Chapter Text
Charlie didn’t remember being this high-strung when she had been with Seviathan.
But Seviathan von Eldritch was a joke, if she had to think about it. It being their disastrous relationship that embarrassingly happened in a time long suppressed to the deep dark recesses of Charlie’s subconscious, where all her other suppressed memories lay buried, never to be unearthed again.
Seviathan was okay. As okay as a joke could be. Which meant he wasn’t okay at all.
Alastor, however, who presently walked alongside her with his dreadfully long-legged stride and constantly amused look, was a strange case. Charlie couldn’t decide whether he was okay or not okay.
What was okay with Alastor was foremost his willingness to help Charlie with the hotel. Even as they took this seemingly leisurely walk through the brightly lit corridors of the place for probably the thirty-sixth time, the impressiveness of the newly molded interior never failed to astound her.
And she couldn’t have had all of this if it weren’t for Alastor.
Another okay thing with Alastor was quite shamefully (to Charlie at least) the way he dressed lately.
Since the formidable demon had begun to aid in the revamp of the hotel, Alastor had begun to—as he liked to put it—‘present himself more casually.’ It was no longer uncommon for staff and guests alike to see him without his frock coat, much to the enjoyment of their lady guests. Vaggie told him off once, telling him he was getting too comfortable, and he did concede, but after a week or two under the scrutiny of Vaggie’s strict eye, he had decided that as main architect of the establishment he shouldn’t give a damn, and returned to discarding his coat and walking around like a man out to scandalize some women. Not that anybody tried to tell him otherwise afterwards.
Today was no exception, and Charlie’s eyes quickly took in the sight of his bare forearms, the shirtsleeves bunched up to his elbows, the well-fitted waistcoat wrapped around his torso, until at last she reached his amused gaze.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You were saying?”
Her heart skipped several beats. “Yes,” said Charlie, rifling through the papers on her clipboard, hands shaking ever so slightly. “I was saying something. Um…right. Right. I was wondering, last night, what your take on advertisement was. Like. For the hotel.” She hoped to whatever hellish god there was that her voice didn’t betray the racing in her chest.
“Are you saying you think about me late at night, Charlie?”
“W-what?” she stuttered. “I didn’t say that!”
Alastor only chuckled as they headed for the large ornate doors to the balcony, which Alastor made a point to open for her and perform an old-fashioned bow.
“After you,” he said, his low drawl accompanied by a dastardly look from under his lashes, “ma chérie.”
The charm was strong with this one. She went through the doorway, Alastor close behind her. “Last I checked, Alastor, you didn’t know French.”
“Oh, but you wish I did, don’t you?” teased Alastor, oblivious to the French mental images running wild through Charlie’s head with his suggestion.
Alastor twirled his finger over her head, sparks igniting with soft pops! that reminded Charlie of the muted sound of fireworks from her room on New Year’s. “What are you—” she began, but stopped mid-sentence upon the sensation of tightness in her hair. She reached up and patted her head, wary, and was surprised not to feel her hair loose and puffing with volume like as usual. The strands were stuck tight to her scalp. She looked down, and saw that her hair now ended in two neatly weaved French braids.
Alastor reached out with scarred fingers—Charlie was surprised to realize she never really took note of his scars until now—and took a braid in his hand. Charlie watched him, quiet, as he gave an almost absentminded tug on her braid.
Oh.
Oh, dear.
Charlie, desperately trying to hide the blush beginning to creep on her cheeks, swatted away his hand. “Stop that,” she scolded. “I’m surprised you even know what a French braid is.”
“I know a lot of things, dearie,” said Alastor, before sending her a wink and walking away.
She stared after him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Any kind of retort she wanted to say out loud was lost in her utter dismay.
What was not okay was the way he made Charlie feel things.
She chased after him, who stood by the balustrade, looking over the lobby below like a captain at the prow of his ship, overlooking the wide blue of the sea as his ship cut the waters, distant lands to conquer occupying his thoughts. She couldn’t help admiring the view herself.
