Work Text:
Alastor hadn't seen Lucifer around the hotel in days.
It wasn't exactly that he was looking for him, it was just that his absence was... conspicuous.
And he couldn't even ask anyone about it, considering nobody else was commenting on it, either, so for him to bring it up may seem particularly suspicious.
Charlie seemed a little down, but not surprised by her father's sudden disappearance. Just... subdued. Perhaps she was resigned to her father's unexplained absences.
The worst thing was, he'd tried slinking through the shadows into Lucifer's rooms to see what he was doing, the first day he'd gone twenty four hours without emerging, only to find himself blocked by a never before present wall of angelic power.
Rude.
He had taken that somewhat personally, refusing to attempt to approach the fallen angel again until he decided to come out of his own accord and explain himself.
Unfortunately, it was nearing a week and there was still no sign of their fallen ruler. The angelic barrier remained in place – a simple probe with a shadow as he turned down the hall, heading to his own rooms, was enough to tell the radio demon that – and more food than the other hotel staff were preparing for themselves was missing from the kitchen. Not a significant amount, it must be said, barely enough that even Niffty would complain of an empty stomach on the amount that was vanishing.
The mood in the motel was morose, even Angel picking up on Charlie's lacklustre enthusiasm for the day to day activities. And still nobody would say anything to explain what was going on.
At Cherri Bomb's insistence, Charlie and her entourage had agreed to go out for the day – the explosive cyclops was evidently as confused by the melancholy sweeping the hotel as Alastor was, and ordered everyone to get dressed and go with her to a new entertainment complex that had opened in town.
Alastor politely declined the invitation, much to certain hotel members relief.
Shortly after they had left, the acid rain started. Torrents of rain, bucketing down over the hotel, hissing against the protective layers of power keeping the building standing. Alastor watched from his rooms as the garden Charlie had hopefully planted smoked and collapsed.
It seemed as though the others would be out for slightly longer than intended, if this downpour kept up.
It was the perfect time to make his way to Lucifer's rooms on foot, no risk of being seen approaching the king's quarters.
Time to wrest an answer from the king about why he'd been locked away for so long, why he'd set up that barrier.
Striding down the long hallway that separated their quarters on the top floor, Alastor prepared a litany of biting comments in his head to chastise the king for his inattention – not only to him, which was offensive enough, but to his own daughter, whom he claimed to be here to support. That should knock some sense into the man, if nothing else would.
He rapped smartly on the king's door – and that was another annoyance, the fact that he actually had to knock – and stood with his hands folded at the small of his back, quietly seething at the time it took the fallen angel to answer. He could hear the sounds of footsteps inside, finally approaching the entrance.
The insult he had been about to deliver died on his tongue when the door opened, just enough that he could see Lucifer's face staring up at him. A face which looked...
Well, frankly, it looked awful.
The purple smudges always present on Lucifer's lids were darker than usual, his eyes heavy as he blinked blearily up at the demon. There was no interest in that gaze, just a strange sense of doleful detachment. His hair looked like it hadn't been brushed in days, the blonde locks hanging limply around his face, and he was clutching a too large blue robe closed at his chest, one shoulder hanging off him.
He blinked once more, before moving to shut the door on the demon and turn back to his bed, all without uttering a word. Alastor hastily summoned his cane and trapped the end in the door before it could latch.
Lucifer looked down at it, as though wondering vaguely where it had come from.
The king left the door open with a shrug, making his way across the room and crawling back under his sheets, as Alastor let himself in and shut the door behind him.
Rain lashed at the large, curved windows, the curtains drawn to block out what meagre light the crimson sky granted during this downpour. The hissing sound of the rain drowned out even Alastor's constant static hum, filling the air around him as he stared at the king uncertainly.
He'd never seen him look like this. It couldn't be that he was ill – so far as he was aware, angels, whether fallen or no, didn't experience illness. Even sinners rarely did, their hell-born bodies immune to most diseases.
A glance around showed the evidence of the king's food thievery – discarded wrappings of processed sweets strewn haphazardly around the room. Not exactly a balanced diet. The workbench was a mess – it looked as though he'd pulled apart his latest project with his bare hands, the pieces littering the floor around the desk.
“Are you planning to rejoin us at any point, your majesty?” Alastor tried, broaching the subject as delicately as he could. He was not particularly accustomed to... whatever this was. He spun his cane slowly in his hands, if only for something to do.
“Eventually,” the king answered with a sigh, his voice listless and rough, like it hadn't been used in days. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, arms limp at his side.
