh my. It is. A golden snake coiled around an apple.

He must have overlooked that detail during their last meeting – for the sake of his own sanity, no doubt. Alastor resists the urge to comment, if barely.

Focus, stick to the plan, old sport – Play it nice, reel in Lucifer Morningstar with this silly little game. Wait for him to open up. Then strike. Start with the softest spot. A piece of cake.

“Good evening, sir,” Alastor greets, sugary sweet. “What an honour to have you join our humble session tonight.”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” Charlie’s father grumbles. “If you’re fishing for an apology for last week, don’t waste your breath.”

Today, Alastor receives something he didn’t last time. Giving him a once over, he finally is graced with their founding father’s full attention.

Blue eyes scan him slowly, appraising, as if trying to figure him out.

Alastor is sorely tempted to deliver a jab – something about the hat? – but he reins it in. This is not the moment. The hunt begins with bait, not blood, and tension builds best when the prey is lulled into comfort, when it believes it’s safe. Alastor truly lives for that one exquisite moment, the moment when that illusion shatters. When his victim knows. And for that reason, he’ll play it civil, for now.

“Well,” Alastor says with practiced innocence, “admitting a mistake is the first step toward improvement. Or so they say.”   

The king of hypocrites scoffs. “Urgh! Lecture much?”

He makes a disgusted sound and turns away, clearly scanning the lobby. A nervous look at his watch reveals his true intentions, even before he brings the topic up. “Is Charlie in?”

Of course, now he is acting as if his daughter is always on top of the list.

Fortunately, Alastor has ensured that there are no distractions tonight. Not even twenty minutes before the beginning of their session.

Out of sheer malice, he lets the silence stretch, inspecting his cane with aggerated care. Lucifer’s rising impatience crackles like static in the air, and Alastor basks in it.

“Soooo?”

“Ah,” he says at last, bright and breezy, “I just remembered. Dearest Charlotte is upstairs in her office. She asked not to be disturbed. But she sends her love.”

At least part of it is true.

Her father sighs.

For a moment, he forgets himself. The shoulders slump. His gaze falls to the tips of his polished black boots. Vulnerability flickers across his face – until it’s replaced by a too-wide smile, brittle and overbright, feigning enthusiasm.

“Well, in that case-“ he throws his arms out theatrically, “Take me to your dungeon!”

Alastor chokes on a breath. “Come again?”

“Eh, just show me where you’re playing? Where’s the rest of the group, anyway?”

Idiot.

Still smiling, Alastor turns and leads the way, taking a deliberately unnecessary detour past the bar. After all, it is crucial to revisit the best part of the hotel. Tonight, no guests are drowning their sorrows, likely because Vaggie has taken over Husker’s shift. The neon lights gleam off polished bottles, undisturbed, spotlighting the bar in all its eerie glory.

Alastor flashes Vaggie a victorious smile, parading Lucifer Morningstar like a prize stag.

“Good evening, sir,” she greets, tone clipped. Then, even colder, she adds a nod. “Alastor.”

“Good evening,” comes their founding father’s reply – dismissive, like she’s just another staff member.

Interesting.

Alastor wonders if he even knows that his ‘sweet little girl’ has a girlfriend and that Vaggie is her anchor in the middle of all the chaos.

Before he can dig further, the man next to him gestures toward the décor.

“I may be repeating myself, but really, what were you even thinking? Charlie’s not here, so let’s be honest. This bar is tacky as hell. Bones and teeth? That’s your idea of modern design?”

Criticising the heart of the hotel right out of the gate? Bold, but not unexpecting. Alastor’s grin sharpens. “And what would our oh-so-glorious founding father suggest? Apples and snakes?”

The man tips his hat, smug. “Why not?”

“A little too biblical for the ‘city of progress’, don’t you agree?”

“If that’s what it takes to get rid of this muffy trash.” He waves a hand at the décor. “Besides, snakes are elegant.”

“Snakes,” Alastor says dryly, leading him down the stairs, “are the symbol of evil.”

“They are a symbol for change,” the overdressed twit retorts. “Did you know they shed their skin, constantly evolving?”

“Oh really? Come to think of it, must be exhausting trying to keep up with the world.” Alastor turns to eye him. “Especially since no one likes cold, blind-eyed creeps.”

The man before him grimaces, apparently catching the double meaning.
“They are cute!” he insists.

Alastor snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. They are good for nothing but making children cry.”

Lucifer sighs, and somehow the sound carries more weight than it should. “Oh, you must know.”

“Indeedy.” Alastor brushes their argument aside. They’ve reached the gaming room, and he delights in watching his guest awkwardly tugging at his suit.

“Don’t bother,” Alastor says, all teeth and mock kindness. “With that hat, your suit will never be the showstopper.”

“Huh?”

"Now presenting…"

With a dramatic flourish, Alastor throws open the doors and bows low, one arm outstretched like a stage actor basking in imaginary applause. Angel actually cheers – likely for their illustrious guest rather than Alastor’s theatrics, but who’s counting?

"…His Highness himself! The busiest man in all of Pentagram City – so terribly occupied he can’t spare a moment for his own daughter, and yet! With just a touch of persuasion, he’s deigned to grace our humble table. What an honour, gentlemen!"

Lucifer Morningstar freezes mid-step, gasps, glares, then – unexpectedly – blushes. His eyes fall on Husk and Angel at the big wooden gaming table, and his expression softens to something unreadable. Something fragile. A faint smile.

Not exactly the reaction Alastor was aiming for, but nevertheless, it’s curious. He is sure there is something about this he can exploit later. Alastor takes his seat like a king reclaiming his throne.

And that, you clueless amateurs, is how one honours a bargain.

Their guest lingers, before gently brushing his fingers over the core rulebook Husk has oh-so-deliberately placed before him.

“You’re playing D&D?”

Angel springs up like a firecracker, shaking hands overenthusiastically. “Yes, we are, my short king! You know Dungeons and Dragons?”

“Well…”

“What about our Vampire campaign?” Alastor cuts in smoothly, reclaiming their attention. “I thought we might return to where we left off before that thickhead Vox joined, that is.”

Husk rubs his beard thoughtfully, then shrugs. “I think a change of setting is just what we need.”

“Excellent.” Alastor grins. “In that case, I’ll be reviving my warlock. I’ve missed casting fireball.”

Their newest addition perks up. “Oh really? You played a warlock? Damn!”

Alastor squints. “Why do you care?”

The silence stretches a second, then the mightiest man in the city flounders. He clasps his hands like a guilty schoolboy and stammers. “Oh. Uh. I don’t. I just- I heard it’s a powerful class. That’s all. Really.”

Alastor narrows his eyes at the faint blush. Interesting.

“Oh, don’t worry, my good sir.” His grin stretches wider. “House rules say the group chooses either your race or your class. Trust me, you’ll want to leave the decision to me.”

He lifts the heavy core rulebook with reverence and sports a wide grin.
“Naturally, I already have some ideas!”

“Yeah, well, I’d suggest something sturdy, sir. Fighter, barbarian, maybe paladin,” Husk interjects, playing his ‘Game Master’s talking’-card with effortless authority and Alastor hates it.

“Oh! Please, call me Lucifer,” the man replies quickly. “I know I’m Charlie’s dad, but I’m not that old!”
With no small amount of satisfaction, Alastor catches the return of that awkward little smile – just in time for Angel to retort.

“Oh, I would call you daddy anytime!”

The silence that follows is thick and unbearable. Alastor is both annoyed and mildly delighted. Angel, realising the poor man’s discomfort, tries to save face: “Cute!” he chirps, then adds with a placating grin, “Fineee, I’ll call you Lucifer.”

Character creation ensues and Alastor leans back in, making it his duty to appear as bored and impatient as possible, all while keeping a sharp eye on every choice being made.

“I’ll go with paladin!” Lucifer finally announces, and Alastor barely suppresses a theatrical groan.

“Why, of course you would choose the most overpowered, sanctimonious class of them all.”

“I, uh...” Lucifer shrugs. “I liked the picture.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. What an imbecile! How can someone this powerful be that immature?

“Paladin is a solid pick,” Husk agrees, which leaves a bitter taste in Alastor’s mouth. Annoyingly, he’s right. A paladin won’t go down easily. Killing him off will be a pain.

But then again, I do love a challenge.

“Alright,” Lucifer continues. “You get to pick the race of my character, right? So, what will I be?”

He grabs the book like a shield and flashes a brave grin. The dim lights catch on his hair and bright eyes, casting them in golden tones. He really does look the paladin part.

Alastor feels his forced smile twitch at the edges.

Unfortunately, Angel seems equally inspired. He gasps, hands covering his mouth like they are trapped in the climax of one of the pesky romcoms Charlotte sometimes forces them to watch.

“Gotcha!” he squeals. “Make him an Aasimar! I mean, just look at ya, all shiny and sparkles!”

In this particular moment, Alastor is less happy with his choice. As if their latest addition to the party deserves any more titles or needs them to inflate his ego some more. As if he is that beautiful - not that Alastor cares much for the appearances of other people except for judging them.  

He’s about to protest – paladin and Aasimar is overkill – but Lucifer beats him to it. An unhappy look on his face, he starts to stutter, all shine and gold gone dark within a second.

“Ah- no! I mean, that’s not a great idea.”

Although he doesn’t get Lucifer’s argument at all, Alastor is transfixed. That sudden shift, like watching a gilded statue crack, is delicious.

“What I’m trying to say is- uh, it’s kind of OP, right? That’d be totaaaaally unfair!”

“It’s a perfectly reasonable choice,” Alastor insists, giving their new player a dark smile.

If this makes him squirm, then by all means, so be it! Let him play a nearly indestructible celestial duck.

“But-”

“Alastor is right, sugar- I mean Lucifer!” Angel cuts in. “Aasimar goes great with paladin. It’s a match made in-”

“Don’t.”

Alastor cuts him off before the pun lands, flipping open the core rulebook, only to realise that Aasimar aren’t in it.

“It’s on page 52 of the Extended Rulebook,” Lucifer mumbles, and Alastor looks up sharply.

Irritating.

Lucifer seems to realise he’s spoken too quickly. He covers his mouth, then scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

“Care to repeat that?”

“Please forget I said anything,” he mouths sheepishly, and takes the additional rulebook from Husk, seemingly flipping through the index before opening up page 52.

Alastor dreads the feeling creeping in. He knows he’s miscalculated something.

And with that, character creation continues.

Meet the Heroes

The doors of the Drunken Dragon Tavern crash open with a thunderous crack, rain pours outside, wind howling through the splintered frame as a cloaked figure steps into the flickering firelight. The air is thick with the suspiciously strange scent of stew and stale ale. Lucifer can almost taste it on his lips.

Ah, how he’s missed this!

He lets his voice drop into a low rumble, loud enough for all to hear: “Mhhh, the familiar stench of danger and distrust… Perfect!”  

A fire blazes, the flamelight dancing off his burnished armour. From the shadows of a booth already claimed, a low, amused chuckle curls through the tavern’s smoky air.

“Oh my, that’s one way to make friends. Everan Vexmoor,” The tall man introduces himself, swirling a glass filled with something toxic green. His voice is a menacing purr. “Another fallen hero drawn to the stink of rot – A pleasure, quite the pleasure. Let’s see how long that shine lasts.”

The insult hits Lucifer like a slap – immersion shattering like glass. He can practically hear Adam's voice. 

Uff.

He blinks, forcing himself to stay seated and appear composed while the others carry on. Angel narrates his character’s dynamic entrance, but it all slips past Lucifer’s focus. He pulls himself together and at least manages to jot down the character names.

Angel Dust – Silken de Lune, elven rogue

THAT JERK – Everan Vexmoor, aka Dreadwhisper – serves him right – maniac warlock (of course)

The others play through their introductions, but Lucifer’s mind is elsewhere, seriously considering excusing himself for the rest of the evening to go find Charlie. Probably not the best idea. With a sigh, Lucifer toys with his wedding ring, trying to steady his nerves and failing. Lilith would have loved this.  

Suddenly, Angel leans over and throws him a wide grin he cannot ignore.

Silken de Lune spins dramatically in place, one silk-gloved hand perched on a cocked hip, the other swirling a goblet of something far too expensive for this dive. His silver hair gleams in the hearth-light, and his grin could’ve sliced diamonds. He sashays up to Lucifer – Gideon – giving him a slow once-over, and a whistle.

“Now you, handsome, look like someone who knows how to use that big sword of yours. And before you ask – yes, we are recruiting.”

He winks.

“The name’s Silken. Silken de Lune. Scourge of sheets, bane of the bores, and your new best friend. Want to solve that little goblin problem together? If our barkeep’s to be believed, the nasty, stinking pests are gnawing on the tavern’s stores. The poor folks in this little village are desperate. And I hate sharing my wine with creatures who don’t appreciate the bouquet.”

They raise their glasses toward the bar, where a terrified innkeeper waves a rag, hope rekindled by their mere presence.

“So what do you say, Shiny? Smite first, questions later? Or do I need to seduce you into righteousness?”

From the booth, Everan Vexmoor snorts into his glass. “Charming. I vote we hunt those pests. The shadow plane hungers for new souls, even if it’s just a few meek goblins.”

Silken shoots him a sharp look. “Ignore Broody over there. He’s just mad his spell failed last time when- Ah, that’s a perfect tale for later. C’mon, Ser Lightbringer. We’ve got a job. And I could use someone with muscles, purely for practical reasons, of course. So... you in?”

Rain pounds the roof like a war drum. The world waits for Gideon Lightbringer to choose his first quest.

“ABSOLUTELY!”

Lucifer facepalms. Ducking duck, stay in character!
“Er, sorry, Gideon replies: You have my sword! And my angelic powers!”

“That’s the spirit, my good sir.”

Lucifer feels a wide smile crease his face.

The end of their session arrives abruptly, and Lucifer realises he’s completely lost track of time while their party of adventurers has embarked on their first quest.

To his surprise, the group hasn’t kicked him out. Yet. He thanks Angel for lending him his rainbow-coloured spare dice. The whole group is strangely nice – except for that Alastor guy, but Lucifer can take a blow or two.

Does he suspect something?

He almost slipped up about how familiar he is with D&D, and he’s determined to avoid that mistake this time. He’s made it once before with his old party, and they hated him instantly. No, this time will be different.

“Er, Lucifer? Your response?” Husk’s voice snaps him out of his wandering thoughts.

“Hah! Yes! I- what was the question?”

“Will you, humble knight, join our troop next week?” Angel teases, batting his eyelashes at him.

Lucifer isn’t used to flattery anymore, but somehow manages to push past his speechlessness.

“My dear rogue, how could I, Ser Lightbringer, resist an offer sung with such bravado? Count me in!”

Dutifully, Lucifer pulls out his phone and adds their next session to his empty calendar. So much for playing to reconnect with Charlie. He’ll have to make sure to meet her another time. Or maybe ask her to meet on a different day? Yeah, that’d be better. He really doesn’t need the others breathing down his neck while he tries to fix the mess he’s made…

Lost in dark thoughts again, he catches a sidelong glance from Alastor. The red-clad man’s grin is as usual, but there’s an unsettling sharpness in his eyes.

“You got something to say?” Lucifer asks, his tone harsher than intended.

He can see himself reflected in Alastor’s glasses. Trying for an excusing smile, it comes out all wrong, as he receives a lowkey hostile reply, as usual.

“No, I’m just watching the cogwheels turn in that small head of yours.”

“Oh, still speaking in character?” Lucifer retorts. “I never took you for such a passionate nerd.”

With a smug grin, Lucifer gets up, chalking Alastor’s slightly taken-aback expression up as a victory.

“Thank you for letting me join your campaign! It was fun!” He has nothing to pack, so he waves and cuts off any small talk with a rushed: “See you next week!”

Angel calls after him – another nickname, the man is too creative for his own good – but Lucifer is already out the door, hurrying up the stairs.

Outside of the hotel, he’s greeted by the blue darkness of night and fresh air. Lucifer lets out a huge sigh and glances at his watch. Huh. One hour past midnight. Well, shit.

He hopes Charlie is asleep already. For real. 

Alastor’s words start to spin in his head, and he pulls out his phone. What if she’s still working, and he just showed up at the hotel without saying hi?

Lucifer facepalms and groans.

Ducking duck, this is complicated!

Before their next session, he’ll make sure to visit his daughter. Yes, that’s the solution. Simple and efficient.  


Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: 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. 

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, 19^th.

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.”

Chapter Text

Alastor cannot, for the life of him, wrap his mind around it. Despite his huge efforts, bordering on altruism, Lucifer Morningstar has tried to ghost their pen-and-paper group a second time. And after a perfectly tolerable first session, no less! How insolent! A cheap excuse tossed at Husk, not even a call or a last dramatic showdown – did he really think that would be enough to get rid of Alastor?

Yes, Alastor admits, his pride is deeply insulted. He does not get ghosted. It only, exclusively, works the other way around. He will not be ignored by that pompous snake advocate. And he must fulfil his latest deal with dear Charlotte.

Even if it’s a great inconvenience, Alastor doesn’t regret that he’s encouraged both Husk and Angel to join him in paying their good chap a visit and giving him a firm talking-to. And really, how hard can it be to knock some sense into that stubborn celestial duck? Lucifer needs Alastor, he just doesn’t realise it yet.

So, said and done.
It’s Wednesday, and their group is making its way uphill through a lavish park toward a massive building that can only be the Morningstar Mansion – high fence, garden, and a goddamn apple tree next to the front gate included. Alastor commuted here with Husk and Angel, a journey that took far too long and was thoroughly exhausting. Still, he’s looking forward to the dumb look on their paladin’s face when he opens the door. It’ll be worth it.

Alastor made sure Charlie spammed her father with concerned messages over the past few days. Even if he didn’t reply once, it all adds to Alastor’s scheme. It wasn’t his idea to fake an illness to skip game night in the first place.  All of this is on Lucifer – Alastor insists. He merely took the opportunity to stir up a little chaos. Still, it’s become very clear to Alastor that guilt-tripping the man might not be the best strategy to get the most out of their situation. So, the evening’s agenda entails coming up with a new plan, and tonight is his best shot at gathering ideas.

“Woah, holy shit!” Angel whistles, running a hand through his white-dyed hair as they reach the gate. “Anybody else feel like we’re about to step into Narnia or some other magical wonderland?”

“That would be very inconvenient,” Husk shrugs.

“Huh. How did we get his address again?” Angel asks, snapping a selfie with the mansion in the background, striking a pose. His trousers are as short as Alastor’s patience, and the only thing keeping him from shoving the adult filmmaker through the gate is that they haven’t seen another soul since leaving the public transit stop twenty minutes ago.

“Our beloved Charlie, of course,” Alastor replies, tapping the basket Husk is carrying with a smile that can only be described as menacing. “Come now, time to reunite the party.”

They ring the bell, and – nothing. They ring again. The silence starts to stretch awkwardly until Angel mutters: “Maybe he’s actually at the doctor’s? Or sleepin´?”

“He’s not,” Alastor states flatly. He tries the front gate, which opens without resistance. “See? He’s expecting us,” he lies cheerfully, leading the group through the garden with a hum on his lips.

The path winds uphill through overgrown greenery, ivy crawling over everything, grass brushing their knees, all clear signs of neglect. A stone table appears to their left, half-concealed by vines. The chairs, however, are missing.

“You’re right, Angel. This does look like Narnia – remember Aslan’s sacrifice? I say we just drop off the basket and go,” Husk says.  

“Then I’ll gladly play the role of the White Witch,” Alastor scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We are certainly not turning back after coming all this way. Or are you nervous about the bees?” Alastor teases as they reach the front steps.

“Actually, those are bumblebees,” Angel corrects, tracking the lazy buzz and hum with his eyes. “And listen to all the birdsong. Looks like Lucifer’s a good host.”

“He’d better be.”

With a theatrical eye roll, Alastor rings the bell and, as backup, knocks firmly on the white-painted wood. He uses his left hand instead his right, the movement slightly clumsy. Alastor grimaces. The splintering wood is a harsh reminder that he needs to avoid bursting the wounds left by that whiskey glass again. How much he hates the attention they’ve already drawn! The black fingerless gloves help, but if he bleeds through the thin linen wrappings and lace again, even Angel will start asking questions.

“You seem real invested in this,” Angel remarks, pulling him from his thoughts just in time. “Unusual for you, Smiles.”

Alastor turns, sneering. No one gets to see his cards before the final round.
Angel may be tall in his heels, but Alastor still makes a point of looking down on him, if not physically, then metaphorically.

“But of course! I’m committed to honouring our little deal. It’s very important to me. And so is sweet Luci-“

The door creaks open, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“I mean, sweet Lucifer’s presence at our game nights!” Alastor finishes hastily, plastering on a ferocious grin as he turns.

“It’s you.”

Alastor freezes. “Beg pardon?”

The man in the doorway looks rough, to say the least. Tousled blond hair, red-rimmed eyes sunk deep into dark circles, slumped shoulders, and not a trace of the crisp white coat from the hotel. Instead, he wears a pastel-blue monstrosity of a pyjama with misaligned buttons, wrapped in a wool blanket covered with tiny snakes poking out their little red tongues at Alastor.

He wasn’t lying?

Charlie’s father. Their new party member. The founder of Pentagram City. A brilliant, ambitious, even ruthless inventor. A dangerous man. Alastor’s brain refuses to connect these dots. His gaze drops to a pair of bright yellow plush duck slippers.

Impossible.

Alastor also realises immediately and with great annoyance that his plan to convince Lucifer to arrange the meeting for Charlotte will have to wait. For some time.

Fuck.

“Nice duck,” Angel grins, tossing Lucifer an enthusiastic wink.

Snapping out of it immediately, Alastor shoots the adult filmmaker a smile sharp enough to draw blood.

“Sorry we bothered you!!” Husk adds very helpfully, shoving the basket into Alastor’s arms. Of course, the hard part is left to him. Typical.

“We didn’t mean to interfere, sir” their game master rambles on, and Alastor can’t help but bristle at Husk suddenly losing his nerve. “We’ll be on our way straight away!”

That’s what you were counting on? How naïve, my dear.

Alastor has zero intention of leaving immediately, after just getting a glimpse at this unsolved puzzle, and so he straightens up and does the one thing he’s conditioned himself to pull off in any situation – whether with a gun to his head, a shark chewing on his leg, or, in this case, faced with a thunderstruck, poorly dressed contradiction in duck slippers.

He smiles.

The slippers are still the worst.

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves! We brought you a get-well-soon basket,” Alastor announces, presenting the offering with a theatrical flourish, and finally coaxing a real reaction out of their involuntary host-to-be.

Lucifer rubs his eyes, as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. He blinks, left, right, clearly baffled, but instead of accepting the gift, he hesitates. With his index finger, he lifts the dish towel first and peeks beneath it, inspecting the contents like a man checking for traps.

“You’re giving me this?” he asks, suspicion undisguised.

Against his better judgment, Alastor had invited the whole group to contribute: Angel added tissues, chocolates, and menthol rub; Husk tossed in honey and schnapps; and Alastor, per Charlie’s suggestion, included a generous assortment of herbal teas. That last one draws particular attention.

“Herbal tea?”

“Charlie mentioned it.”

“You involved Charlie in this?” The question is laced with concern.

“She didn’t text to check on you, then?” Alastor asks coolly.

“I, uh… Shit. I wouldn’t know…” Lucifer rakes a hand through his tangled blond hair. “I did one of those hipster things… what do they call it? Ah yes, a digital detox.”

There it is again: the awkward, forced smile Alastor hates.

“Well, she did ask about you a lot, but I take it you were in good company,” Alastor all but grins as the others peer curiously past Lucifer, trying to get a glimpse at the hallway beyond him.

Lucifer glances over his shoulder, as if making sure no one’s sneaking up behind him, then turns back and sighs, posture sagging further. “To be completely honest… I lied,” he admits, rubbing the back of his head.

“Oh my, what a shock,” Alastor deadpans, thrusting the basket into Lucifer’s arms and, finally, succeeding, as he takes it, apparently relieved to have something to fidget with.

“I’m not sick. I- Well… it’s complicated.”

Of course, I was right.

Alastor is just about to add a snide remark when Angel jabs his elbow into his ribs. He hisses in annoyance.

“It’s okay, pal, no need to explain yourself,” Husk shrugs.

Lucifer, clearly overwhelmed, starts rambling: “I mean, wow, look at you crazy people – coming ALL THE WAY to my house – how did you even find me?! And I... I don’t really know what to say, except I’m SO SORRY! I didn’t expect you to just show up, and it’s been a while since anyone paid me a visit. Quite a while, to be honest…”

“Don’t ya worry!” Angel chirps. “How do they say it? Forgive and forget.”

The man’s eyes light up with tentative hope. “Do they?”

Once again, he looks torn between gratitude and suspicion. It makes Alastor wonder what kind of social history this man must have. Not that he would waste a second imagining himself in Lucifer’s shoes. He would never land in such a pitiful situation in the first place – joining a pen-and-paper group out of guilt for being a lousy father? Preposterous.

“Yeah, really. You don’t have to explain,” Husk chimes in again, arms crossed. “You’re still the founder of this city. We’re just your little DND party. That is – assuming you still plan to play with us?”

Lucifer blinks a few times. His cheeks flush, and his eyes start to glisten. “I…”
His nose reddens as he snivels and swipes away a tear. “I… Okay. I mean, yes. I’d like to try.”

Pathetic.

“It’s not like you’re marrying us,” Alastor mutters, and Lucifer- Lucifer freezes, as if Alastor had casually declared his intent to gut him right there on the porch.

Sensing the distress Alastor has caused, Angel elbows him again. Harder. It hurts.

Alastor snaps. Positively murderous, he grabs Angel by the throat.

“Do. NOT. Touch. Me.”

Angel’s eyes go wide, and Alastor can see the rapid movement of those garish heterochromia lenses – one red, one black – as he struggles to break free.

“Let go of me, you discount Disney villain!”

Both Husk and Lucifer move at once. Husk yanks the schnaps bottle from the basket, growling, while Lucifer raises a hand – not to grab, not to intervene or drag him back, but simply to block Alastor’s line of sight.

It actually makes Alastor glance his way.

Lucifer’s expression is focused, serious, but not hostile. Most importantly, he makes no move to touch Alastor. He just stands there, tilting his head in a slow, deliberate gesture.

“Let him go. Please.”

Alastor forces his smile to hold, thin and tight, but after a second, he lets go. Angel, very unceremoniously, lands on his butt.

Shit. His hand is bleeding again. Well done, old chum.

With one long stride, Alastor positions himself closer to Lucifer, clenching the injured hand into a fist and hiding it behind his back in a parody of some Victorian gentleman’s stance.  

“HAHA, what a riot!”

At least he is one step closer to the door now, one step closer to being invited in. And Angel, to his credit, knows better than to escalate. With a muttered curse, he gets up and dusts off his pants. Serves him right. He should’ve known better than to try Alastor more than once.

“So, are you contagious?” Alastor asks, giving Lucifer a side-glance that forces the man to look up at him. Pleased, Alastor smiles. 

“No, I guess not...”

“Then may we come in?”

“Um…”

To Alastor’s surprise, it’s Angel who backs him up immediately. “Yeah! Talkin’ inside would feel way more cozy, don’t ya think?”

At that, Lucifer panics. “Nope!” he blurts out, turning around and slamming the door in Alastor’s face – only to crack it open again a second later. “I mean- Wait here. Just give me a moment!”

He vanishes down the hallway, leaving the door ajar, just slightly.

“Oookay, that was weird,” Angel says, smiling breezily. “Anyway. Let’s head in?”

“Finally, an agreeable suggestion,” Alastor confirms. He lets the quiet “Age before beauty, you maniac!” slide as an olive branch and follows Angel inside.

I wonder what got dear Lucifer all worked up. 

It doesn’t sit right with Alastor – the idea that something, or someone, already holds this much sway over his target. Considering all the work he’s putting in, it seems only fair he should be the sole one with that kind of emotional leverage.

We’ll get there.

Taking Angel’s cue with gusto, Alastor uses the opportunity to look around, though, to be fair, there’s not much to see. The hallway is huge, a long red carpet leading past two closed doors before opening up to a grand staircase and a third, imposing door framed by a high arch. Alastor finds the atmosphere unsettling. The ceilings are so high they seem designed to make anyone beneath them feel small, crushed by invisible weight. In contrast, Angel treats it like a stage, striking poses and stretching dramatically. It’s irritating, but Alastor endures it. At least he’s one step closer to luring Lucifer back into his web. Playing nice seems to pay off.  

The only hints of personality, beyond the obnoxious display of wealth, are the framed photos on the walls. Several show a smiling young Charlie, eyes wide and full of mischief, beside the man they’ve just met. Among them, Alastor also spots a more troubling, vaguely familiar face. A face he has seen photos of before. That confident, clever smile. The blonde hair. A ghost from his past.

And a good evening to you too, Lilith Magne, dearest.

He remembers the day clearly. Seven years ago, just as the first flowers bloomed. Alastor was still new in the city. He’d crossed paths with Eve Primus one cold dawn, their dangerous interests aligning as if by fate. What followed was one of his most successful collaborations, even if it lasted only six months. And what had he gained? Nothing but an expensive life lesson and a promise to keep an eye on the brat of Eve’s girlfriend and her ludicrous hotel plans. Ridiculous.

Only now, several years later, Alastor harbours a cynic respect for the dangerous reporter. He had never been played so thoroughly by anyone before, and Eve’s distinct laughter still rings in his ears.

How he’s grown fond of Charlie remains a mystery. Alastor has every reason to despise their preposterous patchwork family, and getting to know the Morningstar side of the tree doesn’t help one bit. Staring Lilith down in this quiet, haunted house, Alastor silently swears: You’ll get a taste of your own medicine. In due time.

“Oh… you let yourselves in.”

Alastor turns, caught mid-glare, and locks eyes with Lucifer. He’s changed into white linen trousers and a rose-and-white striped vest. The duck slippers are gone, replaced by plain black socks. His crinkled shirt isn’t exactly formal, but it suits him better than something pristine. His hair is combed back in his usual style. His puffy eyes, however, betray the effort.

It’s obvious he noticed Alastor staring at the pictures. His grimace says it all – another of those awkward, apologetic smiles – and he quickly looks away.

“Aaalright then… come along.”

Angel and Husk fill the silence with polite comments about the house, though after ascending the stairs, they still see nothing but closed doors.

“Originally, it was Alastor's idea to come by,” Husk drops casually, and if Alastor had been annoyed before, now he’ll have to guarantee Husk pays for his little insolence.

In stark contrast to his murderous thoughts, Alastor offers Lucifer a smile - one of the tame sorts. Lucifer turns, surprise flickering across his worn-out face. Raising a disbelieving brow, Lucifer… blushes? 

Alastor doesn't understand why that reaction stings, but he’s at Lucifer's side with two long strides.

“But of course!” Alastor pipes. “The week has been terribly boring without someone to criticise our décor.”

That earns him a smile. Alastor watches curiously as the fragile little thing spreads over Lucifer's face like ripples in a still lake. Easy to miss, but undeniably there, a proper reaction, at last.

“Well…” Lucifer takes a deep breath, as if gathering not just his wit but his entire essence, and begins to shift – becoming the man Alastor cherishes to see, to fight. “I'm glad you can finally admit how much you appreciate my expertise.”

Ah, yes. The game is on.

“Naturally,” Alastor retorts. “How else would I know my style choices to be superior?”

At that, Lucifer grimaces, but the mood stays light. With an exasperated sigh and a shake of his head, he leads them into a room that is somehow both an office and utterly devoid of life.

“Welcome to your gaming room for tonight!”

The table and chairs clearly don’t belong here. The heavy dark wood clashes with the sterile, almost clinical atmosphere. The desk is immaculate, every item in military order. Pens separated by type, paper sorted by size and texture, even the tape dispenser and hole punch lined up like soldiers.

Alastor blinks at the madness and takes a seat with a clear view of the door.

Does he even use this room? he wonders. Nobody with that many closed doors in their house is this obsessed with order...

“Let me get you something to drink!” their host offers, then hesitates. “I hope tap water’s fine.”

“What about a little booze?” Angel tries, flashing a winning wink but meets utter defeat.

“Sorry, I don’t keep alcohol around. Just scrambles the brain, HAHA.”
Lucifer blinks, then suddenly lights up. He reaches into the basket and pulls out the bottle of schnaps Husk added. “Well, it seems I do have some now! And the good stuff, too! Where did you even get this? They definitely don’t sell this brand on every street corner.”

Husk smiles and shrugs. “A man’s got to keep some secrets. I’d save it for a special occasion.”

Everyone nods in agreement, and Lucifer carefully places the bottle back into the basket.

“Do you have any snacks?” Husk asks, only to be met with a panicked glance at the basket.

“Uh... you know what? Let’s order something. I haven’t done that in a while, and the thought crossed my mind several times these past days... My treat!”

Alastor’s attention perks up at the remark but says nothing.  

“Let’s order before we start playin’,” Angel says. “And can we go over the carrying capacity rules once more? I think I miscalculated...”

Twenty minutes later, Lucifer flinches as the bell rings, announcing the arrival of their well-earned pizza. Like before, Lucifer catches Alastor's gaze, the realisation flickering across his face that he's under constant observation.

Alastor, naturally, doesn’t break eye contact first, and so they stare at each other with quiet intensity, staying locked in place for a long moment, until Angel gets up first, breaking the tension.

“Hey, lemme help you carry the boxes.”

Husk indicates he’s staying behind in the office to pour round two of their tap water extravaganza, while Alastor, on the other hand, has a better idea.

“I'm getting the cutlery,” he announces, rising in perfect sync with Lucifer.

The man shoots him an incredulous look. “Cutlery? For pizza?”

“I'm not a barbarian!” Alastor retorts, effortlessly.

Lucifer hesitates, then the bell rings a second time, and he hurries after Angel, who’s already bounding down the stairs.

“Fine, um, kitchen is down the corridor. Drawer’s on the left.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. How very generous.”

Lucifer throws a last glance over his shoulder. “Wouldn't want our posh warlock to get his gloves any dirtier, now would we?”

And with that, he disappears down the stairs, leaving Alastor frozen.

Shit. Did Lucifer see-? No. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous!

Alastor’d been careful to keep his hands off the table. Hadn’t he? Before his hesitation can draw Husk’s attention, Alastor swiftly exits the room, heading for the kitchen, while subtly inspecting his gloves.

Impeccable. Except for a tiny wet spot at the centre of his right palm. Alastor prods it with his index finger and inspects it. Crimson stains his skin, and he sucks the blood away, tasting metal and salt. He’ll need to tighten the bandages and add a layer, just in case. Can’t risk smearing fingerprints everywhere…

With an exasperated sigh, Alastor decides to combine necessity with opportunity. Carefully he opens the door to his right and slips inside. Here, he is rewarded with what he deems a more authentic look into Lucifer Morningstar’s mind – a messy bedroom, designed in gold and purple. Books and notes lie in disarray on the nightstand, next to a half-drunk acidic yellow mug of tea saying “duck you”. Clothes pile up in one corner of the room, half-burying a chair that might once have served to organise them. The tall windows are covered by dark velvet curtains with golden tassels. How extremely stylish.

Alastor can't help noticing that the garbage can is full of tissues and suddenly he feels like he is intruding on something... uncomfortably intimate.

His smile tightens as he hastily fixes the bandages on his palm with hurried moves, then sneaks out into the corridor again, closing the door behind him without as much as a sound. He feels like he doesn’t have enough time to inspect the other rooms next to the bedroom, and so he turns to the kitchen opposite to the office. What a shame.

To his surprise he finds it to mirror the orderliness of the office far more than the bedroom’s chaos. Hunting for signs of a last-minute cleanup, Alastor finds the dishwasher full to bursting. Only two diamond-shaped wine glasses remain in the sink.

Curious, Alastor thinks, leaning down to inspect them. Both seem unused, but their presence suggests they were meant to be used.

Expecting company, were you?

Their party member certainly didn’t look it when he answered the door. Alastor turns to the fridge and is greeted by a gaping, barren void.

Impressive.

Alastor refrains from writing in the metaphorical dust just barely. This is not what a fridge should look like, and he is the one sharing a hotel with people like Angel Dust, who once blocked an entire fridge door with a cucumber collection for the sake of a size comparison – or worse.  
No wonder they’re served tap water. Come to think of it, perhaps that is better than the carton of spoiled milk currently trying to mould away quietly on the top shelf…

After a short game of trial and error, Alastor has what he needs – the last pieces of golden cutlery. And then he sees it. A memo pad. How could he possibly resist?

