Chapter Text
Pryd must have a prittie sheete, I see,
For properly he learnes to daunce,[...]
Be readie therefore, watch and pray
That when my minstrell pypes his play
Yea may to heaven daunce readie way.“Can Ye Dance the Shaking of the Sheets” (DIMEV 956), from: John Lydgate's Dance of Death and Related Works
They weren’t foolish enough to think there’d be no retaliation. It was the first thing Lucifer warned them about once everyone had taken the time to breathe, his voice level and serious (”I know Heaven; they won’t take this lying down”), but there’d been repairs to finish, a hotel to build, friends to mourn.
A victory to celebrate.
So despite the worry making its home in the back of his mind (the deal was broken, the truce over; he did not know what would happen next), Lucifer smiled faintly as he watched the sinning denizens of the hotel celebrate its official re-opening, keeping himself as far to the side as he could. While some may thrive on attention, Lucifer was not one of them, not truly, not after everything, and besides, this was Charlie’s accomplishment, not his. He was content to watch her bloom and blossom under the admiration of her people, rubbing elbows with some of Hell’s elite, his presence a deterrent against those who might wish to take advantage but otherwise as unobtrusive as he could make it.
Charlie deserved the praise, not him—Charlie deserved the accolades, the recognition. She deserved, more than anyone, to be the centre of attention for an evening, and to bask in the love and appreciation of those she had been willing to die to save, even when he himself had written them off.
Lucifer sighed, his fingers drumming almost absently against the newly renovated concierge—which, he was pleased to say, no longer looked as grossly out of place as the last monstrosity had. The wood was smooth and dark under his hand, and the area under the overhang had been carved in a classical style that not even Alastor could find fault with, though his eyes had narrowed when he’d returned and found apples entwined with the carved vines. Lucifer hadn’t been surprised to find antlers had been added to the apples and vines the next time he looked. Vaggie had raised an eyebrow, but Lucifer had just smirked. Good to know he could still ruffle some feathers, so to speak.
“She’s doing good,” someone said, and Lucifer straightened before turning to look at the bartender, who was cleaning a glass.
“She is!” Lucifer said quickly, hoping his words didn’t come out strained or flustered, caught off-guard by the sudden conversation. And she was! She was. Sure, Charlie (his daughter, whom he would take on the entirety of Heaven for) had been surprised by the amount of people that showed up, Lucifer knew, but she was handling it well—and with no small amount of relief and gratitude. So many, himself included, had initially dismissed the idea, and while Lucifer was positive most were here out of curiosity and a desire to remain in the loop rather than a genuine belief in her work, it was a start. It was more than Lucifer had ever gotten in Heaven, at any rate, and he supposed even the sinning psychopaths of Hell ought to have an interest in their own well-being.
As they should, Lucifer thought, looking at his daughter as she chattered happily to one of the guests, who looked more patronising than interested but who at least was listening. Don’t take shit from them, Charlie, but you can’t force them—they need to make the decision to help themselves.
If they didn’t, not even Lucifer could protect them against the full wrath of the Host. Most angels didn’t stand a chance against him, but he wouldn’t be enough to protect them from several angry seraphim, or the Great Princes. It was why Lilith said they should agree to the exterminations in the first place, and Lucifer had been powerful enough, influential enough, to at least force them to limit the targets; to force them to back down and buy safety for his family, and for the Hellborn.
She’ll be far better than you, he thought with a mix of pride and melancholy as he watched Charlie gesticulate excitedly. She’ll convince them where you failed.
He could already see it. Lucifer would be there, always, ready to back her up, but she would lead the way, and he was happy that others were starting to see it.
The press had been by earlier, alongside demons from the other circles. Some had come with the hope of seeing Lucifer himself, he knew, rubbing elbows and all that jazz, but in keeping his presence to a minimum he’d been happy to shift the attention back to his daughter where possible. Where it wasn’t, he’d kept his replies short and his smile firmly in place, using it as a shield against those who wanted to ingratiate themselves a little too closely.
“You really should be asking my daughter that,” he’d told more than one person (alongside the occasional threatening”and please don’t forget to be polite”) early on, and out of the corner of his eye, he’d even heard another saying much the same, his voice echoing with radio static as Alastor told one of the other sinners to “direct such interesting and inane questions to our resident princess.”
It had made him huff softly the first time, and when he’d turned, it was just in time to meet Alastor’s gaze with a raised brow of his own, commiserating for once instead of instigating. Moments later, Alastor had melted into the shadows, and Lucifer had shaken his head before making his way to a quiet part of the concierge, where he’d been sitting for the last hour.
Another drink was placed next to him, and Lucifer blinked, smiling. “Thank you, uh—“
“Husk,” the bartender answered simply, once more refusing any payment. He’d done the same earlier, when Lucifer had first staked out this little corner, crossing his legs and leaning against the bar to exhale only for a pink, fruity concoction to appear next to him a moment later, an apple slice resting delicately on the rim. This must have been his fifth, or perhaps his seventh, but they were delightful things—certainly they helped Lucifer ignore the agony of whatever music was playing on those infernal loudspeakers—and Lucifer told Husk as much. Husk merely shrugged, but there was something pleased about the way his ears twitched, which in turn pleased Lucifer.
He wanted Charlie’s friends to like him; to not be wary of him, or be distant, because of who and what he was. For Charlie, he would be anything she wanted, but part of him was tired of being alone in the way power often made a person.
Quietly, he cast his eyes cross the room, smiling faintly. His gaze caught on a familiar figure every so often, including the more senior members of Hell’s upper echelons in attendance. Those he did his utmost to avoid, even whispering softly and sending a subtle cascade of golden magic around him—a simple tactic to make their eyes glaze over him.