What was it that Charlie had been lecturing everybody about, during her educational piece the other day... Various disorders that could afflict a person. Alastor glanced again at the king's unkempt appearance, at his dull gaze.
“...Is this depression, sire?” He inquired, unsure what to do about it if it was. He hadn't paid very close attention to that part of the lesson.
Lucifer blinked, his head turning slightly to focus his gaze on Alastor, a small sense of recognition flashing in his eyes.
“Hmm,” he answered, his tone thoughtful, “Probably.”
He didn't sound surprised about it – he didn't sound like much of anything, for that matter. He continued to watch Alastor, the demon having drawn his attention away from whatever it was on his ceiling that had captured his interest moments ago.
Alastor placed his cane on the floor, folding his hands on top of it as he struggled to figure out what to do. This really seemed more like a job for Charlie, evidently accustomed to her father's dark moods.
He didn't even know why he'd entered the room when Lucifer had turned away from him. Not really. What the king needed was somebody to comfort him, perhaps. Maybe take care of him. And Alastor was certainly not the best demon for that particular task.
And yet, he was the one the king had let into his rooms, even as Alastor realised suddenly that others must have already tried.
Tried and been turned away.
“...Would you like to fuck me?” He offered, hesitantly.
That usually fixed whatever mood the king was in.
Even the unusual profanity and bluntness coming from the tall sinner wasn't enough to get more than a brief widening of those heavy eyes, a slight arch of the king's surprised brows. He hummed thoughtfully, looking as though he was taking the offer under consideration.
“Usually, yes. Almost always,” Lucifer admitted, not even the hint of a blush creeping onto his face at the confession. “But not today. Thank you,” he added politely.
Thank you?
That was it?
Alastor pressed his ears to his head in discomfort. He still didn't know why the king was in such a black mood, and he had already led with his best idea for cheering him up. His gaze swept around the room again, looking to avoid Lucifer's dull stare – perhaps he could find something in here that would be of use, or at least explain what had come over the ruler.
He noticed again the pieces of metal strewn around the desk, and decided to start there.
He took the few strides over to the workbench, taking in the sight of the ruined project a little more closely.
He had been expecting the remnants of yet another duck, but what he found instead seemed to be... jewellery? Or, no – a frame. The metal was twisted unnaturally, bent so far out of shape it was almost impossible to work out what it should have looked like in the first place. He shot a curious glance over to Lucifer, still watching him lifelessly, only the slow blinks of those exhausted eyes and the rise and fall of his chest even indicating he was alive.
Alastor noticed a scrap of paper stuck to the waste basket, stooping to pick it up. It was a torn piece of photo, the golden hair visible potentially belonging to Lucifer, Charlie, or-
“It's our anniversary,” Lucifer quietly announced as Alastor looked up, his voice still without any emotional inflection whatsoever. The rain continued pounding on the windows.
Ah – that explained it.
Then... Alastor's presence here was likely only reminding the king that what they'd been doing – every time they met, he was technically betraying his wedding vows, even if his wife had been gone for years.
The king was probably looking at him and feeling disgusted with himself for his behaviour, wondering how he could ever have let himself fall into the arms of a sinner such as the radio demon.
Anger at the implied insult twisted within his chest - the king should be grateful that Alastor was choosing to spend his time with him. There were many demons who'd sought his company over the years, powerful demons. It warred with a different feeling, one that he'd not encountered for a long, long time.
Self doubt.
A brief thought that perhaps the king was right to question what he was doing with the radio demon, nothing more than a lowly sinner when compared to the fallen angel, or his estranged spouse.
He should go.
“My apologies for my intrusion,” he said stiffly, putting the scrap of photo back onto the desk and turning to leave.
“Don't.” Lucifer's voice behind him, finally raised in some kind of expression, a quiet plea in his words.
Alastor stopped, cautiously turning to look at the king. He hadn't moved from the bed, only rolled onto his side, his expression desperate as he stretched an arm out on the sheets, palm up.
Beckoning the tall sinner over.
Alastor hesitated, the downpour outside showing no signs of letting up – no chance of anybody else returning to the hotel.
His earlier feelings of misplaced irritation still twisted within him, but he found he couldn't ignore the desperation evident in that single word.
He slowly drifted over to the king, even though every instinct was screaming at him that it was a bad idea – this wasn't part of their usual rules of engagement. And yet Lucifer was still looking at him – at him – with that pathetic, hopeless expression. Something long forgotten coiled inside the demon at the sight, and a memory rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.
The king, assisting him in private during his own convalescence – long before they were – before they were this, still at one anothers throats on a daily basis – and not in the same, enjoyable way they were now, literally or figuratively.