The hotel looked nothing like it had before. With Alastor’s aid and surprising sense of style, the lobby had been redecorated and remade into something straight out of a vintage lover’s dream: a gleaming floor of dark marble, flecked with tables here and there on a sprawling rug, sculptures of classical people (sinners) scattered artfully across the space—Atlas, Sisyphus, Midas, to name a few. Two massive staircases wrapped around the walls, leading to the very balcony they were situated on at the moment. It was Alastor’s most iconic addition to the hotel, and by far, Charlie’s favorite.
“So,” said Alastor. “Advertisement.”
Charlie spared herself a glance of him. He was entirely focused on the lazy afternoon the lobby was currently experiencing, and for the sacred length of a few moments, Charlie allowed herself the pleasure of admiring the view he offered her. Perhaps the view from the balcony could be her second favorite.
He turned his head to her, calling her attention, “Charlie?”
“Right!” she exclaimed all too loudly. Charlie chomped down on the head of her pen, uncapping it, as she peered down at her notes. She got so easily distracted, damn it; she had more important things to attend to. “I know operations are still kinda slow, what with the grand soft opening—” she heard a soft scoff beside her. She glared at Alastor “—but we could use some marketing, you know. A way to get more demons coming through our doors.”
“I believe it would be simpler for all of us if we just abducted them from the side streets.” Alastor chuckled darkly. She looked over at him. He was smiling slightly, and looked like he was thoroughly enjoying the idea.
“You’re imagining it, right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m imagining the astounding number of demons we’ll be getting.”
“Willingly. A way to get them through our doors willingly, Al.”
He shook himself out of it, the microphone stand in his hand going ‘awww’ with a crowd’s disappointed chorus. Charlie wasn’t too sure, but she swore she caught the eye of that sentient mic give her a disapproving look.
Alastor shrugged in casual defeat, but the smile remained on his face.
They moved from the railing, and she began to fiddle with one of her braids, unraveling it. “Seriously, though, what do you think?”
“It’s not faster than my idea,” joked Alastor, “but it’ll get the job done.”
Charlie sighed out her relief, crossing out lines of text on her clipboard. “Thank the devil.”
Alastor steered them towards one of the massive staircases. He rested a hand lightly on her waist, guiding her, as she blindly put one foot in front of the other, writing down the words ‘Marketing Strategy’ on a fresh page.
“What do you have in mind?” Alastor asked. He peered over her shoulder.
“Nothing ye—oh, I know!” she gushed suddenly, jumping in front of Alastor and spinning to face him with almost theatric affair as they walked across the expanse of the balcony. She walked backwards, stars practically in her eyes, Alastor watching her intently. “Why don't we broadcast a commercial on the radio? Something cute and fun and quirky to attract potential guests—” She gasped loudly in barely contained excitement. “Maybe I could sing.”
“Ha,” Alastor laughed with as much excitement as a brick. “No, dear. Not on my radio show.”
Charlie pouted. “Any other ideas, then?” she challenged.
“The offer of abduction still stands,” said Alastor, sending her a sideways smirk.
“And the offer is still declined,” shot back Charlie, unable to prevent the smile from growing on her face. It was hard to stay mad at Alastor, as much as he tried his best to make everyone he came in contact with want to slap him. Like a fly. A very handsome fly.
Charlie began to worry about her line of thinking nowadays.
Charlie gave him a sly look of her own, still in the present tense of wanting to swat the annoying fly that was Alastor’s mug. “You’re just afraid I’ll make a better radio show host than you.”
It caught him quite off guard, judging by his reaction. He squawked out a surprised scoff, looked startled for a moment, and then gathered his composure. This happened in the span of a second. He looked at her with a playful glint in his eye that would have been convincing if Charlie hadn’t seen it all. “That’s far-fetched, dear.”