It would work, he knew. The other six of the Seven Deadly Sins were powerful, but they still could not compare to Lucifer, and if they couldn’t compare, neither could the Ars Goetia, some of whom he’d also glimpsed in passing earlier in the evening, having made their way to the Pride Ring, even if just for a brief appearance. Mostly, though, the attendees consisted of people from Pentagram City. Every now and then his eyes would turn to one of the Overlords, and they would stop by for a brief word, but the smart ones seemed happy to stay out of his way, and the others could be misdirected just as easily, leaving Lucifer to ensure everything stayed peaceful—the scales balanced, the equilibrium maintained.
And so Lucifer let the evening pass, faces trickling in and out until a smaller core group began to emerge. A dance floor even formed, various styles of music cycling through, though the current trend made Lucifer wince and rub absently at his face.
“Not your taste, Your Majesty?” Husk asked at one point, though his eyes were trained on the dance floor, where one of the hotel’s permanent guests—Angel?Whatever, the flirtatious spider with the ironic name—was dancing with the psychotic little maid.
“What, the music?” Lucifer said with a laugh that was just a little too loud. Still, despite the awful pounding of the large speakers, he was pleased to see Charlie and her girlfriend among the dancers. He could weather whatever unholy racket was reverberating through the room for her.
Then the song switched, and Lucifer thought, with a grimace,or maybe not.
Whatever Husk saw in his face made him chuckle.
“Trust me, wherever he is, Al’s suffering right there with you,” Husk said, causing Lucifer to huff. “He hates this shit. I’d wager more than this bottle that you won’t have to endure it much longer.”
Lucifer could see that; Alastor made no secret of his aversion to modern technology. He’d even witnessed Alastor’s earlier altercation with the television-shaped Overlord and his entourage earlier in the evening. Charlie had been tense, as had Angel, and Charlie being tense had ensured Lucifer’s full attention, so he’d been watching as the cameras the three had brought with them short-circuited when Alastor had drawn near.
Vaggie had explained to him after that they were the Vees, a trio of Overlords; Alastor’s rivals, and Angel’s boss.
“I suspect they were trying to confirm whether Al had kicked it or not, or at least see how weak he was,” Husk had added, but his eyes, Lucifer’d noted, were narrowed and focused resolutely on the taller one of the three, something like disgust and anger sparking in their depths. That particular man hadn’t done anything, not after Husk, Charlie, and Vaggie had taken him aside for what appeared to be a very angry word, and Lucifer had stayed out of it once he’d ascertained that the Overlord wasn’t about to do anything. His baby girl had it handled, and Lucifer was beyond proud. The Overlord trio were still here, however, and Lucifer watched as one of them, the smallest, took control of the music.
Moments later, a new song made Lucifer want to mute the entire room.
“Really, is this what passes for club music these days?” he complained.
“Ooh, club music,” a new voice purred. Lucifer glanced at Angel Dust (name courtesy of Husk), who had slid into a nearby seat. “Talk modern to me, short king.”
Lucifer raised an eyebrow, but didn’t dignify that with a response, Club music was hardly a new term, after all, and he’d seen it all—every single trend humanity had to offer, every genre of music, every type of dance, every type of song. One by one the sinners brought the influences of their time to the Pride Ring, and Lucifer, removed from them and yet still always peripherally aware, had tasted more of them than a sinner like Angel Dust could ever fathom.
Besides, it hardly seemed a reply was needed, for moments later Angel Dust and Husk were engaged in a conversation, and Lucifer could happily take to the refill Husk had kindly left him, lashes fluttering with pleasure as the citrusy pink drink hit his tongue, at least until the crashing sound distracted him. Immediately his shoulders tensed, on the lookout for any danger, but they relaxed again when he glanced over to the other end of the bar, listening to Husk groan as two sinner demons fought over the fallen speaker, electricity sputtering and dying in the now-exposed wiring.
None of them seemed to notice the little flicker of shadow, save Lucifer. He should be upset at Alastor’s interference, but the drinks were finally starting to make his body feel warm, and as he turned on the barstool, his elbows resting almost indolently on the bar itself, all he could think was—
“At least someone stopped that racket.”
Moments later the shadows manifested next to him, leaving a smiling Radio Demon in their wake. Instead of scowling, however, as he normally would, Lucifer merely raised the pink concoction to his lips again, tapping his gloved nails against the glass. Not even Alastor could fully dampen his happiness right now, and Lucifer had learned to embrace the rare moments of cheer offered to him. Besides, Alastor had, for once, detracted from his headache as opposed to adding to it. Lucifer could afford a civil word in response to the unexpected mercy.
“Hm, yes, I do prefer real music to said racket.” There was genuine spite in the words, Lucifer thought to himself, and he turned an amused smile the demon’s way, teeth bared, as he said:
“That might be the only thing you’ve ever said that I agree with.”
A slight narrowing of the eyes was Alastor’s immediate response, and Lucifer chuckled, leaning back against the bar, legs crossed where he sat on his stool. Distantly he was aware that the television-headed Overlord was scowling their way—for all that was unholy, did the man ever stop staring at Alastor wherever he went?—and Lucifer didn’t even try to stop himself from snapping his fingers, smirking as another hidden camera burst into a shower of golden sparks in response, prompting the Overlord to shout.