The bed sank slightly under his weight as he sat, placing his hand in the kings, who gripped it almost painfully tight. The rain lashed at the windows, a constant drumming underscoring their silent movements.
The smell of sweat and unwashed sheets drifted up to Alastor as he reached out his free hand to brush the hair away from Lucifer's eyes. Hair that felt lank and lifeless, not at all like its usual silky strands. He wrinkled his nose, his smile turning into a grimace.
Well, at least he knew what to do about that.
“Will you get out of bed for me, sire?” He asked, to no avail. Lucifer just looked away, his fist clenching in the sheets as Alastor extricated his own hand from that grip. He sighed.
“Very well.”
He stood, the king watching him carefully, and made his way to the lavish bathroom connected to the king's quarters. The room also faced out into the city, those same curved windows spanning the entire wall of one half of Lucifer's chambers. Alastor set the bath running, the water sloshing into the large tub an echo of the rainfall outside, running down those windows. He drew the curtains and returned to the king.
Lifting one knee onto the bed to brace himself, he slipped his hands under Lucifer's arms and eased him into a sitting position. The fallen angel made no protest, allowing himself to be lifted, the blue robe untied and pushed from his shoulders. He watched Alastor's hands undressing him with a sense of detached curiosity.
“What are you doing?” He finally asked, as Alastor removed his own coat and rolled up his sleeves, before scooping the king into his arms, one arm behind his knees, the other under his shoulders. Lucifer settled his head against Alastor's neck, one arm resting on his stomach, the other hanging limply at his side.
“You smell, highness,” Alastor informed him primly, trying to coax a reaction from the man as he carried him to the bathroom, the lightness of his frame surprising.
“That's rude,” Lucifer answered simply, no trace of offence in his tone. Alastor's smile twitched in amusement.
“It's true,” he riposted, lowering the fallen angel into the tub and turning off the tap as the king's added volume caused some of the water to spill over the side. Lucifer curled his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on his knees.
At least he hadn't sunk limply underneath the water.
That was a good start.
“If I leave you here for a minute, will you attempt to drown yourself?” Alastor inquired, tilting his head.
“Not possible,” Lucifer answered, which didn't exactly set the demon's mind at ease – but at least it seemed that any attempts to do so would not meet with success. Still, he could do without the sight of the king floating face up in the tub, if only to prevent his heart trying to leap from his chest at the discovery.
“I shall be very cross if you try,” he warned, trying and failing to add a sense of harshness to his words. In spite of his best efforts, he almost sounded... concerned.
He would have to trust that the blink Lucifer gave him in place of any kind of verbal response was an agreement to remain with his head firmly above water level.
Taking a step out of the bathroom, Alastor paused. He made a quick trip to the king's workbench, yanking open drawers until he found what he was looking for, returning to the bath and awkwardly setting the rubber duck on the water.
Lucifer didn't even look at it.
A quick mental probe of the surroundings informed him the barrier to his powers was still in place, which was certainly inconvenient. He was forced to leave the rooms entirely to ride the shadows down to the kitchens, preparing something slightly more substantial than the cookies Lucifer had been subsisting off. It wasn't anything of any particular culinary excellence, but even canned chicken soup at this point had to be better than what he had been eating.
Mentally preparing himself for the sight of the king having sunk underneath the water, Alastor was pleasantly surprised to see him exactly where he'd left him – still curled into that tight ball, his chin on his knees.
He looked so small. Why had he put such a large tub in his room? Everything about the space dwarfed the king, making him appear so fragile, breakable.
Perhaps it wasn't the furniture to blame for that – the king was doing a good enough job at looking broken on his own, staring vaguely at the ripples in the water as they moved with every slight shift of his body.
Alastor held the mug of soup in front of the king's face, refusing to move until he took it, wrapping both hands around the steaming cup. When he made no further move, Alastor sighed heavily.
Did he have to do everything?
He pressed the rim of the mug to the king's mouth, awkwardly tilting it so he was forced to take a sip, trying to prevent the soup from spilling into the bathwater. The king's forked tongue darted out a moment later, swiping across his lips as though surprised, his gaze returning from the unknowable distance it had been settled on before.
He gratefully finished the mug, some slight colour returning to his normally red cheeks.
“Thank you,” he said, and Alastor was frustrated to hear that his tone was still lifeless – as though the king himself wasn't even within his body, his soul drifting somewhere far away from this place.
Alastor took the mug, setting it on the ground next to the tub. He dragged a pouf into the bathroom, taking a seat next to the bath. Lucifer was making no effort to bathe himself, only sitting there in the warm water.