If you're going to fake your own demise to skip game night again, at least have the decency to stock the fridge first. We will haunt you – there’s no escape now. Morally outraged but not surprised, yours, A.

Pleased with his work, Alastor places the note neatly on the table, as if he owned the place.

“Hey, you need some help?” Lucifer’s voice calls from down the hall, and Alastor swiftly vacates the scene of the crime.

“No, thank you. I managed to navigate your chaos just fine,” Alastor calls back, rejoining the group with cutlery in hand. “Actually, I was wondering, what’s behind all the doors, my good sir?”

“None of your business,” Lucifer deadpans, eyeing him with exasperation, while Angel wordlessly hands him his share of pizza.

“Haha, and here I was, preparing well-meant advice for your décor.”

His remark – now recurring inside joke – successfully teases another reluctant smile out of the man. With a huff, Lucifer slides into his seat, and Alastor follows, as the table buzzes with casual chatter.

“This pizza place is amazing,” Angel squeals, already halfway through his first slice.

“I’m so glad you like it!” Lucifer lights up. “They used to have the best pizza in town years ago, but I wasn’t sure they’d still live up to the hype. Or even still exist!”

“Let’s dive into the adventure,” Husk cuts in smoothly, launching into game night with pizza in one hand and dice in the other. “Last time, you introduced your characters in the Drunken Dragon Tavern. You accepted a quest from the owner, Milla, to deal with a goblin infestation. Now, you're heading toward the cavern where they’re said to be hiding.”

“Amazing!” Angel beams, slipping into character effortlessly. In a sultry tone, he purrs, “Ser Lightbringer, would thee mind if I take the back entrance?”

“You can call me- wait, what? Er, I-” Lucifer stumbles for a second, then recovers with surprising grace. With a wink that almost looks natural, he replies: “The back entrance? Surely you mean the goblin cave, because any other suggestion – as charming as you are, young fella – might prove... well, let’s say dangerous. I may be a paladin, but I’m neither blind nor a prude.”

To Alastor’s dismay, Angel actually blushes. “Oh, ha, caught me! I- I meant the cave,” he laughs, flustered. “But I don’t mind a little danger on the side, Ser.”

“Well, we’ll see about that later, won’t we?”

Alastor’s fingers twitch, his cut stinging. “Not to interrupt your extremely important conversation,” he says, smiling far too sweetly, “but could you focus on the adventure, please?”

Husk raises a skeptical brow but lets it pass. He clears his throat and continues, voice dipping into the gravel of narration. “You’ve reached your destination. Rocky hills stretch toward the horizon, hugging the coast. At the base of the blue mountains, several small caves are scattered – most abandoned, but one is marked with what seems to be fresh blood. Do you actually want to split up?”

It’s their paladin who turns toward Alastor. “Everan, what do you think? It’s rarely wise to split the party... but these goblins shouldn’t pose much of a threat.”

Alastor smiles. Is this the tempting first chance to ditch that insufferable character? Of course, he cannot allow Lucifer to lose his character tonight. But having a little fun? That should be alright.

“Well, dear Silken has a point,“ Alastor replies. “Let’s slip into the lair from two directions, gather some intel first – see what we’re up against.”

Lucifer rubs his temple, visibly conflicted.

“It would be metagaming to stick together,” Alastor argues, entirely disingenuous. “Our characters have no reason to be suspicious yet. Don’t you agree, oh radiant one?”

Lucifer grimaces. “They’ve never been outside the city walls. And my character’s been cloistered in the temple... Hate to admit it, but you’re probably right.”

Alastor blinks. Of course he’s not – but apparently, that detail has escaped Lucifer’s notice.

How very convenient. Naivety makes for excellent leverage.

Instead of protesting, Lucifer takes a deep breath and returns to his role. “Fine. Silken, I suggest Everan accompany you. I can take care of myself.”

Angel laughs and points at Alastor. “You must be joking, good Ser. Dreadwhisper here sneaks about as gracefully as a parade of drunk trolls. I, on the other hand, am not called Velvet Step for nothing.”

“Velvet Step?” Lucifer echoes, giving Alastor a helpless look.

“Oh dear, if you're referring to that one time you attempted to ‘borrow’ the mayor’s keys, I must insist-”

“No,” Angel interrupts him, sharp. “I’m referring to all the other times you stirred something up out of sheer boredom while I was quietly handling the actual work! And all those times you ignored my warning to shut up and stay still? Being able to turn into shadows means nothing if you can’t act like one!”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “When did you become such a killjoy? That was all part of the fun, AHAHA.”

Angel sticks out his tongue in response, blowing him a loud raspberry.

“Alright, I get it,” Lucifer sighs. “Come on, Count Crackle. Silken clearly wants to go solo and sounds perfectly capable.”

“Excuse you?”

Alastor certainly must have misheard.

“Come along, Captain Classy? Nah… Spellboy? Mystic Mouth?”

“Stop it,” he snaps, annoyed, while Angel doubles over with laughter.

It’s hard to regain his composure, but Alastor manages. “Would you mind? You’re barely capable of single-tasking. So keep your focus where it belongs.”

He points toward the imaginary cave entrance and rolls for perception.

“Ohhh, so the pointy end of my sword goes toward the enemy?” Lucifer quips, rolling as well.

“Preferably,” Alastor deadpans, watching his crimson die land solidly on an 18. “Husk, dearest, tell us everything.”

“HAH!” Lucifer suddenly shouts, loud and triumphant, cutting Alastor off.

“What now?” Alastor glances up and sees Lucifer’s smug grin. He’s wiggling his eyebrows and pointing at his die like an idiot.

“Oh, a nat 20!” Angel exclaims. Husk nods in approval.

“Sooo, tell us everything, pretty pleeeease?” Lucifer demands, leaning over with a peace sign, placing one hand on the back of Alastor’s chair – either in a strange gesture of camaraderie or just to avoid falling over.

Naturally, Alastor shifts his weight. He practically has to. Lucifer lurches and lets out a strangled “Akkkgh!”

Smirking, Alastor folds his hands in his lap, ignoring the glare aimed at him. “What do we see?” he echoes sweetly, while Lucifer regains his posture with a dramatic huff.

They spot the goblins quickly – and get spotted just as fast. A chaotic fight breaks out.

Usually, Alastor runs the scenes in the theatre of his mind – revelling in the adrenaline of death and destruction, and, sometimes, the beauty of the landscapes – but this session, the usual immersion never settles in. With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, he tries to pinpoint the reason – the unfamiliar surroundings, the stinging cut in his palm, the distraction swirl of new intel on Lucifer Morningstar – but it doesn’t add up.

Alastor catches himself watching the blonde man to his left. Lucifer places his character in harm’s way – again – to give Everan a better angle of attack, drawing enemy focus away from him. Not once does he steal a kill. Not once does Lucifer give Alastor instructions. The paladin has his back and it's nauseating.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered!”

Even if he doesn’t feel the immersion, Alastor is in the mood to show off, and he incinerates several of the goblins right off the bat. As more of the small creatures arrive, Alastor stuns them, shrouds the area in darkness, and for his grand finale, feeds them to the writhing void of his shadow tentacles with great pleasure.

“You’re welcome,” he sneers, half-expecting a peeved reaction or a scold from his teammates – Angel and Vox always hated his shadow abilities. But then-

Applause.

Lucifer actually applauds.

Alastor just stares, and so does Angel. The image is absurd – Lucifer maliciously grinning, giving a gleeful thumbs-up like a proud dad at a school play.

“Worldclass debauchery! Well done!” Lucifer praises and Alastor suddenly feels overwhelmed. He can’t stand it!

“That was a compliment,” he says flatly, his smile curling upwards, tightening at the corners of his lips. “Aren’t you meant to be good and law incarnate, condemning extensive violence and cruelty?”

Lucifer just smirks. “Awww, and that means what exactly? Can’t I enjoy a good little slaughter of chaotic-evil pests, terrorising a whole village, erased by questionable powers beyond mortal comprehension?” He leans forward. “I say: Let the show commence!”

Before Alastor can come up with a response, Husk rolls the dice. “Oh no,” he announces with an uncharacteristically wide grin. “More goblins incoming. And they look deadly determined.”

For the next two hours, Husk switches between scenes, but like before the immersion never quite takes Alastor. Not with the constant irritation that is Lucifer Morningstar. He had expected many things, but not this. It is like an itch Alastor cannot scratch.  

Stupid celestial duck!

As the session continues with Angel’s character having the time of his life and a constant eruption of laughter, Alastor feels his grand plan to derail the campaign into betrayal, bloodshed and tears slipping through his fingers.

Well. Mostly. The bloodshed he did provide, and generously so. That counts as progress. And yet… for reasons he’d rather not examine too closely… it all tastes hellishly sweet.
As the last goblin falls, Husk leans back with a satisfied sigh. “And that’s where we’ll leave it for tonight.”

Finally?

Chairs creak, empty bottles clink, then a soft, post-carnage hush settles over them, broken by Angel’s theatrical groan: “Shucks, I was just getting started! Silken hasn’t even tried seducing the goblin chief yet.”

Lucifer chuckles. “Then it’s probably for the best we’re stopping here.”

Angel winks. “You’re catching on, Lightbringer.”

Alastor feels his guts twist.

Husk starts packing up the dice and even joins in the hymn. “Not bad for a second session. You’ve got a knack for this.”

Lucifer looks almost touched. “Thanks. I really enjoyed tonight. You’re good company.”

“The best you’ll ever find! And contrary to a certain paladin player, we already knew that,” Alastor mutters, dusting off his coat. But there’s no real venom in his voice. He doesn’t have it in him tonight. Something feels slightly off, something that he cannot yet grasp.

Perhaps it’s the high ceilings, perhaps it’s Lucifer’s mask, paper-thin tonight, revealing too much. Or the two wineglasses in the kitchen. Or the used tissues.

Alastor swallows. Is he feeling… sympathy?

How revolting!

Like a puppy, Lucifer follows them to the door, a little too eagerly. “Would you… would you have me back next week?”

Good boy, Alastor thinks with quiet satisfaction. At least tonight’s rose-coloured take on small-scale genocide and all the praise did some good.

“Sure thing, Sweetpants!” Angel beams. “And if there’s pizza, Silken will even behave.” He practically purrs the last bit, directed at Husk, as Alastor gladly notes.

“Fine. Let’s order to the hotel next time,” Husk shrugs.

Alastor counts that as progress. Not the outcome he planned, but success, nonetheless. Adaptability is key, after all. He lingers in the hallway a moment longer than the others, eyeing the lifeless corridor, the framed smiles of people he’d rather forget. Then he turns, eyes locking on Lucifer. He flashes a smile, sharp as broken glass.

“Next time,” Alastor purrs, adjusting his gloves with exaggerated nonchalance, “I’ll let Ser Lightbringer lead the fight. Call me curious, but I want to see what kind of moves the mightiest man in Pentagram City comes up with.”

Lucifer blinks. “Me?”

“Why not?” Alastor’s grin widens. “You already summoned the right kind of monsters. Might as well learn how to deal with them.”

Lucifer laughs a little too loud, too nervous, but it's genuine. “I’ll try to come up with something to appease you.”

So subtlety isn’t entirely lost on him, how delightful.  

Alastor makes a mental note to stay on his toes.

“BUT it’s called Paradise City,” Lucifer adds and rolls his eyes in a playful gesture. “Seriously, Alastor.”

Alastor chuckles, but there's an odd flutter beneath his ribs. Something light and treacherous he can't quite identify.

“If you say so, my good sir.”

With a few parting words, the group steps out into the dark hum of the garden. Crickets sing. Moonlight glimmers overhead and for once, no one speaks.

Alastor turns for one last look at the mansion, purely for future mischief, of course, and catches sight of Lucifer still in the doorway, hands clasped to his chest. For a long moment, he just stands there… smiling.

Odd.

“That was an amazing evening!” Angel finally breaks the quiet. “If you ask me, we should surprise Sweetpants with a visit every now and then.”

Husk rolls his eyes at the nickname – which, frankly, Alastor agrees is far too generous. White linen pants aren’t that special. They continue their walk toward the station, their footsteps soft on the solar panel pavements.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” Angel asks, combing through his white hair.

“You mean, aside from his taste and general lunacy?” Alastor offers.

“I mean…” Angel pauses. “He clearly doesn’t have the flu or somethin’. But when he opened that door… he reminded me of Valentino’s dropped hookers.”

Silence.

Alastor replays the meeting in his mind. If Charlie’s father were a junkie, that would be useful. Predictable. Exploitable. But it doesn’t fit. Not with that eerily tidy office, and certainly not with the duck slippers.

“Maybe he’s throwing the hottest parties in town, and we caught him mid-hangover?” Angel suggests.

“He said he doesn’t keep booze around,” Husk counters.

“Yeah, well, I say that too, every time I swear off drinking,” Angel replies. “Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Ah, dearest, only because it wouldn’t be the first time with you, doesn’t mean others share your state of depravity,” Alastor chirps.

“Oh, shut up, high-and-mighty!”

The rail transport arrives. They board and find their seats. One long drive ahead and Angel seems determined to fill it with talk.

“Okay, okay, hear me out!” he starts, practically vibrating. “What if he’s seeing someone speciaaal and doesn’t want us to know about? Someone new.”

“But then why cancel on us nearly a week in advance?” Husk asks, very reasonable. The entire conversation is beginning to coil like a migraine behind Alastor’s eyes.

“Because it’s a secret,” Angel insists, oblivious to the few passengers staring. Alastor meets their eyes with a smile sharp enough to peel skin. They quickly look away. Undeterred, Angel barrels on. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to give Charlie the impression of replacing her mum? Then he probably wouldn’t tell us either!” 

“Huh,” Husk mutters, but one warning look from Alastor is enough to silence him.

Thank you.

Alastor appreciates it. To drive the point home, Alastor offers Angel a subtle cue: a faint, deliberate smile. It should signal enough.

But no. Angel rubs his chin, eyes lit with the joy of a mad theorist, clearly revving up for another round. That’s when Alastor cuts in, deadpan: “Or maybe our dear comrade is secretly suffering from a fatal disease, and busy with dying, while we engage in a merry dice adventure.”

“What?!” Angel’s face drops. “You think he wouldn’t tell Charlie? Ugh, no! That’s awful! I’m sticking with the secret romance theory!”

“If you must insist…” Alastor rises with a feral smile, choosing a seat a carriage away from Angel's ongoing conspiracy board, suddenly drained of the prolonged social encounter.  

He leans back, tilts his head, and closes his eyes for a moment too long. One Headache coming right up.

Urgh. A secret romance? – What a stupid thing to discuss, coaxing him into his morbid little joke. Lucifer didn’t strike him as someone used to suffer physically. Alastor’s fingers curl slightly in his lap.

Indeed, their founding father as well as the others wouldn’t know a thing about real suffering. A secret disease? Please. If Lucifer were sick, he’d blurt it out without hesitation, practically offering his soft spots to the world. Because, unlike Alastor, he could easily take the hits. Or… could he?

The expression in Lucifer’s eyes lingers, like the lights of the city outside he can’t turn away from entirely. The corner of Alastor’s mouth twitches.

He needs to think about this some more, process the events of the evening, forge a new strategy, adapt his plans… But not right now. 

How strange.

As the lights blur into gold-streaked smears, his reflection in the window doesn’t smile for once. Outside, the city carelessly glides by, all mock brilliance and ghosts.

This was meant to be his game, but somehow Alastor feels his grip on the plan slipping. Perhaps getting under Lucifer Morningstar’s skin is more dangerous than he anticipated.

Ah, but that only makes it more delicious. He will win. Of course he will. He finally has a worthy challenge. How very enticing indeed!

Chapter Text

Echoes

“HAHA! Got you!”

Lucifer is ON FIRE! Well, maybe just a teeny-weeny bit. It’s 4:55 a.m., but he’s not worried. It only means he’s five minutes ahead of all those highly productive 5 AM Club types. Take that, depression!

Sure, he hasn’t slept since his DND party left, but who’s judging? He had to write sixteen pages of character background, okay?

Grinning, Lucifer slides dramatically across the floor of his living room and gives the magpie perched outside his window the finger guns. The bird is still asleep, if the tilted head, fixed gaze and silence are any indication. It reminds him of a certain warlock player and earns a theatrical eyeroll.

“Don’t worry, darling, you’re nothing like that smug bastard.”

Ah, how alive he suddenly feels. With a shrug, Lucifer turns from the window. Yes, call him crazy, but he is even in the mood for some overdue work – can you imagine? A man’s got to ride the high while it lasts!

“Time to see what fresh disaster the world has sent me on this fine Thursday, right?”

As expected, the magpie doesn’t respond, and so Lucifer saunters back into his office in silence. First things first, he helps himself to a leftover slice of pizza. The chairs and empty bottles from the night before are still scattered about, but he doesn’t dare touching them. It really doesn’t bother him to have a few extra chairs around, and keeping the memory of an enjoyable evening fresh seems worth allowing a little chaos into his orderly sanctum.

“Alright, Paradise City, what’s up?” he flutes, genuine enthusiasm bubbling in his chest.

This – this – is what the Paradise City Project was always meant to be: making the world a better place and exploring what could be. A vision of possibility! For once, Lucifer skips his usual routine of slogging through the oldest emails first. No, today he dives straight into the latest ones.

Right. I can do this.

He hesitates. Then clicks on the first two emails from Adam. Because who else would it be?

Announcement: New citizen arriving in Paradise City

Great. Another sorry existence gracing him with their presence. Lucifer doesn’t bother reading Adam’s usual venom. Instead, he opens the database and pulls up the profile.

Timothy Harnell, age 37, former investigative forensic accountant, divorced, two children.

Sorry, buddy.

“Mr. Harnell built a reputation exposing corruption, particularly in corporate and governmental sectors, but crossed the threshold from justice into self-righteous obsession. Repeatedly destroying reputations, leveraging private data without oversight, and accepting under-the-table access from unethical sources. He indirectly triggered two suicides and one economic collapse (local scale), refused remorse. Wowy, what a charmer,“ Lucifer shrugs. “But we’ve had worse.”

If the truth ruins lives, it was never the truth that did the damage.

The quote from the attached report. It rings a little too familiar. Lucifer gulps and his eyes flicker to his phone.

Isn’t that Eve’s motto?

Perhaps this chap worked with her? Fun! Should he contact her? Or Lilith?

“Oh! OH!”

Lucifer gets it now. Adam definitely remembers his wedding anniversary! So this charming little garbage fire of a man is meant as a gift.

Subtle, Adam. And fuck you very much.

With a cruel smile, Lucifer clicks the mandatory “accept” button – not that he has any other choice. Still, he does get to assign dear Timothy an occupation. Lucifer scrolls through his list of unpopular occupations, lips curling. If Eve’s ex-colleague is dumb enough to flee the outside world and seek sanctuary in Lucifer’s city of all places, he’s come to the wrong man! Sure, it was probably Adam who proposed the placement. But Timothy still agreed, didn’t he? A disgraced whistleblower can’t not know about Lilith’s highly publicized divorce from Lucifer – or the tabloids foaming at the mouth over their new relationship with Eve.

Yes, they had opted for an open relationship in the end, trying to rekindle the flame of their dying love. Dating Eve – deadly-determined reporter, whistleblower whirlwind and one hell of a woman – was a choice, he admits as much. But watching his wife and his girlfriend run off together, losing both his old and his new anchor in life? Yeah. That stung. Honestly, the three of them were never going to make it work, not with his schedule, but still. They even took his beloved collection of strange instruments and-

Ah, stop it Luci!

Lucifer casts a frustrated glance at his wedding ring. 

Well, anyway, mercy is off the table, biatch!

There have been several vacancies in the media sector recently, and one stands out: Head assistant to Mr. Valentino. A cursed role, apparently. Two dismissals and four resignations in three months. It’s prefect. Lucifer grins, fingers dancing over the keyboard.

In two minutes, he sends the porn producer a message – personally recommending Mr. Harnell for a permanent position, ‘permanent’ marked in italics. Nothing like a little thinly veiled threat to sweeten the deal. Now dear Timothy can go right on digging dirt on people, just in a slightly different genre.

Of course, someone should keep an eye on him, and so Lucifer drafts another message, this time to Mrs. Charlene Bohm, chief of the city police, explosive temper included.

Taking liberties with the founding, Lucifer approves one of her pending requests to grease the wheels. Literally. New police motorcycles it is.

Great! What a way to start his day!

Unfortunately, there’s more. With a sigh, Lucifer opens Adam’s second message. It doesn’t say much: Ending of funding phase arriving shortly. Review meeting due.

Lucifer dumps the message into the folder labelled “urgent AND important”, with all the reverence of shoving socks into a drawer.

Yeah, yeah, I know. The renewal proposal still needs some work. I’m on it!

But not now. The review meeting with Adam isn’t until next month. He doesn’t have to face that particular hell just yet...

Feeling his energy deplete, Lucifer shuts his inbox and pivots to a different task: keeping the city in check for Charlie, if barely. From his office, he can monitor the city’s renewable energy grid. While the software Lilith and he programmed many years ago boots, Lucifer spins in his chair.

Once again, everything is running beautifully. Wind turbines along their part of the coast spin their lazy circles. Solar panels soak up the sun like thirsty plants. And the green roofs and house walls – those vertical ecosystems Charlie helped name “Sky Gardens“ – are producing clean energy while scrubbing the air.

The news window pops up, but Lucifer shuts it instantly. Nope, thanks. Not today.

But the weather forecast? Now that’s worth seeing. Heavy rain incoming. About time! The Sky Gardens need it.

Another notification catches his attention: Sir Pentious has reached out, again, and likely about the Eggboy’s discovery. Okay, here we go!

Lucifer opens Sinstagram.

Sir Severin Pentious <Dr Snek>: The Egg Boys discovered something!!!

Sir Severin Pentious <Dr Snek>: I need your assistance with some experiments, sir!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Sorry, Pentious, I was sick. What's up?

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: If it’s really important, give me a call, alright?

Amazing! Five Stars! He is THE GREATEST. So very responsible.

Luicfer checks the grid’s core stats one last time, then logs out with a satisfied smile. Everything’s fine except for his inbox, but that’s a lost cause. In a moment of unprecedented bravery, he even opens the chat with his daughter.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: 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!

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: What about meeting next Wednesday for dinner, before game night begins? 18 p.m.? Love you.

Oh. FUCK.

Underneath Charlie’s question, a small graveyard of unread messages has stacked up, asking him if he is alright, each text sounding a little more concerned, a little more frustrated. Lucifer starts to sweat.

Shitshitshit!

The last message from a few hours ago, thankfully, ends on a slightly brighter note. Well, at least compared to “If you’ve changed your mind about the meeting, that’s fine. Please forget I asked for your help. I don’t need it!”

Oof.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Al told me you’ve been sick but feeling slightly better now. So glad to hear it. But Dad, seriously, text me back when you read this, okay? Don’t ghost me. Shall we try to have dinner before game night next week?

Okay, he’s got this. Come on, Luci! Why does this have to be sooo damn hard?

Lucifer closes his eyes while typing, as if that’ll soften the blow.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Sorry I didn reply and missed our meeting last Wednesday m Sweety. Let’s yry again next wee? If yooo still want go give zoir old man a chmance, that is 🎃

He glares at the screen. Urgh, autocorrect is not his friend. Deep breath, Luci. Try again.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Sorry I didn’t reply and missed our meeting last Wednesday, Sweety. Let’s try again next week! If you still want to give your old man a chance, that is. Promise I’ll be there this time!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Pinky promise. Love you, too!

Okay, damage control complete. Phew. Lucifer pockets his phone and turns to the window. The sun is finally up, and there it is. The magpie! It tilts its head and lets out a single hoarse craw, before fluttering off its perch in the tree opposite his window. Lucifer huffs.

“Fine, let’s have a bedtime nibble. Breakfast. Whatever.”

Slipping on his duck slippers like the dignified city founder he is, Lucifer pads down the hallway slowly, half-expecting someone to call out for another round of snacks or make a joke at Ser Lightbringer’s expense. The kitchen is quiet now, the laughter and dice clatter of the previous night faded into memory. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, catching on the empty glasses in the sink.

I really gotta tidy up later…

Lucifer stands there a moment longer, letting the silence settle over him like a blanket.

Alright then...

After feeding the birds, Lucifer checks his kitchen inventory.

Let’s see… A fine bottle of alcohol. Gotta safe that, fine. Stale milk. Hah, black coffee it is! He reaches for a mug, finds it dusty, and abandons the idea of coffee entirely. The last of the porridge with hot water will have to do. Whatever, he can deal with it. Oh, there’s half an apple. Hooray! And – URGH! – an entire battalion of herbal teas. Spectacular.

Still, Lucifer can’t bring himself to throw them out. How could he allow the waste of perfectly usable resources?

Just as he’s about to leave the kitchen, breakfast in hand, he sees it – tucked beside a neatly folded napkin, atop the placemat on the table. A note. Lucifer picks it up, eyes narrowing as he reads the few lines scrawled in a sharp hand on his memo pad.

If you're going to fake your own demise to skip game night again, at least have the decency to stock the fridge first. We will haunt you – there’s no escape now. Morally outraged but not surprised, yours, A.

“Excuse you?”

Lucifer chuckles despite himself. The paper crinkles in his hand as he turns it over. Nothing on the back. Huh.

"Guess you’re right, you moron. No need to rub it in my face…"

For a moment Lucifer just stands there, inspecting the note longer than necessary. The way Alastor’s final loop of a letter dipped just slightly, like he’d hesitated at the end, is captivating. Lucifer blinks, a little dazed by the light pouring in now, like it sneaked up on him.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

With a little smile tucked at the corners of his lips, Lucifer takes the note with him and places it on his nightstand. Because it’s a practical reminder to order groceries later. That’s all it is.

He sighs as he settles on the edge of his bed, munching his soggy porridge.

Seriously, what is wrong with that man?

Lucifer vividly remembers how Alastor asked him to lead their next battle and how he hated being praised for his amazing play. Ah, and how he froze, when Lucifer called him out for his bleeding hand. It’s quite clear Alastor had gotten into yet another fight, in real life, that idiot. Like a feral cat. Beside himself, Lucifer snorts.

Alastor would certainly love that comparison. As if his claws are that sharp. As if he’s cute.

Lucifer grimaces, mid-bite. Right. Better to focus on more legitimate concerns – like Alastor abusing the memo pad and trespassing his kitchen. He’ll call him out for that next Wednesday. Yes, good idea. That will do. 

Intermission

The downpour slicks the pavement in a sheen of dirty silver, rain falling and falling and falling in steady sheets, painting the grey Wednesday afternoon in bleak strokes.

Alastor sighs as he takes his post beneath the crooked awning of Rosie’s Emporium, slipping a small paper bag into the inner pocket of his crimson overcoat. Not even three minutes outside, and his brown hair is already damp, curling at the edges, droplets clinging to the rims of his round glasses. What a day.

Around lunch, he’s taken half an hour to walk the maze of the old city streets after an extended meeting with Charlotte in the morning. Mainly to clear his head and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. Everybody who knew him would change sides of the street as soon as they saw him coming. That part was quite delightful. Nothing to cheer you up like inspiring fear in the heart of others!

The preparations for Charlotte’s 90s Party at the hotel are going really well, and by Friday the whole madness will be over. Finally! Alastor doesn’t expect the event to attract any new residents, and he despises the music passionately, but with their deal in place, he needs dear Charlotte to score as many successes as possible before her next encounter with the ever-dubious Celestium Foundation. Including persuading her father to secure the meeting with said Foundation in the first place.

That’s why Alastor helped her send another message last week. Dinner at 18 sharp today is on, and he’ll make sure Lucifer is coaxed into saying yes. Charlotte’s puppy eyes will certainly do their part, but just in case, Alastor will prepare a meal worthy of his arrangement. Even if Charlie insisted on adjusting his original plan to suit Lucifer’s taste. The simpleton.

After going over the catering for the party with Rosie and collecting his monthly provision – kind as always, she’d slipped in double the amount at no extra charge, that sweet woman! – Alastor now waits for the cab his business partner insisted on calling. A jazz tune on his mind, he taps one foot on the asphalt.

Compared to the other gleaming parts of the P-District with their pristine skyscrapers, the circular infrastructure, solar-panel pavements, and the sleek glass-and-green aesthetics, this corner of the city still feels raw. Crumbling buildings, relics from the time when Pentagram City was still a ghost town, stand tall against the clouds. It’s dirty, a little broken and shady, just about perfect for Alastor’s tastes, probably because it reminds him of home. 

He’s just beginning to mentally run through his to-do list before tonight’s game session when a car slows down across the narrow street.

Ah, for hell’s sake.

Alastor makes sure his grin is extra sharp. He knows that car only too well, gleaming like an oil spill and far too flashy for this side of town. The neon sign on the car top says “Vox Media – Sponsored by VoxTek Enterprises”. The driver’s window hums down, revealing the glint of rectangular glasses behind it.

But of course…

“Voxy!” Alastor calls mock-cheerfully across the rain, flashing teeth and leaning on his cane as nonchalant as possible. “How is life without a party?”

The door slams open, nearly catching a passing cyclist, and Vox steps out with a scowl carved into his face. His blue suit is pristine, but the loud splashes the scuffed soles of his designer shoes as he hastily crosses the street speak of agitation.

“Unlike some people, I don't waste my time on such childish endeavours,” he snaps, pushing damp strands of dark hair back from his forehead like a diva.

Oh?

Alastor tilts his head. It doesn’t take an expert to tell Vox is lying, and badly. That tension in his shoulders… He’s clearly playing again. Just hiding it like some shameful habit.  That vain hypocrite.

“Awww, are you sad? Don’t say you miss me.”

“Well, fuck you!” Vox’s hands clench into fists as he leans in, glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his breath. Predictable as ever.

How boring.

From the corner of his eye, Alastor sees the neon sign atop Vox’s car flare up. Blue, violet, red, then a bright yellow. Tch. They exchange a calculating glance, and Alastor feels his shoulders tensing ever so slightly.

“And eloquent as ever, I see.” Alastor clicks his tongue, refusing to step back. He can’t afford to. “Of course, you're no comparison to our new party member.”

That, finally, lands.

Vox freezes, before he jerks forward like a dog yanked at the collar.

“What? You replaced me?” His voice cracks somewhere between indignation and disbelief, music to Alastor’s ears. “Who is it? That Magne brat?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know…”

Behind Vox, the neon sign flares up again, blue, violet, red, YELLOW, faster this time. Alastor’s fingers twitch against his cane.  

“Guess what? I don't care!” Vox’s voice rises as he gestures wildly, rain soaking the sleeves of his blazer. “I don't need you and your freakshow!”

As if.

Savouring the moment the way only a close victory can, Alastor leans a little closer, voice vlvet-smooth, as if sharing a precious secret. “It's Lucifer Morningstar.”

Bullseye.

Vox goes dead silent. His mouth opens, then closes. He gasps, audibly, like a shark punched from water.

“He’s already invited us to his mansion,” Alastor adds, voice syrupy, almost cruel in its delight. “And we’re close as thieves.”

“No way,” Vox spits. “No way you got your dirty claws on our founding father! THE Lucifer Morningstar is seeing nobody, and certainly not your outdated ass!”

“Even showed me his bedroom,” Alastor muses with a devilish grin. “What a charming man.”

“You’re lying!”

It’s only half a lie, to be fair.

“Gold tassels and purple velvet is all I’m saying.” Alastor tips two fingers to his temple in mock salute. “Oh, I gotta dash, can’t stand here and chat with you all day, Voxy. Ta-ta.”

With a theatrical bow he turns, coat flaring behind him, already halfway across the street when Vox screams after him, voice hoarse and cracking with fury.

“YOU’RE LYING!”

Alastor doesn’t turn. He just laughs, sharp, high, and echoing through the rain like a gunshot.

Yes, perhaps he’s been lying a little. Yet he can still pride himself on likely being one of the few in Pentagram City who have seen Lucifer Morningstar’s hideout. And his bedroom.

Alastor feels his cheeks flush. No, wrong. Surely, many have visited that bedroom over the years, if the tabloids are to be believed. Though judging by the miserable state Lucifer seems to be in, perhaps not as many as the stories suggest.

Well… The used tissues come to mind. Alastor hesitates, running a hand through his damp hair. What is he even thinking?

His cab is still nowhere in sight, so he ducks around the corner, leans against a house wall and stares up at the sky. Rain falls steadily onto his head, and he sighs.

Only when he hears the screeching of Vox’s tyres does he move again. Turning the corner, he glimpses the hysterical neon lights flaring – brighter now, pulsing faster, faster, until they seem seared into his brain. Alastor grimaces. With a wince, he turns away, running a hand over the base of his nose. Those cursed neon lights, so unnecessary!

Suddenly the rain strikes harder, or maybe it just feels that way. Each drop hits the pavement around him with a hammering band.

Not now! I have a dinner to prepare!

The cab approaches with a honk and Alastor clenches his teeth.  

Rain Clouds

The scent of roasted vegetables and caramelized spices lingers in the air as Lucifer steps through the new doorway of the Hazbin Hotel, rain dripping from his coat and yellow umbrella. The entrance is dimly lit, casting a soft glow over the grand, albeit gaudily red, interior – Victorian with a haunted edge, full of eerie charm. Following the scent like a trail and deliberately ignoring the décor choices, Lucifer finds his way to the kitchen.

Wow!

He hasn’t smelled something like this- Since a long time, anyway.

Alright, alright, I can do this. I am Lucifer Morningstar. And I am finally going to talk to my daughter, watch me!

With a nod, he schools his expression, tugging at his collar just as Charlie opens the door.

“Char-Char! So good to see you!”

His voice is a little lifted with the kind of energy he doesn't quite feel, but what else is he supposed to do? He wants to be a part of her life again? He wants to play DND with her friends? Fine! He’s doing his job now. At least, he’s trying. Roll for initiative!  

“Hi, Dad!”

Charlie wraps him in a quick hug, warm, but a little stiff. Maybe that’s just him. Maybe it always was.

“The food smells delicious,” he offers, peering toward the table. And it does, oddly. Sweet. Cozy. Nothing pretentious. Not his usual fare, but... he finds he doesn’t mind. “What is it?”

Charlie laughs, awkwardly brushing her blonde hair behind her ear. “Ah, you’ll see. You’ll want to try the vegetarian option, trust me. I thought maybe we can eat on the balcony?”

No distractions, huh? No room to perform, to detour, to escape. Lucifer smiles tightly. “ABSOLUTELY!”

Charlie’s balcony is small but pleasant, bathed in soft pink dusk light. The rain has paused for once and the city below flickers quietly, neon signs humming in the distance, the chaos muted by the height.

Lucifer eyes Charlie’s plate. He wasn’t aware they’d serve Duck à l’Orange at the hotel, and the poor bird seems to stare up at him through its wing. Sorry, buddy.

To his great relief, he doesn’t have to force that down. Instead, a roasted butternut squash with orange glaze and thyme, stuffed with couscous, awaits him. Judging by the scent and the golden-burnished edges alone, Lucifer loves it.

“So…” Charlie starts, trying for casual, “You’re feeling better?”

“Oh! Um. Yes! Sure.”

Ah, ducking duck. Come on, Luci, play it cool. No need to talk about Lili.

He flashes a bright, artificial smile. “This food is fantastic.”

It really is. And although he’s usually far too good at pretending he’s okay for his own good, today it’s true. He is feeling better.

“Uh, thanks!” Charlie eyes him, irritation creasing her forehead. Does she see believe him? Probably not.

“So,” Lucifer says quickly, “what have you been up to?”

At that, Charlie perks up, enthusiasm bubbling. Now this, he thinks, this is his daughter. She starts to gesture with her fork, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I’ve been organising a 90s party for our residents! It’ll be perfect! We have the right music, balloons, a foam machine, the lights are already up- You get the idea.” A pause. “And, well, I’m still trying to get my welcome program off the ground.”

Of course she is. Still pushing. Still hopeful. She has no idea how much it hurts to watch.

Lucifer forces a smile. “I see. So... It seems the party prep is going well?”

“Yeah, Vaggie and Alastor have been helping me out. We’re almost done.”

Irritated, Lucifer feels how a little smile curls his lips. Alastor. Of course.

Perhaps I should start investigating what he’s up to… As payback for the stunt with the memo pad!

But his darling daughter certainly doesn’t need to know. And so, Lucifer delivers the most eloquent reply he can muster. “Oh. Good. That’s... good.”

Yes, very eloquent indeed. Five stars. He grimaces, just as Charlie raises a questioning brow.

“And here I thought you’d protest as soon as I mentioned Al. He’s really doing a great job at the hotel, Dad.”

