Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucifer registers the static long before he fully wakes. He presses the side of his face into his pillow, thinks scatteredly that he’s hallucinating again, until the static gets louder, because the source of it is standing not a few feet away.

“It has come to my attention,” comes Alastor’s cheery voice, blaring in his ears like a goddamn airhorn, “that I don’t actually know much about you!”

Thus, the world’s slowest, most reluctant inverted sit-up is performed in a pool of sheepswool and cashmere blends. Lucifer blinks sleepily at the ridiculously awake striped prick perched at the foot of his bed; does a quick check of the mountains and hills of precious ducklings that span the room around them, down at the hands that grasp his sheets loosely.

He tries valiantly to gather some of his wits; ends up severely lacking. 

But he does manage, “Does that stupid monocle not do anything for you?” Vaguely, he thinks he hears the faint song of birds, the rushing of a stream, the sound of laughter. Then he meets Alastor’s curious eyes and—right, the static. “Fuck, get out! Didn’t you see my sign?!”

That ever-present smile widens as Alastor tilts his head, twirls his microphone. “What sign?”

Lucifer almost lunges, but reigns himself in with the saintly control that is ingrained in his nature, because he suspects people don’t usually appear in your chambers for no reason. “Okay, out of the goodness of my heart—actually, nevermind, why the fuck are you in here? Did Charlie send you?”

Alastor looks at him like he’s an idiot, which Lucifer is beginning to suspect is just his default. “She hasn’t even returned to the hotel yet. Why would she send me when she’s already so busy?”

“Oh,” says Lucifer. “What—what’s she up to?”

“Checking on the sinners caught in the crossfire after last night,” says Alastor, a little impatiently. “The property, too—although that’s another matter entirely.”

Lucifer isn’t jealous of half the Pentagram, shut up.

“So why the hell are you in my room?”

“I would like to bond with you!”

It takes a second or two for Lucifer to realise this guy is being serious, and then another few to stop laughing in his face. 

“Right, uh huh, yeah,” Lucifer says, feeling the relics of a smile ghost his face like the guilt of a bad deed, “uh, fat fucking chance? Get out!”

Alastor stares at him, canting his head and still sounding so stupidly merry. “Make me!”

Lucifer’s shoulders slump. “Are you serious—oh, whatever. I’m going back to sleep, man, you can watch if you want, but like. Don’t get your hopes up about any—“

“Shut up,” says Alastor, and Lucifer does because it’s actually convenient. People don’t fall asleep chattering away, do they, but if he’s really thinking about this, people don’t tend to sleep with a seven-foot deer biped fidgeting with a microphone at the foot of their beds, either. 

Well! Lucifer ducks beneath his blanket and forces his eyes shut.

About a second passes before the static crescendos marginally, and he startles a look to his right to see an incredibly ugly sinner also beneath his blanket, next to him.

No, Lucifer doesn’t leap out of the bed in fear. But he does somehow end up no longer on the thing.

“Properly awake, now, are we?” the little red bitch chirps, sitting cross-legged on the bed like some teenager at a sleepover. He turns his head, raises his eyebrows at the headboard, the face of a duck. “So, what is this?”

“You are asking,” Lucifer eventually says from the floor, disentangling himself, “so many questions right now. Too many. Like, yeesh—“

And Alastor laughs, loud and obnoxious, like some teenager at a sleepover with her boyfriend or something. “That’s the point, my dear! I want to know you.” And then he repeats, because the first time went nowhere, “What is this?”

“Uh, a bed. Furniture for sleeping on top of—probably to avoid the ground, because the floor isn’t that comfortable? So, thanks, for shoving me off—“

“I did no such thing,” Alastor says. “Besides, that isn’t what I meant at all. What is with your pitiful state? You look like an orphan who’s just fallen down a chimney and scraped himself on the way down. At least, there’s no soot on you.” 

Lucifer tries not to stare too much. He’s pretty sure he fails. “Uh, what?”