With a gentleness that was atypical of the sinner, Alastor cupped his hands in the water, scooping it over the king's head until his hair was dripping, the fallen angel having curled back into that ball, eyes now closed against the running water.
Alastor switched through music until he found a quiet piano piece, a fitting accompaniment to the percussion of the rain, and squeezed a dollop of shampoo onto the king's hair, his fingers tracing familiar pathways as he rubbed it into the golden strands.
Lucifer didn't react to the long claws of the radio demon scraping against his scalp, rubbing the soap into his hair until satisfied that every last inch of grease had been scrubbed from existence.
“Now we can go under,” Alastor informed the king, drily, plucking his arms off his legs as he wrapped a hand around the back of Lucifer's neck, his other pressing gently but firmly against his chest.
He pushed the king to lay back in the tub and dunk his head, the soap of the shampoo clouding around him. Swiftly, he drew his hands through the locks before pulling the king up once more, the shorter man squeezing his eyes closed. He swiped at the king's face with a dry towel, cleaning away any stray shampoo, and Lucifer squinted at him, blinking blearily.
Now that the king was no longer locked around his own knees, Alastor was able to run a washcloth over his skin, rubbing away the evidence of days spent doing nothing but moping in bed. The king let him do as he would, allowing his arms to be lifted when necessary, leaning forward or back when directed.
And still, that listless look in his eyes Alastor seemed unable to dispel. His ears had fallen low on his head, not pressed back in agitation, for once, just a sense of helplessness at his inability to do anything for the king, even when he was trying.
And he was trying, he admitted that to himself.
Oh sure, he could pretend that the only reason he wanted Lucifer back to normal was because everybody else in the hotel was a bore when this black mood was upon him, or because he liked having a verbal sparring partner. But if that was the case, he knew, he wouldn't be putting in so much effort.
At least there was nobody around to witness it – nobody but himself, and the empty shell of the man whose head he was now wrapping a towel around, the water in the bath draining around his ankles with a gurgle. He rubbed at the king's hair, extracting as much water as possible. When he pulled the towel away, the sight of the king blinking at him from under that unruly mop would have been enough to draw a laugh from him, under normal circumstances.
As it was, he simply drew the towel over the rest of the king's body, still sitting in the tub, before lifting him out and placing him onto the pouf that he had been using, turning around to retrieve a plush white bathrobe from the hook by the door. The piano music faded, only the noise of the rain lashing the windows as he drew the sleeves over the king's arms and tied it firmly at the waist.
Once again, he picked the smaller man up in his arms, the king seeming uninterested in any of the proceedings. He carried him back to the bedroom and wrinkled his nose in distaste as he took in the unwashed bedding, the scent of melancholy pervading the air, somehow.
He couldn't put the king back in that bed, not until Niffty had changed the sheets.
And cleaned the room.
Possibly twice.
He stood, frozen in indecision for a moment, feeling himself teetering on the precipice of yet another line about to be crossed. His static hummed in the air uncertainly before he flicked an ear, confirming the downpour was still keeping everybody else away, and strode to the door.
Walking down the hall, the fallen angel clasped firmly in his grasp, Lucifer stirred, finally showing an interest in something now he was out of his self made burrow of depression.
“Where are we going?” He asked, lifting his head from Alastor's shoulder to watch as they swept through the long hallway that made up most of the top floor of the hotel, passing the occasional utility closet on the way.
“My rooms,” Alastor answered shortly, forcing down the discomfort at the idea of somebody else being in his space. It was a little late to worry about that – if he could allow the king inside his body, surely he could allow him into his rooms.
Finally, finally, a small spark of something other than that dead expression flashed in the king's eyes, even as he buried his face back in Alastor's neck, breathing deeply.
Once Alastor had locked his door with a flick of his hand, a shadow darting out to ensure they would not be disturbed, he looked around uncertainly. He could put the king in his bed, but somehow he felt that he'd spent enough time laying around over the past several days.
And, a small part of him felt that a bed might imply he was trying to initiate other activities, which was not an impression he wanted to give, particularly in light of the king's earlier refusal.
He opted instead to sink into one of his plush armchairs, settling Lucifer over his lap. To his surprise, rather than remaining limp and unresponsive, the king wrapped his arms around the sinner's torso, snaking his arms underneath Alastor's, his face pressed firmly into the demon's shoulder.
Alastor wasn't sure why Lucifer was clinging onto him so tightly - that was, until he felt the hot, wet patch spreading over his collar.
