Chapter Text
There was a time — long before time was a unit of measurement at all — when Lucifer spent his days weaving vast nebulas into existence.
The endless sky served as his blank canvas, and his fingertips a paintbrush, tracing spiraling constellations and glittering galaxies.
The act of creation itself was sublime, rewarding in its own right, but Lucifer would argue that he found an even greater joy in sharing his creations with another. It was exhilarating, in the beginning, to present his latest innovation to his brothers and sisters. His feathers would vibrate in his excitement as he held his breath, hoping beyond hope that they, too, would see the beauty of it all.
More often than not, however, his designs had been deemed childish, redundant, or unnecessary.
He'd return, crestfallen, to the drawing board, determined to prove his worth, to think bigger, grander. He'd tell himself that their dismissal didn't hurt and tried not to think too deeply about why even amongst angels and goodness, he was so lonely.
He didn't even know why he felt like an outsider amongst his flock but knew by the ache in his chest, tender with rejection, that he was.
And still, he'd find himself time and time again, reaching for a connection that never came.
Looking back, Lucifer recognizes now that his exile started long before his Fall.
Being God's Favorite had put a target on his back among his brethren and instilled in him impossible expectations.
Stupid, foolish little angel that he was, he hadn't realized at the time that he was a star himself, destined to inevitably burn himself out.
A social outcast, Lucifer spent time with his creations instead, allowing them to fill the void in his unending existence — one that went on much of the same way until the day his Creator chose a planet that orbited one of Lucifer's many stars to plant the very first garden.
Eden.
Lucifer sits there now, in the memory of Eden, a dreamscape embellished with lunar valleys and rolling hills. It's not so suffocating here. The pain of his existence is more subdued in this little sanctuary of paper flowers, in this illusion that he can manipulate and bend to his will.
(never enough to change the outcome though; the consequences of his pride will always remain, carved into stone and written in ink, a story of temptation as old as time).
It’s another bad day — or bad week, maybe. Time moves differently here in the recesses of his soul, so he's not sure how long it's been. He tells himself he should visit the waking world soon, even if it's just to check in and make sure Charlie doesn't need anything from him.
He would, too, if only he could muster the mental energy to move, to force himself out of own paralysis to do anything at all.
He sits there frozen instead, propped against the trunk of a magnolia tree.
In a daze, he watches from a distance as his past self worries over an overgrown berry patch. His wings flutter, feathers puffed up in his needless excitability, flustered to the point of absurdity over something that won't really matter in the end. He has an ethereal glow to him, the bringer of dawn, of humanity's ruin, though he doesn't know it yet.
Lucifer gazes upon his form that once was, a subdued yearning in his heart for the flawless wings, the color of freshly fallen snow, long before they were wretched from his joints and torn through muscle and sinew, before they grew back coated in crimson. The smile on the oblivious angel's face is far too trusting, ready at a moment's notice to welcome another into his circle — anyone, please — and offer them a lifetime of unconditional love before he learned that such a thing could even have conditions.
Fierce protectiveness and unrelenting helplessness twist painfully in Lucifer's heart.
Legs drawn and held to his chest, chin propped on his knees, Lucifer watches on with a rueful smile.
When a presence forms in his peripheral, he doesn't need to look over to know who has joined him.
He already knows the shape of this ghost.
“Luci,” comes the soft greeting.
His cheek squishes against his knee when Lucifer turns to smile up at her.
“Hey, Lily,” he says.
She returns his smile, all perfect white teeth behind tastefully stained lips. Her hair is a waterfall of luminescent gold, tumbling over her rounded shoulders. Even her dress is perfect, sewn from shimmering hues of dark eminence. It pools onto the grass like a violet bloodstain when she settles beside him.
“Bad day?”
She's close enough that he can feel the body heat that's not really there. He leans into it all the same.
“Yeah,” he says. “Real bad.”
