Chapter Text
The Hotel is a mess. Nothing new about that. Screams down the halls and Niffty trying to scrub a stain of debatable origin from the rugs.
Perfectly familiar! Just how Alastor likes it.
Maybe it wasn’t such a time-waste being sent to this dump after all- for moments like these at least. He’ll suffer one hundred dull evenings and one thousand of Charlie’s poorly-planned presentations if it means one chance at having that lowly, pathetic man look at him as he is now.
Who knew you could fit so much rage, so much pettiness, in such a small body?! Maybe that’s what the oversized hat is for. Needs somewhere to store all that negativity.
“Hell, he’s useless,” Lucifer’s complaining again with the audacity to snap his fingers in front of Alastor’s face, “Zone back in or leave! You’re taking up space.”
“I,” Alastor begins, swatting away the offending hand, “Was thinking of a solution. Granted, I cannot fault you for not knowing what thinking looks like-”
“Alastor, please,” Charlie’s scrubbing her palms over her face in frustration. The ink on her hand is spreading all down her cheek without her noticing. Hilarious. “You too, dad. If you’re going to fight, that's fine. Even if I don’t like it. But I do need cooperation now.”
“Naturally, dear,” Alastor smiles while Lucifer scuffs his heel on the carpet, arms crossed like a petulant child.
If Charlie senses that something’s up she says nothing, returning to the problem at hand. Something about the residents not having the decency to use the bathrooms for their business.
Alastor really doesn’t want to listen. So he doesn’t, promptly zoning back out.
How long until that feeble little man bothers him again? He’s guessing thirty seconds. Maybe one minute if he proves to have any modicum of self-restraint which… the thought nearly makes Alastor laugh out loud.
He just can’t help himself, you see. It’s too funny. The King of Hell, Son of God, the Devil himself, is an absolute joke. A waste of potential! A snivelling little socially incompetent excuse of a person. How could Alastor possibly resist pushing a few buttons?
Stepping out of the shadows too close for comfort to watch the way his shoulders jump. Dipping his thumb ever so slightly in the King’s drinks when passing them over. Reminding him exactly of his place in the Hotel’s hierarchy and digging into him about every single one of his miserable little flaws.
So Alastor simply cannot help the mean lilt to his grin whenever angry wrinkles appear on Lucifer’s forehead. When his hands clench at his sides or when his forked tongue twitches with frustration. He’d always backed off with a care-free attitude when the pot looked close to boiling over.
Wouldn’t want to get smited, after all.
Until that teenie tiny revelation not too long ago.
And how. Alastor. Had. Laughed. Laughed himself stupid up in his own quarters at the Hotel. Laughed so hard it could probably be heard down in Sloth. Wheezed and cried until his vision turned splotchy and he’d damn near passed out.
He’d been in such a good mood ever since. Joyful enough to turn a blind-eye to Husker’s moping at that vapid spider-fellow’s newfound absence. Busy enough with his new hobby to forget all of his troubles and woes.
Maybe he’s been a touch more insistent with his comments as of late. Perhaps the words from his mouth have become increasingly flavourful.
But what’s Lucifer going to do?
Smite him?
He’s too busy trying to hold back the cackle to be offended when there’s more snapping in front of his face. Forty seconds! Disappointing!
“I’ve had it with you! Pay attention when Charlie’s talking!- Why are you even here?!”
“Dad, that’s rude-”
“Listen to our daughter, Lucifer,” croons the deer, enjoying the way everybody’s faces collectively wrinkle at the phrasing, “Don’t be so disrespectful to your superiors.”
“My superiors?! Oh that’s rich, bus-boy.”
“Hotelier,” Alastor corrects, placing a palm on Lucifer’s shoulder to shove him away. He’d have shoved him via the head but that enormous hat is in the way. “Do listen.”
“Do help! Maybe if you actually helped around the Hotel instead of always talking about helping then we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“Oh I do plenty, your Highness. Though I suppose you’d never notice given how you’re locked up in your quarters every hour of the day. How, exactly, is that helping the Hotel?”