“Maybe not a chimney,” he continues speedily, seemingly devoted to whatever drug-induced train of thought this is. “A tree? That is most fitting, obviously, considering your—history. Although I can’t tell you certainly if Victorian children were prone to climbing trees, I wasn’t of the era, and I hadn’t cared much for history at the time—I’m fairly certain they were working constantly, anyway, so I assume trees wouldn’t be the likely priority. Say, what’s your favourite colour?”

“Buddy,” says Lucifer, very slowly, like that’ll balance out the supersonic rate at which words of a language not meant to be spoken so rapidly are escaping Alastor’s mouth, “can you—alright, look, I’m not well versed in helping people overcome withdrawal. Never really comes up considering, you know, there’s not really a reason to quit down here? So I can’t help you with, with whatever this is, sorry, but if you leave right now, I’ll do you the favour of forgetting this ever happened—“

Before he can stop it, Alastor’s microphone is bonking him on the head. “Ha. No.”

He shoves the microphone away. “Oh my fucking—seriously, all your bigshot aura is the only thing keeping me from sleep right now, and I’m not appreciating it!”

It’s probably a lie: the only thing that had enticed him to sleep in the first place had been the drainage of his very beloved and decidedly not unlimited energy. Which is restored. And also, kind of useless, considering he’s not allowed to kick trespassers out of his own territory. 

Alastor hums thoughtfully. “I take it you aren’t a fan of the floor?”

Lucifer’s mouth screws to the side. “No. Why would I—“

“Yet you’re still down there,” Alastor observes, and Lucifer scrambles up. Immediately comes the problem of the evil and schemish villain lounging in the centre of his bed, so he’s sort of stuck standing upright.

He throws a duck to see if this will change the course of his fate. It ricochets off Alastor’s brow and collapses on the floor.

“My favourite colour is red,” the bastard offers.

“I kind of thought you already knew this,” says Lucifer, sensing that standing awkwardly to the side in his own room is surely an injustice of some sort, “but I don’t want to know.”

Obviously his inconvenience means nothing to Alastor, who seems to thrive on the discomfort of people. People, men. Dicks with dicks. Not that Lucifer is a dick, he’s just perceiving a pattern. One he’s exempt from.

“I want to know yours,” says Alastor. “Indulge me.”

Okay. Okay? He has no idea why Alastor knows that indulging is Lucifer’s Thing, or why Yusef Akbar Azziz Al-Nassar Gamel El-Fayoumy had, too; if it’s some preconceived notion from earth or just an accidentally correct assumption stemming from the whole tempting of mankind. Which makes a lot of sense, actually.

But, like, the magic word has been spoken; now he’s gotta answer.

“Fuckin’—I don’t have a favourite colour.” And then, “Happy? Are you done?”

Alastor regards him for a moment, and then nods decisively. “Very well. Thank you, Your Majesty!” What the fuck? “I’ll see you soon, ta ta.”

He disappears into shadow.

Before Lucifer can convince himself he’s been hallucinating this entire time and he is in desperate need of resuming his sleep, Alastor reappears.

“Also, perhaps consider changing?”

Lucifer can’t help his gawking, but let it be known he tries. “What—in front of you?”

There’s a sharp ring of feedback just as Alastor testily assures, “No. I only meant, there’s still blood on your, everywhere.”

Mortifyingly, he’s right. “Oh,” Lucifer says, grimacing slightly. From the Box? “Aw, shoot, how’d it get in the—“

Alastor’s gone again.

It doesn’t bruise Lucifer’s ego, don’t be ridiculous.

Chapter Text

“Guess who’s staring again,” says Sherry, as observant as one can be with only an eye.

Lucifer freezes where he’s been approaching the bar and tosses a look over his shoulder, up and over to the top of the staircase where Alastor waggles his fingers at him.

“Right—right.” Normal. This is normal now. “Uh, just ignore him. Have you seen Charlie?” 

Charlie, who he is maybe kinda sorta worried about. He hasn’t gotten the opportunity to talk to her since yesterday, and while she’d seemed better, happier, he had to make sure. Take initiative, and all that.