Sighing, she reaches out to him. Her long fingers push at the disheveled strands of hair framing his face. She tucks them behind his pointed ear. “Have you been eating? You look positively gaunt.”
He huffs and gives her a wry smile for her troubles. She can't help herself but worry, he knows, not after he'd all but forced her into the role of his caretaker. He likes to believe that he's different from his Creator, from Adam but, in moments like these, he's not so sure.
He'd treated her with respect, with equality, yes, but the shadows of his mind dimmed her light all the same.
“You know I don’t need to eat,” Lucifer deflects.
“And you know you feel better when you do.”
Well, that’s the problem now, isn’t it.
When he’s in this headspace, he doesn't necessarily want to feel better.
He doesn't want to feel anything.
But it sounds pitiful to say out loud, even if the idea of fading into nothingness has some appeal.
“Luci,” she chides gently, reading his thoughts.
Guilt flows through him, quiet like a babbling brook. "I'll be okay,” he assures her.
He is grateful when his younger self derails this line of conversation by drawing their attention over to the pond with his wild gesticulation.
The smile that shapes Lilith’s lips is tender, packaged beautifully in precious nostalgia, as she watches his former self talk animatedly to a pair of incredibly nonplussed swans.
Lucifer traces the softened edge of her expression with his gaze. “You loved him so much,” he observes quietly.
“Yes,” Lilith answers easily, adoringly. “He was easy to love.”
Lucifer's breath hitches in his throat.
Lilith turns to him at once. “I'm sorry,” she says, sincere. “I didn't mean that you — “
“I know what you meant, Lily,” he says, but his voice is strained. Her words are like a weight on his chest, pressing down on his lungs and bruising his entire heart. It renders him almost breathless.
The truth of the matter is that he was easy for her to love. Soft, respectful, exuberant, painfully sweet and so, so desperate for companionship he was willing to do and say anything for her attention.
He knows his edges are jagged now, his beauty is tainted, his joy scorned and picked apart. The Fall alongside a bottomless well of torment and trauma has made him a difficult being to tolerate, nevermind love.
To this day, he doesn’t blame Lilith for how their marriage fell apart. In sickness and in health, yes, but Lucifer also knows he's not the same man she’d made that vow to once upon a time. Their difference in opinion regarding an Unholy War was simply the straw that sent it all crashing down around them.
His lashes are wet now, his vision line blurry as Lilith moves him to rest his head in her lap. Her fingers sink into his hair, tending to the knots.
As Lucifer gathers his bearings, they watch the young angel across the way in silence. The dappled sunlight shifts over them when a breeze whispers through the leaves above them.
“Charlie misses you,” he whispers at last. “Will you be coming back soon?”
Lilith hums, but it's nothing more than an acknowledgment of his question. She can’t actually answer him, because no matter how convincing, she remains a figment of his imagination, a beautiful wraith built in her image, and thus is only equipped with the same knowledge Lucifer has.
And to this day, almost a decade later, he has no idea where she is or when she’s coming back.
“I miss you, too,” Lucifer confesses quietly. “I know our marriage is over, but you were my best friend for centuries and a part of me will always love you. I… Lily, I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better partner to you."
A soft sigh is his answer. Her hand gentles in his hair.
Worlds away, there is a rattling sound.
“My sweet Luci,” she croons, her voice tinged with concern. “You must be careful, dearest. You’re slipping.”
Lucifer shouldn’t be surprised by her words, sudden as they seem. She always had a knack for seeing the bigger picture.
“I…” He closes his eyes. “I don’t know if I can stop it. It... I'm worried it's already too late."
Even as he says it, he can feel her touch fading into the wind.
Another sound, sharp and impatient, forces his eyes back open.
He catches the gaze of his angelic counterpart, expression forlorn as he, too, fades.
The grass beneath Lucifer turns soft and yielding; the sky darkens. He blinks again, and he's back in his bed, adorned in rumpled pajamas. His wings are draped haphazardly over the sheets, patchy in the places where he’d plucked them to soothe his inner anxiety.