“At least I’m there for people when they need help! Sure, I might not get it right straight away but I try!”
“Are you?” Alastor pries, leaning closer, “Are you really? There for people, that is?”
Lucifer’s about to retort when a pointed finger to his face cuts him off.
“First you weren’t there for your siblings in Heaven, then for your citizens in Hell. Then for your wife- how is she by the way? Then for your daughter. Maybe if you weren’t so absent your only child would want to include you in her life’s work rather than keeping you at arm’s length because she’s embarrassed that her father is a ten-thousand-and-something year-old adult man who spends his free time making rubber ducks instead of socializing with his family.
You’d think after so many centuries you’d have grown somewhat. Maybe she left you because she couldn’t stand to see her reflection in your bald patch. Or maybe it was the neck pain from always looking down at you. Maybe the height difference is the reason you and your wife never saw eye to eye. She always was so hard-working and you’re… not. If you had the work-ethic either her or Charlie have then you’d be a real king. But you’re not.”
Lucifer isn’t bristling anymore. He stands there within Alastor’s shadow, looking up at the grinning man with cold, almost unfeeling eyes.
You could hear a pin drop in the lobby. Only the ambient static surrounding the Radio Demon fills the air.
It’s quiet. Until it isn’t.
“Oh, Alastor,” Lucifer speaks. Calm; at ease. “I hope you mean that.”
Alastor isn’t given the grace of picking apart what that means before he’s falling through a portal, whisked away through a sea of gold without chance to escape.
Lucifer follows soon after and the portals close, leaving the lobby in terse, suffocating silence.
Husk pours himself a drink and puts his feet up, murmuring something about long live the King before tossing it back.
Alastor hits the ground with a thud and is immediately overwhelmed with the blinding sight of gold and white and- ducks. Thousands of them, piled high to the ceiling. Thrown about in piles with little space to maneuver between them.
Such a humiliating space could only belong to one man. That man in question stepping out through a portal- with far more grace than Alastor’s painful landing- to pace throughout the room. Tail lashing, horns protruding.
“My, my! What a tantrum! And here I thought such brainless actions were supposed to be grown out of in the teenage years.” He dusts himself off and fixes his monocle back into place, taking in the sight before him. All lashing fury and pent-up rage.
He’s too amused to feel shame at the petty giddiness bubbling inside him.
“You bastard.” Lucifer spits, “You spineless coward! You-! You’re so far out of line! Do you know who I am? Do you know what I could do to you?!”
Alastor doesn’t withhold his laughter this time. “As a matter of fact I do!”
“You’re pathetic! You’re a parasite, always nipping at my heels like a damn rabid dog! Shoving your nose where it doesn’t belong!”
“And what, pray tell, my dearest King, are you going to do about it?”
Eyes meet. Slitted, burning reds with all-too amused dials. What is he going to do? What can he do?
The meaning doesn’t seem to go unnoticed. Not if the way Lucifer tenses, fists balling at his sides, is to be believed. The way his entire being is engulfed with raging flames, teeth grit and positively fuming.
The poor guy looks like he’s ready to explode!
Alastor swallows the drool gathering in his mouth. “Go ahead,” he challenges, zipping through the shadows to press into Lucifer’s personal space, looming over him in that way that serves to flatter his own ego, “I’ve wronged you, have I not? Retaliate.”
Lucifer boils. He seethes and he stiffens and he shakes with venom, blood vessels bursting in his eyes. Dearie me, it looks like he’s about to cry.
Nothing happens. Nothing comes of the anger. No Heavenly attacks, no strikes, no torture of his soul. Not even a petty little back-hand slap. And certainly no smiting.
Alastor coos. “Oh no, what’s wrong? You can’t? You really can’t? But that’s so-” he clears the swelling static from his vocal chords, “Disappointing. Well, at least it’s in character. For you.”
Lucifer speaks slowly, as though the hatred he’s containing is slowing down his tongue. “If I could hurt you,” he tells Alastor, deadly serious as he whispers into the tight space between them, “I would.”