Petty. It was petty. Lucifer should be above such things—certainly above antagonising an Overlord whose name he didn’t even know, and didn’t care to know, especially when he was meant to be keeping to himself. It also felt good—something other than endless, isolated evenings in his workshop; a subtle reminder of who really ruled this place, even if it wasn’t an authority Lucifer flaunted often. Hell respected power above all else. It guaranteed Lucifer’s place as first among them, no matter how many squabbling sinners dreamed of trying their hand at total and complete domination, but if he allowed them to forget who he was, if he allowed them to grow too complacent in his absence—
Well.
He supposed he’d recently seen the results of that: countless dead, his daughter a laughing stock, even though she’d been right.
The Overlord was glaring at them now, the screen that constituted his head fritzing a little. Lucifer almost shuddered. Television scrambled the brain enough without it literally being your brain. When he glanced over at Alastor, however, he could see a hint of satisfaction in the other’s eyes, and, operating on a hunch, Lucifer leaned closer to his erstwhile rival (rival! As if Alastor could seriously compete) and placed a hand on Alastor’s arm, watching as the television-headed Overlord tracked his every moment. Was it possible for glass to look strained?
“That guy? Reeks of desperation,” Lucifer commented idly, jerking his other hand in the television Overland’s direction. Part of him was surprised Alastor hadn’t forcefully removed his hand, but then again, he seemed to enjoy the other Overlord’s irritation, which was why Lucifer had touched him in the first place. It certainly wasn’t for Lucifer’s own enjoyment. “Honestly, it’s incredibly unattractive. The desperation is even worse than your average sinner. Not a good look. I told Charlie once, you don’t go chasing other demons, sweetheart. They come to you. Seems he never got the message.”
Alastor was looking at him again, eyes narrowed over his smile, but the expression seemed searching, for once, instead of outright hostile, his eyes ticking between Lucifer and the television-headed Overlord, something like amusement and petty enjoyment flickering in their depths as they both watched the other Overlord’s frustration.
“Hm,” Alastor said, Lucifer echoing it after a moment before letting an odd silence lapse between them, the alcohol keeping the golden blood in his veins warm. Truthfully, he didn’t understand why Alastor had chosen to stand by him in the first place. Their relationship worked best when they could ignore each other as much as possible, for Charlie’s sake, and Lucifer was content to leave it there. When they had to interact, a strained smile and a few words usually sufficed, and it was… Well.
It was fine. It was what had to be done. And it was better than being at each other’s throats, as they often were, even when they were meant to be getting along or, God forbid, helping one another.
(If it was also better than spending days alone hardly caring enough to get out of bed, well. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that engaging with Alastor had made his actual temper spark to life for the first time in centuries, at least before he’d had a go at beating Adam’s face in for daring to lay a hand on his daughter. Had Adam killed Alastor, Lucifer might not have been upset, but part of him might have thought it a waste. Maybe.)
A beat later, Lucifer frowned, eyes focusing briefly on Alastor’s chest, but thinking of the wound he’d helped heal and all that had been revealed with it nearly made him grimace, threatening to dispel the good mood he’d been trying to cultivate all evening. Still, Alastor was close, and Lucifer lifted the hand from Alastor’s arm slowly, raising an eyebrow while Alastor’s eyes narrowed. When Alastor didn’t move, Lucifer let his hand hover briefly over the Radio Demon’s chest—not touching, but he supposed to an outside it would appear as such. After a brief moment of concentration, following the link to its source, he removed it again, nodding more to himself than to Alastor.
“No issues?” Lucifer muttered. Alastor glanced over at him, eyes narrowing before his expression smoothed out. Across the room, the television Overlord seemed about to blow a fuse.
“No, though I would appreciate it if you would refrain from such spectacles in public, Your Majesty.”
Prick, Lucifer thought inwardly, but the alcohol took away the bite, and he almost thought this moment rather nice—no real fighting, just… commiserating, in their own way. Getting along.
Charlie would be proud of them.
It was a lot more civil than their last prolonged meeting, at least, scrapping with each other in Alastor’s room while Lucifer attempted to ensure Alastor didn’t fucking die from the mortal wound he’d been trying so hard to conceal.
Ugh, Lucifer huffed, but the prolonged lack of music in the room was starting to get to him, and so with a slight bang of his staff, he smiled contentedly as the speakers repaired themselves and started playing music again. Alastor’s head practically snapped to it, eyes narrowing again over his smile, and Lucifer hid a smirk into his pink drink as a few heads turned towards them, likely thinking Alastor was behind music currently spilling from the speakers.
“Nice one, boss,” Husk said when he came by, though it was said with a heavy sigh. Lucifer’s eyes slitted in amused pleasure at Husk’s assumption, his nails tapping against the apple of his cane at the vexed look on Alastor’s face—subtle, but there. He wondered how many others had cued in to just how revealing Alastor’s eyes could be, even with the ever-present smile.
“Well, one has to liven the place up a little,” Alastor told Husk, a laugh track playing briefly. “This crowd was due for a bit of culture.”
Lucifer snorted, and Alastor’s eyes ticked to him, narrowing minutely. Lucifer, however, widened his eyes in the most innocent expression he could conjure, and when he presented the empty glass to Husk, he was pleased to be presented with another.
“Yeah, well, let the kids have some fun, Al,” Husk said, shaking his head before crossing to the other side, where Angel Dust had moved. Lucifer brought the glass to his lips, tilting his head back a little, and wasn’t at all surprised when Alastor spoke.
“I’m rather astonished, Your Majesty. I didn’t take you for someone who enjoyed this rather particular flavour of jazz.” The words were mocking, Alastor’s tone dripping with momentary derision and a faint hint of annoyance.