He's operating at a lag, consciousness still rended in two, but even so, he can sense the intruder.
Shadows slither from the corners of his room to coalesce before him, signaling the arrival of a familiar sinner.
Lucifer turns his face into the pillow and groans. “Ugh, f*ck me,” he mutters into the fabric.
He can hear the scowl in Alastor's response, “A simple hello would suffice, my liege."
“People who barge into other’s rooms unannounced don't get a hello.” Lucifer’s voice is hoarse from disuse, but his sass comes through well enough.
“In my defense,” Alastor counters, “I did knock. Several times, in fact. As did Charlie. Even Vaggie has stopped by a few times.”
Lucifer peeks one eye open at that. “How long has it been?” he asks quietly.
“Six weeks."
Lucifer jolts halfway out of bed, the abrupt movement sending a flurry of loose feathers scattering. Alastor plucks one out of the air and appraises it between two fingers.
“You're lying,” Lucifer says but he's pleading, because no, there's no way he'd abandoned his daughter again for weeks on end without a word, no way he'd submerged himself in his soul that long without coming up for air, no way —
“Indeed, I am!” Alastor’s cheerful voice cuts through his growing panic. He sets the feather down on the nightstand. “It's been six days.”
“Oh, you absolute dick — “ Lucifer starts but his indignation is tampered by his utter relief. He sinks back into the mattress and exhales a deep, stuttering breath.
"Why, you should be thanking me!" Alastor says. "If not for me promising to come check on you, dear Charlie would've kicked down the door by now. I could only assuage her concerns for your well-being for so long, after all."
The lingering embers of Lucifer's irritation are snuffed out at once. It may not have been six weeks, but knowing he'd caused his daughter distress, that he'd distracted her from her mission with his crippling self-loathing, makes him want to fold up on himself. He tucks his wings closer to his body.
“And you volunteered to come check on me because…?”
Alastor takes to examining his claws, his air one of nonchalance. "Charlie is an extraordinary young lady carrying the weight of an enterprise. With my invaluable help, of course.” His gaze slides to him, pinning him with a knowing look. “Children do not need to take on the emotional burden of their parents.”
Oh, well, Lucifer hates that.
Specifically hates how genuine Alastor sounds, like he actually cares for Charlie. That's somehow worse than the times he simply flaunts their relationship in his face for sh*ts and giggles. Lucifer wants to see the psychopath, the unforgiving, power-hungry Overlord. He doesn't want a deeper look into the sinner who indulges in his daughter’s dreams and certainly not at the once-human who coos so sweetly at Eden.
As soon as the thought passes, he notices Alastor’s gaze, subtly surveying the room.
“She…” Lucifer says, reading the silent question in those scarlet eyes. “I don't have the energy right now for her to borrow from.”
Lucifer hardly even has the energy to maintain his current glamour, but Alastor doesn't need to know all that.
Without a preamble, Alastor conjures a chair with a snap of his fingers.
Lucifer realizes with equal parts dread and relief that he means to stay.
“Why are you here?”
“I told you already,” Alastor replies, taking his seat. “Charlie has other duties that require — “
“At the hotel, I mean.”
“Oh, that! For the entertainment, of course!”
It's his obligatory response, but Lucifer's unwilling to let it go so easily this time.
“We both know you have ulterior motives,” Lucifer says.
“It's Hell, your Majesty," Alastor reminds him. "The mosquitos have ulterior motives.”
"Be that as it may, if you hurt Charlie, I swear, Alastor, I'll — ”
“If you intend to subject me to the platonic shovel talk for the umpteenth time, your Grace, please allow me the courtesy of the abridged version.”
The temperature in the room rises several degrees. “Al.”
“Oh, come now, I have no intention of hurting dear Charlie!” Alastor dismisses his concerns with a lackadaisical wave. “Why, she's like a daughter to me!”