“Yeah, she’s been around.” Sherry focuses on the letter she’s been scrawling all over, finishes a sentence, and looks back up. “So like, what’d you do? Steal something? Suck his dick? He looks pissed.”

Lucifer clears his throat and pretends God has momentarily struck him with the inability to register sound. It’s not too big a stretch, it’s happened before. “Uh, where, did you see Charlie?” 

“Around,” is the unhelpful answer, as she adds a rushed note to an earlier paragraph. 

His gaze lingers on the letter a little too long; and before he can fight it, his curiosity seizes him. “Wait, what language is that?”

“…English?” A heap of glitter is dumped onto the paper, so that the writing is no longer visible.

“Oh.” He squints. “Are you sure?”

“Aw, just sit, dude!” Sherry waves at the stool next to her, settling down her pen and resting her elbow over the counter. He does as she says. “So, I’ve been kinda curious, whaddya do all day? Like, being king of hell and everything. Just piss people off all the time? Cuz I get it, it’s funny, but—“

“Who are you writing to?” he cuts in, not really wanting to go down that line of conversation. 

“What? Oh. Eh, just some—my—that—you didn’t see?”

“See what?”

Her single eye dubiously narrows. “Pentious. The whole broadcast announcement thing, dude, where the shit have you been?”

Lucifer laughs, tries to play it off, because he’s sure not winning any down-with-the-kids points like this, the fuck? “Maybe? Maybe I’ve heard of him. Sounds familiar. Pentious! Pentious.” He thinks a little harder. “Does he stay at the hotel?”

Sherry stares at him. “He’s been redeemed.”

Recognition slams into him like a truck. “Oh! That guy! Right, I remember!” He laughs again, sounding perhaps too telling that he no longer has to sound like an absolute buffoon trying to keep up. “Him? That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” she says, softening. “It’s—it’s really weird. Like. Thinking he was dead, and now I can talk to him. And he’s in paradise. I guess God isn’t so bad.”

She grabs an empty drink and goes on. “I missed him. I mean, it’s cheesy as shit, but I did. I really did. A lot. And seeing him again, I—“ she glances at him, like Lucifer understands, like he hasn’t stilled his restless hands for the first time since the beginning of this little chat. “I never thought I would, you know?”

Lucifer slowly forces himself to nod. 

It takes another five minutes of Sherry getting sentimental and then defensive and then aggressive about her feelings for Lucifer to remember why he’s even there in the first place. By then she’s rushed away with the letter(s), leaving Lucifer and a sad little pile of glitter, with no clue where Charlie is.

And Alastor’s still watching him from the staircase.

He doesn’t realise who it is he’s been heading for until it’s too late, until the guy is standing right in front of him.

“Oh, hello,” Lucifer says, then remembers himself and scrunches his face distastefully. “You.”

“Me,” Alastor agrees, grinning widely, turning away from the banister. It’s all so portentous and lame that Lucifer wonders why he hates the TV so much if he’s constantly acting like he’s in the stupid thing. 

“Did you need something? A pal? A friend? A buddy? I recently read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence—“

Lucifer realises it was meant to be his turn to speak. “Uh—no, I have friends! I’m looking for Charlie, where is she?”

The useless ponce drums his claws along, humming. Interest turns to amusement. “I’ve no idea.”

“What?”

“What?” Alastor raises his eyebrows. He looks far too smug for someone whose shadow is currently trying to clamber up his ankles for some reason. “She’s your daughter, not mine. You said so!”

“But,” Lucifer begins, teetering between the two courses of civility and adamant concern for his daughter. And he ends up in bum fuck nowhere. “Are you mocking me?”

“I would never! But you did say that. Don’t tell me you’re rescinding—“

“I didn’t say I didn’t say that,” says Lucifer.

“That is true,” concedes Alastor, a lilt to his tone. The eye of his microphone scrunches like it’s smiling, and his shadow continues to paw at his leg. He looks ridiculous. “How else would I be mocking you?”