Lucifer snorted, eyeing Alastor placidly. “Don’t be pissy. You could have corrected his assumption that it was you. And, for the record—ha—of course I do. I’m older than dust; there are a great many things I’ve enjoyed over the years.”
Alastor laughed, though his smile had sharpened. “A statement that usually precludes, hm, a sort of… senility, might I add?” His smile widened for a moment, head inclining, self-satisfied as he looked down at Lucifer. “Am I to assume you do you know what to do with this sort of music, then?” There was something considering in the stance, but also something challenging, and Lucifer rolled his eyes briefly, tapping his fingers on the glass of his drink.
“Who do you think taught Charlie? There isn’t a dance on Earth or in Hell I cannot do.” It was a boast, but a truthful one. Music, dance—they’d once been at the centre of his life. As a girl, he’d taught Charlie, before—well. Everything. Before Lilith left. Before the light leeched from his world. “And to answer the question I’m sure you’re really asking, I’ll have you know you aren’t the only one here who can dance a mean Charleston, Alastor,” he added, remembering Alastor’s troublemaking friend from a few months. His name on Lucifer’s tongue made the Alastor’s eyes narrow slightly, correctly reading the answering challenge, but Lucifer just smirked, taking another sip of his drink.
“Well, aren’t we surprising this evening.” There was something lurking under the words—dark, with that same consideration, accompanied by the faintest hint of static. Lucifer ignored it. Alastor would get bored, he was sure, and go find someone else to antagonise, or he would rejoin his well-dressed lady friend from Cannibal Town, and the less Lucifer thought of that, the better. Instead, he let his eyes slip shut, enjoying the music and the general mill of conversations happening around the room, which were always much more enjoyable when he wasn’t expected to contribute to them.
When Lucifer opened his eyes again it was to see Alastor standing before him, one hand extended, his ever-present tailcoat gone.
“Shall we put that to the test then? Sire?”
“… Pardon? What?” Lucifer asked, blinking rapidly, his eyes going wide as more and more sinners looked their way. Shit. Fuck!Across the room, the television-headed Overlord had leapt back to his feet, but Lucifer’s eyes were drawn back to the Radio Demon, who stood there placidly, without a care in the world. The ever-present microphone was held in the hand behind Alastor’s back, and he’d bent slightly in a partial bow. Like this, he towered over Lucifer, acting like Lucifer was some 20s flapper he was trying to woo, and Lucifer’s face flushed, a scowl appearing briefly.
“What are you playing at?” Lucifer hissed. Alastor merely chuckled. He looked amused, like he’d won something.
“Why, nothing! Nothing at all. I’m hurt you would even suggest such a thing.”
“If this is some sort of game—“
“Your Majesty,” Alastor said, eyes narrowing, voice getting lower, more purposeful, and losing some of that ever-present echo, more human than Lucifer had ever heard it: “Everything is a game.”
I hate you, Lucifer thought viciously. By all that is unholy, I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. Never before had a sinner weaselled their way under his skin so thoroughly, and even the knowledge that he vexed Alastor just as much did little to mollify him in that moment. Lucifer didn’t have to know him long to realise Alastor always had a game, an angle; he was a sinner, they all had games, and it was part of why Lucifer made himself a tower for fuck’s sake, trying to keep an eye, but as Lucifer searched for Alastor’s true motivation he was all too aware that the room had gone silent, everyone in the immediate vicinity now staring rapt with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
“What do you say?” Alastor asked again, smiling at him, always smiling, even as his eyes spoke of a challenge, a dare. “Shall we show the children how it’s done?” As he spoke, a new tune began to play out of thin air—older, but no less recognisable to Lucifer, and tinged with the ever-present echo of an old radio.
Lucifer could refuse him. To be rebuffed so publicly by the King of Hell would certainly be a blow to the Radio Demon’s not-insignificant pride, and Lucifer could think of several demons in the immediate vicinity who would likely rejoice in such a thing, but part of Lucifer, the part that embodied the sin of pride, the part that could not back down from a challenge, the part that grudgingly admired the guts to even ask when so many others tiptoed around him, stirred as if woken from a great slumber.
No one else would have dared. Even another Deadly Sin or a prince of the Ars Goetia would think twice, and yet here was this Overlord, this sinner, with his hand held out unflinchingly, as if Lucifer couldn’t blink him out of existence. It was abhorrent, it was brazen, it was—
Fascinating.
Well. Charlie wanted them to get along. And Lucifer did love to dance.
Fuck it, Lucifer thought, downing the rest of his drink and placing it on the bar. He could always blame it on the alcohol.
So instead of rejecting it, Lucifer removed his hat and tailcoat, vanished his staff, and rose to his feet, placing his much smaller hand in Alastor’s and not even batting an eyelash when Alastor curled his fingers around Lucifer’s and summoned an entire band of demons, instruments in hand.
Showoff, Lucifer grumbled, shooting a narrow-eyed look at Alastor as the band began to play an old, presumptuous tune, but he kept a smile on his face, sharp at the corners, as Alastor lead him to the centre of the makeshift dance floor, sinners parting in their wake with incredulous expressions. So much for keeping a low profile, Lucifer thought distantly. All evening he’d spent trying to avoid an audience, and now, together, they’d created a new stage in this strange little world of his daughter’s creation; a new show.
Better make it a good one, then, Lucifer thought, the showman in him refusing to allow for any other outcome now that he’d waltzed himself into this. He tightened his fingers around Alastor’s as he moved to face him, his left hand moving to grip Alastor’s upper arm, Alastor’s other hand slipping confidently around Lucifer’s back, the both of them listening to the band as the tune became more lively—a Charleston, through and through, and one that Lucifer could tell would be unforgiving.