“She's not — “
“Hush now, before you strain yourself trying to intimidate me. You've had your fun, ruminating on your misfortune. Now it's time to seize the day with a smile. You know, you're never fully dressed without one!"
Consider Lucifer perpetually underdressed then, he thinks petulantly.
He keeps the thoughts to himself, however, embarrassed enough as is in his current state.
He becomes aware, rather abruptly, of how awful he must look. His wings self-consciously curl inward, shielding himself from Alastor's discerning gaze.
“My, aren't you a mess," Alastor tutts anyway. "Let's get you in a state more fitting of your station, shall we?"
Lucifer startles at the unexpected touch, gentle but insistent, when Alastor draws one of his wings onto his lap.
Lucifer can't even form the words to protest, utterly gobsmacked by Alastor’s audacity to handle him in this way. There’s no possible way Alastor understands the sheer intimacy of touching an angel’s wings; he can’t possibly know that he’s only the third living creature to do so since his Fall, preceded only by his ex-wife and Charlie.
Though sorely tempted, Lucifer doesn’t tear the appendage from his grip, doesn’t punish him for his insolence.
No, he's much too touch-starved to do anything at all, but remain silent and endure.
His eyes grow hot.
“What — “ He stops and takes a moment to smooth the quaver of his voice. "What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Alastor parries. “Your wings are in dire need of maintenance, and I so happen to know a thing or two about proper wing care.”
“You… you do?”
“Yes.” Alastor does not explain any further. “Now, may I proceed?”
Lucifer opens his mouth.
Then, closes it again.
His eyes warm further in his frustration, unable to decide whether he wants Alastor to stay or go. One thing's for sure, he certainly is not going to sit here and tear up over the gentle way Alastor cradles his feathers.
“Okay,” he mumbles.
He releases the tension of his wing, allowing it to settle more loosely over Alastor’s lap. To save face, he amends, “No funny business though, or I’ll throw you out the window.”
Alastor pats his wing. “Yes, I know. Rest assured that I am terrified of all four feet of you, my liege. Now, be a dear and let me work. The sooner you are back to your insufferable self, the sooner the rest of the hotel can return to the status quo."
"Careful, Al. It almost sounds like you missed me."
It's the second time in as many minutes that Lucifer has called him that.
Neither of them comment on it.
"Hardly," Alastor scoffs. "But your despondent mood is inconvenient at best. I had thought you'd be quite joyous, being reunited with your daughter after so many years."
"It's not about that," Lucifer argues as Alastor begins to straighten out his mangled feathers. "I am beside myself that she's given me another chance to be a part of her life, I am... but I also know that I don't deserve it. I'm the reason that she had to fight Adam in the first place, that she had to even defend this hotel and her friends. If I didn't agree to — “
“Miss Charlie is alive and well," Alastor smoothly interrupts. "She would be even better if her father was present to support her. Why ever you would spiral over something that did not come to pass is beyond me.“
“Yeah, well, you wouldn't understand.”
“Of course, you believe that because I have not ejacul*ted into a fertile womb and have no children of my own that I am incapable of — ”
“For f*ck's sake, Alastor, she's my daughter," Lucifer hisses with his forked tongue. “It's not the same, knowing your flesh and blood is out there in danger, knowing you could lose them at any moment and being so f*cking useless that — ”
Lucifer stumbles over his words. His world spins, and he attempts to smother his panic before it can consume him entirely.
Alastor remains silent all the while. He doesn't ever seem to enjoy kicking a man when he's down. It's probably boring for him, Lucifer thinks, once the thrill of a worthy opponent is gone.
Except those same hands that dabble in casual cruelty are profoundly gentle carding through his plumage.
Lucifer's focus narrows in on the soothing touch until he no longer feels like he's at risk of hyperventilating.
It's only when he's calmed that Alastor speaks again.
