Chapter Text
There is something wrong with Alastor.
Not that he will ever share that, of course. His reappearance had been grandiose and sweeping, a sudden jump into a sentimental moment to reaffirm himself as the Radio Demon.
Untouchable. Unshakable.
It is a testament to Alastor’s skill that the hug Charlie had slung across his chest had elicited no reaction. It had to have hurt.
It still has to hurt. The shadow has lingered over Alastor’s shoulder enough times while he sews snapped threads back together to see the full extent of the wound, and while the shadow may not have a physical body he is more than aware of what pain is. Alastor is sure to be feeling a tremendous amount of it.
But still…that is no reason to doubt. The shadow does not doubt anymore. Alastor is flawless when it comes to keeping himself above water; a great comfort to the shadow, considering the danger they are in. Alastor has snapped at the shadow more than once in the days following the battle, but he still cannot help but follow along unless dismissed, ready to sweep them both away at a moment’s notice from prying eyes.
Or angelic blades, potentially hidden. No matter how innocent one appears, there is no such thing as innocent down here in Hell. Everyone who lays eyes on Alastor is a threat.
The new Hotel is vibrant, a shining beacon of tackiness, an eye-catching display of the Morningstar’s power, and it has seen no end to the steady flow of interested demons. The shadow hears their reasonings as he lingers behind Alastor, petty and shallow, ranging from I wanted to see how the fuck you beat off Exorcists to King Lucifer, can I have your autograph?
Hilarious. It seems Alastor is the only one with any sort of self-awareness in this mob, even if the lack of those desiring redemption is forming a cloud over Charlie’s endless sunny day.
Perhaps there would be cause for concern over Alastor’s…condition, milling around so many new demons, but the real staff had taken precautions against the swell. The top floor is locked to staff only (and Angel Dust, apparently), ensuring a safe haven.
Even if said “haven” is not safe enough.
Nowhere is safe enough. Not with the holy fire burning under Alastor’s chest.
Not that the shadow will ever admit he’s worried. And it’s senseless to be worried in the first place, all things considered. This is Alastor. A puny little injury from Heaven’s chosen dog will do nothing to change that.
But Alastor is slinking through the halls again, his shadow following.
It isn’t like they have a choice but to keep to the corners, creeping through the Hotel late at night. Even if Alastor will be right as rain the moment his chest heals, that does not solve the problem of it not healing now.
There is a well-stocked library in the topmost floor of the Hotel, one of the few good contributions His Royal Majesty had actually done, and there’s an equally stocked medical ward on the other side.
Alastor’s nights have been a coin toss between which one he decides to go to, but going to at least one has been non-negotiable. He does not need to sleep, but the shadow worries about strain on an already stressed body.
If the wound takes Alastor, then—
There is no point in thinking about it. The shadow clearly has not learned his lesson about fussing, and he is more the fool for it.
It seems Alastor is heading towards the library. Last night’s attempt in the medical ward hadn’t done anything, so it’s back to research. Supposedly the only official records of angelic power being removed without an extended regeneration period were due to Lucifer himself siphoning it out, but that is out of the question, and despite Alastor most likely decidedly being capable of recovering from such an extreme degree of regeneration, it would take far too long.
Ah. Speak of the Devil—ponder his capabilities for healing, whatever—and he shall appear.
He’s in the parlor as Alastor steps into it on his way to the library, peering at a chunk of peeling wallpaper.
“How is this already peeling,” Lucifer mutters as Alastor glances at him. “We just built this last week—who’s there?”
Alastor, who had every intention of simply walking, turns to look at Lucifer. The shadow cocks his head, waiting expectantly.
“Why, I am Alastor,” Alastor says, “or did you forget my name again? It’s really unbecoming of someone as prestigious as yourself to have a memory so short—“ he taps a hand against his mouth mockingly at the last word. “My apologies,” he says, “I forgot how touchy you are with that word.”