Tentatively, almost fearing he might somehow break the other man, he wrapped his own long arms around the king, burying one hand in his still damp hair. He rested his cheek on the crown of his head, ignoring the discomfort that wet hair brought to his face.
A thought was enough to light the fire in his room, flaring to life with a green crackle of flame, settling down to steadily warm the space.
He put on that piano music once more, thinking that perhaps the king might like to have what little privacy he could afford, even though Lucifer was perfectly silent, the only evidence of his breakdown the slight shaking of his shoulders and the quickly spreading wet spot on Alastor's shirt.
Alastor wasn't sure how long it took, the two of them ensconced in that armchair, his own face buried in the top of the king's head as Lucifer quietly released the agony of the past week. He rubbed a small circle with his thumb into the king's back, his other hand gently pulling the tangles from his hair.
Finally, Lucifer went still once more. Though it didn't feel like the same stillness as before, all limp body parts and lethargy. Now he simply relaxed his grip slightly, drawing in a shaky breath before pulling his face away from Alastor's shoulder, sitting back to meet his gaze.
He looked as though he was searching for something.
Alastor met his stare, evenly, unsure what the king might be seeing behind his crimson eyes and his ever present smile, even now quirking his lips up at the corners, as small as it ever could be. For once, he didn't try to look away, or cover the moment with a sarcastic remark.
Something seemed to have left the king – or come back, Alastor wasn't quite sure which. Regardless, even though his eyes were red rimmed, his cheeks wet, he looked more alert than Alastor had found him to be since he'd first knocked on his door.
Without thinking, he wiped his thumb across the king's cheek, swiping the tears from his face. Lucifer leant into the touch, his eyes closing, a bone weariness seeming to settle into him.
When he opened his eyes, his look was intense, a mixture of challenge and need as he stretched up, tilting his head. There was a question in his eyes, one which Alastor answered by bending his neck to meet the king's mouth with his own, a soft press of their lips together against the backdrop of piano and rain.
It was not a prelude to anything else, and when Lucifer pulled away, Alastor did not try to follow.
The king went to settle his cheek once again on Alastor's shoulder, only to pull back, almost as though he was surprised.
“You're wet,” he accused Alastor, and the demon blinked, his brows raising.
“I wonder how that could have happened?” He questioned, looking at his shoulder with wide eyes, as though he, too, had just realised how damp his shirt was.
“Hm. I can fix it,” Lucifer asserted, clicking his fingers. Alastor's shirt was once again as dry as though it had been freshly laundered, the king settling back against his his neck with a contented sigh, one arm snaking over his shoulder to splay a palm across his back.
Alastor wasn't going to press him about his week long spiral, not if it seemed to have finally broken. He continued to trace lazy circles with his thumb, now resting on the king's hip.
Lucifer's hair was drying slowly as Alastor continued to comb it with his fingers, thinking that perhaps the other man had fallen asleep on his lap. The fire crackled and popped, an echo of Alastor's own static.
“She's gone,” Lucifer finally said, almost too quiet for Alastor to hear. He tensed, wondering suddenly if this brief lucidity was about to disappear as quickly as it had come. But Lucifer only pressed his face more firmly into the demon's shoulder.
“She's not coming back,” Lucifer added, mumbling the words into Alastor's shirt as he pulled his arm from around the demon's neck, wrapping it instead tightly around his waist.
“No,” Alastor agreed carefully. “I don't believe she is.”
The king fell quiet once more, and Alastor resumed combing his hair with his claws. The silence stretched even longer, the king clearly weighing something over in his mind.
“You're here,” Lucifer said quietly. Something small flared in Alastor's chest at the hope in the king's voice, and a brief pang of doubt filled him, a reminder of his earlier feelings, that he, of all people, should be the one to cause such a reaction.
This... Thing, between them, whatever it was.
It was volatile, and sometimes angry – furious, even. It was messy, and it defied all sense of logic, Alastor was well aware of that.
It was fragile and tenuous, and...
And he didn't want it to stop, he disclosed to himself, a wry sense of amusement trickling through his mind at the realisation.
“Yes,” Alastor murmured into the king's head, his radio echo faint. “I am.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of Lucifer's hair, inhaling the scent of fresh shampoo, faint apples, and something that was unmistakably him.
“I'm not going anywhere,” he added quietly, the static in the air almost covering his words. Lucifer heard him, he was sure of it by the way his arms squeezed briefly at his middle.
Outside, the downpour continued, the steady drumming of the rain the only sound in the room apart from the quiet static hum that always surrounded the radio demon, and the faint piano music he was still playing.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
~fin~