He chuckles stiffly, carefully keeping his tone neutral. Who said anything about looking up a mere bellhop in a certain database containing all information on Paradise City’s inhabitants? Certainly not him, oh nohoho.

“Well...” Lucifer actually thinks before he speaks for once. “He seems to have some qualities after all.”

Some qualities. Like the ability to land a hit with every joke and get under Lucifer’s skin with every action – And to smile while doing it!

“He does!” Charlie insists. “Like cooking. Actually… he made this.”

Lucifer chokes mid-bite. Say whaaaat?

“AHAHA. I see.”

Of course he did, Mr-ducking-Perfect.

Lucifer coughs into his napkin, the absurdity sticking in his throat. Heavens!
Why would a murderhobo warlock player cook dinner, and such a refined meal, too? That he would kill and serve a duck is no surprise, but the butternut?

Only now does Lucifer realise it was not only served in a separate container but also only one portion. How strange.

Alas, there’s no time to think. Charlie watches him a little too intently.

“Dad, can we talk honestly? I really need that meeting with the Celestium Foundation.”

Aaak. Changing the topic. That’s good. Not that good though. His stomach sinks.
“I don’t know, Sweetie. I feel like… you’d only regret it.”

As expected, his cute little duckling frowns. “Because I botched the first meeting with Adam?”

“What? No!” he says too quickly. Duck! He would never discourage Charlie – G.O.D. forbid!
“It’s just... meetings with CF, especially the higher-ups, have a way of crushing dreams.”

Like they crushed his. Like they did worse than that. And the G.O.D.? Ever watching, never helping, silently judging. Lucifer stares at his hands, turning the wedding ring on his finger. How can he face Charlie and tell her she should give up already?
Is he a bad father?
Perhaps.   

“So you don’t believe in me?”

A waft of rain-chilled air passes through the open balcony door and makes Lucifer shiver.

“I do.”
Too much, maybe. But that’s the problem right there – he’s already seen what belief alone can’t fix. Marriage, for example. Or an innovative city project. Or a whole ducking city and her inhabitants.

“Don’t you want me to grow? I’m not your little girl anymore, Dad!”

He flinches. “You’ll always be my little girl...”

Charlie grimaces, and guilt curls low in his chest.

Shouldn’t have said that. Shit. Abort mission. Abort mission.

All he comes up with is a quiet: “Let me think about it some more, okay?”

The silence stretches for a moment, and Lucifer fears his daughter might throw him out then and there. Charlie’s thumb nervously brushes her fork, before she finally speaks, after what feels like eons. Another straw to grasp.

“Is this because the funding’s ending and you need to renew the proposal first?”, his clever daughter asks, and Lucifer hesitates.

“Yeah...”

Is that why? Is it part of it? The full truth feels tangled and messy – too much to explain in one dinner. And who could blame him? This is the first dinner they’ve shared in years! Is it wrong to hope for a little domestic bliss? Does he deserve it? Shit. He probably doesn’t. But for the record, he came here with the best of intentions. And he will look into the meeting thingy, eventually.

Charlie coughs. “Dad, can you at least show up for what I built? Perhaps come to the party on Friday. Just… see what’s happening.”

He hesitates. Again.
He’s done a lot of that lately, and all he ever finds happening are bad things.

“I haven’t been to a party since- Well. It’s been a long time.”

Since Lilith. Since the music stopped feeling joyful. Since he felt alive.

No. Wait. Wrong. Recently, he has begun clawing his way back up the hill of long-buried emotions. He can still smile. And judging by his latest performance as Ser Lightbringer, there’s still a little light left in him, too.

“Come on, Dad! I’ll be there, Vaggie too, and-”

Bzzzt. His phone vibrates. The DuckTales theme song begins to play. Lucifer glances down.
Of course.

“Ah, it’s only Pentious. Always has the best timing, HAHA.”
He doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes until it finally goes quiet.

Charlie arches a brow. “Sooo... Will you come?”

Lucifer takes a breath. Smiles, awkward. “Okay, honey. I’ll be there.”

Her face lights up. It twists something in his chest.

“YES DAD! Don’t forget a fitting outfit. Doesn’t have to be fancy! But please try to fit the motto! The 90s, you know. Glitter and loon trousers and all.”

“Yes, okay! Sure, Sweety.”

She goes quiet again, looking at her plate like it might offer answers, the poor duck half eaten.

Lucifer feels the need to get up, to retreat. The quiet is thick with something unspoken.

Did I say the wrong thing? Too much? Not enough?

“Hey, if you’re busy... I don’t want to keep you from your work, and I’ve got to meet the others downstairs soon anyway. So, uh… See you Friday? And thanks for dinner!”

Charlie looks up, startled. “Oh. Okay, Dad. See you on Friday.”

Already half across the room, Lucifer turns on his heels again, returns to the table and picks up the dishes. “Shall I take that downstairs? It’s no problem, I can help! Let me do the clean-up!”

He gathers the dishes. They clink softly.

“We do have a dish washing machine, Dad.”

“Oh! Of course. Bye Honey. It was nice talking to you!”

And with that, he flees, rushing downstairs, finding the kitchen. No, it isn’t beneath him to clean, despite the looks that strange hotel maid and the stern-looking barkeep with the long white hair are throwing his way. Nina and- Um. Well, names were never his strong suit.

Okay, he needs to put some thought into this meeting with CF. I will, he tells himself. But now, now Lucifer has to participate in an adventure. Yes, the talk with Charlie has dimmed his mood, certainly. BUT he is still looking forward to their game session. Actually, he’s come up with some ideas. Character background and dice in his pocket, Lucifer is happy, actually. Happy to feel a sense of belonging again, a sense of new meaning and opportunity just at his fingertips, ready for him to seize.

I can do this!

And the best part?
He’ll start by confronting Alastor. Hopefully, the warlock will pick up on their banter again.
With a long exhale, Lucifer throws his reflection in the kitchen window a shy grin.

Okay, Luci. You got this.

Outside, it has started raining again. But it doesn’t bother him, because inside, his chest is feeling like a hive of hummingbirds.

Chapter Text

Aura

Tedious. The word spins in Alastor's head like a wheel caught in the mud. He raises his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose- Tch. Not happening.
In an attempt to mask his momentary weakness, Alastor brushes a strand of brown hair from his forehead and adjusts his round, gold-rimmed glasses.

Who knows which unfortunate soul is sneaking about the hotel lobby at this time of evening?

He takes his usual post behind the reception desk and exhales, sharply, through his nose. Up to this point, his plans have proceeded well. But with fewer than twenty minutes left before their weekly game night, Alastor must admit he is out of reasonable choices and clever alternatives. Also, he is squarely on track for a painful evening. Not that he isn’t used to endure.

With habitual precision, Alastor adjusts his smile and smooths the cuffs of his shirt. His crimson suit is still drying. The absence of that familiar weight on his shoulders irritates him, makes him feel vaguely exposed. A frown on his face, Alastor inspects the red shirt, the bowtie, the black suspenders. Impeccable as always. Good.    

At the very least, he remains presentable. Someone has to uphold standards in this hotel, after all.

He forces his tense shoulders down with a quiet breath. The aura flaring at the edges of his vision is sharp tonight and he knows full well what this means. A polite little ‘fuck you’ from his nervous system, a most unappreciated thought-crushing reminder: Migraine attack. Not over yet.

I did not toil away in the kitchen all afternoon just to slink off and miss Lucifer’s quip about the duck! Game night is happening, damn it!

"Come hell or high water," he mutters under his breath, as if repetition alone could suppress the skull-crushing inevitability building behind his eyes.

Fine.
He opens his leather bag and rifles through Rosie’s emergency stash. There’s still something that can help. No, his crimson red and black dice won’t help, thank you, and neither will his character sheet.

The headache really makes it difficult to think in straight lines, so he grabs a pen and begins scribbling.

Modified aspirin, 100mg today. As for prophylaxis? Magnesium, 1 pill. B12, 1 pill. Check. Modified sumatriptan…

Hm, that’s a question mark. Alastor readjusts his glasses. Yes, he is indeed new to this medication, but he had expected the tinkering phase to be both shorter and more effective. As for the modified version of sumatriptan, a classic migraine treatment, he knows he really shouldn’t exceed six pills a day, not according to official guidelines. But then again, his source mentioned others who've been more flexible, experimenting with dosage. He hesitates.

Tch.

With a grimace, he crumples the piece of paper in his fist and disposes of it discreetly. He can wait a little longer. It might not come to such desperate measures. And game night should be manageable, even if his brain decides to clock out.

“Alastor!” Charlotte’s voice rings out, and he turns just as she hurries over with a stack of papers. "Look, I finally calculated the expenses for our party and~~~~”

The rest of her sentence becomes meaningless noise.

All Alastor can perceive are her moving lips, her fingers, nails polished in shiny black, catch his attention as they dance across the paper, pointing at numbers he finds hard to make sense of. Her presence is sharp and vibrant, a smear of colour on the edge of an already distorted world.

“Why did you print it out?” Alastor asks, deflecting, desperate to cut through the endless chain of her words.

Thank heavens.

She pauses. Blessed silence, for a moment.

Then she rallies: “Oh, er, it's recycled paper?”

“HAHA, there’s a good girl.”

Charlotte blinks, hands fidgeting. Her lips press into a thin line. They both know full well she didn’t come here to discuss budgeting. Before Alastor can ask how the dinner went, and if she finally managed to wrangle her stubborn father to get her the meeting, she takes a step back.

“We can do this later, if you want…” she offers, voice low, revealing that maddening skill set of empathy, intuition, and a grating disregard for boundaries, all wrapped in concern and with zero tolerance to accept the decisions of others.

Before he can object, a smear of white and blonde at the edge of his vision draws Alastor’s attention. He tilts his head, slightly, forcing the pain in his skull to shift just enough to grant him a moment of clarity.  

Of course, it's Lucifer, wearing the tacky top hat and white coat over shirt and vest, his usual getup. Personally, Alastor preferred the wrinkled shirt. It suits the broken soul that Lucifer Morningstar truly is better than this pristine ensemble.

Lucifer waves, eyes bright, his shy smile slowly stretching into a full-blown grin until the man is beaming. At him, Alastor, the fearsome, ruthless overlord / hotelier / warlock.  

Now that is… unexpected.

Despite the pulsing ache in his head, Alastor allows his sharp grin to soften an inch. That is for just about a second. Then, Charlotte turns around, and Lucifer’s gaze shifts to hers. The moment he opens his mouth, it’s as if the man is replaced entirely by that buffoon Alastor first encountered weeks ago – chirping at his daughter like she’s a particularly delicate toddler.

“Charlieeee!” No, it’s even worse. That voice rings through the lobby like a showtune entrance cue. “I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon, here, of all places, at your hotel, HAHA! You alright, kiddo?”

Alastor does not dignify this with a response. Instead, he finally responds to her question: “I insist, Charlotte! This is an important step toward your dream, my dearest princess, and it shall not wait.”

“Oh! Calculations!” Lucifer cuts in brightly, he’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Hey Al! Did you know, Char-Char here used to be really good at maths back in school?” He leans across the counter, his ridiculous hat dipping low enough to obscure most of his face. “What are you two up two exactly? Maybe I can be of assistance!”

Alastor's patience flatlines.

How about quitting game night?
Still off the table?

He scrapes together what little willpower remains. “Do you mind? We are in the middle of something.”

“Um, hi again, Dad…” Charlotte’s smile stretches with awkward tension. She might as well admit outright that she came to seek Alastor’s counsel about her father’s parental shortcomings.

How impressively disappointing, Alastor thinks. Like father, like daughter – neither of them skilled in the art of subtle lies.

“We’re just looking into the costs of the 90s party I mentioned earlier,” she continues weakly.

“I see, Sweety! Here, let your old man support you!” Lucifer grabs Alastor’s pen without asking and begins gesturing animatedly at one of the numbers on the page. “I can cover catering! And if you want, I can call in a small favour, there’s this charming ice cream parlour, excellent flavours, very avant-garde~~~~“

Alastor goes completely still.

The pain behind his eyes flares in rhythm with Lucifer’s voice, pulsing like a second heartbeat. While he endures the babble of the duo infernale, Alastor indeed regrets his latest life choices.
Why. Why did I involve myself with this family? For fun???

He’s not one of the “good guys”, never claimed to be. But surely even he doesn’t deserve this. His headache builds like a storm surge. Stars dance at the edge of his vision. The numbers on the page swim.

Like an eel participating in a land-based uphill sprint, a thought slithers through his fractured mind. The dinner must have been a disaster. Charlotte’s awkwardness, bordering teenage-rejection? And Lucifer’s happiness? That bright smile couldn’t have sparked from Alastor’s presence alone… Could it? How could he not see it? This is nothing but a cheap, father-daughter threepenny opera, covering the fact that the meeting with Celestium Foundation’s honchos is not happening.

Did Lucifer not like the butternut? Or was it the duck?

With a migraine stamping through his skull, Alastor doesn’t stand a chance at coaxing feedback out of Lucifer in a subtle way.

How very infuriating!

So much for slaving away in the kitchen to fulfil the first part of his deal with Charlotte. Alastor is not surprised. If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.  

If Lucifer is playing hard to get, oh well, so be it! Alastor is a professional at upping his game, and this wild duck chase can’t possibly challenge him!  

If only the world would shut up for a moment.

And suddenly – Alastor can’t believe it – there is actual, glorious silence.

Finally!

Wait, no. That’s not right.

Too quiet.

He feels their stares before he sees them.
Did he miss a question? Has his head suddenly sprouted a pair of antlers?

“My apologies,” he says coolly, lacing his tone with just enough arrogance to deflect concern. “I tend to zone out when exposed to that much nonsense at this time of day.”

The jab lands. Lucifer’s expression twists, just slightly, into one of those strained, disappointed frowns he uses instead of real anger. Perfect. That should distract him. Even better, it redirects Charlotte’s attention just enough to keep her from commenting on Alastor’s momentary lapse.

Oh dear, how beautifully his plans always work out.

An unhappy look on her face, Charlotte begins to gather her papers, face tight with unsaid things. One page slips her grip, and, naturally, it’s Alastor, not her father!, who catches it before it falls to the floor. With a magnanimous smile, Alastor hands it back.

“Thanks, Al! You know, it’s getting late, and I don’t want to keep you from, um, fighting dragons, haha.”

Her smile is as strained as his optic nerves. Eyes darting between him and Lucifer, like she’s reading a weather forecast with no good outcomes, she adds: “Have fun you two, okayyy?”

And she flees, leaving Alastor with his guest.

“You're early,” Alastor states, removing his glasses.

The world blurs.

Maybe that’ll help? Just a little?

“I’m perfectly on time,” Lucifer retorts with a glance on his watch and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Are you alright?”

Alastor feels how his muscles tighten some more. The lobby’s ceiling spotlights suddenly seem to flare like searchlights, burning into his skull. He can’t restrain himself from squinting, jaw locking.

“Never been better,” he lies, keeping his grin in place.

“Oh? Well, you look like it’s been a rough day,” Lucifer continues, oblivious. “And Charlie told me that you made di-”

No – He can’t possibly allow Lucifer to start this topic now.

In a desperate bid for some well-deserved silence, Alastor raises his left hand and shows Lucifer a very refined hand gesture.

Lucifer huffs, folding and unfolding his arms in a flustered rhythm. “The silent fox sign? Seriously?”

“My mother always said, when faced with children, it’s best to speak their language.”

And since Lucifer was not tempted by the formidable dinner Alastor prepared – adding a vegetarian option to Duck à l'orange, the revolting taste of this peasant! – then he certainly doesn’t deserve to criticise it now.

“Excuse you, Youngster, but I’m older than you.”

“I daresay not,” Alastor replies, slipping his glasses back on with a grimace.

He’d hoped the gesture would earn him a moment’s peace. Instead-

“I am older! But the real question is: what crawled up your ass and died there today? You're even pricklier than usual.”

“Such refined insults,” Alastor sneers, his grin slowly reemerging. He folds his hands on the counter with deliberate calm. “Am I to be impressed? Or has proper eloquence finally slipped from your limited grasp?”

“Oh wow, another height joke, really?”

“Do they go over your head?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes with a shrug, shoulders sagging, posture suddenly lax.

Is he… pouting? Why? Why would he be disappointed?  

“You know what? I'll leave you to whatever it is you're doing. See you in five.”

Lucifer turns and stomps off.

Alastor could – should – let him go. But restraint has never been one of his virtues.

“Oh please, I insist.”

He hurries after Lucifer, takes three long strides, and gets ahead of him with ease. Holding open the basement door, Alastor adds: “It would be sheer insolence for a lowly hotelier like me to keep our high and mighty founding father waiting, now, wouldn’t it?”

Lucifer doesn’t respond, which is probably for the best. Because as soon as they step into the basement corridor, the overhead lights blaze light razors, and it feels like they are carving up his brain slice by sliCE BY SLICE.

Their steps echo in his head like an orchestra of kettledrums, and by the time they reach the gaming room door, Alastor’s at the end of his tether. He needs a distraction. Something – anything – to shift focus away from him and the fact that his brain feels like it’s being peeled open. So, naturally, he lands another jab.

“Must be hard,” he muses, “watching your own daughter be the only one actually working.”
As they approach the door, Angel’s nasal voice and Husk’s baritone hum filter through. Alastor finishes the thought with a vicious bow.
“But you, Your Highness? My, how seamlessly you fit into our little party! Just like all the moderately successful, you and the rest show up early, letting others do the actual work for you.”

That one hits.
Lucifer flushes. Not much, but enough to add some colour to his usually pale face. It’s satisfying.

He yanks open the door with more force than necessary, and-

BANG!

Metal slams into wall. The sound echoes a hundred times in Alastor’s head.
Not worth it!

Alastor barely restrains himself from covering his ears. What he can’t avoid is squinting his eyes in a desperate attempt to halt his splintering vision, as reality fractures into a kaleidoscope of pain and blinding colours.

“~~pay for~~.”

Alastor can’t make out the voices, not through the white noise, but he sees Lucifer’s expression – teeth clenched, eyes boring into him, promising violence – before the others in the room finally react.

Angel jumps to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over Husk’s game master screen. Then Lucifer continues his personal crusade on Alastor’s remaining sanity.

The man sits down – So. Unbearably. Noisy!

BAM bag slammed on the table.

SCREECH chair pulled back.

ZAP bag opened.

BAM folder thrown on the table.

SCREECH chair dragged in and finally – finally! – Lucifer sits.

Alastor's fingernails bore into his palms. With barely contained rage he crosses the room, thinks better of launching at Lucifer, instead spins on his heels, and snarls: “I forgot my dice.”

It isn't even a lie. His whole bag is still waiting at the reception. And of course, nobody dares to object.

The aura now pulses like a living thing, and the pounding in his skull drives him to press a hand to the wall for balance as he lurches down the hall, half-blind and staggering.

Just one more pill. If he’s lucky, he’ll only have to endure this for twenty, maybe thirty more minutes.

Well, fuck.

Duck you

There’s now a deep dent in the wall of Charlie’s hotel. Lucifer silently pleads with the floor to swallow him whole. No such mercy today.

“What the hell, Sweetpants?” Angel struts through the room like a model, placing a pale finger on the fresh evidence of Lucifer’s temper tantrum. Today’s nail polish is pink and lilac, perfectly matching his outfit, but the cheerful colours clash with the concern on his face.

“And here I thought Husk was the one with the unresolved anger issues. Shucks.”

“I’m really sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you,” Lucifer babbles, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh. Impulse control? Apparently on vacation. If only that stupid comment about Charlie and the party hadn’t gone under his skin like a syringe, sharp and cold.

“Ain’t gonna scare me,” Angel replies, eyeing him carefully. “This fella has witnessed that much worse! But I know unhealthy coping when I see it.”

“Not that I care, but what was that all about?” Husk mutters, glancing toward the door Alastor vanished through – as if mentioning the man might summon him back like a demon from a circle. Husk scratches his chin. The few white hairs scattered in his beard somehow give the man more gravitas. “Did you provoke Alastor?”

Lucifer suddenly feels twelve years old and caught throwing a tantrum in class. Uff.

And the worst part? He really doesn’t know what to say.

“I, um, I don’t know,” he admits, burying his face in his hands, rubbing his temples, and peeking up again. “I was early. If that’s a provocation, then yeah. Guilty as charged.”

What stings most is that Lucifer had been looking forward to this. He’d really looked forward to game night, a little banter, maybe even finding out why Alastor left that note in his kitchen.

But now? Now it feels like he should be the one fleeing the scene.

Too late.

Alastor beat him to it.

What a bummer…

He really had expected them to be past the feral jab exchanges by now, but clearly, he was wrong. Of course he was! How could he forget their first meeting, the viciousness in Alastor’s words? That man hadn’t vanished just because he suddenly showed up on his doorstep like some fairytale prince charming, encouraged the others to drop by, left a note in his kitchen, cooked dinner for Charlie and him, added a vegetarian option and held open the door and-

Alright, stop, Luci. We’re not obsessing over this stupid man who doesn’t make any sense. Nope. Not going to happen. What a classical case of ‘Thank you, next’!

And one thing is for sure: Fairytales don’t exist. Lucifer has zero delusions and far too much life experience to believe otherwise. So why offer something unexpectedly kind, when the original plan was clearly to tear him down?

Perhaps the dinner was poisoned. Now that, that would make sense!

Lucifer sighs.

Why? Why does it always have to be so damn complicated?

I am Lucifer Morningstar, he reminds himself. I’ve seen far worse. Those jabs? They only landed because I didn’t see them coming. Next time? Alastor will break his teeth trying. HA!

As for now? Lucifer endures the sceptical stares of the others – his comrades? Friends? Well, not for long, if he keeps losing his shit like this.

“I'm really really sorry,” he repeats. “I didn't mean to, uh, screw your wall.”

That at least earns a smirk from Angel, and the game prep finally begins. By the time Alastor returns, bag in hand, they’ve gathered dice and character sheets. Angel’s deep into a theatrical retelling of their battle with the goblin plague.

“And then Ser Lightbringer here melted the skin off that goblin chief with his holy light thingy. Smooooosh! Turned him into crispy bacon. Jummy!”

“Yeah, yeah, we've all been glorious,” Lucifer mumbles.

His gaze wanders off to catch Alastor intensely staring at his fingertips, which are currently pressed against the table’s edge. His nails are turning white against his skin and his signature grin is the centre of a hollow mask. Stiff. Forced. It doesn't suit him.

Fucking bellhop. Whatever that is about.

As Angel keeps narrating, Lucifer fidgets with his dice. They are golden and white, some made of metal, and he forgot how good they feel, their weight, the smooth surface, the reflection of the headlights in them? Beautiful! It really brings the colour to life-

Suddenly the temperature seems to drop several degrees, he looks up again.
Uopsi!
Aaaand there go his dice.

Alastor is glaring at him, murder painted all over his face, while the dice roll over the floor.

“What the fuck?” Lucifer whispers, just loud enough to register, not enough to derail Angel’s monologue.

Hello, I don’t appreciate being glared at like that!

Alastor doesn't even blink.

Fine, Luci, no more of that! Keep it together.

Lucifer quietly rises and starts collecting his scattered dice. One has landed next to Alastor’s immaculately polished black boots with the crimson red tips. Naturally, no help is offered. That ignorant bastard.

Lucifer crouches under the table to retreat it, when his gaze falls upon Alastor's leather bag. One of the front pockets is open and a small white box catches Lucifer's attention. Its emblem shows a black snake, pointing a very human arm to the horizon and being surrounded by eggs. Pentious intended the eggs to be cogwheels, but, yeah, that didn’t work out… Anyway!

Lucifer risks a closer look. The box is a dark reminder of his own experimental sleeping pills.

Is that modified medication? And no label? Waitwaitwait!

The warning sign definitely was peeled off on purpose.

Huh. Who would have thought Alastor to be the type for, well… What exactly? Being a ruthless duckhead?

NO! Sorry, ducks! I didn’t mean it! He would be a malicious magpie!

Lucifer gets his dice and just as he wants to get up, Alastor leans downwards to throw him another venomous glare.

“What are you looking at?” he growls.

Lucifer jerks up too quickly, and – “Fuck!” – hits his head on the table.

STUPID! STUPID DIE!

The golden die escapes him again, rolls over the floor, and once more lands at Alastor's feet.

Traitor!

Alastor hesitates a long moment, long enough for it to be awkward, then he reaches down, arm extended as far as possible, and picks up the die between two fingertips, as if it's a hot potato.

When he rises, his face turns grey, smile stapled on his face, but there is a waver. It lasts for a split-second, in which Alastor actually looks strained as a bowstring before snapping. Then, miraculously, his usual smug expression slots back into place like armour and he hands Lucifer the die.

“Stop that,” he mutters, retracting his hand immediately.

Angel and Husk gape at them, and Lucifer is painfully aware.

Shit, say something! Anything!

“Nice shoes!” It’s all he can think of.

Kill me.

Where did that even come from?!

Alastor completely ignores him and instead turns to Angel.

“My, what a colourful summary. Do you mind if I restate a thing or two?”

“What?” Angel blinks. “Why? While you two played whatever kinky game you've got going on, I delivered a perfectly fine recap! Should have listened!”

Alastor laces his fingers together on the table.

Lucifer stares at those fingers, the ones that touched his die, and bites his tongue.

Okayyy, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?

His mind is already lightyears away, trying to figure out what’s going on with Alastor, today and in general. What illness does Alastor have? Or are the meds for someone else? Either way, they are not to be toyed with! As much as he despises Alastor's moodiness, he has to admit that the man appeared to be surprisingly thorough and… the word ‘reasonable’ isn’t exactly what Lucifer is looking for.

“Well,” Alastor begins, “in my opinion, we should not call ourselves the Heroes of the Coast, but rather… the Shore-Slaughtering Squad.”

Angel’s mouth falls open.

Lucifer feels his brows furrow. “The what?!”

“Too crude? What about the Coastal Cleansers?”

Lucifer's stomach drops. Does he have a point?
Unholy Hell, he actually is right…

Angel is frantically waving his long arms. “What the fuck, Smiles?”

“Do you find it heroic,” Alastor purrs, a malicious grin on his lips, “to slaughter the innocent?”

The room falls silent.

Husk intertwines his hands in front of his mouth to hide his opinion behind them. Meanwhile, Angel is seriously offended and hammers his nails on the table.

“You mean we shouldn't have killed these vile creatures? It's eat or be eaten – isn't that what you always say?”

To his left, Alastor's smile curls up further, and Lucifer shudders.  

“Oh my, are you proud to play a genocidal maniac?”

What the fuck is wrong with that man today?
It seems like he is going to repeat that question A LOT tonight.

Lucifer shakes his head, intervening, before the situation can escalate further. “Silken, Everand actually has a point.”

Using character names sounded smart, but Angel’s not having it. “I throw a dagger at Everand,” he snaps, then shrugs. “It's what Silken would do!”
“Ahuh,” Lucifer says, while Husk just nods and lets the scene unfold.

To prove his point, Angel grabs one of his special dice – black with a translucent section swirling with wine red, white, and lilac hues, like a crystal – and tosses it toward Alastor. Alastor barely manages to dodge.

Helloooo, shouldn't you, the game master, intervene?

Actually, Alastor seems to have expected as much, since he is neither offended nor unprepared. “I cast fireball,” he declares, utterly unfazed.

“Could you not?” Lucifer asks, but too late.

His party is at each other's throats, and he can do nothing about it. Idiots!

“It’s about time we settle this!” Angel proclaims.

Lucifer isn’t sure if they are still in character and there seems to be a history here. They exchange a few rounds of battle, tension builds, then Lucifer has had enough.

“Oh, duck you, guys! Gideon casts aura of fear!”

Both Angel and Alastor shoot him surprised looks.

“What? You wanted to escalate it further?” Lucifer shrugs. “Fine. Here you go.”
Lucifer has built his character well and he knows it. Both fail their saves, both cower in fear.
“Enough is enough!” Ser Lightbringer / Lucifer exclaims.

But instead of calming down, both Angel and Alastor immediately launch into another argument. Husk flinches, and that’s the last straw. Lucifer snaps.

He shoots to his feet and throws both arms into the air like a fed-up ringmaster at a chaotic circus.
“NOW SHUT UP! Please?”
Finally silence falls and Lucifer sits down with a content sigh.
“Thank you. I’d really prefer to resolve this in character. But first, I need a short break and some fresh air. Are you in?”

Angel stands and stretches. “Fine, any of you losers want something to eat? I'm getting chili-cheese nachos.”

Beautiful! Relieved Lucifer nods. “Yes, please. That would be amazing!”

Husk agrees, adding his order, then their eyes flick to Alastor.

“No, thank you, dearest,” Alastor replies, tone suffocatingly sweet. He throws Lucifer a glare and gets up to open the windows.

Urgh. Typical.

“Hey, you want something new to drink?” Husk offers, already following Angel toward the kitchen upstairs. “I’ll get you something!”

Before disappearing, he glances at Lucifer. It’s quick, subtle, but Lucifer can’t help but read it as a request. Maybe even a plea.

You fix this. I’ll look after Angel.

Lucifer groans internally.

Nope! Come on! Why me? I didn't slap a ‘kick me’-sign on my back today, did I?

Showing goodwill, though it's likely a waste of his time, Lucifer gets up and joins Alastor by the window. The man is staring outside with a sour expression carved into his face.

“Heyyy Alastor,” Lucifer tries and the warlock player slowly turns to face him.

“As you can see, I’m attempting to take a break,” he says coldly. “Would you leave me in peace – just this once?”

Naturally, Lucifer ignores the ridiculous plea, aiming for fast results.

“What's wrong?”

Alastor's smile widens into a creepy grimace. “With your outfit, or what exactly are you referring to?”

“Alright, you don't want to talk. But just so you know, you’ve been hostile and completely deconstructive since the moment I saw you today.”

Lucifer notices the faintest tension in Alastor’s shoulders.

“I don't mind-”

“But you do!”

“-and you can insult me all you want-”

“Ah, I'm hurt. Do I matter that little to you?”

“-but the others just want to play DND. Why not call the session off, if you're not feeling it today?”

Lucifer gives Alastor a long look and tries once again to make sense out of the man. With a sharp grin, Alastor looks down on him, hands clenched into fists.

“You are more annoying than Vox!”

Slightly surprised Lucifer blinks. The name somehow rings a bell. Oh! Wait. Vox from Vox Technology? That daring overlord? Charming.

“And what is he like?” Lucifer asks. He doesn't really want to know, but keeping Alastor talking seems a first step into the right direction – redirecting his thoughts. Or at least so Lucifer thinks, before Alastor's expression darkens. When he speaks, it’s more a growl than a voice.

“He’s the most exploitive, dim-witted, pathetic blockhead you'll ever meet!”

No surprise here.

“Hm, considering you acted like an abrasive, self-satisfied parlour cynic all evening, I’d say there might be two sides to this story.”

“Oh my, defending a tech-obsessed egomaniac, are we?” Alastor sneers. “Remind me, what do they say about birds of a feather?”

Just then, Angel and Husk return.

“Who are you talking about? Vox again?” Angel asks, nose twitching with interest.

Lucifer raises his eyebrows. Apparently, the man is well-known within the group. GREAT.

With a theatrical gesture, Alastor points at him.

“Yes, unfortunately, since our dearest Lucifer wanted to know more about that shrieking, self-obsessed parasite.”

With a questioning look, Lucifer turns to Husk, who hands him a glass of lemonade, and Alastor a cup of steaming black coffee.

Coffee after nine? Why does Husk still seem like the most reasonable person in the room again?

“He played in our party as well,” Husk explains. “Until someone’s charm made him leave.”

Wowy. “So, I replaced Vox, after Alastor worked his magic? Good to know…”

“Oh, come on, old spoilsport,” Alastor retorts with a theatrical eyeroll. “He rage-quit, as always. If things don't go his way, he will either force it or storm off. He's always been like that. Even his smugness can't mask that he contributes nothing of value to any endeavour that doesn’t revolve around himself!”

“Okay, we get it,” Angel cuts in. “I don't like him either. Happy?”

Lucifer feels how his throat tightens. He didn't really expect this. He opens his mouth to change to topic, to bring things back on track, but no words come out.

Perhaps stirred by the caffeine, Alastor seems invigorated. He closes the window and continues, his voice dipping into something almost venomous. “We all saw how Vox plays pen and paper. A perfect reflection of his pathetic little life, loud, shallow, and miserable! Fitting for a man with the emotional depth of a flat screen.”

Lucifer croaks, “Ahuh”, but it sounds like a squeak more than a word. His chest feels tight, too tight to breathe properly. Suddenly, he realises how utterly antsy and uncomfortable he’s been feeling for some time now. This is NOT how he imagined game night to be.

Sensing the tension, Husk finally steps in. “Remind me how we went from a friendly PNP campaign to full-on hate speech?”

Lucifer forces a swallow. “I just asked what Vox was like… since, apparently, I’m worse.”

Silence.
Lucifer can’t take it.

I will NOT have a breakdown – Not in front of my new party! They already think I'm odd. Why am I so fucking stupid?

“I need some water,” he mutters, and bolts from the room.

As he’s storming off to the kitchen, Lucifer is trying to convince himself: I just need one moment! One moment, until I can pretend to be okay with all of Alastor's bullshit again.

Well, maybe he can't.
What surprises and confuses him most is that being deeply wounded by hurt and disappointment means he had expected something different in the first place.

Why am I. So. Fucking. Stupid???

I like you, and you like me, too

It’s funny, Alastor thinks. Actually funny.

Since Lucifer shows a little more spine than Vox, Husk and Angel now rely on him to clear the air. And when that fails? They stall for time by debating the problematic portrayal of fantasy races and cultures. How noble.

Alastor sighs. The medication is finally kicking in, dulling the worst of the pain. Fortunately. He would’ve hated to agree to Lucifer’s ridiculous suggestion of cancelling the session. Not that their meetings hold particular value, but the very idea of showing even a hint of disorganisation or, worse, weakness, is revolting.

He’s a little dizzy now, but the coffee will certainly help. Good of Husk to remember that coffee solves a lot of problems.

Even as a bizarre tune starts ringing from Lucifer’s bag, his migraine doesn’t flare up again. What a relief! Alastor has never been a patient man, so he pulls the mobile out of Lucifer’s bag – my what a clunky piece of tec – and, after getting help from Angel, hangs up. The display shows a vaguely familiar name: Pentious.

Alastor recalls Pentious as the stubborn overlord who keeps most of his inventions to himself. It always gave Rosie a hard time, until she finally struck an advantageous deal with one of Pentious’s assistants. Whatever Lucifer wants with that dweeb.  

The phone rings once again, then Pentious finally gives up. Alastor effortlessly convinces the others to slip the mobile back into Lucifer’s bag and let him find out about the call after their game session. No disturbing is one of their chronicle tenets, after all.

Lucifer takes his time returning and when he does, his expression has settled into a mask of tense self-control. Good. After all the yelling and ordering him around, Alastor finds he’s very much in the mood to jab Lucifer again. The hole in Charlie’s wall remains a promising mark of his previous success.

“What happened to your water?” Alastor asks sweetly.

“Forgot it in the kitchen,” is all Lucifer says, as he sits down with measured movements, like he restricts himself from being his usual flamboyant self.

Husk nods. “Let's continue our session, alright?”

His question is primarily directed at Lucifer, but the man doesn't even realise it, as he busies himself with his dice again, and begins to build a square, then a pyramid, finally a circle.

“Yeah, let's go,” Angel mumbles in his stead, while Lucifer absentmindedly begins again, the square is back.

Infuriating!

Alastor had hoped for a heated debate, but Lucifer doesn't offer what his rigid posture seemed to promise.

“Everand,” Angel opens the scene, as usual. “What do you mean, we don't deserve our title as heroes? If we hadn’t stopped the goblins, they’d just keep attacking the village, again and again.”

“It's still an ugly little genocide, my dearest rogue,” Alastor lectures. “But of course, we can continue to tell ourselves we had no choice.”

No comment, no retort, nothing?

Alastor’s disappointment grows with every second. Then, finally, a short, tense remark from the man sitting next to him. “Everand is right.”

“Are you agreeing with me?” Alastor asks, as he can feel his own eyebrows reaching his hairline.

“Yup.”

Lucifer’s jaw is clenched, and he frantically rearranges his dice for what must be the hundredth time since returning from ‘getting some water’.

“Will you be leaving us for an epic quest of self-flagellation, Ser Paladin?”

“Nope.”

Lucifer presses his lips into a thin line, clearly biting back a reply. It’s both an invitation and a challenge. Irresistible!