Lucifer crosses his arms. “So you admit you’re mocking me.”

“Well, when did I admit that? I only asked—“

“You just did!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!”

“I didn’t!” Alastor declares; loud enough for a passing sinner to break into a run down the stairs and proceed to tumble all the way down. “But now that you’re here, I was wondering—“

“Nope.”

Alastor only smiles wider at him. “I was wondering if you had a birthday.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Was that supposed to be a question?”

Alastor nods eagerly. 

He thinks about it. “Believe it or not, but I can’t read minds, so I don’t know if you were wondering if I had a birthday but I’m guessing—“

“Doyouhaveabirthday?”

“Rude,” mutters Lucifer. He opens his mouth to answer—but—wait, wait, wait, this isn’t why he’s here. “What the fuck, stop distracting me! Are you trying to distance me from Charlie because it’s not gonna work—“

“I didn’t even do anything that time,” Alastor protests, the Liar. “Your Majesty—“ what is with that? “—if you’re looking for Charlie, I really have no idea where that girl is, but I’d love to join you in finding her!” 

“No.” 

That, at least, seems to be taken. “Can you at least answer my question?”

“No.” Suddenly it occurs to Lucifer that he’s allowed to walk away. So he does.

“Have you tried her room?” Alastor calls out to his back. “Right now, I’d say she’s probably calling her mother—“

He ends up summoning a portal to get away faster.

Chapter Text

Charlie doesn’t open her door even after eight rounds of knocking.

This could mean many things. Like, she doesn’t want to see Lucifer, she hates him, she’s given up on him, she wants space away from him, she wants him to go away already, she wants him to learn to take a hint. Or, the totally less likely possibility: she isn’t in her room at all.

Lucifer learns this isn’t the case when the door swings wide open a second later.

“Holy shit, Dad! You’re here!” She yelps, like he hasn’t been standing here for ten minutes and whistling various hymns to himself. “Holy shit—holy shit—holy shit—“

“Good morning to you, too, honey,” he offers, because she doesn’t look angry, but you can’t judge a book by its cover. “Uh, any exciting news?” 

“—holy shit, guess what!” For a moment, it looks like she might pounce on him in excitement, but her hands find his and she buzzes in place instead. “And I mean that literally, since, ugh, fuck, I can’t tell you, not yet, but it’s really good news and you’ll be really happy I think so go ahead and guess but like I won’t confirm or deny anything but I will be really happy because I am really happy and we can be really super duper happy together oh my gosh—“

The words are too plentiful in number and only wash over him, but the lingering doubt that has set up camp in the pit of his gut does die away. “That’s, that’s great, baby?”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!” Charlie cries, but she’s laughing, and Lucifer really doesn’t know what is meant to come after this. So he laughs too.

Something prods the back of his leg. He twists round. “What the—“

“—I mean I was a little angry—or, well, not angry but I was kind of hesitant at first since it’s been so long but you know she’s—UH, haha! Okay I’m gonna shut up now but just, I really really love you and I’m so happy you’re here, have I ever told you that? And—“

A shadow creeps up the white of his trousers, up along his vest, over his unbeating heart. It reaches the vulnerable join of his shoulders, twisting and lingering, and Lucifer can only stare down at himself in bewilderment. 

“—is so great, but oh my gosh, I need to find Vaggi! Oh, but, is she working right now? I can’t remember—I should know, I saw her like ten minutes ago what the heck okay hold on Dad I love you it’s great to see you back at the hotel I’m super glad you came backokayBYE!”

Lucifer blinks after her. He doesn’t get to ask his own questions, to fuss over her, to ask if she knows where he’d been locked away yesterday, or if she’d been hurt, too. Maybe it’s his own fault—she’d been right here, he’d had his chance.

But she disappears down a corner, her door clicking shut after a moment, and none of that matters anymore, because suddenly it’s like she hadn’t come out at all.

The shadow circles his neck.