He smiled again, leaning into Alastor’s space, and wasn’t even surprised when Alastor shifted in turn, the hand on Lucifer’s back tightening in anticipation.
Lucifer felt the pull almost immediately—bastard—but he was prepared, immediately falling into step with Alastor, establishing a basic, quick rock step, their bodies leaning forward and their knees bent, Alastor stepping back with his left foot while Lucifer stepped back on the right, a perfect mirror; an undeterred parallel.
It had been awhile, Lucifer could admit that much. Once, he’d danced often, sung often, but as the years passed and the distance between him and his wife grew—or rather, as she began putting that distance between them—he had danced less. After all, there was no one to dance with after that, his position of power as isolating as it was protective. It all came back, though, and soon their legs kicking in time as they dove head-first into the dance, sharp smiles in place as the clarinet trilled and the trumpets and percussions followed suit, aware all the while of the gob-smacked looks on the faces of those who had borne witness to his and Alastor’s disastrous first meeting, or listened to all the rumours that spread after.
Can’t blame them, Lucifer thought as Alastor touched his right foot forward, prompting Lucifer to put his left foot back, both of them bringing their feet back on the next two counts. Alastor’s height meant that chest-to-chest dancing was not quite possible, but they were close despite it all, all too aware of the other’s movements, moving seamlessly, they steps and kicks blending together as hot jazz spilled from the assembled band.
Truthfully, Lucifer wasn’t surprised when Alastor turned out to be a good dancer. Alastor would not have asked Lucifer to dance at all were it not a skill he possessed in ample amounts, not when he stood to lose far more than Lucifer in this endeavour. If he were even just an average dancer there would have been no reward in the asking, so Alastor must have known that he would either be better than Lucifer or that they would be evenly matched, and that thought, while arrogant, was—
It was surprising. So few in Hell could match Lucifer at anything, and while that meant none could challenge his position in Hell, it also contributed to the monotony of his existence. There was no challenge, and when Lilith had left and taken Charlie with her, there’d been nothing else, either; nothing to focus on beyond the empty tedium of his workshop; nothing to bring him back to life, his dreams long turned hollow; nothing to keep him company beyond memories of his repeated failures, and the sting of a dozen holy spears casting him down from on high. This, though: it was a challenge issued from a being who had no hope of truly besting him in a traditional sense, but who could match him in this way; a being who had found a way to go toe-to-toe with the King of Hell in a way only Lilith ever had.
Perhaps the only thing that wasn’t surprising was that Alastor wasn’t taking the opportunity to quite literally fling or toss Lucifer across the room, or otherwise use his position as the lead to make Lucifer look bad, but, well.
That would reflect badly on you, hm? You’ve got too much at stake. Lucifer smiled as he thought it, keeping step with Alastor effortlessly in a way he suspected few could, in life or in death. No, he thought, touching his right foot in front of him, back and forth, mirroring Alastor’s movements without shifting his weight—over and over, faster and faster, letting the hand resting at his back guide him where he was needed. You would not risk appearing a bad partner. Not like this. This actually matters to you, doesn’t it, sinner? Everything, from the music to the dance, means something to you, and you’ll be twice-damned before you let yourself appear anything less than perfectly composed before an audience.
There’d a poem once, old and in a language long dead, about a proud man, ”a devil’s child, enwreathed in flesh.” It was a warning, it was a lesson, but all Lucifer could think as their legs kicked and spun, as Alastor’s hands led him with unfailing confidence, was another quote, from a man long dead: est autem superbia amor proprie excellentie, et fuit initium peccati superbia. Pride, the love of one’s own excellent; that original sin, which had seen Lucifer cast from Heaven, but had also ensured his victory, his survival, in the world below.
It seemed that same sin drove Alastor to a great many things, too.
“You’re not half bad,” Lucifer said, part of him surprised that Alastor was still choosing the closer style of partner Charleston, but not enough to break his stride.
“Hm,” was Alastor’s response, his hands abruptly going to Lucifer’s hips for a sudden lift and a turn, Lucifer’s hands finding his shoulder before his feet touched the ground again and they stepped seamlessly into another side-by-side, Alastor’s hand still at his back. There was a pleased glint in his eyes when Lucifer placed his hand in Alastor’s again, the two of them executing another series of quick kick-aways. The audience was starting to clap now, and as they moved Lucifer thought he saw Charlie cheering at the edge of the circle the crowd had formed, her eyes shining.
It warmed him, far more than the alcohol had, and he felt is smile begin to relax, his movements fluid, every step executed with a grace and confidence he hadn’t felt in eons. When Alastor smirked and picked up the speed, Lucifer adapted immediately, blood pumping in his veins and making his eyes, his body, shine gold the way it sometimes did.
“You’ll have to do better than that if you aim to trip me up,” Lucifer laughed when they were close again, the music and the sounds from the crowd ensuring that none but Alastor heard.
“Your Majesty, with all due respect,” Alastor drawled, even as he and Lucifer whirled in and out, Lucifer practically flying through the turns, their feet kicking out. His voice had lot the ever-present radio static again, Lucifer realised, but before he could comment Alastor brought him close, smirking, and said: “be silent and dance.”
It made Lucifer laugh, and he was still laughing as he ducked under Alastor’s arm, guided into a spin, eyes catching on Alastor’s footwork. He wouldn’t have thought the Radio Demon could let go like this, but there was a lightness to the sinner’s movements, an undeniable skill, and from the flash of smug pleasure in Alastor’s all-too-expressive eyes, the he knew it, too. It made Lucifer want to match it for however long he could, the showman in him playing into his own vanity, delighting in finally finding someone to play this role.