“Are you two serious?” Angel cuts in, striking a dramatic pose, pout perfectly in place, arms crossed before his white t-shirt with the obscene joke. “Okay, fine! Let's head back and see if any Goblins survived. Maybe we can find out why they attacked the village in the first place.”

Lucifer looks up and gives Angel a curt nod, before they all roll for perception. To Alastor’s amusement, Husk delivers a delightfully gruesome description of the carnage. Sometimes, he would love to see inside that thick skull of his.

As if to punish them for their earlier squabble, the dice gods curse them with abysmal rolls, and the group finds no clues. Not a single one.

Alastor doesn’t mind. It’s less frustrating than Lucifer’s immense self-restraint. That bottled-up rage is far worse than the tension they started with tonight. Typical Lucifer Morningstar – So much wasted potential!

“This feels sooo wrong!” Angel groans. “Maybe we should bury them? Silken feels, like, super self-conscious right now.”

“You're welcome,” Alastor offers smugly.

Notes shuffle behind Husk’s game master screen and he scratches his head. “Any of you got a shovel?”

“No need,” Alastor decides for them, tapping his character sheet. “I can burn them all.”

No reaction from their ever-righteous paladin.

“Or I could feed them to the tentacles from the Shadow Plane.”

Still nothing. The lengths he has to go through!

“Or,” Alastor adds with mock thoughtfulness, tipping his chin with his index finger, “I could try to collapse the caves. Provided no one minds a little earthquake.” He continues with theatrical flair. “Hm, come to think of it, if the caves are part of a larger tunnel system, the entire coastline might get, say… restructured.”

Alastor turns to Lucifer with a bright, insufferable smile. “You’ve got absolutely no objections, good Ser?”

As if waking into the game just now, Lucifer’s head perks up. “Hm? No! Go on.”

“What?” Angel facepalms. “Don’t give him ideas!”

With a smile Alastor waves his hand through the air. “Oh, don't worry. They say I’m positively murderously creative on my own, thank you.”

Husk rolls his eyes, clearly readying himself for the fiasco ahead.

“Don't feel encouraged then!” Angel sulks, but – similar to Alastor's jabs – his pout doesn’t seem to register with Lucifer at all.

“Fine, in that case, I'll go with the fireball,” Alastor sighs, offering a half-hearted olive branch.

How boring!

An hour later, they are at the tavern and collect their reward. Alastor counts the coins twice and stops Angel from slipping off with more than his share. Then, with an air of triumph, he orders a little feast.

“Why are we celebrating, exactly?” Lucifer asks, finally coming out of his shell.

“Because we’re the heroes of this village, of course!” Alastor toasts.

Lucifer gives him a disbelieving look. “And all the drama about being murderers?”

“Well,” Alastor grins, “I never said I minded being one.”

Before he can provoke a proper confrontation, Husk cuts in: “And that’s where we’ll end for tonight. You can tell me how you spend the celebratory night next session.”

Alastor really doesn’t want to know, and Angel’s lewd expression already tells him more than he needs to.

“Oh! You get 2,000 XP for obliterating the goblin lair, and possibly a whole ecosystem, thanks to Everand’s flames.”

“Delightful!” Alastor applauds himself.

They jot down notes and begin packing up slowly.

Just as they’re nearly done, a knock sounds at the door, and Vaggie enters, hair even more dishevelled than usual.

“Hola, you guys,” she greets. Spotting Lucifer, she adds, “Sir!”

Alastor makes a mental note to eventually rid everyone of that undeserved deference.

“I’ve got a group of guests upstairs asking for your special cocktail, Husk.”

Angel whistles and wriggles his eyebrows. “They sure have good taste!”

Vaggie remains unimpressed. “Whatever that is, I can’t make it. I asked them to wait until you’re done playing…” She glances at her watch. “It’s already quarter past ten. Would you mind taking over now?”

“I’ll see to it,” Husk replies, giving the group a lazy wave. “See you next week. Don't forget to think about how your characters spend the night!”

As if tied to the barkeep, Angel hurries out behind them as well. Alastor smiles. That leaves Lucifer all to himself.

“You lied,” Alastor says, opening the conversation, but Lucifer doesn't even look up.

“Adding new insults to the pot? Guess what – Never mind.”

Alastor tilts his head. “Indeed – You said you don't mind.”

Finally, Lucifer's gaze shoots up. It burns with the very fire Alastor has come to cherish. It promises an encounter worth his wit.

“Yes, Alastor,” Lucifer says, voice tight, “I know this concept might be new to you, but people will mind, and they can feel hurt when you call them ‘dim-witted parasites’ and a whole bunch of other charming things.”

“Hm. That's not what I said,” Alastor corrects. He’s very precise and picky with his insults, but of course, Lucifer, ever blunt, missed that nuance. “What I did say-”

“Why did you even ask me to join your group?”

“Pardon?” Alastor hides his confusion behind a smile.

Crossing the arms in front of his chest, Lucifer stands like a statue of bitter resolve.

“You heard me. I want to hear it from you. Because after all that ranting about Vox, I'm beginning to see a pattern, and I don't like it one bit.”

“Please, elaborate.”

This isn’t the right time for this! It’s too soon! Alastor is not prepared for this conversation. They’ve only had three sessions so far, and he fully intended to milk Lucifer’s temper for at least a few more before delivering a final blow. His mind reels.

Is he actually on to me?

And if so, how to deflect it? How to make him question that perception?

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” Lucifer says flatly, “that no matter what Vox was actually like, you bullied him out of the group.”
Lucifer gives Alastor a sharp, observant look.
“I won't judge you for that. It's none of my business. But I can't help noticing none of you have mentioned Charlie. Ever. Do you intend to invite her to the group at all?”

Alastor's smile tightens. “But of course!”
It's not technically a lie. Having Charlie join would open several new ways to make Lucifer suffer, so, in theory, yes, Alastor’s open to it.

Lucifer, on the other hand, doesn't buy it.

“Char-Char told me she’s on hotel duty every Wednesday. So, tell me, how exactly would that work?”

Ah, he’s pesky!

“We could reschedule,” Alastor offers, his tone suffocatingly sweet. “It’s late. So, what’s your point, dear sir?”

“Tell me why you invited me to the group. Getting Charlie to play is certainly not the reason. And while I believe Husk and Angel actually want me around, you’re an entirely different story.”

Alastor tilts his head.
“Aww, is our city founder irritated by silly old me?”

With a sigh Lucifer starts packing up. “Yeah, that's what I thought. I'm not going to be your punching bag.”

Ah, well, guilty as charged. What can he say?

Apparently, Lucifer isn’t as desperate as Alastor expected. Not that it takes superhuman insight to notice he’s been testing the man over the last weeks, but calling him out for it? That takes guts!

Alastor waits for more. Nothing comes.

What now?

Does that mean Lucifer is quitting?

Lucifer turns to the door with another sigh. So, he isn't joking. The man is planning to walk out on him again. Alastor cannot possibly allow that.

“Fine, I see I can't fool you, my good sir.”

That makes Lucifer pause. Good! Perhaps he’s desperate enough to stay after all.

“You really want to know why I invited you?”

Lucifer raises his brows, hands on his hips, waiting.

‘I invited you to have a little fun’ probably won't cut it, and ‘I invited you to make you suffer for being a miserable, pathetic wimp’ won't either…

“Well, if you must know, I was looking for a replacement for Vox.”

A grain of truth usually does the trick. Alastor dusts off his coat, as if to rid himself of the mental image of that blockhead.

“I certainly didn't ask you because I like your style. That hat is ridiculous!”

Ah, well, he couldn't resist.

“Hey!”

“And you are an unreliable, over-sensitive man, living in a glass house, throwing stones.”

Lucifer's expression darkens.
“You're doing it again,” he warns. “Do you really think insulting me further will get you anywhere?”

“Let me finish, will you?” Alastor retorts.

He steps forward and towers over Lucifer. If his anticipation is correct, there's only one way to make Lucifer stay. Not his first choice, but Alastor has always been pragmatic when it comes to getting a job done. And this? This will be hilarious.

“Why I truly invited you is because I…”

Alastor takes a page from Angel's book – dramatic pause and all – because that seems to land with Lucifer every time. He leans down for maximum effect.

“Because I like you.”

A second of silence.
Then Lucifer starts to laugh manically.

“You ‘like’ me? BOI, that's the most ridiculous lie I have heard in a loooong time, and I run this condemned city!”

Alastor clenches his teeth as Lucifer shakes with laughter. It isn't a sincere or amused laugh, though. Alastor takes a second approach.

“But I do like your way of thinking.”
Grain of truth again.

Lucifer abruptly stops laughing, eyebrow raised. He doesn’t even flinch at Alastor invading his personal space, no, he even leans in.

As irritating as the thought may be, Alastor notices the scent of Lucifer’s cologne. The aroma is sharp, musky and laden with some kind of spice. But the strangest thing is the sweet note. It reminds Alastor of fresh apples. He blinks. Must be the aftermath of the medication.

“You like me way of thinking?” Lucifer asks, looking up at him. “What’s that even supposed to mean? All you do is jab me and call me out for shit!”

“And you always have a comeback,” Alastor replies, still not backing down, still relishing the unfamiliar scent.

“I didn't volunteer to be your sparring partner or something!”

Alastor smiles. Exactly the proof he needed – and Lucifer notices it too.

“But you did! Convince me you don’t enjoy the challenge of an intellectual duel on equal footing.”

Lucifer opens his mouth, closes it and rolls his eyes.

“Fine, I like the banter, sometimes. But that still doesn't mean I will allow you to insult me all the time. It's hurtful!”

“Then stop agreeing with me.”

Taken aback, Lucifer blinks.

“What?”

“Today you immediately agreed that the slaughter of the goblins was a bad thing. You weren't meant to agree!”

Alastor knows he’s veering off-plan, but this feels worth saying. He can only tolerate that much frustration. It doesn't land the way he anticipated, though – Lucifer just shrugs.

“But I did and still do. We stormed into that fight without thinking things through. And we wiped out an entire tribe. Families. Children.”

Lucifer makes a grimace, disgust and self-loathing flickering across his face.

“I only said that to give Angel some rebuff,” Alastor admits.

“Well, you had a point either way. And you gave Husk a devilish idea for a side plot.”

Lucifer looks him in the eyes, as if he’s searching for something. For what?
Alastor lets his smile soften just a bit.

“Can't be helped, I am the mastermind of this group,” he claims and considers his next move. Shall I- ?

Lucifer hasn’t left, he’s still standing so close…

“And I’m full of surprises as well. I gather you liked the butternut I specially cooked for you?”

“Sure,” Lucifer mutters, and there it is. A tiny, involuntary smile, tugging at the corners of his lips.

“See?”
Alastor dares.
He leans in and boops Lucifer on his nose.
“You like me, too.”

Lucifer's cheeks flush in a subtle pink and he blinks a few times. The moment stretches – then his mind seems to catch up, and Lucifer retreats, masking his fluster in overacted exasperation.

“I bet you’d like to think that...”

With a content hum, Alastor grabs his bag and pulls the door open for Lucifer, playing the gentleman – his mother did raise him with impeccable manners, after all.

As they enter the hotel lobby, Alastor delivers tonight’s final blow. He turns, flashes a sweet smile, and winks at Lucifer once.

“Don’t miss the 90’s party, Lucifer. See you Friday.”

And with that, he turns on his heels and heads upstairs.

Chapter Text

📱 The Hasbeens <GROUP CHAT>

Angel:
eyyyy yo Husk 👀
how those special cocktails comin’ along?

Husk:
they’re fine

Angel:
how’s the crowd? 👀 any drama?

Husk:
seen worse today

Angel:
lol funny u say that...
did Sweetpants make it out alive?

Husk:
alive and smilin'

Angel:
SAY WHAAAAAT?? 😳

Husk:
go on, ask me

Angel:
I am asking!

Husk:
no clue how the hell that played out

Angel:
is Smiles alive tho??

Husk:
saw him leavin' on two legs, if that counts

Angel:
NO. FREAKIN’. WAY.

Vaggie:
wtf is happening in here???

Angel:
game night was 🔥💀

Husk:
understatement of the year

Charlie:
Hey guys! I'm finally done with work
…wait WHAT?! 😦

Angel:
oh girl
Al was W I L D

Charlie:
What?? Is he okay??

Angel:
define okay

Husk:
90% spite
10% caffeine

Charlie:
Wait - who the heck is Sweetpants??

Vaggie:
trust me. you don’t wanna know

Angel:
srry Char-Char 💕😘

Charlie:
ANGEL. NO.

Angel:
ANGEL YES 😈💋
emotional daaaamage

Charlie:
WHAT?! This isn’t funny!
STOP flirting with my dad please!!!

Husk:
oh, he ain’t

Angel:
nah, he and Smiles were yelling at each other
like bitter exes in a telenovela 🔥

Charlie:
WHAT???
I thought you guys were playing DND?!

Husk:
that was the plan

Charlie:
Are you guys messing with me?
Please tell me they didn’t fight the whole time…

Angel:
lol it was SO much worse 😂
like a catfight but with LASER GUNS

Husk:
I dunno
boss is actin' weird

Angel:
he gotta stop messin’ with Lu
like just KISS already

Vaggie:
ewww

Charlie:
PLEASE STOP 😭

Angel:
I’m just sayin’ 💁
they got unresolved tension

Vaggie:
I can and WILL ban you from this chat

Husk:
gotta bounce, customers

Angel:
rude 😤
this ain’t over!!

Chapter Text

Opening the Buffet

Alastor stands behind the reception desk, giving his outfit a final once-over. He’s wearing an oversized black suit coat and matching low-wasted trousers, cinched with a black belt. With a chuckle, he adjusts his bowtie – yes, he took some liberties with the dress code – and gives his daring turtleneck tank top another approving glance. It’s skintight and neon green – perfect for scandalising people. Vaggie has already graced him with her wild theory about why he ditched his signature crimson outfit, while Niffty asked if they were planning to murder some of the militant environmentalists, spilling green blood in revenge for planting yet another colony of moss in the unused guest rooms.

Oh dear.

No, the real reason why Alastor chose this outfit, why he’s not only wearing these shiny black dancing shoes but also – behold – a proper, elegant black top hat, and why he’s waiting at the reception, acting bored – is because he has a plan to execute. If their mighty founding father is bold enough to show up that is. And Alastor certainly hopes so, because he’s already prepared two backup plans to lure Lucifer Morningstar out of his tomb, if necessary, but they would be quite the nuisance.    

The hotel lobby has been transformed into something that can best be described as a crime scene of a painter’s fever dream. Fluorescent posters, multi-coloured headlights, inflatable boomboxes, and far too many colourful smiley faces have replaced the once-muted Art Deco décor. Someone – most likely Niffty on a sugar high – has set up a fog machine that puffs out clouds infused with the nostalgic scents of mandarin, grapefruit, lily, and freesia.

“Welcome! Don’t forget your upcycled tote bag!”

Like a sunbeam in the eye of the storm, Charlotte flits from guest to guest, her hair curled into gravity-defying pigtails. She’s wearing yellow tartan, platform sneakers, white over-the-knee socks, and the kind of over-caffeinated smile that could convince a doomsday cult to recycle.

She directs that smile at a broad-shouldered man with a prosthetic arm and a tattoo that spells ‘FERAL’. He looks vaguely terrified, as if unsure whether he’s just been handed a shopping bag or enlisted in something dreadfully utopian.

Indeed, Charlotte can be quite terrifying when her enthusiasm takes over. 

“Make sure to check out the sign-up booth for the working groups,” she says to a lanky woman in a lilac plush jacket. “We’re collecting ideas on how to fix the solar panel pavement waste management – we have free cookies!”

Alastor arches a brow. “Nothing brings the masses together like runoff logistics,” he murmurs, tapping a finger against the golden rim of his glasses.

Behind him, a banner droops from the ceiling, declaring: “Hazbin Hotel Welcomes You to Paradise (City, That Is!)” in hand-drawn letters. Someone – again, likely Niffty – has drawn sparkles around the “Hazbin”.

How awfully tacky.

Still, Alastor watches as the guests trickle in slowly. Misfits, dropouts, ex-cons, artists, dreamers – people from all walks of life. People just like him. Well, a few clearly just came for the free drinks. But others? They linger near the info table, where Vaggie has stacked flyers with names like “Reworking the Loop: Community-Driven Retrofits” and “Solar Pavement Debris – Your Street, Your Voice”.

A tall man in a patched-up velvet coat eyes the flyer about neighbourhood-based composting revisions. “Didn’t you try this last year?”

Vaggie nods. “Yeah. But we lacked volunteers. Now we’re trying again – with better equipment, and maybe better people.” She gives the man a rib-crashing nudge and flashes an awkward grimace meant to pass as an encouraging smile.

Behind his smirk, Alastor listens. And indeed, he’s paying close attention. The conversation is exactly what Charlotte wanted for this event. Small exchanges, entering that seedling stage of belief, sprouting in dirt that’s already been turned over.

The 90s Party? The attempt to attract new residents? Charlotte’s oh-so-cherished working groups? It’s all bound to fail, of course – but they keep people busy. All in all, her efforts serve as a perfect distraction from the crushing truth: the whole city remains at the mercy of Celestium Foundation and the measly bones it throws their way. There’s no denying it, they’re prisoners of an abusive system. At least, until they either declare independence or some mastermind sparks a breakthrough that even the global community cannot ignore. And while Alastor certainly believes in good old-fashioned scheming, he doesn’t trust the corrupt overlords and inventors of ‘Paradise City’ – tch – to come up with any altruistic innovation that serves all equally. The only way forward is to gain influence within the city itself, enough to plant the seeds of rebellion.

The tall man moves along, and Vaggie sighs. No, this is not the type of person Alastor is looking for. He needs someone who will accept his truth about Celestium Foundation and act accordingly.

Over the last years, he’s learned the hard way that the seemingly powerful are often the weakest links in the chain. Their greed and hunger for recognition blind them to the city’s actual needs. In their pathetic scramble for power over the tiny fish tank Celestium Foundation offers, people like Vox have forgotten that there’s an entire ocean out there to win.

Alastor would never admit it, but he keeps a close eye on every resident, every newcomer bringing ideas to the table. His plan is simple: Gather resources not under Celestium Foundation’s control, do a little research, convince the right people to act at the perfect time, expose the Foundation for what it really is- and presto! After just a teeny-weeny bit of chaos, Pentagram City might actually become the inclusive, innovative, maddeningly good place it was announced to be.

The hard part is to identify and target the people who can actually make that change happen. Or to motivate those who could but chose to stand by instead. He’s had this conversation so many times – with Eve, Charlotte, even the other hotel staff – but no one ever listens. No one dares to rebel, to truly rebel. Yet.  

Alastor notices a group gathering near the model of the circular housing unit. Charlie joins them, explaining how they’re re-evaluating shared access between medical services and grocery logistics. “We already have the ring buildings,” she says, “but they’re not functioning as intended. If we reconfigure the delivery cycles and get a new internal transit system…”

Someone laughs awkwardly. “You mean if your dad signs off on it.”

Ah, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. How exactly does Lucifer Morningstar fit into the picture?

Charlotte shrugs, still smiling. “Well, maybe we should give him no choice in this matter!”

“Never heard that one before, kiddo.”

Charlotte tries to laugh it off.

“Hey, cut her a break, Lisa.” A man with thinning brown hair and a grey sweater vest extends a hand. “If you ever see your dad, say hi for me, will ya? The name is Timothy Harnell.”

“Sure! Hi Timmy, I’m Charlie. Nice to meet you!”

They shake hands, while Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose. This is ridiculous! As if Lucifer would do anything for the likes of a Lisa or a Timothy. Though, after seeing Lucifer’s current state – both his mind and mansion – Alastor can’t help wondering. What if Lucifer was embracing his role as the city’s founding father? What if he wasn’t broken, but nudged in the right direction toward Alastor’s goals? A strange thought creeps in. Instead of his plaything, Lucifer could become his weapon.

But of course, one step at a time. He can only imagine what the party will turn into once Lucifer shows up and starts running that loud, loud mouth of his. If they recognise him, the guests will swarm to him like bees to honey. It would be fun to watch, Alastor muses. Then again, he’s starting to consider Lucifer his- well, interest. His little project. When the mob inevitably begins gnawing Lucifer’s ears, someone will have to step in. Give the man a break. And some well-meant advice.

With a smile, Alastor watches as one of Valentino’s former runners nods at the housing model like he’s seeing it not for the first, but the second time – with the quietly growing thought that maybe, just maybe, he could have a say in how it all runs.

Alastor leans forward slightly, leaning on the polished wood of the reception desk.
Ah, he thinks, so this is what hope looks like.

A small child runs past, dragging a reusable glitter balloon. Somewhere, a solar-powered speaked is murdering a cover of “Rhythm of the Night”.

He sighs and, not for the first time, regrets not vetoing the 90s party. This could’ve been a jazz night instead.
“If we must remake society,” he mutters, “we may as well do it with style.”

Running the Gauntlet

Ducking duck shit!

Lucifer frantically punches in another code, nearly losing his patience with the security system he insisted on installing.

2-1-0-9.
Nope.
Well, at least it’s not still set to his weeding day.

0-6-1-0. A click. Finally! Charlie’s birthday – always a lifesaver.

Slipping in through the hotel’s side entrance, usually reserved for deliveries, Lucifer gives a satisfied snort. As if he’d ever be masochistic enough to wait in line at the main entrance. With a sigh, he navigates the storage rooms and sneaks into the makeshift dance hall.

He is immediately met with a wall of colour so violent, it feels like being punched by a teenager’s Sinstagram feed.

The room is an explosion of retro chaos – lava lamps, neon curtains, and a sound system that appears to be mid-seizure. Someone is butchering “Smells Like Teen Spirit” off-key, and with no mercy.

Uff.

Trying to remember why he ever let himself be talked into this - Ah yes, he’s doing this for his daughter, and because a certain warlock player was a little too persuasive - Lucifer adjusts the cuff of his tailored Versace blazer. It’s deep purple, single-breasted, and inspired by an iconic 1994 look he definitely didn’t spend an entire night researching. The cream-colored shirt with the swallowtail collar? Perfect. The short pants and high heels? Possibly a dare.

And, unfortunately, his presence becomes a problem immediately.

If he’d expected the room to gasp – conversations faltering, heads turning, people staring in awe – he’s sorely disappointed. Instead, the moment he’s recognized, the whispering starts.

GREAT.

It reminds him far too much of those post-divorce tabloid headlines.

From Morningstar to Falling Star – Lucifer’s Shine Fades After Lilith Split

Paradise Lost? Morningstar’s Smile Can’t Save a Crumbling City

Budget Cutbacks – Morningstar’s Confidence Takes a Nosedive

Divorce Leaves Morningstar Off His Game

And here he was, almost believing he no longer is that ghost of a man.

I should’ve known better than to show up to a hotel party in person! What was I thinking? It’s still the same old city...  

Lucifer turns on his heels to escape while he still can, a tight-lipped, glass-fragile smile plastered to his face. The political mask is back on. He can feel his jaw clenching.
He should’ve listened to the reflection in the mirror, ruining his pep-talk with that deadpan warning. He should’ve stayed home.

Alright, let's find Charlie, say hi and be done with this ridiculous show. You got this, Luci! 

Then the inevitable happens.

Within seconds, someone barrels toward him, eyes wide, tablet already in hand. “Mr. Morningstar! Just a minute! If I could pitch you the vertical algae towers project, I think you’ll love-”

“I’m not reviewing applications tonight,” Lucifer says, already sidestepping.

“Oh, no, of course, but just so you know, we’ve revised the photosynthesis optimization cycle-”

A second voice chimes in. “Lucifer! You look – WOW. Is that vintage? Listen, about the biowaste incentive program, if we had even half the budget the Loop’s air system gets-”

Lucifer nods, walking, walking, still walking.

Shit. Wrong direction. A little help please? Charlie, where are you? 

Eyes follow him like hawks tracking prey. A few people try to make eye contact.

Husk? Angel? Hellooooo?

Some flirt.

Perhaps I can find Alastor. His crimson outfit should be easy to spot, riiight?

And then-

“Excuse me, Mr. Morningstar?”
A woman steps into his path. She’s soft-voiced, a little breathless. Her black dress glimmers like oil in the party lights, and Lucifer already has a reply – “No thanks!” – on his lips, but it’s her eyes that catch his attention. Her expression is different, somewhat excited, or even nervous. The gentle-looking giant of a man beside her gives him an encouraging nod. He’s wearing a retro corduroy suit and glasses, and somehow makes the whole ensemble look effortlessly dignified, like a professor who could charm an entire lecture hall without trying.

“We just wanted to say…” the woman begins, falters, then clears her throat. “Well, we’re both huge admirers of the Paradise City Project. We’ve lived here for almost four years. We met through one of the Loop co-ops.”

“We argued about compost bins,” the man adds. “Then we fell in love.”

 “What?” Lucifer blinks.

“Anyway,” the woman continues, smiling shyly, “we figured you might want someone to talk to tonight. Or at least someone not trying to sell you anything.”

“Except maybe a drink and a very mediocre dance,” the man says, offering a small, hopeful grin. “We’re not good. But we’re enthusiastic.”

The woman laughs. “One song, maybe? Just to prove you still remember how?”

Lucifer can’t help but stare at them. They’re not performing, not networking. They’re just earnest, and he feels like he could start crying right here on the spot.
“I- um, thank you,” he manages, voice thinner than intended. “But I… don’t dance. Not well.”

“That’s why we’d be perfect,” the woman says softly. “Anyway, no pressure! I’m sure you have a lot hands to shake… But if you’d like a drink… I’m Elora by the way, and this is Allen.”

Lucifer blinks again, dumbfounded. Heaven help him, he even smiles, and not the curated kind, but something real. His cheeks feel hot with embarrassment, yet he’s SO grateful. His standards might be pretty low, but Lucifer’s just SO glad there are at least two people at this party who don’t want to lay him just to get their application through. He’s about to agree to that drink when suddenly a voice cuts through the moment like nails on glass.

“Oh, darling, don’t waste your time. We all know polyamory didn’t work out for him.”

Ouch.

Lucifer turns.

The woman approaching is clad in a tight white suit, her long dark hair bouncing with each sway of her hips. Her eyes shine with calculation, the cruel kind that grows where cameras linger, waiting for blood. She saunters up, casting a dismissive look at Elora and Allen.

“You two are cute,” she purrs, “but trust me, he’s not looking for anything wholesome. Or haven’t you read literally anything in the last eight years?”
She steps in close, tapping a manicured nail against Lucifer’s lapel before gripping it like her hand belongs there.

This has to be a cruel joke.

“You’ve aged well,” she says. “Better than Lilith, anyway. And you always did have a thing for confident women.”

Nope, definitely not a joke.

Ah, shit. Here we go again, Luci.

He feels his face harden, a frigid rage seizes his heart, chilling it to stone. He frowns and removes the hand with disgust.

Steady now. Control is power.

“I remember you,” he says, tone icy.

The intruder’s confidence flickers. “You what?”

“I thought your name started with an S,” he muses aloud, scanning her like a file on a screen. “Sandra? Selena? No matter. I know you’re on my list.”

She has the audacity to narrow her eyes. “What list?”

“The one I check when I’m assigning civic labour.”

Even now, his tone doesn’t rise. With people like her, it never needs to. For a moment, Lucifer eyes her with a cold glance and basks in her discomfort.
“I’m short one person on the outer compost routing team,” he says, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You’ll love a cruel joke, right?
“Your profile suggests a strong preference for hands-on engagement. I could make the transfer tonight.”

The woman stares, blood draining from her cheeks. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Lucifer replies, and he uses that tone, pure silk on the edge of a razor, promising imminent danger. “I’ll make sure it’s broadcast live. I’m thoughtful like that.”

“Ahaha, sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Morningstar. Huge misunderstanding! My apologies! Please forget I ever approached you.”

“I won’t.”

The woman disappears into the crowd without another word, her heels clicking unevenly on the floor.

Lucifer exhales. Wowy, what a pest…

His eyes wander, and he suddenly becomes aware of the poor couple still standing there, wide-eyed, like they’ve just watched someone kill a kitten with bare hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, straightening his collar. “I’m not usually that theatrical.”

The man coughs. “You kind of are.”

Lucifer lets out a small huff. “Fair.”

“See you later? Maybe?” They offer him one last shy smile before slipping away, hand in hand. And just like that, the moment’s gone.

Aaaaand there go the only guests here who are actually sincere.
Lucifer can feel the eyes on him again and the whispers start up like insects on a summer night. He hates that he still listens to them.
Can’t be helped…

Perhaps he can find shelter with his party. They must be here somewhere, right?

He veers hard left and bolts toward the only place left in the dance hall that might offer shelter. The bar. It’s mercifully dim, tucked just far enough from the dance floor that the music is little more than a dull thump. And there he is, sweet mercy!

Husk stands behind the counter, polishing a glass with the weary precision of a man counting down the days to his death. Lucifer’s will to socialise might be drained, but the calm bartender / game master is perfect. Just what I need!

Lucifer all but climbs onto the bar stool, making the ascent look as dignified as possible. His knees still crack faintly. “Something bitter,” he mutters, offering a small, apologetic smile as a greeting.

Husk gives him a look, one eyebrow barely raised. “You or the drink?”

“Both.”

“Tough crowd out there tonight, huh? Saw the little showdown with that sharp-suited lady. Not exactly a warm welcome.”

Lucifer shifts on the stool, knowing his cheeks are flushing. “You did see that?”

Of course, Husk did see that.

“Yeah. I won’t even ask what you said to those people,” Husk sighs, raising an eyebrow. “But you sent them running for their lives, now that’s for sure. Gave them a real scare.”

Lucifer bites his lip. “Yeah…”

It encourages Husk to drop some more of that bartender wisdom: “You don’t have to be a saint, but maybe tone down the performance next time. For Charlie?”

Lucifer lets out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Trust me, it’s not my idea of fun.”

Husk gives a low chuckle. “Well, if you need someone to watch your back, or just to pour you another stiff one, I’m your guy.”

He gets bourbon. Neat. “Thanks, Husk. I might take you up on that.”

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favourite Paladin himself.”

Lucifer turns, half-smiling already. He can’t believe his luck. Another lifeline!

Angel Dust leans on the counter, dressed in pastel mesh and radiant confidence. He’s sipping something pink through a lilac straw.

“Angel, wow, you look amazing!”

The man grins and dips his head, the jewellery around his neck jingling. “Your daughter banned my latex outfit, can ya believe? But hey, I’m glad you like this.”

He strikes a pose like he’s on a catwalk. Angel’s outfit seems to consist mostly of bare skin. The flimsy crop top and pants are held together by mesh, and his platform boots make him even taller. “See?” he says, flashing a wink. “I made an effort to tone it down a bit.”

Lucifer chuckles, the tension in his shoulders easing just a notch. “Suuure. Very considerate of you.”

“Oh shush, don’t spread it around.”

There’s a beat of silence. The bass thumps faintly through the walls, playing “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls. With a sigh of relief, Lucifer eyes the ice in his glass. The room is already hot, and it cracks as it melts. He can practically feel Angel’s eyes on him.

“So,” Angel says, voice smooth. “You look stunning yourself. Came here with an intention?”

Lucifer smirks. “You mean like avoiding my daughter, the weight of my responsibilities, and very persistent people with all sorts of applications?”

“Not exactly, no.” Angel cackles, then points at Lucifer’s legs. “Love the shoes! You slay, Luci.“

“Oh. Um. Thanks!”

Angel leans closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Wanna dance? I promise I’ll only ruin your reputation a little.”

Lucifer raises his glass to his lips. “Tempting. But I’m still recovering from the last reputation I had. And the dancefloor looks pretty crowded...”

Angel grins. He doesn’t push but simply taps his nails against the counter in a light rhythm, like a heartbeat. “Fineeee, play coy. We’ll get you out there eventually, trust me.”

With the ease of a seasoned partygoer, Angel pulls the straw from his cocktail and downs it in one go. He slams the empty glass on the bar.

“Husk, this man needs a real drink! And keep’em coming!”

Oh no…?

Chapter Text

The crowd is moving to the beat like one strange organism. Neon lights dance across latex, fur and bare skin, lilac, red, green, blue, yellow- and Alastor grimaces. He didn’t expect the dance floor to be so crowded when he decided to get himself another drink, but he didn’t want to ask Niffty a third time. Besides, now he’s already in the middle of the mess.

And, unlike others, he is not backing down.

His disdain for the party grows by the minute, multiplying with every drink, elbow, and hair flip he has to dodge. Alcohol might be his only chance of surviving this and the humiliation of asking Angel a favour. Alcohol, the medication he is on, and seeing a certain someone suffer through the questionable playlist choices.

Alastor really hopes one of the guests dares to call this noise “music” in his presence. That would be a lovely way to let off some steam in a mild case of debauchery.

For now, he can’t allow the distraction, though. It’s 10 PM, and he has an unwilling guest to catch. His plan is simple: convince Angel to text or call Lucifer – both, if necessary – claiming that his beloved daughter needs his help, that the success of the party is at stake, or that guests are out of line... Alastor is confident Angel will improvise and serve appropriate drama. Lucifer likes to play the hero, after all. What better way to lure him out of his lair once more than to return to save territory after Alastor’s more daring method failed?
Yes, he indeed is very displeased that his previous efforts didn’t bear fruit, but who is he to judge? If Lucifer resisted the nose boop and the wink, his Immunity to manipulation only rises the challenge of getting under his skin. And that will be delicious.  

First things first, he has to find Angel. The adult filmmaker is certainly drinking away his last brain cells at the bar with Husk. Alastor spots the grumpy barkeep in no time – and then stops dead in his tracks.

There he is.

No fucking way.

The blonde mess that is Lucifer Morningstar is slouched against the bar like a tragic figure in a dime-store opera, downing a shot – and probably not his first.

His outfit? An oversized deep-purple suit over a cream-coloured shirt with a huge swallowtail collar. But what catches Alastor’s attention more than anything are the flashy golden block-heel Oxfords, reflecting the party lights.

That can’t be.

How dare Lucifer not only sneak past him – and Alastor knows he's had hawke’s eyes on the entrance over several hours! – but also settle in with Angel and Husk? Why didn't he even bother to come looking for him?

Tch.

Alastor readjusts his glasses.

Now now, I’m not angry. I’m disappointed in this mediocre performance.

Scratch that. Alastor is boiling!

With measured steps, he approaches the group, pondering which jab would be the most malicious. They deserve it for leaving him stuck with the meet-and-greet! Typical! He could have made far better use of his time!

Alastor makes a point of staying right behind Lucifer to give him a proper jump-scare and is about to reveal himself when he overhears Angel singsonging: “…that's Santana, it's perfect! Let’s goooo dancin’!”

Angel gets up, strutting a few steps toward the dance floor, hips swaying in the ridiculously short pant-mesh-combi, and throws a look back over his shoulder since Lucifer isn’t following. That’s the moment Angel spots Alastor. They make eye contact, and the adult filmmaker wiggles – WIGGLES – his blasted eyebrows. Alastor smiles.

Kindly fuck off. He’s mine to dismantle.

Angel doesn’t seem to understand that his number is up if he continues to pursuit this endeavour. He turns around, and, after a second in which his gaze shoots back at Alastor, takes Lucifer’s hands in his.

“Come on, Luci, let’s make some good use of those sweet pants!” Angel teases. And sweet are Lucifer's pants indeed.

Over my dead body.

So, naturally, Alastor adjusts his plans. In one swift motion, he places a hand on Lucifer's shoulder, pinning him in place, and leans down.

“Hello, Lucifer.”

The man doesn't jump, but the sharp, whiskey-tinged inhale is even more precious.

With his lips close to Lucifer's ear, Alastor whispers: “Did you really think you could avoid me and get away with it?”

Directed at Angel, who isn’t letting go of Lucifer's hands, Alastor announces: “The gentleman is already spoken for!”

Angel pouts. “What? No! In contrary to your sorry ass, I've been keeping him company all evening, and we were just going to go wild!”

Lucifer blinks.

His shoulder radiates heat, slightly uncomfortable to the touch, but letting go now would signal surrender. So Alastor keeps his hand where it is and leans even closer. His move triggers a shudder.

Oh my.

It feels delightfully right beneath his gloved palm, and Lucifer blushes.

“Oh, you certainly mean you've been unreasonably filling my poor man up to ridicule him in front of everybody.”

“Your man?” says Angel.

“What?” says Lucifer.