“I cannot empathize as a parent, no, but I know the fear of losing a loved one quite intimately,” he says sternly. Then, softer, as if reminiscing, he says, “I was raised with strong family values. The women in my family all but ensured it," he tells him. "My mother was always hopeful that I’d find a nice dame to settle down with one day to start a family of my own. It was a terribly kept secret of hers that she wished for a grandchild or two to dote on.”
Not for the first time in this exchange, Lucifer finds himself speechless.
Alastor had been particularly tight-lipped when it came to his time on Earth. To be given a glimpse into his life, his family...
“What,” Alastor drawls, amused at the surprise he must find on his face, “you think because I’ve indulged in the occasional cannibalistic murder spree that I am incapable of appreciating those dear to me?"
“Uh…” Lucifer blinks. “Yeah, kinda…”
Alastor shrugs. “Well, you know what they say about assumptions.”
Touché, Lucifer wordlessly concedes. He realizes that the residual panic has all but receded in the face of Alastor’s anecdote.
“Safe to say you never found a dame to settle down with?” Lucifer queries, relaxing once more.
“Astute, as always, your Grace,” Alastor says. He frowns, seemingly displeased when he comes across a missing patch of feathers. He carries on without commenting on it. “As shocking as it may be to hear, I am not well suited for romantic entanglements. Relationships require compromise, sacrifice, and admitting to one’s faults. Not exactly my specialty.” He raises a shrewd brow. “Nor yours, O' Sin of Pride?”
“Asshole,” Lucifer says, but there’s no bite to it.
It leaves Alastor looking terribly smug and just as terribly handsome.
The silence that follows is an easy one, broken up only by Alastor's static and the shuffling of his feathers.
For once, Lucifer doesn't appreciate it. He squirms, restless after almost a week of being bedridden.
Alastor ignores him for the most part, though he tugs a little harder on a few feathers when Lucifer's shifting becomes disruptive.
Unable to settle, Lucifer blurts out, “So… cannibalism, huh?”
A bark of genuine laughter is his response.
Alastor's shoulders shake with the sheer force of it.
Of course, it’s a beautiful sound.
“Was that a question, your Grace?” Alastor asks once he composes himself.
“Shut up.” Lucifer’s smile is a small thing. He toys at a loose thread of his pillowcase. “I’m still rusty, you know. Talking to people.”
“You don’t say,” Alastor muses, hands drifting to his primary feathers. “I would never have guessed. It's not as if you blubbered your way through dinner last week after asking Vaggie what her intentions were with your daughter. Why, you nearly killed the few residents we have with secondhand embarrassment."
“f*ck off,” Lucifer says but he’s laughing now, too. “Christ, why are you like this?”
Alastor smiles at him. Something about it is different than all the ones before it. “You like it."
Lucifer does. “I do not," is what he says. "You’re categorically terrible.”
“Flatterer.”
“Says the sinner preening my wings.”
A red hue infuses high in Alastor's cheeks, so faint, Lucifer could almost believe it to be a trick of light. “I simply wish to dispel any staff concerns about their king, so that they can all get on with their jobs," he tells him.
He pauses then, lowering his gaze to the feathers in his grasp.
"Also, I find myself wanting for mon serpent’s company as of late. I suppose you could say I've grown... accustomed to it.”
Lucifer clutches his pillow.
His stomach flips, flutters, twists.
He doesn't want to jeopardize this budding... friendship (???) with Alastor.
Which means he should leave these feelings he has voiceless.
Which means that he should absolutely not breathe life into them.
To examine them any further, to even entertain them is madness.
It'd almost certainly push away the one person who seems to sometimes, sort of enjoy his company.
And yet...
All Lucifer wants in this moment where Alastor is humming a jazzy number and tending to his wings is to coax these feelings closer to the surface.
— to name them, to know them, to know him.
If only Lucifer could accept that ignorance was the lesser evil for once.