Beyond that, though, it was fun. Every move Alastor made Lucifer could match, his body alight with the music, the smile on his face morphing into one of genuine enjoyment as he continued to laugh in enjoyment every so often, following Alastor’s every lead with an ease that surprised even Lucifer himself. Even Alastor’s hands on him weren’t disturbing as they usually were, not when every touch had its purpose. How long had it been since he danced like this? Performed like this? Laughed like this? Simply trusted himself into the hands of a partner and let go?
He didn’t know. All he knew was Alastor’s smiling face, his hand holding Lucifer’s tight, not letting go even when they swung apart, seeming for all the world like he was enjoying this just as much, the sharp edges melting from Alastor’s smile to become something more closed-mouthed and genuine. Lucifer could see it even as their positions changed, his left arm extending, left hand still held in Alastor’s, their legs kicking forward together, both of them facing the same direction. One song blended into two, and other couples were joining the dance floor now, those familiar with the style, but always, at the centre of it, were Lucifer and Alastor.
It was exhilarating.
(It was what it felt to be alive, Lucifer thought; for that black cloud to lift even for a moment. It was addicting in a way he’d thought long lost, passionate even, an emotion other than depression, and engagement in a way he’d given up on until he’d forgotten his own awkwardness to verbally spar with a sinner Overlord he’d only just met and oh, oh, oh—)
His eyes were still wide when Alastor’s hand pulled, Lucifer following along helplessly, willingly, for all that he was the King of Hell, a man who was subservient to no one in this realm, led by no one in this realm. Another turn, their hands connected, and as the other dancers all struck their final poses, Lucifer found himself swept into a low dip—a move decidedly not part of what they’d been doing, but that he didn’t protest as he heard Charlie cheer, followed by the applause of gathered sinners as Lucifer and Alastor smiled at each other,
“Now that was a dance,” Lucifer said, feeling oddly charitable and aware that Alastor was still holding him in a partial dip. If Alastor let go, Lucifer could transport himself to avoid a fall, but Alastor didn’t let go, and Lucifer didn’t push him away. “I suppose I can call that the highlight of my evening.”
“Hm,” came the response, same as before, but Lucifer could read the pleased lines around Alastor’s eyes, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way Alastor’s hands continued to hold him, and figured that was as good as a likewise.
“Dad!Alastor! Oh my gosh, that was amazing!” he could hear Charlie gush as Alastor straightened them both up with surprising grace, looking pleased with himself. When Charlie rushed over to hug them both, Alastor didn’t even flinch, his smile still closed-mouthed and his eyes half-lidded as he looked at Lucifer over Charlie’s head.
“Your father is a surprisingly talented dancer, my dear,” Alastor said as Lucifer absently reached up to push his hair back into place, the golden strands shaken loose of their usual style by the energetic coupling of their dance, his pale cheeks still flushed, making the golden glow even more pronounced.
“Yes, well, you’re not so bad yourself,” he managed to say. If Alastor could give a compliment, he would give one back in return. Playing nice and all that. Still, as the three of them stepped away from the crowd of dancers, the music melting and morphing into something else in their absence, the warm feeling from the dance didn’t fade, and Lucifer found he was still smiling, blood pumping under his skin.
The expression on the television Overlord’s face only sweetened the pot, and he didn’t even protest as Alastor’s hand slipped around his waist to rest at his hip. Distantly, he recognised that Alastor could be playing a political game—integrate himself, status-through-association—or at the very least deliberately trying to piss the other Overlord off, but at that moment it didn’t matter. He’d allow it. Alastor could play any game he wanted, so long as the black cloud didn’t encroach on the elation coursing through Lucifer right now.
Charlie was talking again, and Lucifer listened with a smile on his face, simply happy to hear the sound of her voice, drifting in and out of the conversation. At some point Husk slipped over to them and a table of drinks appeared, and Lucifer had his in hand when Charlie’s girlfriend joined them, her eyes blinking rapidly at the sight of Alastor’s arm draped over Lucifer’s waist, one hand still absently cradling Lucifer’s hip. Quietly, Lucifer flicked his eyes to the trio of Vees and inclined his head briefly, and while that seemed to mollify Vaggie somewhat, she still looked dubious.
“—remember, dad?”
“Hm?” Lucifer said, blinking, looking away from Vaggie to his daughter.
“You know, when you used to dance with me. When I was younger. That was one of them, wasn’t it?” Charlie asked, and Lucifer blinked, then smiled.
“It worked a lot better when you were still shorter than me,” he joked, trying not to think about the fact that soon after she’d grown taller than him, the distance between them had grown deeper.
“Do you think—“ Vaggie started, breaking off, her brow furrowed when the three of them looked to her. There was a touch of nerves in her expression as she glanced between them and Charlie, but Lucifer saw the moment the nerves turned into resolve, her chin lifting slightly.
Pride again, Lucifer thought absently. The backbone of any angel. He’d sensed it the moment he’d met her, his eyes flicking to the area over her head where a halo would have once been.
“Could you teach me to dance like that? With Charlie?” Vaggie asked, bold and blunt now that she’d decided to commit to it, a gentle but nervous smile flicking across her face as Charlie gasped happily. Lucifer almost squirmed. He could, would be delighted to, and wasn’t even surprised at the ask—he suspected exterminators rarely took the time to hone anything but their battle skills—but before he could say anything or give in to the doubts Alastor’s nails dug into his hip and he nearly jumped.
“Why, of course, my dear,” Alastor said, tone well pleased, though there was something off about his eyes. “His Majesty and I would be more than happy!”