He finally turns to look up at Alastor, blinking with a slightly bemused frown. His face is really close now, colourful lights dancing across pale skin, making the rouge on his high cheekbones glow. Alastor must admit, the deep purple eyeshadow matches Lucifer's suit perfectly.

Beginner's luck.

There’s no way he’s going to leave his prize to Angel. And so, Alastor all but purrs: “May I have this dance?”

Lucifer hesitates, a bouquet of emotions flickering across his face.

“Hey!!! No way! I asked him first!” Angel protests, but his self-preservation instinct kicks in, and he releases – finally releases – Lucifer’s hands.  

“Dance with me,” Alastor insists, totally ignoring Angel as if he were part of the background noise. “I promise I'll make you look good.”

A beat. Then, with a huff, Lucifer slides off his chair in clumsy motions. “Suuure.” At least he manages to climb down and land on his heels.

Probably he’s too drunk to argue. Excellent.

“Oh, fuck you, Al!” Angel stomps off, throwing his arms in the air in a toddler-level temper tantrum.

Hah! Good.  

Alastor extends a hand and pulls Lucifer away from the bar. They move to the dance floor. The foam squelches beneath their feet, and the lights smear strange colors across Lucifer’s face – gold, green, violet. When Alastor pulls him closer, Lucifer has the audacity to look confused.

“Oh! You really meant it!”

Say what now?

“Of course I meant it, you-“ With great effort, Alastor swallows the sardonic comment already on his lips. He could be offended that his advances are met with no praise, but instead he focusses on moving the small block Lucifer has turned into, not so much dancing as existing in the middle of the rhythm, like a very expensive, very stubborn piece of furniture.

Alastor tries to guide him with calculated grace, both of Lucifer’s hands in his, giving cues, gently pulling and pushing, but. It’s. Not. Working.

“Can you start moving to the rhythm, please?”

Even under the colourful lights, Alastor can see Lucifer’s cheeks turning a deep shade of red. He starts moving a little more, yes, but with all the natural grace of a grandfather clock bolted to the floor — seemingly entirely unaware there’s music playing.

“Sorry, I haven’t done this in a while…,” Lucifer mutters. “I’m a bit rusty, and I might be a little tipsy, HAHA.”

“Let me lead.”

“I’m trying to!”

They come to a halt, while the upbeat song keeps playing.

“West Coast Swing is a child’s dance, Lucifer. It’s right, left, right-left-right, left-right.” Alastor gently shifts Lucifer’s weight from one side to the other. “Understand?”

They take a few bars to get the basic step in sync. And then, finally, while the ridiculous chorus washes over them once more, they can start afresh.

“I thought you don’t like dancing,” Lucifer mutters, eyes fixed on his feet as if he needs to watch where they’re going.

“Oh, I like plenty of things,” Alastor replies breezily, daring to nudge Lucifer into a small sideways step. “You just never asked.”

Lucifer doesn’t laugh. His brow furrows instead, clearly trying to anchor some logic in the chaos. “You’re messing with me,” he accuses, a little unsteady.

Yes, Alastor thinks. That was the plan.

But what comes out of his mouth is: “Would it be so awful if I wasn’t?”

Lucifer misses a step.

Alastor steadies him by pulling him closer. He can feel the heat radiating off Lucifer now, as if his body is resisting its own movement.

Alastor leans in, whispers close to his ear, voice syrupy-sweet. “Relax, dear. Everyone’s watching. Let’s give them something to talk about.”

Lucifer tenses, then maddeningly does exactly as he’s told. He throws his head back, rolls his shoulders, and dives headfirst into the rhythm with him. As if he’d just flipped the switch on that magnetic presence of his. Like a peacock on stage. Like a rival. Like a partner.

Alastor can’t help it – he’s laughing, chest shaking slightly, while they continue dancing. Not out of mockery this time, but from the sheer absurdity of the entire thing.

I’m enjoying this.
I’m enjoying him.

Good heavens!

Irritated, Alastor brings a little more distance between them.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s all part of the game. Part of the masterplan. Part of breaking him down.
Definitely.

So why is his grip just a little too gentle, his gaze lingering just a moment too long? He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he spins Lucifer into a dramatic finish, dipping him low. In his mind, the crowd lets out a smattering of applause, and Alastor bows with a devilish smile.

Chapter Text

📱 The Has-beens’ <GROUP CHAT>

Angel:
you owe me 20 bucks, Whiskers! 😈

Husk:
...twenty won’t even buy half your damn bar tab

Charlie:
Wait, what’s happening? 👀

Husk:
nothin

Angel:
WILL YOU LOOK AT THIS

<sends picture of the dancefloor>

Charlie:
FUCK!
I’m coming!

Angel:
lmao that’s what she said 😂

Husk:
NOPE

Angel:
hold up – did little miss sunshine just swear? 😳
why’re you rushing over?
wanna get a front row seat while Al twirls your old man like a prom queen?
because let me tell you, they’re 🔥🔥🔥

Husk:
yeah. this is bad

Angel:
BAD?! it’s PERFECT!
took me forever to get those two on the floor!

Husk:
come down from the stage and meet me at the bar in 2?

Angel:
…shit
omw

Swaying

The first notes of the next song bleed into the last bars of the previous, and Alastor tries to decide where he wants to take this. He’s considering offering Lucifer another drink – a reward, really, for dancing so nicely under pressure.

Lucifer is tipsy, swaying slightly in Alastor’s hold. A red flush paints his cheeks – not rage this time, but something else. Something uncertain. Something warm. It's intoxicating.

Golly, how wonderful this is.

The music changes tempo — It’s going to be “Crazy” by Britney Spears, and it takes the DJ a while to crash-land the track into the other. It’s done so amateurishly they share a heavy eyeroll and a laugh. And while they wait for the transition to complete, Lucifer just stands there in the pulsing lights, looking up at him as though trying to puzzle something out, hands still in his. There’s a small smile on his dance partner’s face Alastor wants to frame and hang on his wall.

Perfect.

Alastor is about to get them back on track with the new rhythm and close the space between them again when suddenly somebody interjects. He senses the presence even before the person comes into view, the mass of dancers parting before them.

What’s this now?

“Alastor, I need to borrow my dad real quick.”

“What’s the matter, Charlotte, dearest?” With a flick of his wrist, he leads Lucifer into a sideways step so they can both face his daughter while staying in the rhythm.

Charlotte’s eyes are blazing like thunder in an ocean of rain clouds. Her shoulders are so tense the fabric of her tartan dress strains. The carefree bubble Lucifer and he had been in suddenly busts, and Alastor becomes uncomfortably aware of the stares directed at them. Phones click as guests around them take pictures.

Oh.

“Dad, now,” she says, and Lucifer wilts. His shoulders sink, and he sighs, visibly distraught.

“Lead the way, Sweetie.”

He shoots Alastor an awkward, apologetic smile, abruptly let’s go of his hands, and follows his daughter like a lamb to the slaughter. The warmth of Lucifer’s skin lingers on Alastor’s palms, leaving behind an emptiness he cannot quite name.

How uncommonly rude.

Alastor lets his lips curl, trying to process what just happened. He levels a withering look at the people who took pictures. Not to worry – he’s seen their faces and can find them later. Or at least that’s what he tells himself to calm his nerves.

Fuck.

Ah, no, come now, old chum, think. Thinkthinkthink.

The arrival of the storm that is Charlotte Magne seems to have temporarily crushed his common sense.

Ah! But of course.

This mustn’t be a problem at all.

On the contrary! HAHA.

This is all part of his plan!

Getting caught in a few pictures – though he despises it – was always going to be painstakingly inevitable. A necessary evil if he wants to get under the skin of people like Vox.

And how deliciously outraged poor Voxy will be.

Come to think of it, he really should have made a point of capturing a few more scandalous movements with sweet Lucifer. And speaking of scandals, watching the father-daughter conflict unfold in public ought to have been such a delight, too!

Only… somehow, Alastor isn’t feeling any of it.

For a moment, he just stands there, abandoned on the dance floor, overwhelmed, before he shakes his head, flashes his audience one last murderous smile, and follows the pair back to the bar.

“-easy-peasy, Honey! I'll send a city-wide notification, so no one posts any of those pictures,” Lucifer mutters as Alastor arrives. He’s fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt, his suit jacket carelessly draped over the bar stool beside him. He ignores Alastor entirely, hyper-focused instead on the faintest flinch on his daughter’s face. “I won't let this turn into a public scandal, don't you worry. If anyone wants to run a smear campaign against me, I won't allow them to do it on your hotel's back."

A pause.

Alastor has heard the stories of the threats Lucifer unleashed upon the city when his divorce was the gossip media’s favourite toy. The man does have the means to reach every single citizen, and he’s wielded that power before. But Charlotte doesn’t seem convinced, and Lucifer clearly senses it. He’s folding, expression cracking – And Alastor sees every fracture.

“Me sharing one dance won't overshadow your amazing event! I promise!”

It’s oddly unpleasant to witness. And something about it twists beneath Alastor’s ribs.

“GOD, Char-Char!” Lucifer rambles. “I'm SO sorry!”

Alastor raises a brow. He had better not mean that.

“You’re missing the whole point, Dad! I don’t care about the pictures. This isn’t about you, or politics, for once! This is about Al!”

“But-”

What is that even supposed to mean?

Had he given them the illusion of privacy before, Alastor now steps closer. Apparently, he is part of this conversation, whether he likes it or not.

Charlotte plants her hands on her hips, lips pressed into a thin line, and scolds her father some more. “Honestly! You look like you need a break. Maybe some water instead of whatever Husk’s been serving you.”

Marvellous.
If that’s all, they can get back to their evening in no time!

Lucifer stiffens, guilt flickers across his face, and he adverts his gaze, clearly ashamed – but what for? Alastor needs to know! Was it the dancing? Getting a little too tipsy? Being seen with him in public? Or being called out by his own daughter? A million other reasons pile up on Alastor’s mental list, and he loathes the revelation already. Why does he, suddenly, feel caught red-handed, too? Involuntarily, he grimaces, the corners of his lips tugging into a painfully high position.

What will it be? Am I just too low a sinner for our pristine founding father?

He can’t decide if it would hurt more to hear it from Charlotte or from Lucifer himself.

“Charlie,” Lucifer starts, but she waves a hand, like a queen’s gesture, cold and without hesitation.

This could have been Alastor’s moment of triumph. Lucifer, unravelling in front of the crowd and their party – he can see Angel and Husk watching the spectacle from behind the counter. This should have been a reward. But instead, it feels-

Wrong.

Off-rhythm.

Unsporting.

Unnecessarily cruel, Alastor thinks, once more baffled by their little sunshine’s distinctly un-lovey-dovey manners and the devastating effect she seems to have on Lucifer.

“I just don’t think this is a good idea,” Charlotte says, her gaze flicking past her father, just for a second, to him. “Alastor isn’t one of your… Fine, I’m just going to say it! He isn’t one of your conquests, Dad! He’s my friend and valued business partner. And you can’t just flirt and discard him like- Anyway, he doesn’t deserve that!”

“Beg pardon?”

The words leap from Alastor’s mouth before he can stop them.

There it is. That little crease between Charlotte’s brows. A telltale sign of her distress.

“I’m sorry you have to witness this, Al.”  

So that’s the colour of this tension?

Worry?

For me?

How droll!

But for Lucifer it isn’t. Judging by the way his posture collapses, the accusations must feel painfully real. If he looked guilty before, he’s crumbling now – like a castle of sand under an incoming tide. Lucifer looks like he’s hurting. Truly hurting.

How ridiculous! Charlotte has it all wrong! She should be scolding me! 

And yet, accusing her father like that, in front of him of all people, is so unlike her that Alastor can’t help but wonder. Is this a conflict from their past he doesn’t know about?

Why would she even think-? Is it because of Lucifer’s dashing outfit and the hungry stares EVERYONE ELSE directs at him?

Alastor can’t help it – he has to intervene this preposterous performance! Ever the showman, he lets out a bright little laugh and places a hand delicately to his chest.

“Oh, princess,” he drawls under his breath, “that’s where you’re terribly mistaken.”

Charlotte ignores him, laser-focused on her father, but the air between them thickens with unsaid things.

“Your father dearest has already agreed to another dance – didn’t you, Lucifer?” Alastor lies cheerfully, before the man can say anything. “It would be dreadfully rude to break such a promise.”

Lucifer blinks at him, startled. Charlotte’s jaw clenches.

“My dearest Charlotte, I would be honoured if you granted me your blessing to ask for your father’s hand in this second dance,” Alastor mocks, bowing in a theatrical gesture, “I am so glad my humble request finds your approval!”

With exaggerated gallantry, he offers his hand to a dumb-struck Lucifer, palm up, mocking in its chivalry. Lucifer stares at it, then at his daughter, then at Alastor again. And, for some unknowable reason, he takes it.

What am I doing?

Bitter Sweet Symphony

What am I doing?

Lucifer blinks up, flushed and confused. But he takes the hand and escapes his daughter’s scolding without as much as a glance over his shoulder.

Some strange remix screams “Blame it on the night” – how ironic – not that Lucifer pays it much attention. The dance begins again, and the crowd notices their return, some curious, some openly gloating, others lifting their phones for more pictures. Someone whistles from the bar.

Oh man, how he hates it. One thing’s for sure – This time, he’ll take a very cruel strand of revenge.

Those people never learn!

The only language they seem to understand is the language of violence and suffering. Ah, but that’s a tongue he mastered long ago. If they’re asking for it? He’ll deliver, and with gusto!

Impressively enough, like before, Alastor doesn’t seem to mind one bit, while the eyes burning into Lucifer’s back make his skin crawl. Camera flashes add to the otherworldly lighting, casting sharp, shifting shadows across Alastor’s face. His movements are graceful – graceful in that disarming, effortless way of his. Even with an unsteady dance partner swaying under the effect of Husk’s drinks, Alastor moves like a man born to lead.

To Lucifer, it feels as though the stares, the whispers, the judgment only fuel him – Alastor seems to dance out of spite, as if to prove them all wrong in their greedy hunger for another scandal.

Befittingly, the music shifts, smoother this time, and “Bitter Sweet Symphony” begins to play. Lucifer would know this classic anywhere.  Alastor doesn’t react, except to change their pace accordingly, but Lucifer finds it fucking fitting.

By now, their steps sync surprisingly well. And Alastor’s warm hand in his, the slight tension in his jaw, the too-long eye contact – It’s all perfect! Maybe it’s the rhythm. Maybe it’s the drinks. Maybe it’s something else. But Lucifer couldn’t care less. All he wants is to enjoy this forbidden dance and, just for once, cherish the feeling of being handled with care.

And that’s exactly why this is dangerous, he reminds himself. If he had his doubts about Alastor’s intentions before, they’re now drowned out by his daughter’s concerns. Charlie absolutely has a point! She only wants to protect Al – Alastor – her good friend, from the inevitable disaster I am.

And still, Alastor agreed to this. Duck it, he even initiated – Not just one, but two dances!

Someone please make sense out of this man!

Cleaning up the mess this evening has become won’t be fun, so perhaps Lucifer can savour the moment a little longer before turning back into the responsible adult he should be? He leans in as they turn, a slow, swaying circle beneath dim gold lights. It’s only a fraction, but enough to shield him from the stares. With a sigh, Lucifer buries his cheek on Alastor’s chest.

His dance partner tenses in surprise, and Lucifer retreats immediately – But instead of letting him go, Alastor loops his arms around Lucifer’s neck and pulls him back in. And Lucifer follows the call, mirroring the gesture.

What is he even thinking! Didn’t he hear Charlie loud and clear?

Unfortunately, being held – being touched like this – feels sooooo damn good.

It’s a fragile embrace on the dance floor, delicate as the music itself, but Lucifer doesn’t care. Is he reckless, craving this closeness? Perhaps all he seeks is a fleeting gesture, the brief illusion of being wanted? Not that he wishes to share this with Alastor of all people, oh noho, of course not, because that would be extremely stupid, riiiight?
Is he lying to himself? Most definitely. And he has no idea what’s going on in Alastor’s head, not with the mixed signals he’s been sending all night.
Well, blame it on the alcohol – But somebody help him, he would LOVE to trace the complex topography of Alastor’s chest and-

NOPE!

Fuck, he shouldn’t even think about it!

Especially not with cameras everywhere.

Swallowing hard, Lucifer pushes the thoughts away and speaks against the tempting neon-green fabric covering Alastor’s shoulder.

“Hey, um… thanks,” he manages. “For saving me back there.”

“Saving you from your own daughter?” Alastor chuckles low, trying to brush it off. “I wouldn’t go as far.”

With precision, Alastor steers them into another turn, not allowing Lucifer even an inch of distance. And Lucifer lets it happen. Against his better judgement. Still, he risks a quick glance over Alastor’s shoulder. Thankfully, the cute couple hasn’t made an appearance yet. Please, at least spare him that much!

Alastor must sense his distraction, because suddenly the hands slip from Lucifer’s neck, and with a dizzying whirl, he’s spun around – only to land, with a surprised little shriek, back against Alastor’s chest.

A soft huff escapes him and – OH SUE ME! – Lucifer looks up at Alastor. His gaze flickers to those ever-smiling lips, then back up, locking eyes in a moment of weakness.

“Don’t forget I’m the warlock of this story…,” Alastor murmurs. “No White Knight saving princesses or dragons.”

They stay put, swaying gently from side to side, the violins weaving a perfect tapestry of sound.

“Too bad I know when I’m being rescued,” Lucifer whispers, his voice almost drowned by the music. Alastor leans in, just a fraction, and Lucifer catches the flicker of surprise in his lashes as he tilts his head, smiling up at him.

“Don’t get used to it, then,” Alastor breathes, his voice low, teasing.

Lucifer’s heart hammers. He swallows hard and licks his lips, and Alastor’s gaze drops, following the motion with deliberate, torturous slowness. Closer. Closer still. For once, his smile slips, eyes half-closed, intensity thick enough to make Lucifer’s knees weak.

SHIT. Is he really-?!

No way. This can’t be happening. Right? We’re just friends. HA! Perhaps less than that.

Alastor leans even closer, and Lucifer’s thoughts spiral. Just say something – ANYTHING! – to pull the emergency brake! Or not?!

Damn!

This is all to sudden!

He needs to breathe, to think! Will Alastor just give him two seconds to think, please?!!!

Chapter Text

Run While You Still Can

“You’re being kind,” Lucifer voices the first random thought that crosses his mind.

A flicker of surprise flashes across the face of his dance partner before Alastor pulls back.

Ah shit.

Another couple almost bumps into them, as they suddenly stop moving, purple and red lights dancing all around them. 

I ruined it.

Desperately, Lucifer fishes for the right words to say – to fix this! – but his mind has turned into an ocean.

Fuck.

And Alastor? He now looks like he is in actual pain.

Why? Did I do something wrong?  Did I overstep? Shiiit, Luci, do something!

“Well,” Alastor says, voice chipper, but it’s so damn forced, Lucifer can easily tell, “that was thoroughly entertaining, but I mustn’t be greedy. I- I wouldn’t dream of hogging the guest of honour from his duties.”

Lucifer blinks. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” Alastor replies immediately, already taking a step back. “Even a showman needs to adjust now and then.”

Lucifer opens his mouth – to ask something, to stop him – but Alastor is already turning away with a small bow. He retreats with measured steps and stiff movements, pressing one hand to his forehead. The last thing Lucifer sees of him is the black top hat disappearing in the blue and green lights.

It hurts.

A sense of surrealness washes over him. It’s like a part of his heart was ripped out. Again. It leaves a sharp pain in his chest.

Good.

That’s the only warning he’s going to get.

This was just an unreasonable flirt, Lucifer reminds himself. Charlie is right.

He needs to backpedal. He made Alastor uncomfortable. This needs to stop! One more drink, then he’s finally out of here. And with that many people around, he’ll call himself a cab for once.

As he approaches the bar, he passes Angel and Charlie locked in what looks like a heated argument. Angel gestures sharply toward the dance floor, while Charlie stands stiff, arms crossed tightly over her chest. It doesn’t look healthy, but Lucifer has no energy left to clear the air.   

I'm sorry...

The music changes to a song he’s too familiar with. It’s Garbage, “I’m only happy when it rains”.

Fuck. They must know.

Tolerubble

This was supposed to be a game! A weaponised seduction. A carefully orchestrated collapse of a man too proud to see the strings. And yet-

That damn smile!

Alastor exhales sharply, teeth clenched, leaning back against the basement door as he tries to collect himself. His thoughts are running in circles. He needs to rework the whole plan. Immediately. Because if this keeps going? He’s not sure what’s going to happen.

“You’re being kind” – The words still spin in his head. Alastor’s stomach flips thinking of it.

Oh dear.

No.

He shuts the thought down, forces the grin wider.

All of this? Just a long con. A game. He’s simply enjoying the theatrics. That’s all.

But why, oh why, is the sight of the look on Lucifer’s face haunting him?

Lucifer didn’t pull away. But he panicked. It was all in his eyes – fear, yes, but also an urge, an impulsiveness that Alastor didn’t expect to come from someone like him.

He laughs, but it sounds wrong even to his own ears.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was humiliation. Breaking Lucifer piece by piece – use his pride, his guilt, his soft spots.

Not this!

And especially not holding him close beneath cheap disco lights. Not the ridiculous warmth in his chest at how Lucifer's lashes lower when the dance slows. That’s why Alastor has retreated to the nearest secluded spot, alone.

But this is not over!  

After several minutes, he has reached the same conclusion for the third time – He needs to go back out there and somehow set the record straight. Regain control.
And he knows exactly where to find Lucifer.

Fine.

Filled with fresh determination, Alastor readjusts his collar and his smile, and finally gets to work.

The crowd is ecstatic, even though the music has changed for the worse – Currently some rap song is playing. His murderous grin parts the sea of guests with ease. No one in their right mind dares approach him now.

Something must be terribly wrong, though, because Husk doesn’t even bother with sarcasm. He just jerks his chin toward the floor hatch leading to the underbar storage. 

Ignoring this tomfoolery, Alastor pipes: “Husk, my good man! Would you kindly-“

“Whatever you’ve done to him,” the bar keep cuts in immediately, “go make it right!”

 With a rough tug he opens the hatch, and gestures for Alastor to go downstairs.  

“Is this you asking me nicely to go collect the kitten?”

Of course this needs to be more dramatic than necessary. Of course Lucifer would hide in the underbar storage. The lengths he has to go through for that man! 

“Is this a joke to you?” Husk hisses.

The lengths he has to go through for a little entertainment!

With a grin, Alastor eyes the hatchet. “That, my dear, is for me to know.”

An exasperated sigh is all he gets as a reply, but Alastor couldn’t care less. Smile in place, he snatches a bottle of Whiskey and two glasses from the bar, before descending into the dimness of the storage. It’s cool, but without the noise and the flashing lights, surprisingly soothing.  

“‘suuup, radio head?”, Lucifer slurs. His head is rested on his knees, one hand still grasping the empty wine bottle.

The creme-coloured shirt is a bright contrast against the grey wall, Lucifer's flashy shoes are standing next to him, revealing a pair of black socks – what a surprise. There could have been ducks on them.

Alastor studies the mess of a man, and – after a moment of consideration – settles beside him, neatly folding his hands in his lap with a smile.

“Oh my, someone seems to have reached the bottom of the bottle a little too early,” he comments.

Lucifer makes an attempt to sit straighter, fails spectacularly, and jabs a finger vaguely in Alastor’s direction, tracing a wobbly line through the air.

“No, am fine,” he insists, but his eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed. “I meant… you. Your head."

“Really? What a stroke of luck,” Alastor drawls, grin widening, “Out of all the adoring masses, you chose me for this intimate little chat. Ah, no, forgive me, my mistake. You seemed utterly alone when I arrived.”

The barb slides off without effect. Lucifer just offers a sheepish smile. “Yeah, nice of you to come over, despite well... Shit!” He grimaces. “I’m sorry. Really shouldn’t have done that- You, um, you know what. Sorry, ‘kay? Can we stay friends? Please?”

Friends?

A little taken aback, Alastor helps himself to a whiskey, filling his glass to the rim. Mindful as he is, he doesn’t pour the second glass, no matter how insistently Lucifer levels those puppy eyes at him.

“Say something, please?”

“‘Something,’” Alastor obliges dryly, and downs his drink in one swallow.

Lucifer squints. “Soooo?”

“You don’t expect me to read your thoughts after one evening of tolerable dancing, now, do you?” Alastor replies, gaze drifting with studied disinterest across the rows of bottles on the shelves.

“Tolerubble? Excuse me!”, Lucifer trips over his own tongue, yet still manages to look thoroughly offended.

“Only because you sport some sort of confidence on the dance floor, doesn't mean you're actually a good dance partner,” Alastor summarises crisply. He doesn't need to tell Lucifer that it was fun, god forbid.

“Oh, come on! I misstepped once-” Lucifer starts, but realises he’s lost before finishing the sentence.

“You’re drunk, Lucifer.”

“Riiiight. Be right back,” he declares his retreat with great ceremony and lurches to his feet. Alastor watches the clumsy ascent with faint amusement; collateral damage is avoided by sheer luck as Lucifer climbs the stairs and disappears through the hatch – still in socks.

That ridiculous man.

Alastor sighs.

Fine. There are worse things than enjoying a good whiskey in peace in quiet.

After what feels like an absurdly long time – long enough for Alastor to wonder, more than once, if he’s just been ditched for the first time in his life – Lucifer finally returns. His blond hair is slightly damp, his posture less slumped; he looks a touch sobered.

“You waited,” he remarks, surprise flickering across his face.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Alastor replies smoothly. “I was merely finishing my whiskey. You came back.”

Lucifer hums in response and fidgets with his sleeves. Silence stretches between them until Alastor’s patience wears thin.

“Will you sit down?” It's more command than request.

“Yes!” Lucifer obeys at once, dropping back into his old spot and leaning against the wall.

“The wine’s stronger these days,” he announces, inspecting the empty bottle as if its modest twenty percent might excuse his behavior.

“I’d rather say the dose makes the poison. And here I thought you are the experienced socialite.”

A wince is all the reply Alastor gets – and needs, hah!

They sit in silence for a while. It's almost acceptable, if Alastor couldn't feel Lucifer's gaze on him. Annoyed he turns his head, raises a brow and looks down on the other man.

“What is it, your highness?”

“Alright, I get it! You reeeeeally don't want to talk about earlier. That’s okay. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable – or flirt with you! I’m sorry!”

Why does he suddenly feel like he has been shoved overboard with a lead weight tied to his leg? Alastor’s lips curl.

“You’re repeating yourself,” he simply says.

Lucifer flushes, and it does something unpleasant to Alastor’s stomach.

He’s sinking. Deeper, deeper…

“You didn’t murder me on the spot, so I assume we’re good?”

“Yes?”

Lucifer sets the bottle aside, fidgeting again. “Can I ask you a question?”

Another one? Alastor barely keeps his smile in place.

“Maybe.”

This time Lucifer makes more of an effort to point at him, hand wobbling through the air until trembling fingers brush against Alastor’s temple. Just for a second. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Alastor’s ear before pulling away, and Alastor stares, utterly still.

“Your head, Bambi. Hurt sometimes?”

There is a perfect explanation why Alastor's mouth is too dry to form words, it simply eludes him right now. Breathing – yes, he stopped that pesky process. This must be what it feels like to drown. Not helpful.

“What?”

It is admittedly not the eloquent answer he would usually grace his surroundings with, but it can't be helped. Detached, Alastor feels as though he’s observing from the outside: his sweaty palms, the prickling at the spot Lucifer touched, the way his breath and heartbeat trip over themselves. The rest of him is locked in place, eyes fixed on Lucifer.

“You seemed to be in pain. Last session? I mean, last game night!”

Lucifer leans back, wary, as if bracing for an attack. Not the worst idea.

“I was fine,” Alastor lies smoothly, though his teeth clench around the words. That ridiculous assumption doesn’t even deserve more.

“You practically yelled at me the moment I walked in. And I saw the experimental medication in your bag.”

That can't be!

With a menacing grin, Alastor snaps out of his temporary stasis and jabs Lucifer’s shoulder with his index finger. Intended: a warning. Actual result: the idiot topples backward like a beetle on its shell.

Oh well, sue him! Perhaps Alastor used a bit more force than necessary.

“Ouch!”

Yet, he’s at Lucifer’s side before he realises it, hands already combing through blond hair before he can think this through, searching for injuries – the red streak of blood.

“Why didn’t you dodge, you idiot?!”

“Why did you poke me?” Lucifer aks, flat on his back and pouting like a schoolboy denied his favorite sweet.

Yes, that’s definitely a pout. And no blood. Good.

“Come on, get up,” Alastor demands. When Lucifer refuses to move, he sighs, extends a hand, and – against his better judgment – hauls him up.

Lucifer lets out a startled little shriek, and suddenly he’s too close. Almost-hugging close. Swaying close. And Alastor doesn’t immediately let go.

It's the perfect distraction!

“Woah, you’re stronger than you look,” Lucifer mumbles against his shoulder.

“And you’re heavier than you look,” Alastor snaps back through gritted teeth.

“You smell nice…”

How utterly humiliating!

“You’re still drunk. I’ll call you a cab.” With a hiss, Alastor sets him back down on the floor. “Give me your phone.”

“Nope. Please don’t,” Lucifer mutters, cheeks flushed as he buries his face against his knees.

“I already called one but missed it on purpose. Don’t want to do the walk of shame with that crowd. Someone might follow me, and I already scared those two nice people earlier, and I don’t want to intimidate more people tonight, and what will Char-Char say and… Anyway, Husk told me I could stay here till the party’s over.”

Alastor arches a brow.

“We at the Hazbin Hotel pride ourselves on the best service this city has to offer,” he interjects.

A guest not leaving safely? Unthinkable! His reputation would not suffer such a stain.

“Let me handle it,” he insists. “Phone. Please.”

Lucifer sighs, handing it over with a shy expression, and Alastor makes the call. Only then does the weight finally lift from his chest. He’s still in treacherous waters, yes, but they’re navigable at last.

“I’ll accompany you outside. We’ll use a side entrance.”

“I know- um. Thanks, Alastor.” Lucifer bites his lip, fiddling with his wedding ring. “Can we talk about this when I’m sober?”

His tone is cautious, almost fragile.

“No,” Alastor replies flatly.

“And your head?”

“Hard pass.”

Lucifer keeps fidgeting with his ring. “Um, okay…”

And that's that. Alastor was definitely expecting some kind of goody-two-shoes argument and at least a fiery declaration how much Lucifer caaaares – his pronunciation, not Alastor's – but no. All the man does is shrug and with a sincere look he nods to reassure Alastor.

“Got it.”

Silence stretches. Alastor keeps track of the time, Lucifer traces little circles on the floor with his finger.

“Just so you know,” Lucifer mutters at last, “before I started Paradise City-”

“Pentagram City,” Alastor corrects. “Nobody calls this shithole a paradise.”

“Before all this, before the collab with Celestium Foundation… I worked as a doctor.”

His expression falls, a sigh escaping him - sad, defeated. As if the memory alone drags him down. He sinks lower against the wall.

A part of Alastor memorises the look. It’s something he could exploit. But also something he does not want to see again. Ever! Because Lucifer’s sad face is even less tolerable than his neutral one. Or, heaven forbid, his happy one.

“You’ll probably forget you mentioned it tonight.”

“Nope. Unlikely. I usually never talk about… before.”

“Thank you for sharing,” Alastor says carefully.

Lucifer offers a strained grin, a thumbs-up that looks anything but convincing.

“Sure. Thanks for the dance. And the talk.”

It almost sounds like a question, steeped in insecurity.

“Let’s get you to the cab before you dig your grave even deeper. And no more questions about my wellbeing - or I’ll take advantage of your miserable state and strike several deals you’ll regret.”

Lucifer accepts the steadying arm. “Thanks, Al. This is… nice.”

When they leave the storage, Husk is nowhere to be seen.

Good man.

Alastor leaves the glasses on the counter.

Next they make their way through the crowd, Alastor cutting a path with effortless authority, and Lucifer stumbling along in his shadow.

I got you.

When they finally step outside, cool nightair is greeting them.

They now move side by side, silence settling between them like a fragile truce. 

Chapter Text

When Lucifer finally lets himself fall onto his bed with a huff, back first, the silence is deafening. Without the bass thrumming in his chest, the whole evening starts replaying in his head – an absolute no-can-do.

In a daring stretch, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, nearly drops it, and – ouch! – twists his wrist catching it mid-air.
“HAH! Got you!” he crows, a little too proud of himself.

The victory is short-lived, though, as he drags the phone up in front of his face, his elbow cracks against the bedframe. “Dang it!” The phone wobbles dangerously again. “Duck you, phone! And you, bed, you traitor!” he slurs, rubbing at his elbow while fumbling through his playlists.

Finally! Here we go – Sweet salvation.

The first Nocturne of Chopin’s Opus 9 in B flat minor begins to spill softly from the speaker. A deep sigh heaves out of his chest. He’s safe in his bed. He didn’t threaten anyone else except that annoying woman. Didn’t put anybody under excommunicado. And – wow, gold star for Daddy Dearest – he even managed to patch things up with Alastor. Kind of.

At least he doesn’t hate my guts… Except- Ugh, no, don’t think about it. Don’t.

But he really should. Some damage control is needed, and fast. Otherwise, not just the hotel and the party, but Alastor, and worse, his beloved Char-Char will be smack in the middle of unwanted media attention.

Lucifer can already see the headlines.
Well, fuuuuck.

He drags his hands down his face, fingers tugging at his hair.

Think, Luci. Think.

There must be a way to turn this absolute mess into, well, at least a regular mess. Summing it up, there are two things Lucifer deems especially problematic that got caught on camera: the intimate dance with Alastor and the fallout with his daughter.

So, the media will go wild with this. Well done, Luci. GREAT!

And there’s nothing to be done. In contrast to what he told his daughter, he can’t threaten the whole city anymore. Or at least, he’s too tired to try these days. And at the moment? Way too drunk.

Alright, there has to be another solution. Is there another solution?
URGH! Can’t I just burn the city – this “shithole”, as Alastor called it – down?

Of course not!

Damn him, he can't afford to panic now!

Lucifer checks his phone. 1AM. Now that's a perfectly reasonable time to... what, exactly? A city-wide message declaring that the whole thing was just a joke? A farce?

Perhaps that's actually a good idea?
I can fix this!

In his alcohol-induced haze he might not be able to craft an ironclad plant, but what he can do is something bolder, something utterly unspeakable – He'll reach out to his friends.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Heyyy peppl!

Lucifer hesitates. These are the only two people who might be able and willing to help him. And he hasn’t replied to, what, their last hundred messages? If they ignore him, or worse, hate him outright? That’d serve him right.

Here goes nothing...

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Heyyy people! I fucked up. like. BAD. I need your help. please! 

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: skip the sorrry speech blahblah I kno I suck, I know I vanished

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: but like. I need you. text me back if you dont hate me yet? If yo do thats fine. deserved  

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: I'm sooo sorry I didnt reply. I tried. I swear. but I just

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: nevermind Im the worst

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: oh shit. no ignore that last one   

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: you dont need to know that Im drunk. oh fuck I just told you. omg

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: shit. sorry sorry sorry

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: ok Im deleting all this in 1 min. no see no prob. Itll be gone, you never saw it. gone poof. am really sorry! dont want to bother you. sorry again.  

It takes less than ten seconds before his phone buzzes.

“FUUUUUUUUCK!!! What do I do, whatdoIdowhatdoIdo?!”

Lucifer jumps to his feet, nearly dropping the phone as he juggles it from hand to hand. “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred blasts out of the speaker – and that can only mean one thing. In a desperate attempt to handle the situation like an adult, Lucifer squeezes his eyes shut, mutters a half-hearted prayer to whoever might be listening, and answers the call.

“Heyyyyyyy Ozzy, long time no hear HAHAHA.”

On the other end, the man endures Lucifer’s wheezing for a heartbeat, before there’s the faint sound of a cough, then Ozzy’s smooth, low voice: “…Lulu, are you as dead-ass drunk as you sound?”

“Whaaat, nohohoho. I’m fine. Totally fine. What have you been up to? How’s Fish doing? Fis? Sorry, whatwashisnameagain? Damn, I always sucked with names – not the way you’re thinking, HAHA-“

“Seriously, Lucifer,” Ozzy cuts in gently. “Are you okay? Do you want me to come over? You need a distraction? We could talk about RPGs and your OCs, like back in the old times…”

“HELL NO! I’M GREAT! DOING GREAT!”