It’s like he’s wishing the harm into existence.
Alastor laughs. Laughs right into his face as he ruffles up the King’s golden hair. Laughs even harder when Lucifer tries slapping his hand away only to find he can’t, instead resorting to stepping out of the demon’s proximity.
“That’s right! You can’t! You pathetic little man, you can’t! Tell me- please, do tell me- how badly, how desperately you wish to tear the skin from my flesh. What would you do if only you could?”
Lucifer turns to stomp away only to bump right into Alastor’s chest. Stupid teleporting prick-
“Get your hands off of me-!”
“Would you torture me?” The Radio Demon presses, snatching a thin wrist into his hand to keep the King right there, “Would you rip out my heart? You snivelling, poetic fool. Would you kick my teeth in? Snap my antlers off and stab me with them? Reach into my soul and squeeze my mind?”
“You-” Lucifer chokes on the tension, praying the black oil from the sinner’s mouth doesn’t drip down on him, “...Are really into this.”
Alastor pauses, another comment on the tip of his tongue but unable to fall. He blinks, noticing the confused, almost bland expression upon the King’s face, and realizes how he’s grown to tower even further over the other.
He shrinks back down with a cough, wondering where the anger has vanished off to.
“Excuse you?”
“I mean-” Lucifer scratches at the back of his neck and smoothes down his hair- where had his hat even gone? Lost when the horns came out, probably. Alastor finds himself wishing those horns would make a return. “You’re kinda acting like you wanna be smited more than I want to smite you. Hey- I’m not gonna kink shame! But usually that’s something people talk about before-”
A tentacle cuts through the air and Lucifer vanishes in a puff, popping back up a few feet away. “Hey!- No interrupting, I wasn’t done.”
“Keep your disgusting insinuations to yourself. And do refrain from projecting, it’s distasteful.”
“Projecting?!” Lucifer coughs, “You’re the one projecting!-”
“-How?”
The King fumbles at the interruption. “You- ugh. Whatever. Just stop being an ass. Especially around Charlie, she’s stressed enough as is and doesn’t need you making life harder for her.”
“Oh, please. As if I’m to blame. We managed just fine at this Hotel before a certain someone arrived and brought all of their problems along with them. If you wish to help then you can take your leave.”
Lucifer’s shouting at him again. Lucifer’s shouting and Alastor isn’t listening, instead taking in that wonderful shade of red that’s creeping across his otherwise pale, lifeless skin. He could really use some blood in his complexion!
What’s he yammering on about this time? How Alastor’s the problem? How he wishes he could cause the deer a fraction of the pain he causes him? A pity- if Lucifer just used his brain for once he’d find a billion ways he could work around the limitations Hell has given him.
Locking him in a holy cell and throwing away the key, leaving him to starve and rot. Psychological harm! Turning his friends against him! Invading his bedroom and breaking all of his belongings! Turning to those equally pathetic Vees for another media smear campaign.
If only he wasn’t so dead-set on what he cannot do he’d realize what he still can.
Vox did use him to power that death-ray, did he not? Blasting the gate off of Heaven and decimating a good chunk of Pride is very much, what Alastor at least would consider, harm.
He’d just need to find a work-around.
“-are not listening to anything I’ve been saying?! Again!”
“Hush,” Alastor tells him, smacking his palm across Lucifer’s face to keep him at an arm’s distance, “I’m thinking.”
Lucifer says something- probably some overly-emotional, poorly thought-out remark- but it’s muffled by Alastor’s palm.
“You wish to hurt me,” mumbles the Radio Demon, playing out a few scenarios in his head. All of which include him getting to see a delightful amount of that lovely shade of livid red.
More balled fists. More fury. More hysterical rage.
At giving Lucifer a taste- just a teenie little taste- at finally having an outlet for a millenia’s worth of frustration. Only to take it away. Alastor is not above giving if it means something else to take in the future.
A crooked smile turns to face the man still held within his palm. Their eyes meet between the gaps in Alastor’s fingers.
“...Yes. That could be fun.”