Vaggie, to her credit, looked to Lucifer then, and he realised it was his agreement she sought most of all.
“Well, uh, sure, da—em, Vaggie,” he said, throat feeling dry. “More than happy.”
Charlie squealed, immediately hugging her girlfriend and talking happily, and Lucifer softened again at the sight, leaning almost subconsciously into Alastor before he realised what he was doing. It was sweet, he thought, to see them together. He remembered some of Charlie’s previous boyfriends and couldn’t recall her ever being as free with them, as close. There’d always been a touch of distance, of awkwardness, of second-guessing herself in a way Lucifer found all too familiar, and to see her like this, to know she had found someone she could be herself with—
It was everything. Her happiness, her safety, were all he’d wanted since the moment of her birth; since the moment she’d been placed in his exhausted arms, Lilith smiling at his side, her encouraging hand on his shoulder. It had consumed him, that love, still did, even though Lilith was gone and his little girl was long grown, and Lord above, how had he ever let her go? How had he ever allowed them to become strangers? Allowed them to be pulled apart? For so long he’d been content to let Lilith run everything, her every wish made reality by his own powers, her word his will. Now, not for the first time, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a horrible mistake.
“I can practically see your brain short-circuiting, dear,” Alastor suddenly said, close enough to Lucifer’s ear to startle him and quiet enough that Charlie and Vaggie, wrapped up in each other, couldn’t hear. “Penny for your thoughts?”
For a moment, Lucifer’s temper spiked, a knee-jerk reaction to protect a moment of vulnerability, but then he paused and read the words for what they were: a warning. After all, while the event was winding down, there were still others here, and the four of them together did a poor job at fading into the background.
“Not worth repeating,” came Lucifer’s reply.
“Ha! They seldom are, I imagine.”
“Prick,” Lucifer said, pressing a hand against Alastor’s chest as if to push him away, but instead of doing so he merely lingered, brow furrowing. The move put him nearly chest-to-chest with Alastor—or rather, put Lucifer at eye level with Alastor’s chest—and he was peripherally aware that Alastor’s hand was still on his hip, arm still around his waist. He could almost feel it, if he concentrated, the ghost of that near-fatal wound and the secret it had revealed to him: his wife’s mark, engraved into the Radio Demon’s captive soul.
“Stay there any longer and I fear you’ll fuel the rumour mills.”
Lucifer huffed. “Please, if you truly cared you wouldn’t have been holding me like a lover since we left the dance floor, Alastor.” Alastor’s eyes narrowed, and Lucifer met it with a smirk of his own, thoughts sliding away from the guilt of before, eyes alert once more. “Whatever status boost you get from this, or think you get from this, or whatever game it is you’ve got going in that messed up, psychotic head of yours regarding myself and my daughter—just know I’m onto it.” He leaned forward then, rising on his toes a little as Alastor’s head angled down, and, conscious of the others around them, he slipped a hand around the back of Alastor’s neck, the other still resting against this chest. “So how far are you willing to push this?” Lucifer asked. “Because I get the sense that my boundaries are a lot less strict than yours, and I’m not about to roll over out of fear like the others whose paths you’ve crossed.”
Alastor’s eyes flashed, but Lucifer saw it: the flicker of arrogance, of hubris, of anger, the type that said Alastor wouldn't back down. A moment later, Lucifer stepped out of the Overlord’s grip, clearing his throat with a shake of his head. If Alastor wanted to cross that line for whatever game he was playing, Lucifer wasn’t about to play into it so quickly, and he certainly wouldn’t be the one to initiate anything. The King of Hell, throwing himself at a sinner? No, he thought to himself, looking at the ring still on his left hand. He’d been crushed by too many things in his life, too many people—he wasn’t going to give anyone else the power to ever do that again.
The rest of the evening was spent with his daughter and Vaggie nearby, until at last the remaining stragglers were herded out by Alastor, leaving only the hotel’s core occupants surrounding the bar.
“That… was amazing,” Charlie breathed, smiling as she perched on one of the stools, though her smile sobered a little as she added, “I wish Sir Pentious had been here to see it.” Lucifer, having migrated to one of the chairs, hummed his agreement, one leg crossed over the other.
“Hell yes!” Angel Dust said, lounging at the concierge. “And did you see Vox’s face when Smiles was dancin’ with Lucifer?” He laughed. “Thought he was gonna blow a gasket right then and there! Fuck was that funny! Err—sorry, Your Majesty.”
Lucifer blinked. “Which one’s Vox?” he asked, not addressing the apology, and Angel Dust blinked before smirking.
“The boob tube that I saw you messin’ with. Oh yeah, I saw that. Obsessed, I tell you! I used to hear him talkin’ about Al all the time and Val would have to talk him down when he got all worked up, I swear.” Angel Dust paused as Lucifer laughed briefly, a considering smirk on his face. “Sooo… you and the Radio Demon, eh?”
“Beg pardon?” Lucifer said, flat. Angel Dust flicked his wrist, wriggling his brow. Husk groaned, but didn’t say anything.
“You know… You, him, maybe a little horizontal tango… Because I’m tellin’ you, he doesn’t let just anyone touch him, certainly none of us, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him touching someone willingly for that long before. Didn’t know tall, dark, and creepy had it in him. And that song choice, whew. Don’t mean maybe, baby, indeed.” Angel Dust leaned forward, eyeing Lucifer unsubtly, Lucifer’s smile increasingly strained. “So what’s he like? I mean, you guys seemed to really fucking hate each other at first, but, you know, maybe that just makes it better—a little passion, some hot intensity—“
Lucifer was blissfully saved from answering by the screech of a radio, the shadows to the side of his chair taking shape and revealing the Radio Demon in question.