“Did you find her?” The bartender asks.

Lucifer sleepily lifts his head from the counter. “What?”

“Charlie. You were looking for her earlier.” He observes Lucifer with omniscient eyes as he cleans out a glass. “Guessing you did, and it didn’t go well?”

“What?” Lucifer repeats, sounding stupid. “No, no, it was fine, she’s just busy. That’s not—I’m tired, for some reason.” He considers establishing the fact he doesn’t drink his problems away, that he’s been alive for a millenia and no alcohol will solve any of it. But he’s vaguely aware of, like, bar etiquette? It feels wrong.

Bartender looks uninterested, anyway. “And you came here.”

“Yyyyyyyeah?” Did he think Lucifer stumbled over here by chance? Look, he gets it’s noon or whatever, but when has that stopped anybody else down here from a nap?

“Suit yourself,” he grumbles, but his eyes slide elsewhere, tense. Under his breath, “…Hell’s he staring for?” 

Lucifer groans into his arms.

Fucking déjà vu.

“Okay, look, if you ain’t gonna drink, can you move elsewhere?” 

The bartender looks a little ways too close to guilty. Lucifer wants distantly to throttle him, but the angel on his shoulder (or, well, just his shoulder—himself?) says that’s not fair.

He yawns out an apology and thinks about what else there’s left for him to do.

He walks right into a sinner. It was bound to happen, because it’d been happening, at least once every hour the entire day. None of them ever said anything, though.

“Watch it, you little gnome,” some coatrack hisses at him, and jeez, if Lucifer was that unfortunate he’d be pissy too. Coatrack steps into a room—his own, probably—and slams the door shut behind him.

Of course, he has to step back out into the hallway a moment later looking haunted because nothing in Lucifer’s vicinity stays as it should. “Sorry,” says Coatrack, then disappears again.

What the fuck?

“And here I thought you had a temper,” says Alastor, materialising beside him, plucking Lucifer’s hat off to aggressively pat his head. “How benevolent of you, to let such a lowly sinner insult you without consequence!”

“He called me a gnome,” says Lucifer, batting Alastor’s hand away and wrenching his hat to place it rightfully upon his head. “That’s not really—hey, hold on, are you stalking me? Why do you suddenly have to be everywhere?!”

“I’m the host of the hotel, have you forgotten?”

Lucifer scowls. “But you quit.”

Alastor pulls out the jazz hands. Somehow his staff remains standing upright independently. “And I came back!”

“Well—well, yeah, but, but,” Lucifer curses and chooses to give up on it. “Okay but why?”

“I’ve an idea,” starts Alastor, and that’s not what Lucifer was asking, like, at all. Maybe this really is the effect of withdrawal. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine. An exchange of secrets!” He waves a hand, “Between friends, all lighthearted.”

There is so much wrong with that. “Why’s it a secret?” Lucifer’s mouth catches up to his brain. “Friends—fucking where?”

Alastor’s arm comes like a whip around Lucifer’s shoulders. How he does it with their staggering difference in height appears a total mystery. “Right here, my good fellow! A bond in the making, a companionship that’ll last a lifetime! That is, if you’ll permit it.”

Lucifer’s neck slowly cranes to look sideways at him.

“What?” Alastor asks innocently.

He takes a breath he doesn’t need. They’re at the hotel, he can’t do anything, there’s sinners nearby, Charlie’s still around— “If you want a bite of my arm or something, it doesn’t matter how nice you act, I’m not gonna let you. Never. Never ever ever.”

This, at least, prompts Alastor to re-establish some distance between them. “Excuse me? I don’t want to eat you.”

Uh huh. “Says the cannibal.”

“Yes, the cannibal, not the heathen,” says Alastor, smile sharpening.

“Are you calling me a heathen?”

“No!”

“You said the heathen, that implies there’s one present—“

Someone clears their throat.

“Vaga—Vaggi!” Lucifer catches sight of her name tag just in time. Good for him! He grins, a little lopsidedly. “What brings you, uh, here?”