Lucifer fumbles for words, only succeeding in making a series of frustrated sounds before throwing his hands up in the air. “We—oh come on, are we really starting this already? It’s…” he glances around for a clock, and then flips his hands. “…late,” he finishes lamely. “Too late for whatever you want.”
“It’s merely eleven thirty-seven at night, Your Royal Highness,” Alastor says, shaking a summoned pocket watch at Lucifer. “One should always have the time to be functional, hm?”
“Ha ha,” Lucifer deadpans. “That really does hurt when I’ve been spending all day checking up on repairs, and, oh wait,” he says, tapping his chin mockingly, “isn’t that supposed to be your job? While you’re off in the shadows like some creepy alley cat, I’m working.” Lucifer sweeps his arms out wide, leaning forward slightly in a mocking almost-bow. “Along with everyone else that isn’t you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re so appreciated,” Alastor drawls. “Stepping in to do the easy part, after we all spent six months doing the actual work. Tell me, where were you when the old hotel’s wall was being blown up every other week and our beloved Charlie needed assistance? Wallowing in your castle, waiting for her to ask you to be the hero?”
The shadow laughs soundlessly behind Alastor, and Lucifer puffs up like an angry sparrow.
“Okay, listen here,” Lucifer snaps, advancing towards Alastor like Alastor doesn’t have a solid foot of height on him. “I don’t care how big you think you are, or how funny, or whatever. I am around now, so there’s no fucking use left for you, so keep your mouth shut before I—“
He jabs his finger into Alastor’s chest for emphasis, and his expression immediately changes.
“What the fuck?”
Alastor’s grin curls dangerously, exposing gums, and the shadow moves closer. All the shadow can think is danger danger danger.
Because the only actual angel in this place has just realized something is off, and that Alastor is lacking some of his power.
Alastor steps back in one smooth motion, and Lucifer is left with his finger pointing at nothing. “Why the interruption?” Alastor goads, voice even—there isn’t even a hiccup in the amount of static. “What were you saying about there being no use for me? Why—“
“Shut up,” Lucifer says.
Danger danger danger danger danger
He advances again, eyes locked on Alastor’s chest, and when Alastor goes to take another step back Lucifer’s hand shoots out and clamps down onto Alastor’s wrist.
DANGER DANGER DANGER DANGER
There’s a small but sharp burst of static, and Alastor’s smile is now a threat.
“Let go.”
“You should be dead,” Lucifer says in awe, ignoring the bared teeth in front of him.
The shadow slips in closer to Alastor. All he has to do is grab him and they will be gone, away from this monumental threat that is hiding his fangs behind confusion that someone more foolish would think genuine.
“Is that a threat, Your Majesty?” Alastor hisses.
“You—don’t play dumb, I can feel the energy in—how in the fuck are you not dead?” Lucifer says, focusing so much on the injury he is blissfully ignorant, and the shadow creeps his hand onto Alastor’s upper arm, ready to—
Lucifer’s other hand slams forward like a snake’s strike, clamping down on the shadow’s wrist, and if he could make a sound he’d hiss. He bares jagged teeth at the seraphim, making it as obvious as he can.
LET GO.
Lucifer does not let go. He’s staring at the shadow, still with that damned look of confusion, but it lasts only a second before his face shifts. It flicks through confusion, to dawning understanding, to denial, before landing smack dab onto something that can only be described as horror.
“You don’t have a soul,” he says, voice drifting into the air like a feather. The shadow pulls himself up and looms, trying to look as intimidating as possible in the face of such…accusations.
The shadow would like to think that the horrified expression on Lucifer’s face is due to intimidation, but even as foolish as he is, the shadow still isn’t that stupid.
Lucifer starts to speak. “When the fuck did you m—“
“Dad?”
Lucifer twists his neck to look over his shoulder at Charlie, standing in the entryway to the room.
They’re still in the parlor. Of course. The shadow shrinks back to his normal size and grits his teeth, trying to pry Lucifer’s hand away.