A long pause follows. Ozzy sighs, audible even through the phone.
“Alright, let’s try this again.” His voice softens, steady, practiced. “Hi Lulu. Great to hear from you. How can I help- Oh! One sec. It’s Bee. She’s asking what’s going on. Heh. She’s almost out the door.”

Lucifer gnaws at his nails, pacing on his bed. “Oh no no no no, don’t-”

“Let me add her to the call real quick, yeah?”

A nervous laugh bursts out of Lucifer. He really shouldn’t be trusting his instincts in this state. But it’s too late now. Hanging up isn’t an option.

Oh, shit.

“LUCIFER MORNINGSTAR! HOW DARE YOU?”

Yep. That’s Bee, Lucifer thinks.

Lucifer flops back down on the bed – standing on it just feels too ridiculous – and sighs. He deserves this. He has been ignoring them for ages. What else did he expect?

“Hi, Bee,” Lucifer manages, tone hushed. “Thanks for calling. Both of you. You’re the best.”

His throat locks up like someone shoved a fist down it. He wants to thank them again, then bail before he cracks. But then he hears it. A muffled snivel. His chest seizes.

“Wait. Are you… okay?” he asks, totally thrown.

“Hell no, dumbass!” Bee barks, voice breaking mid-sentence. Then comes the sob. And another. “Like- How could I? You ghosted us forever, and the only reason we hear from you is ‘cause you’re in deep shit?”

“I’m so sorry,” Lucifer croaks.

“Fuck sorry – I’m SO glad we got you back, you Featherbrain!”

That’s it. The freezer in his chest bursts. Everything melts at once, emotions pouring out like the tide.

“I’m sorryyyyy!”  

“Bee, are you crying for real?” Ozzy cuts in, rich baritone wobbling. “Oh, perfect. Now I’m crying too. Fabulous. We’re baaaaaaaack!” His dramatic cry spirals straight into sobbing.

Lucifer stumbles toward the tissue box, tears streaming freely. “I missed you,” he whispers, as all three of them descend into a gloriously ugly-crying mess. “I missed you so ducking much!”

“And we missed you, you stupid clown!” Bee half-laughs, half-sobs. “I blew up your phone, like, a THOUSAND times! And Ozzy had to drag my ass away from your door, swear to Hell!”

“I wouldn’t have opened…”

“DUH, I know!” she yells, hiccuping. “But lemme tell you, this boss bitch had a plan! No cap.”

Between nose-blows, Ozzy chuckles. “You don’t even want to know. She literally kidnapped a whole flock of ducks. Said she was gonna storm your yard with them until you cracked. I had to pry them out of her hands. Check your phone, Lulu, I sent pics!”

“You’re lying!”

“On God, we ain’t!” Bee snorts.

“I- THANK YOU!” he blurts, somewhere between sob and howl, or whatever those noises his voice is making are. “I don’t know how I ever deserved you two!”

“Shut it, Lu!” Bee snaps, still sniffling. “No more sad-boy crap. I love you idiots so freakin’ much, I straight-up ducknapped four birds just to get a smile outta your stupid face! Ride or die, bitch, I got you!”

“And so do I,” Ozzy declares, grand but teary.

It’s insane. It's absolutely insane, and what the hell, those poor ducks, but Lucifer can’t help it. He’s laughing, shaking, wheezing. Bee and Ozzy join in, all three lost in the storm of laughter and tears.

Damn… I almost forgot what this feels like.

The picture of his new party flares bright in his mind, and Lucifer smiles. It sobers him up a little. He still needs to save Alastor and Charlie. And Angel, perhaps, if he actually got into a fight with her.  

As if reading his mind, Ozzy booms: “Whatever it is, Lulu, we’ve got your back. Now spill. Cat out of the bag. What did you get mixed up in this time?”

They blow their noses in tragic unison, and the chaos settles into a heavy quiet. Lucifer sets his phone on speaker, twisting his wedding ring. No running away this time. He has to tell them.

“I… uh… I don’t even know where to start…” Lucifer rubs his face. His head is buzzing too hard for wit. The whole evening’s been so ducking eventful, he doesn’t even want to think about it anymore, but he has to give them context first. “Alright. Three sentences. Then you can judge me. Deal?”

“Go on, sugar,” Ozzy purrs.

“Alright… A few weeks ago, I went to Char-Char’s hotel, and her bellhop lured me into a DND campaign. Tricksy little bastard! Turns out it’s this elaborate scheme to stop Charlie from overworking herself- but she’s not actually playing with us yet. I’m there to convince her to join eventually.”

“Okay… no idea what the hell that means, but I’m still with you,” Bee drawls. “DND sounds mighty fine! What class are you playin’ now?”

Lucifer slips his wedding ring off, fidgets with it, then slides it back on. “Hem. I’ll tell you another time.  All you really need to know is the guy’s pushy as hell. Like, relentless! Sooo, now I’m stuck playing DND with him and, oh, boy, he’s the worst. One second he’s warm, the next he’s ice cold. I swear something’s wrong with him, maybe he’s ill or- ah, not the point.”

Deep inhale. Long exhale. You got this, Luci.

“Okay, getting to the important part! He cooked for Charlie and me. And get this, he made me a vegetarian dish, just for me! But when I wanted to thank him, he went all narky, like I’d insulted his whole family, and- Anyway! Fast-forward. Charlie invited me to a 90s party at her hotel. I should’ve stayed home, oh my, I’m SO stupid, why the fuck did I even-”

“Focus, Lulu,” Ozzy cuts in smoothly. “You went to the party, aaand?”

“Right! Yes! I went, and he asked me to dance. Twice! And I kind of said yes. But Char-Char hated it, because he’s her friend too. And she’s totally right! I almost screwed it all up, giving him the wrong signals, making him uncomfortable. Char-Char was so scared I’d hurt him, or worse, scare him off, and I just- ugh! I feel like she thinks I’ll burn everything down again, abandon her, maybe even that I’m trying to replace Lili-”

“Lucifer, stop. Please.” Bee’s voice cuts sharp but warm. “First of all, I hate to break it to you, but… Lilith left you seven years ago. And she ain’t coming back, my lamb.”

Lucifer blinks.

“You can’t replace someone who’s already gone. Guess you still need to hear that from time to time…”

He waits for the stabbing ache, but it doesn’t come. Just the hollow echo in his chest. Why? On their anniversary it hurt like hell. Maybe it’s the alcohol muddling not just his brain but his heart, too?

“I’m sorry, Lu,” Bee softens. “We’re here. Always.”

Her honey-soft words wrap him like an actual embrace, and he lets himself sink into it.

“I know.”

It stings a little. He doesn’t deserve it.

Lucifer’s gaze falls to the golden ring on his finger. Funny how easy it is to forget how long it’s been. With a sigh, he tugs his snake blanket around his shoulders.

“Hey, are you good over there?” Ozzy asks gently. “Do you want to tell us what happened next?”

“Yeah… I mean, not really. But… sure.” Lucifer curls into a ball. “Sooo… we almost kissed.”

“SLAY!” Bee bursts out, giddy, while Ozzy chuckles. “I knew it. Wait. ‘Almost’? Define almost!”

Oh fuck.

He said it. And saying it out loud is admitting it is snapping that thin line between pure imagination, wishful thinking and reality. He can’t possibly know what Alastor was thinking in that moment, but his abrupt retreat and the tension that followed can hardly be denied.

“Spill! Tell us everything about this almost-smooch with Mystery Man, please!” Ozzy demands, and Lucifer can hear him clap, but Bee stops the interrogation before it begins.

“Hold your horses, Ozzy,” she reins him in. “Save the thirst-talk for later. What’s the actual problem? Did you clash with Charlie? Get snubbed?”

Lucifer yanks the blanket over his head. He wants to scream into the pillow, but not now. His friends are here to help. After a long, muffled groan, he peeks out of his blanket cave.

“I’m not sure…” he admits. “That’s something to sort out sober, I guess. The problem is it’s all caught on camera. You know the tabloids and that they love tearing me apart. If I don’t get ahead of it, they’ll use me to ruin Charlie’s party, or worse, trash her hotel’s reputation. That’s why I need your help.”

“That’s it? The problem’s the damn paparazzi running their mouths again?” Bee asks, and he hears her typing in staccato.

“Yeah. I thought maybe I should – I dunno – claim it was all a joke, or some dumb PR stunt, before those vultures twist it. But…” He rakes his hair. “…I don’t know.”

More violent typing rattles through the speaker. Bee seems already at it. “Strike! Found it!”

While she continues her work, Lucifer rocks back and forth, hands gripping his blanket. Is this it? The solution? Could he actually, by some miracle, pull the cart out of the mud with their help?

“Lulu,” Ozzy pipes in, voice thick with curiosity, “when do we get the full tea on Mystery Man? Can we meet for breakfast? My treat! Wherever you like. And whenever! I bet you’ll be too hungover to move tomorrow.”

“I will not! Did you forget you’re talking to Lucifer ducking Morningstar? I used to be the one carrying you home!”

Ozzy guffaws.

“I gotcha!” Bee crows, triumph crackling through the line. “Ozzy, pick the steamiest one of the pictures I just sent you.”

“What pictures?” Lucifer’s stomach drops.

“Relax, not here to sue. But holy hell, Lulu, that man screams trouble. I’d eat him alive if you ever feel like ditching…”

“Bee! Please!” Lucifer cuts in, scandalised.

“Insatiable as always,” Ozzy drawls. Lucifer can hear the smirk in his voice. “But she’s right. He’s hot.”

Lucifer presses a hand to his face. Alastor is going to kill him. Or worse, what if he’s enjoying this circus?

“And we have a winner,” Ozzy announces.

Lucifer’s phone buzzes. One new message. He stares at the notification for a long moment before swiping it open.

DUCK. ME.

It’s a photo. Alastor and him, locked in a tight embrace, half-lidded eyes caught in a pull that’s one heartbeat away from a kiss. Red and purple lights smear across their flushed faces, wrapping them in a fever dream.

Lucifer’s still staring, frozen, when Bee clears her throat, ready to explain.

Bee’s fingers click and clatter across the keyboard. “Alright, listen up! You’re gonna post that especially steamy pic on your socials. First post in forever. Say something like this.”

Lucifer’s phone buzzes again, and he copies the text.

Having fun at the amazing 90s party – go check out the Hazbin Hotel run by Charlotte Magne! And let’s see if the media takes the bait 😈😉😇 Special thanks to <tag MYSTERY MAN> and-

Lucifer freezes. I cannot tag Alastor, can I?

The picture was already uploaded on a private account, but he’d certainly hate the attention it would get if Lucifer were the one posting it. Or would he?
As he searches for Alastor, nothing comes up.

Does he have a ridiculous nickname?

Even the hotel homepage doesn’t list a picture under his name. Come to think of it, Lucifer has never once seen him using a phone or computer.

How strange. Wait. Does he even own a phone? Oh my gosh! He won’t see the post unless somebody shows him… Maybe I can explain everything before he notices!

Bee immediately sends him the second part.

Special thanks to the Hazbin Hotel’s wicked-good hotelier and my amazing daughter Charlie <TAG>, for coming up with this advertisement campaign! The party was so fun it even got me dancing, who knows what I’ll be doing next time 😉

Lucifer blinks at the screen, considering, then nods. That should do the trick.
He hits send. Then, just to be sure, he pushes out a city-wide notification that he’s posted something. Not that it’s necessary. People will spread it immediately anyway.

Within seconds, likes and messages from Bee, Ozzy, and their friends start pouring in. Lucifer leans back and lets himself breathe for the first time in hours.

“Alright, plan in motion,” he mutters, rubbing his temples.

Ozzy hums. “Perhaps let your daughter and Mystery Man know what you’re doing? It would be best if they commented on your post.”

“Right…”

Time to make amends.
Lucifer types out a message to Charlie, taking extra time to correct the spelling. He really doesn’t want to sound drunk, and the posted picture is bad enough.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Hi Sweety, I’m SO sorry I messed up your evening! I won’t let it happen again!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: This is damage control. Auntie Bee and Ozzy helped me. I need you to like this post and comment. Say something positive, please. I hope this whole PR stunt works. Your hotel is at the centre of attention now… Please let me know if you need any help, okay?  

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: I talked to Alastor before leaving – You were right, and I’m sorry! We’re good now, all fine, superduper. Don’t worry. Please let him know what’s going on in case somebody asks you to comment on any of this.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Hope you’re alright…

Lucifer stares at the sent message, then at the clock. 2 AM. He so hopes that Charlie sees this immediately. Perhaps the party is still running?

“Well done!” Bee exclaims. Ozzy and she have been commenting on the flood of reactions on Sinstagram, but Lucifer has been so focussed on messaging Charlie, he hasn’t registered a thing.

“So, breakfast! Are you free next weekend, Lulu?”

“Um, yes, I guess. Why not? Shall we say Sunday?”

They quickly agree on Sunday, 10 AM at Ozzy’s place. After a lot of heart-felt reaffirmations, they end the call, leaving a warm glow in Lucifer’s chest. Just as he leans back, his phone buzzes again.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Okay, Dad. I did as you asked.  

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: The Hotel just got 78 new followers.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: 86…

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: And Alastor says hi. He specifically told me to congratulate you on a tolerable post. I’m really confused now.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: And I’m sorry.

What? It almost breaks Lucifer’s heart. Deep breath. Don’t mess this up.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: dont be! you were right, okay?

Her reply comes immediately, and soon the messages pile up, giving Lucifer a hard time smoothing out the speeling.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Was this Al’s and your idea right from the start?

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Please don’t keep things from me, Dad. I was really worried!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: of course, Sweety! Im sorry!

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: I’m sorry too, Dad! I really shouldn’t have called you out like that. I feel so stupid now. I was seriously worried you’d… you know… ask Al out or something... Sorry!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: HAHA great joke, Honey.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: It’s also none of my business, but I’m really glad you didn’t. Al’s more fragile than he looks. Please don’t tell him I said that!

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: I wont!

Lucifer eyes his wedding ring. Now he’s hurting? What the duck?
In the privacy of his thoughts, he’s very sorry for that dance and the almost-kiss – If they really made Alastor uncomfortable. It’s a relief they settled things, even if Alastor never wants to talk about it again.

Gosh, what more does he want?

Besides, Alastor approved the countermeasures!

But why seek him out again after fleeing the dance floor? Why bother? And calling him a cab? The chivalrous walk through the crowd?
It doesn’t make sense…

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Good night, Sweety.

Charlie <The Best Darling Daughter>: Good night, Dad! Hope you’re okay. Let’s have dinner again soon. By the way, are you free next weekend?

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: ABSOLUTELY!

With a sigh, Lucifer pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Perhaps he’s longing for more of that. Fuck. He sure is. Just like Alastor’s behaviour toward him, Lucifer’s thoughts keep bouncing back and forth. With Bee and Ozzy as backup, maybe he can allow himself to be Alastor’s plaything a little while longer? Is that selfish? If he ends up broken, he can always crawl back to the company of his loyal rubber ducks.  

Riiight. I need to sleep.

The night is far from over, but at least the fire is contained. Lucifer sets his phone face down on the nightstand, closes his eyes, and drifts into a restless sleep. At least he still had his ducks and his snake blanket. They never judged.

Chapter Text

Dancing on eggshells

Alastor casts a thoughtful look out of the window. Evening has fallen, and the heavy clouds paint the sky a dull grey. The hotel’s lights spill across the garden and street below, revealing the rain hasn’t ceased. Alastor grimaces. Days – weeks? – of unrelenting downpour have left the greenery nearly unmanageable, and it’s annoying. Even if autumn has arrived with the first night frost, the amazing red roses are still blooming.

Not for very much longer, if this fickle weather continues.

He adjusts the armchairs around the side table and starts pacing his room. The tea is already brewing, two mugs waiting for their use. The bedroom door is discreetly shut, and his desk neatly arranged with only a tablet and a few papers. Tidy as usual, good.

Alastor’s gaze lingers on the wall-filling painting of the Bayou. Perhaps this is the most private thing he owns, and for the first time he’s uncomfortably aware of having it displayed – his home laid bare to any intruder foolish enough to cross into his domain. Only normally there are none.

Perhaps inviting Lucifer to speak in private before game session was a mistake.

A look on his grandfather clock politely informs him, it’s 7:05 PM.
Of course. That imbecile is late!

Six more minutes of pacing pass before the knock on his door frees Alastor from his misery.

Finally!

He smooths out the lapels of his red coat and opens the door with a grin that is all teeth.

“Well, well. I wasn’t expecting you to show up.”

Delightful irritation washes over Lucifer’s face, and he looks completely dumbstruck for a second, glancing over his shoulder as if the jab could possibly be aimed at someone else. His ridiculous top hat and coat are soaked through from the rain. With the wind howling like this, only a proper raincoat provides any real protection – clearly something a stay-at-home dandy like Lucifer didn’t realise.  

“What? Why? Didn’t Husk forward my reply?” he asks, puppy-eyes glancing up at Alastor.

“Of course he did. You’re late!”

A surprised “Oh” escapes Lucifer and he rubs the back of his head with a sheepish grin, almost losing his hat during the process.

“Did you get lost on your way up here?” Alastor jabs, but steps aside in a curt gesture to let him in. Lucifer has the audacity to flush, and that settles the matter. Unable to stand the sight of this particular look on his face, Alastor turns away and fetches a hanger.

Idiot.

He directs Lucifer to the armchairs without detour, and his visitor immediately starts to babble.

“TERRIFIC! Thanks for making tea! It’s freezing out there. I got off at the wrong station and walked the rest of the way – didn’t want to be early again, haha – but I really wasn’t expecting the wind to be that brutal.”

Feeling his own nerves tightening, Alastor pours the tea immediately, setting the mug down with a little more force than necessary.

“Lucifer, will you sit down.” It’s not a request.

“Ah, sure.”

An awkward silence wraps around them, broken only by Lucifer slurping his tea. He takes a sip, grimaces, and sets the mug down again, fingers clinging to it like an anchor.

“What’s the matter?” Alastor asks, taking a probing sip of his own tea. Nothing wrong with it. It’s a decent Earl Gray with a pinch of lemon, bitter, and flavourful.

“Haha, nothing,” Lucifer stammers, clutching the mug tighter. Before the silence can smother him, he blurts: “Sooo, you wanted to talk?”

Did he now? Alastor could have sworn Lucifer was the one pushing for this little private talk. Why else accept the invitation, if not to avoid the embarrassment of catching up in front of Angel and Husk? Tch. Trust Lucifer to make it more complicated for both of them. And after weaponising Alastor’s own scheme in such a ludicrous way that Alastor had – openly, no less – admitted it was tolerable.

So why is he sitting there like a nervous teenage boy?

Alastor knows Charlotte included his begrudging acknowledgment in her Sinstagram post. He double-checked it himself, Hell take him. Putting on a smile, he lets his gaze sweep over his guest. Lucifer’s damp blonde hair sits slightly out of form, and without the makeup his complexion is pale as parchment, dark rings shadowing his eyes.

Does he ever sleep?

Not that Alastor cares. He’s simply assessing  Lucifer’s current state, because apparently he is the only one who can ensure their DND party to attend the adventure in full.

“I assumed you wanted to agree on one version of how our ‘advertisement campaign’ unfolded,” he begins, guarded, “since you already lied to Charlotte dearest.”

 “WHAT?” Lucifer all but shouts, shoving his armchair back as he bolts upright. “I’d never!”

With a sigh, Alastor points neatly at the breast pocket of Lucifer’s rose-coloured suit vest.

Is he playing stupid on purpose?

“It was you who gave her the impression we had planned this from the start, remember? I merely improvised to actually send the horse flying.”

Cheeks cherry-red, Lucifer fishes the phone out of his pocket. He scrolls through the messages, then, suddenly his eyes widen before he hastily shoves the device down again.

“Oh my, were you too drunk to notice you lied to your daughter?” Alastor observes, voice sharp as a blade.

More likely, Lucifer had been too intoxicated on his own victory to notice at all – proudly stamping their little dance as a PR stunt. A flaw so dark and reckless that Alastor can’t help but respect.

“I- Not true!”

Shaking his head in exasperation, Alastor takes another sip of his tea.

Fine.

He can accept that their skirmish at the 90s party ended in a draw. They both got what they wanted: Alastor got under Vox’s skin, and half the party guests – Angel among them, and thanks to the pictures likely more – witnessed him snatching the prize away in front of their eyes and with minimal effort, too. His project to dismantle the city’s founding father is still ongoing, but if he stays the course, the prognosis for success looks excellent. He knows he must tread carefully, though, because if- It doesn’t matter! He has everything back under control now.

As for Lucifer, he scored points in Charlotte’s good book by spinning the evening into a dubious advertisement campaign for her hotel. It should also be enough to pacify her factually incorrect, unjustified outburst.

Golly, what an amazing outcome! Now, let’s start over, using easy words for this child of a man.

“I admittedly enjoyed the outrage our little dance has caused,” Alastor offers, extending an olive-branch. “Especially since it was deemed so scandalous, the biggest media company didn’t even comment or spread the post. Funny, isn’t it?”

Confusion clouds Lucifer’s face. He averts his gaze, fidgeting with the golden ring on his finger. “And who’s that?” he asks, clearly uncomfortable, shoulders sinking. “I, um, I don’t follow the news… How’s that any good for our plan?”

Alastor isn’t even surprised anymore. If anything, there’s one amusing angle: Vox and his obnoxious friends would be furious to learn the man supposed to run Pentagram City is oblivious of their “business”. Satisfied with that thought, Alastor sets his empty mug aside.

“Oh, pay it no mind. I’ll keep an eye on them. Now listen, Lucifer. When your beloved daughter held me hostage for twenty minutes, scolding me for not letting her in on ‘our’ plan, I simply told her the element of surprise would’ve been ruined if anyone had known in advance.”

At the mention of his name, Lucifer looks up, expression anxious. Once again, Alastor can’t reconcile the contradictory little factettes that make up Lucifer Morningstar. Is this the same man who confidently posting that indecent picture of their dance, labelling it media bait?

Tch. At least he’s listening for once.

“Charlotte assumes we agreed to dance to draw attention to the hotel, just as your lovely post claimed. That’s it. We know you came up with this stunt on a whim, that the scheme to get back on her good side was half-baked and prone to failure” – in short, a ‘tolerable’ comeback, though Alastor keeps that to himself – “but for the rest of the world? You came up with it after our last game session, kindly asked me to help support your daughter, and I – generous as always – agreed. We made a deal, and the rest is history.”

All he gets in return is an unbelieving blink.

“You think that- I, um, wait.” Lucifer rubs his eyes. “I posted that picture to protect Charlie and the hotel from those media sharks, sure, but also to save your reputation! I thought you’d- Well, I-”

A dark chuckle slips from Alastor. “Goodness me. Do I strike you as someone who needs your protection – who needs saving?”

“Um…”

“That’s what I thought,” Alastor deadpans. “This was just a dance you folded into a scheme. Nothing more.”

Don’t think you’ve won the war.

The corner of Lucifer’s lips twitch, then he nods. “Alright. Sure.”   

“Splendid!”

“GREAT.”

Alastor doubts he’ll ever get used to Lucifer agreeing with him.

“Would you like some more tea?”

Without waiting for an answer, he refills Lucifer’s cup to the brim. This would be the perfect moment to slide in his deal with Charlotte, prime her father for arranging her meeting with Celestium Foundation, but he needs to be clever about it. As he searches for an angle, he notices Lucifer shudder. Excellent. Now that’s a starting point!

“I’ll be right back,” Alastor says, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, he leaves the room. When he returns a minute later, blanket in hand, pilfered from the couch in the corridor, his stomach does a strange, unwelcome flip. It’s Lucifer’s eyes and how they suddenly light up.

“Here,” Alastor offers. “It’s unacceptable for guests to freeze while staying at our hotel.”

He hands Lucifer the blanket, and the man practically beams at him. “Thank you! That’s very k-, very considerate!”

That smile shouldn’t feel like a threat, yet it claws under Alastor’s skin more than any snarl could. Back to the plan!

Lure him in…

“Charlotte would be most disappointed if any of us failed to uphold the Hazbin Hotel’s high standards. And she’s doing such a marvellous job, don’t you agree?”

After a brief hesitation, Lucifer nods so hard, the blanket almost slips from his shoulders. “Oh yes, absolutely! The way she’s running the hotel- I mean, you can clearly see how well she’s handling everything. The party, for instance! The guest list, the lights, the signposts, the drinks – everything was perfect!”

Alastor had intended to correct him, to point out all the other people who made the party work. But his impulse to contradict wins out instead.

“Would you call the music selection perfect?”

Lucifer falters, then bursts into laughter, nearly spilling his untouched tea.

“Nope! But exceptions prove the rule, right? And a 90s party without trashy music wouldn’t be real, would it?”

“Don’t insult a whole decade, you amateur!”

“I didn’t! I embrace the trash!”

The debate sparks instantly, heated, ridiculous, and surprisingly lively – until Lucifer’s phone cuts through with George Thorogood and the Destroyers’ “It Wasn't Me“.

“Oh shit! It’s Husk!” Lucifer fumbles the phone up and answers without a thought. “Hi Husk! I’m sorry, we’re coming- What? Um, yes, I’m with Alastor. Sorry, we lost track of time! We’ll be right there!“

Alastor throws him a murderous glance, but Lucifer is already scooping up the dishes. “We’re late!”

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Alastor asks, lips stretched to their limit.

“Taking the mugs down to the kitchen? I don’t want to leave all the work to you. Thank you for having me!”

Despite everything, Lucifer beams at him again, and Alastor is too busy not murdering the fool on the spot to come up with a proper retort. He barely manages to stop him from actually carrying the mugs off, and they have to double back mid-stairwell because Lucifer forgot his coat and hat in Alastor’s room. The blanket is left carelessly draped over Alastor’s armchair. Only then do they finally reach the gaming room beneath the ceiling.

Double-Crossed

“Sooo, are Sweetpants and you an item now, Smiles?”

Tch.

Of course Angel wouldn’t give him a break. Next to him, Lucifer freezes mid-motion while pulling his character sheet from his bag. Alastor folds his hands on the gaming table and grins.

“Didn’t you see Lucifer’s post? I didn’t expect you to be that secluded. Even your dice must have gotten the notification by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘advertisement campaign’, we get it, very clever cover-up,” Angel drawls, leaning across the table, a smirk plastered on his face, dyed hair falling into his eyes. “But the four of us know what was really going on! I even picked a fight with Charlie for you, so don’t tell me you weren’t usin’ that time in the storage for good!”

Husk tries to look neutral, but the way he suddenly busies himself behind the gamemaster screen tells Alastor he’s listening closely.

“Oh my, we certainly had a great time,” Alastor retorts, grin sharp as knives. “Dear Husk really needs to restock his wine and whiskey. As for the rest, what’s it called, ah, yes. None of your business!”

Lucifer flushes, rubbing the back of his head, and Angel immediately seizes on it.

“Awww, is that code for ‘congratulations are in order’? I’m so happy for you!” he sings. “Was about time! And seeing that dance-“

The adult filmmaker gets up and starts swaying his hips in obscene mimicry, fishnet tights and short pants leaving little to the imagination.

“-I was feeling inspired for my next movie. So. Much. Emotioooon.”

Alastor tenses, his fingers curling into claws.

I’ll strangle him. And then-

“Hey, Angel, why don’t you tell us about your dance with Husk?” Lucifer cuts in brightly, giving a thumbs-up.

What?

His expression looks sincere, but Alastor swears there was a devilish glint in Lucifer’s eyes for the fraction of a second.

“Ex-fucking-cuse ya? Didn’t happen!”

For the first time, Alastor sees Angel blush. He drops back into his seat, arms crossed tightly. Husk coughs into his fist.

Alastor doesn’t get it, nor does he care to, but that won’t stop him from adding commentary. He’s about to toss in a witty remark when the door bursts open and Charlotte sweeps in.

“Heyyy, party people! Surprise! I thought I’d bring you something for your game session.”

With a smile as blinding as the sun, she sets a massive cake and four plates on the table. The thing is ferocious, smeared in crimson icing letters spelling “SORRY”, dotted with humanoid figures painted in food dye. Alastor has to admit, they do resemble their characters: the warlock is marked by red robes and a staff, the rogue skulks in black half-hidden behind a tree, the paladin gleams with six radiant wings, while Husk appears as a cloud-perched judge with book in hand, finger extended toward a horde of goblins. Four lit candles flicker on top, smoke already curling into the air, reminding Alastor that he intended to murder Angel only a minute ago.

Before he can return to that pleasant thought, Charlotte dives into another painfully awkward father-daughter hug, and Lucifer drowns all murderous intent by snivelling. “Thank you, Sweety, you really shouldn’t have!”

Seriously? Tears? Over a cake?

Angel blows out the candles in one greedy huff. “Thanks, Dollface!” 

“Now that’s one hell of a way to say you’re sorry,” Husk mutters, cutting slices after Angel has snapped a group picture.

Charlotte beams, handing Alastor the piece marked with the warlock. “Hi Al, would you please try it? I promise you’ll like it! Or, um… I hope so.”

As if he’d ever refuse in front of her father. Alastor rises and pats her head thrice, gloves making the contact bearable.
“Thank you, deary. It’s perfect. You’re talented, and it shows.”

“Haha, that’s nothing compared to the duck you made, Al. You and Dad – well, all of you really – saved the party. I’ll leave you to your adventure. Please enjoy!”

And with that she hastily slips back out the door.

“Good, let’s start with a short recap, shall we?” Husk says, already chewing happily.

Alastor notices Lucifer wiping a tear from his eye before launching into an absurdly exaggerated retelling of their goblin slaughter. While listening, Alastor pokes at his cake. To his surprise, there’s foil baked into his piece, wrapping a different dough than the rest of the saccharine monstrosity. Expecting Charlotte’s usual tooth-rotting sweetness, he tastes it and it’s- Salty?
Now that was unexpected. Lucifer shoots him a curious glance but keeps his focus on spinning their tale into something mythic. The cake is gone in no time, and so is the introduction to the session.  

“What do you mean, the barkeep attacks us? I thought our characters were having breakfast in the tavern. Wait. This is a trap?!” Lucifer blurts, and Alastor rolls his eyes. Is it really such a shock? Hadn’t Lucifer himself predicted it? Yet, here he sits, both scandalised and thrilled as several “innocent” village people reveal their blades and turn against their group.

Typical. What a nerd.

“Whaaat?” Angel joins the little protest. “Those motherfuckers let us wipe out their pest and then they double-cross us while we’re still hungover from the victory celebration? No way!”

Husk gives them a mock-innocent shrug.

We should have known better.

Alastor has to admit, it's a job well done. Their characters will pay for leaving loose ends with the whole goblin-incident. Shame he has grown fond of Everan.

“I cast shocking grasp,” Alastor announces without further ado. Won't help to wait. While Angel shoots him a surprised look – “No talkin’?” – Lucifer is nodding contently, already fired up.

“They messed with the wrong group!” he declares, raising his golden dice like a weapon. “Give them hell, Everan!”

“Gladly,” Alastor purrs.

Everan stands at the edge of the battlefield, his crimson-laced cloak coiling around his legs as if savouring the violence to come. The reek of ale-soaked floorboards mixes with the sharp tang of blood, the tavern’s air thick with sweat and fear.

His allies are locked in their own moments of strife. But the villagers – those treacherous little rats – stand united, blocking every exit. That backstabbing, filthy betrayers. Everan won’t hesitate to take his hangover out on the weaklings – his prey.  

"This is your own doing, you wretched traitors!" Gideon‘s voice cuts through the tension, coming from across the taproom, his paladin’s heavy armour clanking with each step as he charges forward, sword drawn, eyes blazing with divine fury.

But the villagers are far from retreating. Armed with crude axes and sharpened pitchforks, their glares burn with hatred. There’s now a dozen of them, if not more, their sweat-slicked faces contorted in savage glee, slowly encircling their party.

“It seems those humans are more beasts than the goblins,” Everan sneers and across the room Gideon and Silken nod grimly. With a flick of his wrist, Everan mutters an incantation. The air ripples as ethereal green tendrils swirl from his outstretched hand, slithering toward the nearest villager with unnatural speed.

“Beware the hunger of the void!”

The magic crackles, sizzling through the air like a static storm, wrapping the nearest villager in a deathly embrace. Screams tear the air as their flesh blackens, crumbles, and finally drifts into dust. The stench of rot floods the tavern, choking and sour.

What a feast!

From the corner of his eye, Everan catches Silken slip behind another villager, who attempted to flank Gideon. Daggers flash. The rogue’s strike is elegant, merciless, steel parting flesh in silence. He vanishes back into the shadows with a low, delighted laugh.

"That’ll teach ya," he whispers, voice dripping with dark amusement.

Gideon‘s eyes narrow, sword striking downward like divine judgment. A villager collapses before him, gurgling on his own blood, but it’s not enough. The paladin’s breath comes in ragged gasps, the exhaustion of battle evident on his flushed face.

Stay focused, Lucifer, Alastor thinks, though his character holds his tongue. This fight is far from over.

The villagers keep coming – more and more of them – spurred on by rage and desperation. Their eyes glint with fanaticism, and the stench of sweat and fear mixes with the acrid tang of blood. The sound of steel scraping against bone, the sickening squelch of bodies hitting the floor, fills the tavern.

And yet, in the midst of the chaos, there is something distinctly exhilarating. The crackle of magic, the rhythm of boots thundering against the floorboards, the harmony of screams and clashing blades, an orchestra of ruin. Every note calls to Alastor’s soul.

How wonderful this is.

A twisted grin spreads across his lips. This is no longer a simple battle for survival, it is an art, a dance of carnage, and Alastor savours every step.

But Husk is merciless. After half an hour, the tide has turned. Their party is fraying at the edges, pushed into a corner with no clean way out. Silken is barely standing, Everan just as fragile, and the next turn belongs to Gideon.

Alastor drums his fingers against the table, mind already sketching vengeance should Husk not offer them an escape. If this ends in failure, the gamemaster will find himself prey instead.
Ah, I’ll make sure it’s fun.

“I'm sorry…” Lucifer suddenly says. His voice trembles in a way that makes Alastor glance up.

Is it in-character or not?

“I think it's time I call upon my special trait.”

Brows arch all around the table.

“Your what now?” Alastor asks, suspicion sharpening his grin.

Lucifer rises half out of his chair, arms spread like a prophet on stage. “I cast holy channel!”

Even Husk freezes, eyes narrowing, and that is something new.

With the kind of smug flourish that only Lucifer can muster, he produces a file of photocopied rulebook pages and lays them before their gamemaster.

“I wasn’t planning on using it this early,” he sighs, “but here we are. By channelling my paladin’s bond with the celestial plane, Gideon may amplify his channel, drawing upon his own life energy aka his health points.”

The table goes still. Angel’s jaw drops. Husk squints at the papers, his mouth twitching in what might be irritation or disbelief.

You should know the powers of your players, Husk, Alastor muses, watching intently. And yet, here you are. Wrong-footed. How delightful.

“That suspiciously sounds like you are sacrificing yourself,” Alastor observes, and Lucifer gives him a guilty look.

“It's the most sensible thing to do. Ser Lightbringer has several HP, but he can't hold the line alone – he doesn’t deal enough damage. Once you’re down, the enemies will swarm me. You two are the real DDs. With your HP restored, you can finish them off. And maybe…” he swallows, “…maybe it won't be too late to save me. Depending on the roll.”

“What a pathetic way to go,” Alastor criticises dryly.

“What, you'd rather die?”

“No. I'd prefer the imbeciles to pay first.”

Lucifer has the audacity to smile. “Awww, is that your way of saying you care?”

Ridiculous!

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“But you do!”

“Tch. Do your incredibly heroic thing.”

Lucifer nods, though his fingers tremble as he reaches for the dice. Easy enough to see he’s nervous.

What a nerd indeed.

The dice rattle across the table, and fine, Alastor has to admit a fraction of the tension coils through him as well. If this doesn’t work, the adventure ends here. And strange as it is, that feels like a loss. Husk is cruel enough to script a bloody, ignoble ending for them. Alastor tenses. That won’t do. A premature ending would mean one thing: He would have to resort to his usual methods of fighting the sheer utter boredom of his existence.

We can't have that, now, can we?

His eyes flick to Husk, and indeed – A promising little cringe etches itself across the gamemaster’s forehead. He’s improvising. Perfect.

“Alright then,” Lucifer exhales and counts his result. “Here we go.”

For a heartbeat, no one breathes, then the magic surges, and relief floods the table. The roll is good. Probably too good. Lucifer adds the modifiers with a bittersweet smile and announces the health points he’s transferring. Angel whistles low.

“Nice trick, Goldy! I'm good as new!”