She glances at them, eye narrowed. There’s a bucket of dirty water in her hold and a tea maid tucked beneath her arm. “I swear if you two are back to fighting—“

“We’re not!” Lucifer assures a little desperately, just as Alastor begins laughing.

“Definitely not,” he agrees, something useful for once. “Nothing to worry about, dear. In fact, we’re bonding!”

Wh—are they? “Uh.”

Alastor’s smile grows. “We even had a sleepover last night!

Okay. “We did NOT!” Lucifer can only pray that Charlie’s girlfriend knows better than to believe this absolute fool. “You, we—he was only in my room, for like, a minute. Not a sleepover. And I didn’t consent to it, either."

Vaggi frowns.

Alastor looks vaguely offended. “Exactly how long did you think I was standing there?”

Before Lucifer gets to register that, Vaggi pushes past them both with a scowl, addressing them over her shoulder as she easily avoids colliding with a sinner. How does she do that? “Look, I don’t have time for this, I’ve gotta—oh, whatever. Just, don’t cause trouble!”

And, see, it’s those very words that sinners love so much, because rebellion is their calling, and they hate to listen.

Take Alastor, immediately turning to Lucifer with an impish smile. He lifts a gentle hand, knocks heavily on the door of the Coatrack, and proceeds to dissolve into shadow, leaving Lucifer standing alone in the hallway.

He bolts as soon as the doorknob twists.

Chapter Text

Dinner comes around, and it—rather, he—somehow gets worse.

“How would you describe your relationship with God?”

Everyone nearby the table turns to look at Alastor, and when they realise who he’s addressing, ogle at Lucifer.

Lucifer chews doggedly on his pasta and swallows before answering, because he isn’t a monster. (And he remembers far too well what had happened the last time he’d eaten in public, forgoing etiquette. Hadn’t been pretty.) “What is this, an interview? Where’s your microphone?” 

Well, he sees the microphone as soon as he asks, thanks. Propped up against the table. Leaning a little too close to Lucifer’s side of the table. Or, really, the whole table was meant to be his, but of course Alastor came, trying to steal his blessed perfect little round table that was purposefully hidden away in a corner by occupying the other half of it.

If he was trying to shoo Lucifer away by making him uncomfortable, it would take so much more than that.

“I’m curious!” says Alastor, propping a cheek against his hand. No food of his in sight. Or a menu. Is he waiting for the table to be free? Bad strategy. “Are you allowed to talk to him? Does he talk to you?”

“Um,” says Lucifer, torn between disdain and the compulsion born of guilt he’s been having since Lilith disappeared, to respond. Diplomatically. Besides, Charlie isn’t here, so how likely is it that Alastor’s trying to win points by being nice?

He eyes the microphone, which—who?—blinks innocently. What are the chances of it being a walkie-talkie or something?

“…Sometimes? If I’m bored, or like, angry.”

Alastor hums, smile unchanging. “How often is that?”

Too often. “Uh, I said sometimes.”

“And you don’t have anyone else to talk to?”

There is no reason for Lucifer to still be here—except that, leaving would mean Alastor wins. Which, wrong. “I do! If you’re insinuating—are you insinuating—“

“Do you like God?”

Lucifer scowls. Do conversations not go both ways anymore? Why is he not allowed to ask questions and expect answers?

He bites his cheek, shoving his food around with the weird stick thing they gave him. People are still watching, and it might have to do with the heat crawling up his throat. He’s sure it escapes through his eyes. “Sure.”

Alastor blinks at him, assessing. After a moment, “Really?”

“Yeah. Who doesn’t?”

Here comes the Lucifer-is-an-idiot look again. “Dare I say—everyone in this hall.”

It’s a big hall.

“Well. Okay.” Lucifer allows his stick utensil thing to clatter against his plate. He glances at the next table over, to the occupants who are now outright glaring at him. Did he break some rule already? And he was trying not to this time! “You know, I really don’t give a gaf.”

“A what?” 