“Let’s use our inside voices, shall we? And our inside decorum,” Alastor said, a warning in his eyes. Angel Dust shrugged, though he did back off, and Alastor leaned against the side of Lucifer’s chair. There was a subtle tune emanating from him, echoing with the sound of technologies past—jazz again, Lucifer identified easily. It was nice, he thought; filled the room with a welcome ambiance, and he was relaxing into the chair when Charlie and Vaggie came over.
“We’re turning in,” Vaggie said, and Lucifer sat up, glancing at the clock on his phone.
“Ha, yes, I guess it’s late, isn’t it,” he said, grinning sheepishly and standing, Alastor shifting to the side with a closed-mouth smile. “Well! You, uh, you both have a good night. Get some rest and do not let me catch you bright and early!”
Charlie hugged him, and after a moment Vaggie did as well, leaving Lucifer standing there with misty eyes and a tremulous smile. When Alastor rested a hand on his shoulder, Lucifer didn’t shrug it off, watching them as they disappeared up the new staircase, the others trickling off after, Angel Dust shooting a wink that made Alastor tighten his grip.
“Well if you don’t want him and the rest of Hell thinking you’re fucking me seven ways to Sunday, asshole, maybe lay off the act a little?” Lucifer said once they were alone, Alastor’s hand falling away a moment later as he laughed and stepped forward, shooting a look at Lucifer over his shoulder.
“But it’s so fun to hear their nonsensical little theories,” the Radio Demon said with a flippant flick of his wrist. “The way their insipid little brains latch on to the slightest rumour… My, it’s enough entertainment to make one positively giddy!”
Lucifer conjured his cane, placing it in front of him and leaning his elbow on it almost absently. “This is a very specific game for you, isn’t it?” he asked, shooting Alastor a sharp smile. “Because rumour is you’d rather die than allow anyone to think you’re engaging in such base depravities—even with the King of Hell. This isn’t part of your deal, is it? She didn’t send you to kill me when my guard was down, did she?” The thought hurt even to voice, but Lucifer kept the smile in place. Seven years. One day it wouldn’t ache so much when he spoke of her.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed threateningly, and his voice, when it came, was low again; deadly. Lucifer suspected many a demon had heard it before breathing their last.
“As I said, my dear: everything’s a game. But think of it this way: even if I could kill you, why would I? Your death wouldn’t benefit me at all, not when the threat of you is all that keeps Heaven from making every day Extermination Day.”
“Oh, I don’t know, if you killed me and covered it up I’m sure you’d waste no time ingratiating yourself with my daughter, as usual, and using her as your next angelic meat shield.”
Alastor chuckled, eyes glowing red when he turned back. This time, when he held his hand out, Lucifer took it without hesitation, letting Alastor draw him in, another tune tickling his ear as Alastor led him in a few basic steps.
“Your daughter, with all her… charms, currently lacks the power of her father, as it were,” Alastor crooned. “I know it, you know it, and all of Hell knows it too. She’s not an angel, Fallen or otherwise: you are. She didn’t ultimately defeat Adam: you did, even if Nifty, hm, got the jump on him, as it were. They know that too.”
“You’re being awfully transparent.”
“Ha! Am I? Perhaps I’m merely fucking with you, Your Majesty, as the saying goes. No, this is all frightfully common knowledge, I’m afraid,” Alastor said, twirling Lucifer briefly. “I could lie, of course, but I suspect you’d know it, hm? Some things had to reach you up in that ivory tower you secluded yourself in.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“I rather believe everyone thinks it’s the other way around.”
Lucifer broke away from him, scowling, and Alastor placed his hands behind his back, still smiling. “Sleep well, won’t you? And don’t let this keep you up too late. Ta!” With that, Alastor melted into the shadows, leaving Lucifer standing alone in the lobby, body tense.
“Shit,” he breathed, whisking himself away in a swirl of golden light. When he appeared in his room, he immediately vanished his cane, hat, and overcoat, his wings appearing a moment later, stretching out in the vast chamber and fluttering under the high, vaulted ceiling, as he ran a hand distractedly through his hair. Lilith had always hated it when he did that, but she’d delighted in smoothing everything back into place as well. The thought made him stop and sigh, and he vanished his gloves as well, looking at the golden glint of the ring against his bare skin before clenching his fist and lowering it to his side, stepping out onto his balcony.
He could handle an uppity sinner demon. Whatever Alastor’s endgame, Lucifer would be ready for it, and as he rested his hands on the parapet, sleeves rolled up, he thought that, at the very least, it was something to focus on beyond the endless loneliness and the echos of his endless past failures. So long as it didn’t hurt Charlie he would keep quiet about the deal, as he kept quiet about a number of things for her sake. She looked up to her mother, loved her; Lucifer wouldn’t take that away from her. He couldn’t. He knew all too well what it felt like to turn against a parent, against family, or to have them turn against you.
So he would remain on guard. It wouldn’t be the first time. Hell may have danced to Lilith’s tune, but it was Lucifer’s power keeping everything in balance; Lucifer’s existence that kept Heaven from simply striking them all down. He had been aware, once, even if he’d left the ruling to her, and for his own sake, and Charlie’s, he would do so again.
Pathetic that it took a sinner Overlord to pull you out of that spiral of self-pity, isn’t it, he told himself. Regardless, his eyes were open now, and he wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
Bring it on, then, Lucifer thought turning back to his rooms, but as he fell into bed and closed his eyes, he could have sworn he heard the faintest hint of jazz in the air, following him into his dreams.