“Charlie?” Lucifer says, completely ignoring the shadow’s increasingly frantic attempts to get the seraphim off of him. “Did we—I’m sorry, we woke you up talking, didn’t we?”
“No,” Charlie says, rubbing one of her eyes. “I was going to go to the kitchen to get something, but—are you and Alastor fighting? What’s going on?”
“We were having a minor disagreement,” Alastor says, and Lucifer turns towards him in disbelief.
“What—disagreement?” Lucifer echos, disbelieving. “No—absolutely fucking not, this is bigger than that.”
“Dad?” Charlie says again, stepping even closer. If the shadow had a heart, it’d be racing. “What are you talking about?”
Lucifer glances at her again. The shadow can still see his profile—he’s mouthing things, evidently trying to figure out how to say whatever nonsense he’s come up with, before he turns back to Alastor.
Lucifer has them ensnared in a trap, and he’s sinking his teeth in, clearly eager to get rid of this threat. The shadow is tense, eyes skittering to find an escape route, any escape route—
“Alastor—he was gone at first, right?” Lucifer flicks his eyes up and down Alastor, who is unmoving. “But he was supposed to do something, right?”
Charlie blinks. “Um—he was supposed to deal with Adam, but something went wrong? He’s fine now, so I didn’t…Alastor?”
She turns her attention to the man currently in Lucifer’s clutches. “Why is that important right now? Are you—did Dad need to know something?”
Alastor opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance to.
“Yeah, okay—fighting with Adam? He didn’t come back from that unscathed,” Lucifer says, giving the physical arm that’s clasped in his hand a shake, still ignoring both Alastor and the shadow. “Judging from the amount of—there’s—I think Adam…he nearly tore him in two. I didn’t feel it until now, but he should’ve died.”
“What?” Charlie means to rush forward, but Lucifer unfurls his great wings, blocking her from coming closer. His tail emerges alongside, visibly lashing in agitation. “What—Dad, what do you mean he should’ve died?”
The shadow narrows his eyes at her open concern before turning his attention back to the hand around his wrist, keeping an eye on Alastor’s profile for any cues. If he can just wriggle free…
“He got injured,” Lucifer says, “and it should’ve been—it is—too much damage for a demonic body. I mean, sure, maybe if he was an angel, he would’ve survived it if he saw a healer, or something, but from what I’m sensing it went deep. Way too deep. His soul—he should’ve been chopped in half, and if he hadn’t been, he should’ve been burned. Like radiation.”
He glances back at Charlie, and the shadow flicks his gaze back up to see that she’s staring at her father with wide eyes. “That—“ she chokes and clamps her hands over her mouth for a moment, taking a steadying breath before lowering them.
Lucifer lets go of Alastor for all of a quarter of a second before his tail whips forward, coiling around Alastor’s wrist, anchoring him just as firmly as before.
“That—that’s—how is he alive? If you’re sensing it then he’s still hurt, no one healed him—Alastor, I’m so glad you’re still with us,” she says, “but—you don’t have healing powers—how?”
“In order to have survived,” Lucifer says, “his soul needed to have not been touched by the angelic power. At all.”
He shakes his newly freed hand, and the shadow narrows his eyes as Alastor’s grin widens, the faint buzz of static rising.
“Dad,” Charlie says, “what are you saying? Are—he doesn’t have his soul? Did he make a deal? How did he survive—please, just tell me.”
“Charlie, dearest, I believe your father is out of touch with his subjects,” Alastor interjects. His voice is hoarse, and the shadow freezes, looking up. “I won’t deny that Adam got a lucky hit in during our duel, but really, it’s simple,” he continues. “I survived—“
“Because that is not Alastor,” Lucifer says slowly, pointing at the Radio Demon.
The fallen seraphim’s eyes flick away from the dangerous smile.
“That is.”
He’s pointing at the shadow, who stares back with an uncomprehending expression.