And where’s Charlie? The only reason he’d even bothered to come here in the first place was for the off chance she’d show up and give her little speech, so that he could catch her afterwards for another talk. A successful one, this time.

Something nudges his leg. 

“Give a what?” 

Lucifer’s eyes snap back into focus. “What?”

Alastor’s ear flicks, and he looks impatient. “What is a ‘gaf’?” 

Uh. Good question, actually. Slang? Did he steal that from Charlie? “Uh,” says Lucifer, “I don’t really, remember.”

Surely if that stupid microphone had a stupid face, it would be sneering at him.

“Incredible,” says Alastor, dripping condescension. And still, he harbours no food, the expanse of his dinnermat dilapidated and bare. Maybe he ordered something earlier, before Lucifer could catch onto his miscreancy. 

The fist Alastor’s been resting against suddenly lands with a polite thud on the table, and Lucifer watches him critically.

“Why so tense, dear?” Alastor’s smile widens as two tendrils of shadow try to pull Lucifer’s cheeks up despite the answering splutter. “Aren’t you capable of smiling where Charlie isn’t present?”

Lucifer looks between the shadow and Alastor, Alastor and the shadow. “Holy shit, is that thing yours?”

Alastor’s smile dampens slightly. “You are far more inattentive than I thought.” 

“Excuse me—“

And then Alastor’s back to—normal. Or, the new normal. Except it isn’t normal, it’s totally abnormal, he shouldn’t be acting so civilly, this is weird and Lucifer should probably be worried, okay shut up you’re still in public and probably glaring really badly shut up shut up— “Not a bad thing! I’m sure you have redeeming qualities elsewhere. In fact, how about you tell me about yourself? Like, what do you do in your free time?”

Lucifer only catches onto the last part. “I would’ve thought,” he says, a bit curtly, “the guy who’s been stalking me the entire day would already know that.”

“I’d love to meet him!” Alastor chirps, and how does he manage that, what the fuck?

Something touches Lucifer’s arm suddenly and he jolts, expecting to see that stupid shadow thing again, but instead it’s a sinner: some small puppet looking thing. 

“Hi,” she says, big unblinking eyes very ominous. 

Lucifer tries valiantly not to grimace; sports a practiced smile instead. He knows Alastor is probably rolling his eyes, spiritually. He feels it. “Uh…hello?”

She glances down at his elbow. “If I were to have a taste, what would you do?

He almost doesn’t hear her over the rising static, and jerks his arm away. Bad, bad, bad, Lilith said no sudden movements when engaging with people! It‘s provocative! “I—no? No! What? Please don’t do that.”

“Please. I want a taste,” she says, still unblinking, “of heaven. Free trial. I want to know if redemption is worth it.”

Alastor’s voice is too loud. “Well—“

“It’s not,” Lucifer blurts out, and nearly slaps himself. “I mean, it is! It is. Just,” not for you, “I don’t think redemption will work if you only do it because you ate me?” Polite enough, right?

(Apparently not.)

“You can’t hurt me.” She’s firmer, this time. Gaining confidence. Which is—probably good, for redemption? Maybe?

Lucifer finally turns back to Alastor, who is now staring at him, and he stares at him back, because staring is rude, but shit, so is abandoning a conversation out of nowhere.

Now he’s gotta choose between losing and apologising, which he’s had enough of his entire—his entire life, seriously? 

But: none of that even matters, because nothing does, and the sinner bites him just as he knows Alastor is about to blink.

His concentration—and now his anger—slips, briefly. “Fuck, seriously?! I was about to—”

The sinner’s gone. And so is the wall. And, like, a good portion of the dining hall.

“You’re welcome,” says Alastor, as shadow smooths down Lucifer’s sleeve, which is relatively unharmed. Because puppets don’t have sharp teeth, not even in hell.

So, anyway, that’s how Lucifer secures his second conversation with Charlie of the day. And her girlfriend. And maybe Alastor will be there too, but that’s irrelevant.

For the record: totally a win.