Alastor updates the bar on his sheet and exchanges a look with Lucifer.

“Is your pompous paladin about to fall unconscious for the first time?” he asks. Lucifer gives him the smallest nod. His cheeks are tinged red, eyes misty – and of course Alastor can't help but comment.

“Are you crying?”

“No!”

Husk clears his throat, voice deepening into the grim authority of the gamemaster.

““As Ser Lightbringer releases the radiant surge of divine energy, his body falters, light flickering from every crack in his armour. The warmth of his sacrifice washes over you, Silken and Everan, mending flesh, sealing wounds. Gideon’s knees buckle, his sword clatters to the tavern floor, glowing faintly, a beacon of desperate defiance. Everan, you can feel the divine magic. Your enemies are too surprised to act. You have one round, what do you do?”

Angel taps on his character sheet.

“If I want to jump to Ser Lightbringer’s side and give him a health potion, how many actions does that take?”

“Too many attacks of opportunity,” Alastor states flatly. “I would love to strike the leader of this scum with my Shadow tentacles. But Everan has other plans first. This will be so much fun! AHAHA!”

Angel throws him a disapproving look, but Alastor couldn't care less. He has a plan, and even Lucifer hasn’t caught on yet. Their suicidal hero fumbles through his blonde hair, clearly confused and a little overwhelmed. Cute.

As Angel debates his options with Husk, growing heated fast, Alastor casually pulls tissues from his bag and places them in front of Lucifer. The man looks up from the dice he was rearranging and sniffles.

“I'm not crying!”

“Pass me your inventory list,” Alastor demands, opening his hand.

“What?” Lucifer sports an utterly offended expression. “Looting me already? Wow.”

With a theatrical sigh, Alastor shakes his head. “Just pass me the list, pretty please?”

“You know, whatever!”

Lucifer shoves the sheet at him. At least he’s staying put, watching intently while Alastor carefully studies his character sheet. Ah, yes, exactly what he was looking for.

The sudden silence shifts Alastor’s attention back to his illustrious party. Angel and Husk have stopped arguing and are instead glaring daggers at him.

Children. All of them.

He ignores them, humming softly as he scans Ser Lightbringer’s inventory. There are so many pointless trinkets – sentimental, probably? Alastor delights in the absurdity.

“What’s wrong, my doe-eyed friends?” he coos.

“You’re despicable,” Husk sighs.

“No, you’re an absolute ass!” Angel corrects. “And here I thought you were finally making out!”

Ah, wonderful. Topic settled. Fine by him.

Lucifer doesn’t join in their commentary, though his lips press into a thin line, tension radiating off him. From here, the session could go in two directions, and one is a dark path with a very unpleasant outcome.

Good.

Alastor has a plan and experience in navigating difficult situations. And this, he reminds himself, is only a game. Piece of cake.

“My turn!” he announces, crossing one item off Lucifer’s sheet. “I snitch the smoke grenade Ser Lightbringer keeps on his belt and throw it.”

All three of them sigh with relieve.

“My, my. I really wonder what you expected…” Alastor murmurs, a sly smile tugging at his lips.

The rest of the session turns into a hasty retreat. Their party barely manages to escape, with Silken and Everan lugging the heavily armoured paladin to safety. They end up hiding in the goblin cavern – of all places – and Husk calls the game with a devilish cliffhanger.

In contrast to his character, Alastor is thoroughly satisfied with his performance. Smugness tucked neatly on his lips, he can’t wait to accompany Lucifer upstairs.

“When did you intend to let us know you’re a DND expert?” Angel suddenly asks, interjecting Alastor’s plans. He holds the door open for them, one arm on his hip.

Funny.

Alastor hadn’t even noticed, but the adult filmmaker is right. Alastor’s grin widens as pieces of the puzzle that is Lucifer Morningstar fall in place. That’s what felt off during their first game session! Lucifer knew exactly what he was doing by choosing the paladin – and he knew precisely which page held the Aasimar’s details.

Alastor isn’t angry. Now that’s another job well done. He has to hand it to that man. His deceiving skills are peak, apparently more so than his ability to handle direct confrontations. Lucifer looks like a deer in headlights.

“I, um, I-“

“All the wisdom you could have shared with us rookies,” Alastor pipes, but his chuckle is cut short as Lucifer swallows and goes perfectly still.

This time, it’s Husk who breaks the silence. “I already assumed as much. Not even I knew about this trait you pulled off today. But, to honest, it’s the eighteen-page character background that gave you away. Nobody I’ve ever played with has been that invested in their character.”

Alastor isn’t sure if he should be delighted or offended.

Rubbing his dark beard, Husk turns to face Angel and him. “That reminds me. Angel, you still wanted to write down the names of Silken’s siblings. And Alastor, you still owe me a bit more than just the name of Everan’s home village.”

Bewildered, Alastor sports another grin.

“Come on. It’s my shift at the bar. Don’t want to make Vaggie wait. Last chance to spill another secret. Nothin? Good!”

With a low chuckle, Husk pats Lucifer on the back and disappears into the corridor. Angel looks just as confused as Alastor feels.

What on earth was that supposed to mean? Husk knew?

“Hey, you want to help me out with the next level-up?” Angel asks, shrugging. “Might as well use your superbrain.”

Finally Lucifer recovers from his freeze. With a shy smile, he nods. “Sure! I can forward a really cool name generator, too, if you like. I mean…” He sighs. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d kick me out if you knew.”

Alastor smiles as they follow Husk upstairs. “My, my. That’s quite the assumption.”

“Who cares!” Angel interjects. “Next time, you must tell us all about your other campaigns!”

Walking next to him, Alastor notices Lucifer suddenly tense up again.

“Were you the game master? What was the highest level your characters ever reached? Oh, and what is your favourite-“

“Next time,” Alastor cuts him off and shoots Angel a warning glance.

I haven’t forgotten about your dirty little mock-dance, and you will pay for it.

The message seems to land. With a theatrical eyeroll Angel excuses himself, leaving Lucifer all to himself. Excellent. There’s one last thing Alastor needs to do to complete his successful evening.  

“Come on, say it,” he teases, handing Lucifer his ridiculous yellow umbrella. A small duck is attached to the handle, and Alastor exchanges a quick death glare with its lifeless eyes.

It takes a moment for Lucifer to snap out of whatever thoughts he was dwelling on.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” he asks, slowly shedding that strange look and coming alive again.

“No,” Alastor retorts with ease. “I’m merely helping you reach a very important realisation.”

“Urgh, fiiiine. Thank you for using my health points and my grenade to save the day,” Lucifer groans.

“Ah, thank you, Lucifer. How kind of you to acknowledge my masterful play.”

“I'll get you back for that.”

Lucifer can’t supress a half-hearted smile and nudges him with the elbow.

A chuckle escapes Alastor as he dodges the lazy attack with ease. “Sure. Please let me know when you’re ready, so I won’t miss it.”

Chapter Text

Invisible String

It’s Thursday night, 3 AM to be precise, and Alastor is on air. A content smile curls his lips. This is the time all of Pentagram City is his, and his alone to entertain. His glance dances over the dim-lit radio booth. The red ON AIR sign is glowing, everything, including his ‘Oh Deer’-mug is in place.

“Good evening, Paradise,” he croons into the microphone. “Or should I rather say: good early morning to the few brave souls still awake in this lovely, broken mess of a city.”
He plays a cheery jingle to herald the next segment of his program.

Despite it is a city-wide live broadcast, those ungodly hours are one of the few occasions Alastor feels free to express himself more openly. Call him nostalgic, but nothing delights him like a well-placed grain of honesty hidden inside the patter of a show, and he hosts it with the proper decorum.

After their little PR stunt, Alastor had expected people to confront him with pesky and inappropriate questions. Perhaps he had hoped for a daring challenger, perhaps he had been waiting for some naïve caller to make the night more interesting – but nothing. It seems the sluggish masses didn’t draw the connection between the scandalously dancing hotelier and the seemingly decorous radio host. He didn’t have to resort to serious threats of murder the whole week, and Alastor isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or – what a strange thought – relieved. Admittedly, his two personas rarely overlap. Back when he was a new arrival at Charlotte’s Hotel, most people already knew his podcasts, but Husk truly pulled back the curtain by sharing the frequence of his radio broadcast in the ridiculous staff group chat.

As if Vox Media was a tolerable alternative to the PROPER medium of radio.

At that time, it had been Alastor’s greatest pleasure to introduce Charlotte and her friends to real music but also to revisit some of his records punctuated with screams, just to keep them guessing about the origin. That was also the moment he cemented his dominion over every playlist the hotel dared to use. With only the rarest of exceptions.

A grin creeps across his face as he stretches languidly in his chair. Tonight’s programming has been uneventful enough, a chance to air what he considers music of the 1990s – far superior to the dreadful noise Charlotte insisted on at the party. After a heated debate with a certain someone, he has to admit, though, that there might be more to what he had previously dismissed as trashy songs than he originally thought.

It’s time to stir the pot. 

Let’s begin, shall we?

“Tonight,” Alastor says, voice smooth as silk, “let’s try something… experimental. Tell me – what does Pentagram City sound like to you? What keeps you awake at 3 AM?”

A pause. Static hums faintly, before Alastor clarifies: “I want to know what song defines the way this place beats in your chest. So, if you’ve got the guts- call in. Share a track. Confess your heart. I’m listening."

The automated number plays, looping once before the line clicks alive. There is always someone listening. And at this hour, it’s usually the most fascinating – and the most obscure.

“Yes, hello.” A caller comes through, voice low and velvet-edged, confident, sultry – Instantly sparking Alastor’s curiosity. He leans closer to the speakers savouring the whole range of the voice.
“I’d like to request a song.”

Alastor tilts his head. The voice sounds strangely familiar.

Could it be…?

“Good evening, my mysterious friend,” he replies, his voice warm with cheer. In the hope of coaxing more from the man on the other end of the line, he adds smoothly: “State your request, and if you do not dare to give us your name, at least provide us with a little context instead. We are all ears.”

The caller seems to think about the offer for a moment before he chooses to reply.
“Call me Aurelian, if you please. As for the context, um, just following an impulse to reply to your question.”

How is that even possible?
Alastor barely suppresses a laugh.
Aurelian? Goodness me.

He has to hand it to Lucifer – his voice acting is nothing short of brilliant. He really should have caught on sooner. It is a surprise but what a delicious surprise indeed! Since the cat is now peeking out of the bag, why not turn this masquerade into their shared little game?

“Oh my, Aurelian,” Alastor purrs, letting the name roll across his tongue, “such a radiant name you have. It conjures an image of, hm, let me think… blazing, holy light cutting through the darkness of injustice.”

HAHA, so much for your little masquerade!

Lucifer will know instantly that the jig is up, but that only makes it all the more fun. Setting aside his own stack of song suggestions he’d prepared to capture Paradise City’s spirit, Alastor rearranges his notes and leans in, intrigued by where this semi-private dialogue might lead.

“Er- thank you,” Lucifer replies, flustered but steady. Alastor can almost picture the faint pink creeping across his cheeks. “It’s a nickname some friends gave me a long time ago. Feeling sentimental tonight.”

“Awww, will it suit the song you have in mind?”

“Of course! It’s something timeless, and popular – perfect for Paradise City.”
A beat. Lucifer swallows audibly, then: "It’s ‘Lover’ by Taylor Swift."

Oh.
Alastor blinks, thrown off for a second.
Lover? Why that, of all things? Because he loves the city so much? Hardly!

He sifts through half-remembered lyrics – Take me out, take me home; Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years; I've loved you three summers now, but I want them all? Something like that?

Good heavens, has Lucifer been drinking again?

Why on earth would that man call at 3 AM to request something so sappy, on his radio broadcast no less? That is- Not affecting him at all, of course! On the contrary, Alastor knows precisely how to handle a bad joke. For what else could this possibly be?
With a mock gasp, he straightens in his chair, and readjusts his lapels.

“Oh dear, straight to the rose petals, are we? I was hoping for something a bit more dangerous. But it seems, we dive headfirst into scented candles and slow dancing instead.” He sighs dramatically. “How boldly unoriginal.”

To his mild irritation, Lucifer does not let out an insulted gasp. Instead, he replies completely unfazed: “Well, you did say to call if we dared, didn’t you? What about all that big talk, inviting the city to bare its soul? I’m simply doing as you asked. Or is this broadcast not actually interested in hearing what Paradise feels, but only what you find acceptable?"

“Touché, Aurelian, dearest. You make an excellent point.”

This must be about Lucifer’s failed marriage, mustn’t it? Or perhaps about the shambles of his urban project – the only grand love he has left, save for the fragile bond with his daughter? A disaster he’s unwilling to let go?

Grin widening, Alastor lifts his cup for a sip of coffee. It’s gone cold, and the taste is off. The amusement fades, replaced by a peculiar weight pressing at his chest. He retorts: “Surely, Pentagram City has more to offer than corny prom-night declarations? What about ‘The Blackest Day’ by Lana Del Rey? Or ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’? No?”

His fingers tap an irregular rhythm against the desk, betraying more agitation than his voice ever would. He had expected a sharp reaction to his biting suggestions, but Lucifer ignores the jabs with ease.

“Paradise City isn’t always what it seems – I had to learn that the hard way, too. Sometimes the truth comes wrapped in softness or, well, sentimentality. So, tell me: are you standing by your word, or was inviting vulnerability just part of your performance?”

Things are not always what they seem?
The phrase lodges itself in Alastor’s mind. For a moment, he simply stares at the glowing ON AIR sign, listening to the faint hum of static. Perhaps this isn’t about Lucifer’s marriage after all?

"Well, well, well…” He lets the words drawl out, then lowers his voice, intimate now. “Since we're apparently peeling back facades, Aurelian, allow me a counteroffer. Let’s pretend you hadn’t chosen a track from the sugar aisle. Let’s say, hypothetically, you reached for something from another album. ‘Folklore’, perhaps?”
A silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable, but charged, like a held breath. Alastor’s tone sharpens as he continues. “Say, ‘Invisible String’? A more subtle choice, if you ask me.”

More like you.

Lucifer chuckles, though when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper: "That’s quite the assumption."

Smiling knowingly, Alastor rests his chin on his folded hands. “Oh dear, I don’t assume. I merely observe. Besides, ‘Lover’ – charming as it might be – feels like a hollow mask. ‘Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven. Time, wondrous time. Gave me the blues and then purple pink skies’. Now that? That sounds like Paradise City. Like something that might be. Something radically hopeful."

After another pause, Lucifer replies. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did mean that one all along.”

“Of course you did.”

Alastor leans back and cues up the track with a faint smile. As the opening notes of the song begin to play, soft and aching, Alastor makes his announcement.

“Thank you for calling, Aurelian. Paradise City, this one’s for you.”

“Thank you, Alastor.”

The call clicks off, leaving behind a peculiar emptiness, soon filled by the song’s soothing melody. With a sigh, Alastor leans back in his chair, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the wet rooftops gleam under the light of the waxing moon, as if the city itself is listening in, holding its breath.

“And isn't it just so pretty to think; All along there was some invisible string; Tying you to me…”
The lyrics unfurl, and Alastor goes stock-still, coffee mug hovering midair.

What if-
He swallows. The thought coils tight, hot, undeniable.
Well. Fuck.

With a smile and a song

Lucifer jolts upright as something tugs sharply at his hair. For a heartbeat, his nerves flare – then he spots the culprit. A robin, wings flashing russet and gold as it flutters away, landing delicately on the balcony’s railing.

“Oh!”

It takes him a moment to orient himself. Ah, yes, he’s still sitting on his balcony, hunched over the table where Charlie’s present sits in pieces. A present for her birthday, which is today, apparently, thank you, animated phone notification with balloons and glitter. 

Wow, I lost track of time again.

The robin tilts its head, and an involuntary smile tugs at Lucifer’s lips.
“Please don’t fly away! I won’t hurt you.”

The words sound absurdly soft in his own ears. His wrecked sleeping rhythm – or outright lack thereof – is destined to undo him before long. Staying awake until morning just to replay that stupid song perhaps hadn’t been the wisest choice. But how could he stop, after that stupid, stupid radio host had wormed his way so thoroughly into his stupid, stupid, stupid head?!

I should have never looked him up in the database and I should never have asked Husk for details. Ah, yes, and I absolutely should not have started listening to his broadcast!

With a deep sigh, Lucifer rubs his tired eyes and combs through his hopelessly tousled hair.  

Enough, it’s Charlie’s birthday. Get yourself together, Luci. This day is going to be GREAT!

Chirping, the robin watches, as though agreeing. Lucifer carefully shifts the pieces of his invention aside, clearing a space on the table.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he mutters to the little bird. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but sweet ducks, you don’t know what I’ve been through...”

And all because I’m afraid.

The rain has finally ceased, leaving the air damp and smelling faintly of earth and stone. A shy ray of sun presses through the retreating clouds. It’s going to be a sunny day for once.

“What do you do when things go wrong, huh?” Lucifer asks the robin, stifling a yawn. The bird replies, as expected, with a soft, melodic chirp.

Cute!

“Oh, you sing a song? Alright then…”

Thoughtful he taps his lips with one finger, rifling through the few lyrics he knows by heart. Yepp, he’s SO fucked. Each line loops back, inevitably, to what he has started to think of as ‘Alastor’s song’. Well aware that the man would probably hate it. Urgh!

But of course, there’s one tune he can always fall back on. One that never fails. Charlie’s favourite from her princess years. Straightening, Lucifer clears his throat.

“You’ll like this one,” he coos, as the robin fluffs his feathers. “I promise! Haven’t sung it in a while, though. Um, one moment, please…”

The weight of the last night and Charlie’s birthday preparations lifts, just for a heartbeat, as the robin chirps again. Lucifer pulls his shoulders back, inhales deeply, and lets the melody hum through him before he begins to sing.

“With a smile and a song, life is just like a bright sunny day. Your cares fade away. And your heart is young.”

Man, if only I were feeling young today…

“With a smile and a song, all the world seems to waken anew. Rejoicing with you as the song is sung.”

Great! He can still nail it after all this time! A smile steals across his face as Lucifer rises, stepping to the balcony’s edge to glance down at the wild garden. The hedges glisten with raindrops, the last blooming flowers nod in the light breeze, and the whole place looks startlingly peaceful. Lucifer takes in a lungful of cool autumn air, letting it unfurl inside him, anchored by the fragile melody threading from his lips.

“There’s no use in grumbling when raindrops come tumbling. Remember you’re the one who can fill the world with sunshine.”

Just like Charlie does. Always has.
Suddenly, the robin trills brightly, wings puffed, and Lucifer feels his smile soften further, melting into something that feels like utter happiness.
Go on then, Buddy, sing along.

“When you smile and you sing, everything is in tune and it’s spring.”

Well, not really – the colourful leaves and half-dead roses say otherwise – but who cares.

“And life flows along. With a smile and a song.”

By the final line, his chest feels lighter. Yes. He can seize the day! Call Charlie, café and cake in the afternoon, present delivered with a flourish. A perfect birthday.

“Thank you,” Lucifer bows to the robin, just as it flits away. A sharp “caaaaw” answers him, and he looks up to see a magpie landing on the railing, head cocked, black bead eyes studying him with eerie intensity. The robin’s soft trills fade in the distance, and he can’t help but laugh at the city’s little reminders of its dual nature – gentle enough to charm, cruel enough to tease.

“Not today, magpie!” he retorts, but the bird is not impressed. Is that an ounce of sympathy, hidden behind the mask of a sharp beak?

“Yeah, I know,” Lucifer groans. “We missed breakfast… Coming right up!”

Chapter Text

The sun is about to set, and Lucifer has been following Alastor through the maze of the old city streets for some time now. It’s not the worst way to end Charlie’s birthday, Lucifer tells himself. He’s had far worse. No, today had been a happy day.

They’ve had chocolate-strawberry cake and tea in the afternoon, just as planned. Meeting Charlie’s girlfriend Maggie had been nice, too. In general, everything had been sweet, heart-warming and wholesome – like in the old, well, older times. He’d even managed to deliver his present on time, and she seemed to like it. Well, Charlie burst into tears, but that choking hug afterward counts, doesn’t it?

Lucifer smiles, sinks his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, and lifts his gaze to the horizon, where pink, yellow, and orange spill across the sky in a grand, fleeting symphony.

I hope she really liked it.

The gift had been Charlie’s old music box – the violet-and-golden one with the unicorn, its horn broken off years ago.

Modifying it had been no challenge: Coming up with this and repainting the box to make the colours pop again had been nothing. Charlie can now connect it to a phone, to add music and photos to its local storage. And the best part? Lucifer attached a little projector to the music box, which grants the gift the centre of attention on any party, as soon as pictures begin to dance over the ceiling and walls. He’d even built in a timer function and adjustable brightness. Child’s play! Hopefully it will help Charlie create a soothing bedtime routine, until he has gained more trust to change her work-life-balance for the better... Lucifer’s fairly certain Charlie approved of the three playlists he put together in the last minute – at least Maggie had been over the moon, especially when the projector showed pictures of Charlie as a child while her favourite Disney songs played.

The hardest part? That had been sculpting a new horn. He’d magnetised it, to leave it up to Charlie to choose between the original, broken unicorn or the restored one.

Because some things shouldn’t be fixed, Lucifer thinks with a sigh. And some can’t.

And then, before leaving the hotel, he’d tried to ‘casually’ say hi to Alastor. Never before had he hit social granite that solid. Why?
Exhibit A: His assumption that Alastor doesn’t own a phone? Confirmed. Which means no late-night messaging, not even a good old-fashioned emergency call, nothing! How is anyone supposed to reach the man? Seriously! Lucifer was out of options, so boohoo – Alastor got no nice, polite request for an audience before his door handle ‘accidentally’ got broken.
It’s not my fault the hotel is practically falling apart and Alastor insists on barricading his room like it’s Fort Knox!   

Exhibit B: Alastor had conveniently excused himself from morning till late afternoon. On Charlie’s birthday! The very day it was obvious he’d stop by to see her. Wow, what a coincidence. Is that man avoiding him? Please, why would he. Surely there’s a reasonable explanation.
And no, Lucifer of course hadn’t been nosy and totally didn’t ask Husk and Angel about it. So what! Not that either of them has a clue about Alastor’s super secret errands!

Exhibit C: When Lucifer finally, accidentally, bumped into him in the kitchen – sorry-not-sorry he spontaneously stayed longer and made the second pot of tea so his birthday girl wouldn’t have to – Alastor immediately told him off. He even tried to take over. Lucifer may have countered a little too effectively by pointing out that Alastor’s tea-brewing skills are a crime against humanity, and that may perhaps not have been the best way to open conversation, BUT slamming the door in his face hadn’t been a polite way to end it either.

Exhibit D: And when Lucifer at least tried to apologise? Alastor bolted, claiming he was “just about to drop in on an old friend.” Suuuuure.

It really isn’t Lucifer’s fault that the whole thing sounded like a cheap excuse, and he practically had to get even nosier to find out what was going on – purely in the noble attempt to clear the air between them, of course. Plus, he’d been in a super good mood and didn’t want insecurities gnawing away at his evening, because that would inevitably mean another sleepless night spent overthinking his life choices. So what better way to end his birthday visit than by sharing the way home with Alastor? Pure coincidentally, naturally!

To his dismay, Lucifer’s simple idea – trail Alastor to wherever he was headed, then talk – has turned into a full-on hike across Paradise City. And not the good parts, either.

Why did he keep following him for half an hour? Well. Maybe because Alastor had lurked suspiciously long on a shadowy corner, watching some old office building, before slipping after a man like a wolf on the hunt. At that point, Lucifer abandoned his excuses of “I just want to talk” and “I might be needed”. Nope. G.O.D. forbid. He’s not here to help. He’s here to be entertained by whatever twisted pastime Alastor is indulging in. And – fine – maybe, just maybe, he’ll accept it as a legit excuse for dodging him all day. Plus, there is still that other little voice in the back of his head whispering about last week’s pen-and-paper session and that blasted song he couldn’t get out of his ears.

With a low hum, Lucifer runs his hand along one of the crumbling walls around him. It always appeared to him that nobody used the old city streets anymore. At least not since he raised all those skyscrapers with their pristine circular infrastructure, aesthetic and functionality fused in elegant harmony. Living, shopping, culture, care wrapped in an embrace of glass and green, every footstep carbon-neutral, the whole city a love letter from a genius. But here they are, beyond the carefully crafted solar panel pavements, that vein through his creation. Lucifer’s boots did not touch asphalt for how many years? He doesn’t even remember. This better be worth his trouble!

Brows furrowed, he leans against the wall of one of the unoccupied houses and crosses his arms in front of his chest. This is how Alastor spends his free time? FUN.

Before him, in the pink and yellow remnants of the day, a scene unfolds that could have been ripped straight from a good horror movie. The man they’d been tailing is now cowering before at Alastor’s shoe tips, hands scraping brittle asphalt instead of sleek solar tile, as he scrambles backwards like a cornered rat.

Poor guy.

He is trembling, too terrified to look up. Sweat soaks through his shirt in patches. Alastor, in contrast, stands immaculate, his red suit makes a hellishly perfect impression.

“So, Timothy,” Alastor purrs, “remind me again why I shouldn't recommend your immediate expulsion?”

Because then you’d have to talk to me, Lucifer thinks, and, unhelpfully, his brain adds, YES, maybe Alastor still wants to talk to me after all!

The man whimpers something, and Lucifer is not the only one who's unable to make out a single word.

“Come again, Timothy, dearest?”, Alastor coaxes, smile razor-sharp.

Wait! Timothy… That name – It does ring a bell!
Lucifer blinks, pulls out his phone, and scrolls through the latest new arrivals. Ah. Timothy Harnell. The awful picture does the whistleblower gone bad justice.

“I'm so-so sorry I postponed the surgery!” Timothy blurts. “B-but I’ll do it! I swear! I'll make the call tomorrow!”

What the duck?

That sure doesn’t sound like a chat about cosmetics, HAH. Oh, he is SO ready for a little murder and mayhem with Adam’s distasteful wedding-anniversary present cast in the leading role. And even if, admittedly, the scene is a sharp reminder that Alastor – DND player, baffling radio host, and the man currently making Lucifer’s heart skip a beat or two – Is also an overlord.
From the very first meeting it had been crystal clear: Alastor is one of those actors who feed Paradise City’s violent side of life. And who is Lucifer to judge? Back at Ozzy’s parties, Lucifer kis- met and made out with all sorts of weird people. A man who confronts sleazy newcomers in back alleys? Not particularly original, but fine.

Lucifer rubs his chin. Actually, it’s a little too uncreative for a man like Alastor. There are SO MANY better ways to terrify people, come on, Al, this is what you come up with for little Scummy?

Is this, perhaps, an improvisation? Or something unpleasant? Lucifer sonders. Could this be about the experimental medication? Nah, doesn’t quite fit. Alastor, striking shady deals for Pentious? Hah, no, that makes even less sense!

Seems like all he can do is wait for the plot to unfold. And oh, it is sweetening his evening in a very unexpected way. Well, Charlie must never find out. And Alastor certainly isn’t going to tell her either.

“There is no need to be afraid”, Alastor chirps. He plants his cane in front of the whimpering man and leans down, hands neatly folded on the handle like some Victorian gentleman.

Show-off.

“I am merely here to inform you that we would never take something from you, that you didn't offer in the first place.”

The former investigative forensic accountant breaks down in ugly sobs.

Ah, yes. So this is about a deal. Why is he not surprised? How unfortunate for poor little Timmy.
One must be stupid to strike an arrangement with a person like Alastor. Or perhaps desperate. Admittedly, both seems likely in his city.

Awww, is his job as head assistant to Mr. Valentino not going well? Serves him right!

It’s getting dark, and Lucifer checks his watch with a frown. Is this going anywhere, or is Alastor all bark and no bite tonight? Lucifer has nothing better to do, but he doesn’t like having his time wasted and wearing white in this neighbourhood is practically an invitation for nuisance. Alright. Five more minutes. Then he’ll intervene. At least Alastor seems to be enjoying himself.

“Oh my, are you crying, Timothy? Why, no one forced you to sell your kidney.”

A hysterical cry bursts from Timmy’s throat, half dying donkey, half boiling teapot.

Lucifer feels his lips curling. Oh, greater than great! Organ trade! Now this is getting interesting. Where is his popcorn when he needs it?
He hasn’t decided exactly what to throw at them – yet – but options are piling up. Threatening them both with expulsion from his city would be boring. And cruel. Too easy.
But threatening to arrest Alastor for threatening someone? Now that has bite. Maybe a little hypocritical, but who cares? Sue him! So what if Lucifer is a little petty! This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. The look on Alastor’s face will be priceless! And with luck, they’ll be back to their usual banter in no time.

Okay, fine, let me check that real quick… Lucifer pulls out his phone again, tapping away until he finds what Timothy’s kidney might fetch – even if it’s grade A asshole quality. He slides the phone back into his pocket with a flourish.

Finally, a case worthy of his creativity! BUT if they’ve actually broken one of his few golden rules? Then they’ll pay. Either by learning something, or breaking under the lesson. And, as experience has shown, scumbags like Timothy usually fall into the latter category.

Alastor, though… it feels strange to think of him as just another overlord, another citizen in need of guidance. Lucifer has no illusions – Alastor doesn’t want redemption, probably never did. But after all he’s seen with Paradise City and the Celestium Foundation, he can respect that. It’s one way to live. He made his peace with the natural evil of humankind long ago. And G.O.D. knows, he did start with the best intentions.

Alastor, meanwhile, looks anything but peaceful. With a murderous glint in his eye, he leans close to Timmy, voice sharp as a blade.

"Nobody forced you to hijack Rosie’s power line.”

Alastor tilts his head, and he looks like he is about to let go of what little restraint he has – a delight, really. Come to think of it… Lucifer must have misheard. Otherwise, Alastor sounded dangerously close to caring about the infrastructure of the city. And that, unlikely as the whole situation is, seems impossible. Chaos incarnate doesn’t bother with the order Lucifer painstakingly tries to uphold.

“But it wasn't-”

“It wasn't your idea?”, Alastor cuts in. “Well, too bad that eight children were hurt because of an idea that wasn't even yours.”

Oh! Lucifer’s grin spreads wider. How the mighty have fallen!

So there is not only a sliver of humanity in his would-be murderous bellhop. Great!

“I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt!” Timmy sobs. “Please, mercy!”

“Unless you did. Could you not fathom what would happen to the infirmary Rosie is hosting?”

Lucifer lets out a low whistle. That’s new. Wowy. An infirmary he didn’t know about, in his city? Better and better.

“I’ll pay for it!” Timmy blurts.

Alastor yanks him upright by the collar. “Oh, but of course you will.”

With a little shriek, Timmy collapses again and cowers, hands folded like in prayer. A twinge of jealousy stirs in Lucifer, almost forces him to act. If anybody is feared and worshipped in this city, it damn well shouldn’t be an overlord.

“ALASTOR! Fancy meeting you here!”

Both Timmy and Alastor freeze as Lucifer casually strolls into view, arms flung wide in grand salute. “What a beautiful evening for a little intimidation.” 

Alastor bares his teeth, clearly not one for sharing his dinner. 

“How long have you been standing there?”, he hisses, muscles taut. 

Lucifer smirks. “Avenging children, Alastor, really?” 

With nonchalant poise, Lucifer steps closer, and to his immense satisfaction Timmy turns pale as a sheet. No introduction necessary, great. Alastor now looks one hundred percent ready to commit homicide, while Lucifer, of course, keeps the bravado turned to eleven. 

He locks eyes with Alastor, grinning royally confident.
“Is this how you get your sick kicks?”

“NO!”

A low, dark chuckle escapes Lucifer’s throat. “I love it.”

Chapter Text

Bad cop, bad cop

Alastor’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “What are you doing here, Lucifer?”

They are standing two mere arm’s lengths apart, the whimpering fool that is Timothy Harnell still at their feet. Around them night begins to fall, and crickets chirp in the ruins of the buildings. There’s no rain for a change and it could be a strangely peaceful scenery, if not for the glance Alastor is throwing him.

In mock innocence, Lucifer poses like an actor entering the stage for his applause. “Me? Oh, nothing. Just ‘dropping by on a good friend’.”

Alastor’s eyes narrow, catching what little light remains, predatory and suspicious. His crimson coat matches the last flecks of colour on the sky, and the reduced street lightning casts deep shadows on his face. He must have gotten the reference to his own cheap excuse earlier but what he asks is: “Is this your comeback for the radio show?”

Lucifer blinks. “What?”

Why would he assume- WHAT?

“Should I have played your stupid little song?” Alastor’s tone drips disdain, but there’s something underneath, a twitch, a ripple. It’s visible in his eyes that contrast the feral mask of a grin Alastor is wearing, like an animal in fight or flight mode, opting to fight teeth and claw.

“I- wait.” Lucifer forces the turmoil of emotions down and steadies his voice despite the knot in his stomach. “This isn’t about the song!”

What the fuck is wrong with this man?

Alastor doesn’t soften. His voice is low, taut as a snare wire. “Then why are you stalking me?”

“I – stalking – you?!” Lucifer bursts into a ridiculous wheeze, laughter echoing against the chipped walls. “You must be dreaming.”

“You literally followed me here,” Alastor growls, “eavesdropped, and sneaked up on me!”

With a scoff, Lucifer gives Timothy a side glance, who’s still grovelling like a worm at Alastor’s feet. It’s annoying. Not only is he sucking up to the wrong man – how disrespectful! – but he’s also interfering with what little remains of Alastor’s patience. Lucifer shoots a dark glare downwards and watches with satisfaction as Timothy coils up into an even smaller trembling mess.
He then presses a hand to his chest with mock outrage. “I’m not stalking or sneaking! This is not an RPG, Alastor. I was merely worried.”

“Oh you-” Alastor cuts himself off, breath hitching. He swallows whatever insult burns on his tongue, jaw taut, eyes glittering dangerously in the dying light. “Go ahead, play the hero. I won’t stop your endeavour to save dear Timothy. But know this – that ‘innocent’-”

“Misconception,” Lucifer interrupts, and tries for a velvet-smooth tone. Fuck it, he might as well say the truth out loud. “I was worried about you.”

Worried that you hate my guts now. Worried that you are sick. Worried that you are involved in things bigger than you.

It makes Alastor falter. His eyes widen the slightest fraction, and – Oh, there it is – the faintest flush staining his cheekbones.

Oh Alastor, if you only knew…

“Alrighty, let’s go on with the show, shall we?”

Lucifer exhales, then leans in, planting one pristine black boot on Timothy’s grey-brown hair, pinning him down like a bug under glass. For his own good, Valentino’s tool keeps his mouth shut, only one single choaked sob escapes him and he clutches his hands over his mouth, exactly knowing his place. He does risk one begging glance upwards, at Alastor of all people – perhaps because he assumes their deal will protect him – but the flicker of hope is snuffed out by Alastor’s feral grin like a candle.

“200 000, that’s quite a nice sum, don’t you think?” Lucifer asks. “But for compensating what, eight hurt children? Let me tell you, Mr. Harnell, you might consider life-long servitude instead. Might be easier to repay the damage done than selling your body bit by bit. The lungs and heart usually make more money, but unfortunately, they’re also essential for living. Such a shame.”

Timothy turns white as a sheet and starts to beg for life. It’s a quiet babble, nothing worthy of his attention, but Lucifer is appeased. For the moment.  

“I’m surprised working for Mr. Valentino brought an even more degraded side out of you. Funny that you actually considered it a good idea to sabotage an infirmary. I don’t have many rules, but never hurting the innocent is one of them. And to me it doesn’t matter if it was your own idea or not.”

Lucifer can feel his foot shaking violently, where his sole touches the trembling scum and with a disgusted grimace he presses down, like he would, stepping on a bug.

“Hm, it also wasn’t Valentino alone coming up with such a refined idea,” Alastor interjects. “Isn’t that true, Timmothy, dearest?”

The expression on his face is the strangest mixture. For a second there’s a soft touch to his grin, as he meets Lucifer’s gaze. Is it fondness? Proudness? Lucifer finds it impossible to decipher, but then something in Alastor’s eyes ignites – and that is an expression he can place without doubt. Absentmindedly Alastor presses and shifts his lips against each other, a desire, no, an insatiable hunger burning.

Ohoho, blimey!

“It- it came up during a meeting with the other V’s,” Timothy stutters. He should know who the V’s are but in this particular moment Lucifer’s gaze – his whole world – is fixed on Alastor.

Fuck, why is he SO DAMN HOT?!

“Well, Lucifer, darling, what do you intend to do to people breaking your rules?”

Unable to supress the warm feeling blooming in his chest, Lucifer allows his smirk to turn all wicked delight. “To this scum? I’m inclined to leave the honours to you.”

“Oh my, you’re giving me a carte blanche?” Alastor takes a step and is standing right in front of Lucifer, his lips curling. He’s so close, even in the dim light Lucifer can spot the little mole on Alastor’s right cheek, he had discovered during the last DND session.

“Consider it an early birthday present,” he offers generously and runs a hand through his hair. “Do as you please. And when you’re done-”

Their perfect moment shatters. It’s the “Duck Tales“-theme. It suddenly starts to play and echoes from the walls. 

NO!

NO NO NO NO NO!!!

Lucifer groans, fishing his phone from his pocket. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
He hastily swipes to decline but his thumb betrays him and he accepts instead – immediately hit by a barrage of words.

“Mr. Morningstar, sir, I’m ssso thankful you fffinally picked up!” Pentious stammers. His lisp thickens with every panicked syllable. “You said only to call when ‘shit hits the fan’, and, um, I couldn’t reach anyone at Celestium Foundation for weeks. I have the suspicion they're ignoring me! We have a huuuge problem.”

“Pentious,” Lucifer snaps, “THIS is not- what?”

“Celestium Foundation has been ignoring me for weeks?”

With a sharp exhale, Lucifer lifts his boot from Timothy’s head and takes a step back. The man greedily sucks in air, as if Lucifer had loosened a clamp on his throat, which only fuels Lucifer’s impatience.

“That's NOT an emergency!”

He can almost hear the man flinch.

“But the dam is! Please, Mr. Morningstar, don’t hang up! I’ll make it quick!”

“What? What dam, Pentious?” Lucifer turns away from the promising scene of righteous fury, waiting for the man on the other end of the line to reply.

If this is about an invention, I’ll strangle him with my own two hands!

“The C-District dam, of course! We don’t have any other dams in Pentagram City, do we?” Pentious hastily replies. “Anyway, I’m quite sure it's about to breach, sir! I tried to inform everyone on the emergency contact list, but nobody answered my calls… The Eggboys and I, we’ve run several simulations over the last weeks. Ten minutes ago, we calculated a 97.8 percent probability that the dam is going to breach. Does that classify as shit hitting the fan, sir?”

“What? What is 97.8 even supposed to mean? I swear, Pentious, if this is another one of your crazy theories, there’ll be consequences this time!”

There’s a short pause, and Lucifer follows his impulse to turn around. Alastor’s face has darkened, as though a thundercloud had settled over his features. In the distance traffic hums. Timothy still trembles at their feet, a small, pathetic noise breaking the evening air.

“Problem, dear?” Alastor says softly, as if testing the temperature.

Lucifer waves a hand at him. “Sorry, um, give me a moment. Wait up for me?”

A smirk spreads across Alastor’s lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.  

“Are you still there, sir?”

Lucifer turns away again, hearing the inventor has finally recovered from his mental break.

“Yes, Pentious, I’m listening! Explain. Please.”

Pentious talks fast now, words tumbling. “It’s quite likely the dam will breach tonight due to rainfalls upstream. The forecast says they’ll reach us shortly, but the stream is already swelling and it’s only a matter of time until- Well, we need to take a look at it and, you know, decide the next steps immediately!”

If only this were the first time the inventor had contacted him with a seemingly life-and-death matter. Lucifer sighs, rolling his eyes to the heavens. Weeks of ignored messages and calls, and now of all times Pentious chooses this as his hour of drama.

“Quite likely? Pentious, it’s already dark. We’ll see nothing but shadows, water and concrete. And I am, in case you hadn’t noticed, in the middle of something. There’s a protocol for relieving the dam in cases of heavy rainfall. You know this, Pentious. Follow the instructions, press the buttons, whistle a tune and-“

“Please, sir, you don’t understand!” On the other end of the line, Pentious’s voice cracks with panic, high and raw. “You must come! The dam is going to break! I can’t fix it! I’ve tried, the fail safes won’t work, protocol says to contact Celestium Foundation in case of an emergency we can’t solve internally, but they are not answering! The dam should have been serviced in spring, it’s autumn now, and no one has replied for weeks! A breach will take out half the district! Please, I’m begging you, Mr. Morningstar, my loyal Eggboys and I, we can’t fight this battle against the forces of nature alone!”

Something switches inside Lucifer. Hearing the panic in the inventor’s tone, he can feel the last remnants of his amused arrogance and even his carefully practiced detachment drain away like water from a sink. He turns on his heel, pacing more steps away, shoes clicking against broken asphalt. The absurd normalcy of it makes his eyelid twitch.

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?!”

There’s a pause, while Pentious tries to choose his next words very carefully. The ruined street hums with imperfect stillness, the crickets chirp again in the distance, and the last embers of sunset bleed into shadow. Lucifer taps his foot on the asphalt, forcing a rhythm onto the chirping.

“I’m very sorry, sir.” Pentious rueful voice breaks their little concert. “I’ll try to be more insistent next time.”

And suddenly the guilt claws its way in, hot and blunt. It’s his own fault! He’d been dodging Pentious’s calls for weeks, brushing them off as eccentric, pestering, as noise. Nothing urgent. And now? Pentious sounds like a man already drowning. What if Pentious is right this time? Lucifer’s heart lurches, dread swallowing the last trace of his indignation.

Oh Hell.

“Forget it, Pentious. I’m sorry. More than that.” Lucifer’s voice cracks for a fraction of a second. He swallows, forces it back into a calm, controlled tone – the tone befitting his title. He needs to show Pentious he’s in command and can handle this mess, no matter what he’s feeling. Lucifer straightens his posture.

His voice taut, he finally replies, “I’ll be there. Together we’ll come up with something. I’m just around the corner – already on my way. Grab some lights, will you? And show me that simulation the minute I arrive. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir!”

Knowing the others are listening, he swallows the questions piling up on his tongue.

“Let’s hope you’re wrong – and that I’m only dealing with a ruined evening, not- Well, let’s hope you’re wrong.”

Lucifer hangs up, fingers tightening into fists immediately. A dozen thoughts clash in his head – responsibility, guilt, worst-case scenarios. Why is Celestium Foundation not responding?

By contract, they’re bound to provide support in emergencies. And handling a breaching dam definitely is one HELL of an emergency! With the recent rainfalls, the reservoir must be bursting. If the outlet’s compromised- Could this even be fixed? It’s nothing short of catastrophic either way.

Alastor’s voice cuts the air, sharp. “How bad?”

FUUUUUCK.
What if he can’t fix this?

Lucifer forces himself to calm down and meet Alastor’s gaze. His grin doesn’t quite fit now, too strained at the edges, mirroring Lucifer’s feelings perfectly.

“Sorry, rain check,” he says quickly. “Do carry on without me. Or… don’t.” He throws a glance over his shoulder, thoughts already racing towards the dam. It’s barely ten minutes from here.

Alastor hadn’t come here simply to torment Timothy, had he? Did he have other business in this district? Hopefully not.

“I’d suggest you return to the hotel... No, scratch that. I insist.” Lucifer closes the distance between them and sets a firm hand on Alastor’s shoulder. The only response he gets is a raised brow.

“What is going on?”

“Return to the hotel NOW. And take that idiot with you if you want your deal upheld.”

Lucifer hesitates. He wants to tell Alastor everything, but with Timothy Harnell in tow, he won’t go into detail. The man has probably heard too much already. Soon enough the whole city will know anyway. For now, Lucifer holds the initiative, steering people – and the press – in whatever direction he needs, while avoiding mass hysteria at all costs. And, unsatisfactory as it might be, that includes Alastor. He can’t afford any delays or distractions. He doesn’t trust himself with Alastor at his side.

“There is a problem with the dam,” Lucifer adds, voice merely a whisper.

Before either of them can press, he hurries into the night with long strides, worry pounding in his chest.

Of course he’ll be able to fix this! Come on, he’s still Lucifer Morningstar. Celestium Foundation won’t dare ignore him! If they do – if they truly refuse support – then yes, the worst might be upon them. Damn, why hadn’t Pentious given him more detail? If all else fails, they can still evacuate. But first, Lucifer will see for himself. Perhaps Pentious is overdramatic?

At least Charlie’s hotel is half an hour away on higher ground. She and Alastor will be safe. And Maggie, Angel, Husk and the others, too.

“Lucifer, wait-“

The words yank him out of his spiralling thoughts. He glances back once, raises a hand in a quick wave. “Sorry – must dash! Leave at once! I’ll call the hotel! Be careful!”

The last thing he sees of Alastor is the man standing perfectly still, smile stretched too tight, eyes glinting with suspicion and something unreadable, as he watches him vanish into the dark.

Snake eyes

“Alright, Pentious, let’s see it!”

Lucifer doesn’t bother with formalities. The door creaks shut behind him as he strides into the control room, coat billowing dramatically. A second later, Pentious follows, two of his Eggboys at his heels. Lucifer also doesn’t bother with names. To be fair, they all sport the same bizzare haircut and the same dark blue uniform, and he’s never been great with names. Now is hardly the time, but his mind flickers back to that evening at the fair, when he’d tried to tell them apart and secretly dubbed them Egon, Egerton, Egolf and Egolff – with two ‘F’s – and he’s totally not panicking and absolutely not reopening this ridiculous debate with himself. Oh, wait! One of them is called Frank.

Calm down, Lucifer tells himself. You can still fix this.

The room smells faintly of overheated electronics and stale coffee, the hum of machinery pressing in on the silence. He squints at the rows of blinking lights and cables snaking along the floor, trying to make sense of the setup. Had he expected a desk cluttered with oversized levers and shiny red buttons? Yes, absolutely. Perhaps even a lever labelled “Do Not Pull Under Any Circumstances”. At least that would fit his feeling of impending doom. Instead, there’s only one oversized monitor, a narrow keyboard, and a sleek touch panel, not even a mouse. It’s all very modern, sterile, and distinctly unimpressive.

Pentious scurries in behind him, skeletal fingers already reaching for the controls. Long strands of black hair spill over his shoulder, nearly brushing the keyboard as his bony digits rattle across the keys.

“Of course, sir. Let me show you…”

The screen flickers to life, first with jittering diagrams, then with the harsh, almost too-bright feed of a live cam. The image locks onto the dam, artificial lights dazzling Lucifer for a moment. He leans closer, and he doesn’t need a degree in engineering to see the obvious: the water level is high, far too high. A steady sheet of water is already cresting over the rim, a pale cascade glinting in the spotlights. It isn’t catastrophic yet, not quite, but the thought lodges sharp and cold in his mind: If the rain keeps up, this goes from scenic waterfall to The Day After Tomorrow in no time.

“Unholy hell,” he mutters, eyes darting to the pulsing lines on the diagrams, none of which look remotely comforting. “We need to relieve the dam even more. What options do we have to redirect the water? Any additional pipes we can open?”

Pentious stiffens beside him. The shift is subtle, but Lucifer feels it, the way the air in the room seems to draw tight.

“There already is a minor flooding in the C-District,” Pentious admits, tapping a map on the screen. Coloured lines stretch like veins, splitting into thin side arms and emergency drains. “Nothing catastrophic, just a few cellars flooded. Nothing too dramatic for Pentagram C.”

“Paradise City,” Lucifer corrects automatically. He lifts his gaze, waiting, sensing there’s a darker turn to come. “Buuuut?”

Pentious offers him an awkward, tight-lipped smile before redirecting the live feed.

“But the dam is ancient, and-”

“Um, nope? That can’t be right. I know I granted funds to modify the dam just last year!”

Pentious hunches further, tension coiling in his shoulders. “Yes, sir, and it was highly appreciated. But the investment focused on increasing energy gain from the water flow. Maintenance wasn’t covered. When there’s a major issue, we usually… well, we usually rely on external experts.”

Lucifer blinks at him. “What do you mean?”

Pentious keeps his voice calm, though his fingers twitch nervously against the keyboard. “I already opened all additional functioning pipes. And that’s why the Eggboys and I have calculated the risk of a breach at 99 percent.”

“WHAT?!” Lucifer snaps, the sound echoing sharply off the metal walls. “I thought you said ninety-seven-point-something?”

Pentious winces. “I’m so sorry, sir! This is the updated forecast. With the new rainfall data. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve called the emergency hotline multiple times, but Celestium Foundation is very busy, it seems... They never picked up. I’ve sent them emails as well, explaining that they should have dispatched external dam inspectors two years ago to evaluate the structure. They didn’t, and my Eggboys and I have tried every solution we could think of. But with this much water in the system… We can’t do more.”

Lucifer is already fishing his phone from his pocket, thumb flying to Adam’s number. The cheerful emoji of a raised middle finger next to the man’s name feels obscenely out of place in the claustrophobic room. A cold shudder grips Lucifer, fingers of dread closing tight around his throat.

“Tell me how big the breach would be. How many square metres of water would flow into my city? You ran the calculations, didn’t you? What was it? About half of C-District?”

Pentious hesitates, then opens a simulation on the monitor. “Um, yes, sir… The latest prognosis? C-District might be flooded almost completely…”

Lucifer can feel he’s beginning to sweat. His stomach tightens into a knot.

Adam, pick up, for fuck’s sake! Yes, it’s Friday evening, yes, you’re out of office, probably sprawled on your fucking comfy couch with a drink, but this is important!!!

“How many people live there?” Lucifer asks, flicking between tabs with one hand while gripping the phone like a pair of tongs with the other.

Pentious points to another diagram.

“Officially not that many, sir, but I, um, happen to know that many are living in the old buildings without authorization. Please don’t tell anyone I said so. They’re like a closed community.”

Lucifer nods grimly, ending the call. He’ll have to email Serra, alert city officials, coordinate emergency measures, evacuate, resettle, supply…

And Alastor might still be out there.

Just one thought in the mosh pit currently thrashing about in his mind, but it drowns out the rest, making his chest seize painfully.

“Not helpful,” Lucifer mutters under his breath—though Pentious, of course, takes it as meant for him.

“Sorry, sir!” Pentious blurts, his lisp thick, his fingers curling into trembling fists.

Lucifer finally turns to face him properly. The man looks wound tighter than a coil spring. It takes effort to steady his own breathing, but Lucifer manages it. He straightens, then reaches out to give Pentious’s shoulder a brief, almost fatherly pat.

“No, Pentious, I didn’t mean you. I am sorry. We’ll handle this together.”

Another calming breath, and Lucifer feels slightly less like suffocating.

“Who’s the overlord currently running the quarter?” he asks, voice firm.

“Miss Rosie, sir.”

“Miss Rosie who?”

“Um, just Miss Rosie.”

Lucifer tugs at his hair and ransacks his brain. The name doesn’t ring a bell. He can’t know every street and every overlord by heart, and, here we go again, he’s terrible with names, but in situations like this, he wishes he weren’t.

“Can we reach out to her?”

Pentious hesitates for a moment, then retrieves his phone. “Sure. You know us overlords, we’re well connected. I can call her right now, sir!”

Lucifer blinks, genuinely taken aback. “Why haven’t you already?!”

He really wouldn’t be surprised to see the overlords scheming against each other, even when lives are at stake. But Pentious? He never seemed like he had it in him – at least not that kind of degeneration.

With a sigh, Pentious glances down at his polished black boots, stiff and formal, reminiscent of some Napoleonic general. He surveys the room – no Eggboys in sight – and leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Because I anticipated it might cause a mass panic. Please, don’t tell anyone.”

They share a look, a quiet acknowledgment of unspoken responsibility.

Lucifer, humbled by Pentious’s foresight, nods.

“Right. Call her now. Let me handle it.”

Pentious obeys, and Lucifer taps his fingers impatiently on the edge of the control room table, the faint hum of machinery and the low whir of the monitor filling the small space.

I really hope Alastor is heading home…

Every second counts, and he can almost feel the dam pulsing on the screen like a living thing. When a chirping female voice finally answers, Lucifer wastes no time.

“No time for curtsies. This is Lucifer Morningstar speaking,” he interjects, cutting straight to the point. “Are you alone, Miss Rosie?”

“Oh, what an unexpected honour. I’ve recently heard quite a bit about your activities, good sir.”

“Yeah, yeah, we don’t have time! Can we speak openly?”

“Give me a moment, Mr.. Morningstar.”

Lucifer hears the faint rustle of conversation in the background, a door clicking shut. He groans under his breath and skims the simulation again, eyes flicking over diagrams and water-level indicators. Every passing second feels like a lifetime. He hammers out a quick message to Bee and Ozzy on his phone.

Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: Bee, Ozzy, EMERGENCY!
Me <His Royal Infernal Majesty>: I need you. Tough shit incoming. I’ll call in 10. Hope you’ve got nothing planned for tonight. Sorry. Best party assemble, you know how it is.

Lucifer tilts his head, brow raised. Best party? His current party is really impressive, too. He should reach out to them as well – and to Charlie, of course.

Perhaps she could let me know as soon as Alastor returns.

She needs to stay safe, too, and- An idea strikes his brain like lightning.
YES! THAT’S IT! THAT’S BRILLIANT!

He can accommodate the former C-District residents, keep Char-Char safe, and involve her in the rescue mission, all in one move. Oh yes, I am the best father ever! Hail me!

“We’re good now, Mr.. Morningstar. How can I help you?” Miss Rosie’s voice snaps him back from his triumphant thoughts.

Lucifer’s fingers fly across the keyboard, tagging Charlie, Husk, and Angel in a flurry of messages.
If only I could text Alastor too. When this is over, I’ll have Charlie talk some sense into him. He NEEDS a phone!

Shaking his mental chaos free with a cough, he focuses on the overlord, poised and waiting.

“The question should rather be how I can help you, but let’s start at the beginning. You know the old dam next door?”

Rosie hums, keeping her own counsel.

“I won’t sugarcoat it,” Lucifer continues, voice low and serious. “I need you to stay calm.”

“It’s overflowing,” Rosie replies, her tone matter of fact. “Thank you for your concern, but we’ve dealt with wet shoes and flooded cellars many times before. We know how to handle this little problem.”

Lucifer can’t help but admire her. She seems sweet, yes, but tough as nails beneath the surface. He can already tell as much.

Good. She’ll need every ounce of that strength.

“The dam is going to breach,” Lucifer says, voice taut, “and I am evacuating the entire C-District immediately. Like it or not, we need to work together. I'd rather not waste time on any hostilities, so I'll give you an hour head start.”

There's a pause on the other end of the line, a silence, loud as thunder, sharp as needles. Then the overlord responds simply, almost serene: “Thank you, Mister Morningstar. That's very generous. I'll give you my assistant’s number. Please send all the relevant information to both of us. We need to know where our cannibals are headed.”

Lucifer coughs, eyes narrowing. “Cannibals?”

Do I even want to know?

“Just a nickname,” Pentious offers quickly, cheeks tinged pink in Rosie’s stead.

“Fine, whatever. I'll see you in an hour, Miss Rosie. And please keep in mind, this is not a drill. Everybody leaves immediately. No time for discussions, no time for packing up. Let them grab their most important things, several bottles of water, and off they go.”

After hanging up, Lucifer spins in the chair, then springs to his feet.

“Now that was way easier than I expected,” he mutters, a crooked grin threatening his lips. “Let’s talk evacuation strategy, Pentious, and then I need a vehicle to fetch my supplies. I have to speak to my daughter, and two dear friends that will help us, too, but aside from that, I’ll be in constant contact with you.”

“Okay, Mr.. Morningstar.”

One of the Eggboys – Frank? – bursts in, nearly tripping over his own boots, clutching a tablet displaying streaming data from the dam’s mechanical heart. “Bad news, boss! There’s a small opening forming in the dam. It’s getting bigger. And it started raining again.”

“Snake eyes!” Lucifer slams a fist into his palm, the sound echoing from the room’s walls. “Alright, we can’t fix this, but we will evacuate successfully! We can still avert this disaster! And you, Pentious, have just been promoted evacuation general.”

“Of course, sir, Mr.. Morningstar, sir!”

Pentious and the Eggboy salute. It looks ridiculous, stiff-legged and awkward, but Lucifer returns the gesture with exaggerated formality, just to keep morale high. If they’re going to evacuate a whole district tonight, every single member of his team must be at their absolute best.

We can fix this.

I can fix this.

I have to!

Chapter Text

Alastor folds and unfolds his hands in his lap while Rosie handles the call with her usual professionalism. Her cosy office, all dark wood and carefully arranged shades of red and rose, suddenly feels unfitting. Never before has he felt such unease within her Emporium. There are no meetings, no customers waiting, and yet his gaze keeps darting to the door, as though someone might storm in at any moment with the bad news they already know.
Part of him hopes it will be Lucifer. Part of him despises himself for entertaining such an outrageous thought.

“I was worried about you.”
The sentence loops in his head for the hundredth time, a warning and a command to return to the hotel.
Goddamn Lucifer!

Originally, Alastor had only come here for tea – and for a rather unsettling conversation.
He needs some advice, and Rosie might be the only person in the whole city able to help. Perhaps, that is. She had offered her advice earlier, after they brushed a nerve while clearing the flooded cellars around dawn. Damn him for letting his guard slip at 4 AM. Alastor blames the ridiculous squeaking of their rubber boots.

“I saw you got yourself a new dance partner,” Rosie had remarked, and seeing Alastor freeze mid-step, she gave him one of her knowing smiles. “Want to spill some tea later? I’d love to know if Lucifer Morningstar can keep up with my favourite overlord on the dance floor.”

Everything went downhill from there. The cellar remained flooded, he was late for Charlotte’s birthday breakfast, and Lucifer appeared, scattering his perfect schedule to the wind. Oh, and he broke Alastor’s door handle, mocked him for offering tea the other night, stalked him, ridiculed him in front of prey, and then – most bewildering of all – joined in Alastor’s little game. Even now, Alastor cannot parse Lucifer’s strategy of back-and-forth, insults and compliments, judgement and support, always switching, never consistent. Dissecting his behaviour with Rosie might have been enlightening.

But with a catastrophe looming, he is off the hook, as it seems, and for once he is not sure whether to be glad or frustrated. Perhaps Rosie would already have suggested a way to handle this strange condition that has befallen him. And judging by Lucifer*s effect on him – now even including his body, which recently began to betray him, malfunctioning and faltering in the man’s presence – it’s clear Alastor must confront this nuisance sooner rather than later. Still, keeping Rosie’s herd of Cannibals safe takes priority.

Alastor realises he has been fidgeting, and he twists his fingers together in a tight knot.

How is it even possible that this ridiculous man has managed to gain so much power over him so quickly?

A movement catches his attention, dragging him out of the circles his mind has been running in since he arrived at the Emporium. Rosie runs a single finger through her short bob, tucking one perfect artificial wave back into place as she listens intently to the man on the other end of the line. A sign of distress. Rosie and he go way back, and Alastor can tell she’s as taut as a bowstring about to snap.

It feels unbearably strange that not only does he know who’s responsible for her tension, no, but his own heart betrays him, fluttering unbidden at the memory of that expression on Lucifer’s face when they dealt with Timothy Harnell together.
Oh dear.

Alastor knows when he is in utter, absolute trouble. And yet, there are matters far more pressing than the stalking city’s founding father.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Morningstar.”

Lucifer.

The name spins in his head as Rosie hangs up. There’s the faintest tremor in her hands, which she ensures to hide by immediately typing a message on her phone.

“Alastor, dearest, you’re staring. It seems Cannibal Town has run out of luck. You were right. The dam is breaking, Mr. Morningstar just shared his evacuation plans. I’m sorry our tea must wait.”

With a polite smile, Alastor inclines his head.
"Of course. Who is the assistant you mentioned to Mr. Morningstar?"

Fingers still typing, Rosie glances up from the screen and gifts him one of her knife-sharp smiles.
"Oh, I was hoping to win a very special lad over for the role."

"Of course..."

While Alastor remains seated, the embodiment of calm before the storm, Rosie spins into action. She sends another message, dials on the corded phone she keeps for sentimental reasons, and rummages through drawers with brisk efficiency.
“Let’s get to work! No time to waste if that inventor is right. I need my high boots, and you need a phone.”

Alastor accepts the burner phone with a smile. There are only two apps installed – calls and messages. A device after his own heart.
“Thank you, Rosie, dearest. You know me too well.”

“Oh, don’t mention it!”

Someone answers her call, and Rosie slips on her syrupy sweet voice to deliver the news and set all wheels in motion. After she hangs up, they leave her office, Rosie still furiously typing as she climbs the stairs to her hidden storage in heels and long dress without missing a beat. She doesn’t even look up from the screen as she continues her interrogation, as though they weren’t standing on the edge of catastrophe.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she mutters, handing him several life jackets and knives. “About you and Mr. Morningstar.”

Alastor feels the heat rising in his cheeks and turns away, pretending to study a box of ropes.
“Well, now that we have a whole district to save, that will unfortunately have to wait.”

Rosie glances up at him, her usual mysterious smile playing across red-painted lips.
“Hm. Why do you not sound upset?”

The buzz of his phone rescues him.

"Oh, will you look at this! The instructions for the evacuation are here, and- Ah. Fuck."

Rosie arches a single brow. “Language, darling. What is it?”

“He wants us to send people to the hotel.”

Heavens! That is not a good idea!

Rosie pulls several first-aid kits from the shelf. "Your hotel?"

It takes him some effort to keep his countenance.
"Apparently Mr. Morningstar believes they have competent staff and a hotelier experienced in dealing with challenges."

She drops the first-aid kits onto his pile and claps her hands once.
“Oh, how sweet! Does that mean you’re getting along better? I recall you complained about him only this morning, how he- Hm, sorry, no time for chatter. Let’s grab the megaphones and my additional emergency kit and head out.”

Alastor hesitates.
“I need to call Charlotte first, to make sure she’s ready to handle this monstrosity of a task her father dearest just bestowed upon her...”
What are you even thinking, Lucifer? The idea isn't half bad, but I'm needed elsewhere! I’m capable of many things, but splitting in half to tutor your daughter AND assist Rosie is beyond even my skills.

With a quiet huff, Rosie pulls two heavy suitcases from yet another shelf and shakes her head.
"Leave the hotel to Charlotte, dear. She's more than capable. You need to trust her sparkling ambition to save others."

Alastor sighs. “I do. But I also know how she gets when she’s overwhelmed…”

How Rosie does it is beyond him, but she somehow manages to pick up two more bags and mock-nudge his ribs with her elbow never actually touching him.

“Awww, darling, don’t make such a long face! That’s the process of separation every father has to face.”

“I’m not her good-for-nothing father!” Alastor protests.

Rosie passes the door and flashes him a smile over her shoulder. “No, you’re her role model father. And now I need your voice at its best. Take one of the megaphones, please. We’ll go all out – live stream, messages, radio broadcast, and street patrol.”

Alastor sighs and then he does the one thing he has trained himself to do in any situation, no matter the circumstances. He smiles.

“Now that’s more like it! Let’s get these little Cannibals to safety.”

An hour later.

Alastor wades through knee-deep water inside the next building, a silent curse on his lips. The flood is cold and treacherous, and the darkness is not exactly helping their rescue mission. Portable lights throw blurred stripes across the ever-shifting surface, but they only help so much. As if his vision weren't bad enough already, his glasses are constantly either covered in drops or fogged up.

“Everything is alright, my dear, no need to hiss at me like that…”

If urgency had tugged at his nerves while he watched Lucifer’s expression during that call with Pentious, now it feels like he’s caught in the chokehold of too many cogwheels, all grinding faster by the second. And so does the water. A while ago, the car engines drowned. Since then, the water has risen from under a metre to its current madness, still climbing. Every minute brings more force, more debris, more chaos. Rain lashes down like icy needles. The coats keep them dry, yes, but they offer little against the cold. Alastor shudders, then steels himself. He can’t let that stop him.

For a moment he observes the chubby orange cat perched on the windowsill in front of him, brown eyes meeting yellow ones. Then Alastor reaches out, scooping the beast up in one swift motion, towel interposed just in time against the feral claws.

“There, there. Be a good kitty!”

The cat trashes and squirms in his hold, but Alastor refuses to let go. He chose to come here against his better judgment, and he can’t allow himself to fail now.

“Stop biting me, you ungrateful wretch! I got out of the boat just to fetch you.”

The earlier rescue team had supposedly cleared this street, but apparently they’d overlooked this little devil. He still has hundreds of names on his list, people waiting desperately for a boat ride, yet he just couldn’t let the cat meet an untimely end.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters, and waves with his free hand at his new crew, almost losing the wild beast in his arms. In front of the window their rubber raft edges closer to the window.
Rosie and Lucifer… They really are master minds with organising people, he thinks, as he perches on the windowsill, a feral grin curling his lips.

Below them there is a whole floor swallowed by the flood. And the first level is not going to last much longer, if the water keeps coming. Rain blurs his glasses yet again, droplets clinging stubbornly to the lenses. Without them it would be worse, though.
Can’t be helped.

He deposits the cat into the arms of one of Rosie’s Cannibals. The beast immediately redirects its fury, claws sinking into the woman’s arm with admirable enthusiasm.

“ARGH, FUCK! Why did we stop for such a pest?”

“Oh, because I love to watch others suffer.”
Alastor chuckles and waits impatiently for two other crew members to reach out and secure him before he climbs back into the boat. Only after he’s seated, the raft pushes off again, and he orders them toward the next street they need to clear.

The scratched woman shoots him a miffed glare, and Alastor wiggles a finger at her.
“Ah, ah, ah. Such an attitude won’t get you anywhere tonight, young lady. We have a district to save, remember? And we’ll have some fun!”
While we still can.
He doesn’t say that out loud, though.

The rubber raft is quickly swept along by the current, and their little team of six needs to focus on steering clear of obstacles – submerged fences, hedges, street signs – everything that could rip through the boat’s belly with one careless move. The rain and darkness make navigation a nightmare, and without their high-performance lamps, they would’ve slit the fabric within minutes after launching.

Their mission is simple: Sweep the next street for those who insisted on staying in their houses or were simply oblivious to the disaster swelling around them. Alastor doubts anyone could be that dense or isolated – but as the jingle goes, in Pentagram City, nothing is impossible.

He grimaces as a sharp turn sends a spray of cold water across his face. Under the moonlit sky, the water almost looks beautiful. A vivid black surface, broken by bright pinpricks of starlight. But under the harsh glare of their lamps, its true qualities are unveiled. A disgusting, muddy brown mass.  

Brrrr.

The hissing cat is finally moved to one of the equipment boxes, lid snapped shut, while the boat rocks onward.

“Alright, Miss Rosie’s list says there are another 57 people on this side of the street,” Alastor notes.

“The lights are all out,” the woman with the claw marks observes. Her nickname is Punch, and Alastor can imagine why.

He points toward a roof where bed sheets are flapping like pale flags in the wind.

“Better look up, my dear. People are getting creative.”

That’s good. At last, people are beginning to take the situation seriously, preparing for an uncomfortable night rather than stubbornly pretending nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

“Bring us alongside that van. I think we can catch their attention from there.”

Everyone agrees, and Christoff manoeuvres the raft with skill.

Everyone agrees, and Christoff manoeuvres the raft with skill. A blast from the megaphone quickly draws the family’s eyes. They still have two floors between themselves and the flood, so they’re marked for a priority C patch – safe for now, but scheduled for pickup by one of the other teams handling non-immediate rescues over the next hour.

Alastor checks the time on his burner phone. 23 PM. The water level has climbed to a delightful six metres, swallowing not only the first but also the second floors of most buildings. Trending upwards. Some lower areas already report seven metres and more. The rain keeps falling, thick and relentless, like a blizzard. With a grimace, Alastor shields the little screen from the rain with his palm to read the latest messages.

To everyone’s surprise and against all odds, the evacuation is working. All helpers are grouped into teams of varying sizes, moving like clockwork under the command of their assigned supervisors. Different chains of action are in motion and each supervisor reports to their headquarters on Pentious’s boat, then to Rosie and Lucifer. Within the last hours they’ve cobbled together a smooth transport network across the city, ferrying people from the C- to the P-District.

Alastor’s greatest worry – the hotel and Charlotte’s state of mind – has turned into their greatest asset. Over there, children are already sleeping in dry, warm beds. Lucifer has ordered several buildings cleared all across the city to hold the sheer number of evacuees. Indeed, there’s destruction everywhere, as seemingly solid structures snap like toys under the current, but Alastor permits himself a grim smile at the sky.

We’re outrunning the flood!

Water, hygiene, access to ruined buildings, morale – Lucifer had predicted these would be the morning’s big challenges, and Alastor will make it his priority to interrogate him about his time as a “doctor”. Getting a glimpse at the beautifully precise way Lucifer’s brain can work under pressure? Alastor doubts him to be just your average trained doctor.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Dispatch 71 has returned. That’s another 20 Cannibals saved! Good job everyone – Feast on your victory!

How Lucifer adapted so seamlessly to Rosie’s district’s dark humour remains a mystery. But Alastor can’t deny the warmth those messages bring out here in the cold. He can even hear people laughing – laughing! – in the face of this catastrophe, and no one dares judge how others cope.

Adjusting his glasses, he rereads the message, then begins typing. Texting really isn’t his style, and his fingers are ice-cold, but these little breaks have become his sacred release over the last taxing hours. So far it’s been both funny and frustrating that Lucifer still doesn’t know who’s behind the “Assistant” title.

Me <Assistant phone>: “Your victory”, Mr. Morningstar? I’d say call it ours.

It takes a moment, and Alastor almost suspects Lucifer is busy – he’s turning a school into an additional hospital wing just now – but then his phone buzzes.

Alastor rolls his eyes and starts typing again, his ice-cold fingers and limited sight make it even harder to hit the right buttons, but sweet Hell is he thankful Rosie refrained from handing out that touchscreen menaces.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Is your team ready to go?

Me <Assistant phone>: We’ll be ready in five, as scheduled, sir.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Just asking because you keep texting back.

Me <Assistant phone>: You also keep replying to every single one of my messages.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Because you keep texting back!

Alastor shakes his head, a chuckle slipping past his slightly trembling lips. Idiot.

Me <Assistant phone>: You’re doing a great job, and your help is highly appreciated among our Cannibals. That’s all I’m saying.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Thanks…

Me <Assistant phone>: You keep praising us, so I thought I’d return the favour. You’re doing amazing, my dear.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Hey, I really appreciate your encouragement too, but please stop flirting with me. You’re distracting me and I already have that song stuck in my head all the time.

Alastor blinks at the screen. His hand slips, and the burner nearly tumbles into the flood before he clutches it back against his chest.
“What?”
The word bursts from him, half-growl, half-laugh. His grin twitches, then falters, then reforms in something unsteady, feral. He presses the phone tight in his grip, staring at the glowing letters as though they might rearrange themselves into sense.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Ah, shit, sorry, no filter! Please keep texting! At least that way I know you’re safe. Just cut the flirting, please.

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: I hate that you’re not at the hotel btw. Charlie just blocked my number. She said I need to stop checking in on her every minute. Could you ask her how she’s doing? 

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Please?

Dumbstruck, Alastor stares at the phone.

Me <Assistant phone>: I’m not flirting!

Another buzz, another message. Alastor juggles the channels with a growl.

Charlotte <Charlotte Morningstar>: Hi Al, sorry it took me so long to get back to you. The hotel is full, but we’re doing great! Vaggie and Husk have everything under control. Angel, Niffty and I are on our way to help you! We’re headed to Theatre Road with team 6. Charlie

Fuck!

Alastor sets the phone down and whistles sharply to assemble his team.

“We leave at once!”

If Lucifer finds out his daughter is out here, he’ll likely abandon his post and do something utterly reckless. Not even a drunk gambler would bet on changing that mind, and persuading his equally stubborn daughter? Impossible. Alastor massages his temples. How on Earth did I get into this position again?

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep! Can you please text me back?

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: Alastor, seriously, please don’t ghost me now!

Mr. Morningstar <Morningstar>: I’m worried sick already – at least type ‘k’ if you’ve read this, please!!!

Me <Assistant phone>: I just called your daughter. She’s fine. Nothing to worry about.  

At least as soon as I’ve assigned her a task that moves her out of the danger zone, Alastor thinks, as their boat dispatches. Ah, yes, if she helps out at the hospital, she’s out of trouble!

Alastor can’t stop the irrational images filling his head, and Lucifer’s puppy eyes force him to pull out his phone again. Annoying and dangerous as always!

Me <Assistant phone>: We’re dispatching now. I’ll get back to you soon, Lucifer. And I certainly won’t start butchering our civilised language just because we’re texting. What is ‘k’ even supposed to mean?

Me <Assistant phone>: Don’t answer that.