Charlie didn’t take it personal, raising her hands in surrender. “Alright. It’s a draw then.” She was grinning as she eased back to Alastor's side, and they found themselves walking in sync, their shoes making light clacking noises on the shiny floors. “Moving on.” She tapped her pen against the clipboard. “Niffty discovered one of our guests has been trying to get through the ballroom wards. Again. The wards are keeping him out, yeah, but he’s been sneaking out of his room to go there and I’m tempted to hire orderlies just for him—”
“I presume you’re talking about the self-proclaimed Trash Man on Floor 13,” Alastor interjected.
“Yup, the one and only.”
Alastor mock-sighed. “What a strange moniker,” he said. “No need for orderlies, I’ll deal with him.”
“Yes, thank you—but please don’t do anything extreme.”
Alastor put a hand to his chest. “I would never!”
“Alastor,” she warned, to which he only replied with a conspiratorial wink. Charlie sighed. She hoped him dealing with a guest wouldn’t end up badly.
“You know,” Charlie said after a thoughtful pause. “We should probably return to fixing up the ballroom.” She checked to see how he would react. Charlie wasn’t sure what Alastor thought about continuing hotel developments, since he was the main and sole construction workforce, and she didn’t want him to think she was slaving him around. But if they finished renovations sooner… “We’ve barely touched it since opening, and now that things are running smoothly…I think we can pick it up again.”
Alastor glanced down at her and met her eyes. He said, “I don’t see why not.”
She didn’t know she was holding in her breath until she released it with a relieved sigh. “Thank you,” she breathed. “You don’t mind if we head for the ballroom after we check the lobby, right?”
Alastor smiled at her. “Not at all, darling,” he said.
Charlie wouldn’t admit it, but the way Alastor looked at her did splendid things for her heart.
“Great,” said Charlie, albeit a little shakily, before focusing again on her list, her heart beating wildly in her chest. “Okay, last one: I just found out Angel finished the vodka at the bar.”
“There's extra—”
“He finished those too. Last night. We’ll have to put him on a liquor ban for the meantime but…” She looked at Alastor, apologetic. “Would you mind getting us some more, Al? If it’s alright with you, of course,” she added timidly, biting her lip.
Strangely, Alastor’s gaze narrowed on her mouth, and she released her lip from her teeth almost immediately, suddenly self-conscious.
He snapped his fingers in the direction of the bar—simultaneously snapping themselves out of whatever that had just been—and gave her a wide grin. “Consider it ticked off your list.”
Alastor looked so boyish in his pride it made Charlie’s stomach somersault at the assault of cuteness. Vaggie would have called him pompous, but Charlie just thought he looked adorable— especially with the fluffy tufts of his hair bouncing with almost every step he took down the staircase.
She beamed up at him. “You’re absolutely a lifesaver, Al—agh!”
Charlie wanted to die at how unattractive that sounded. She could also get her chance, as her feet stumbled over themselves on the steps of the stairs and she was airborne. For a split-second, she was completely weightless in the air, free and untethered as a bird if only she wasn’t aware that she would meet the rest of the stairs with her face instead of her shoes.
Just as she came to terms with the fact that she would not have a graceful landing, in front of Alastor of all people, she felt a hand close in on her wrist and pull her to safety.
She was grounded all of a sudden, back to hell with her feet grazing the floor, and she hadn't realized her eyes were closed until she opened them, meeting Alastor’s face up close and personal.
She wasn't sure if she now felt like falling, or flying.
Her lips were parted, heart pumping wildly in her chest, as she took note that she was in the circle of his arms, jammed right to him, his hands holding her in place by the small of her back, and despite the already existing heat in her cheeks, Charlie started to feel the familiar warmth blossoming yet again. Alastor could probably feel her frantic heartbeat through his waistcoat. This near, and with the heat of their two bodies pressed so tightly to each other, Alastor’s musky scent was so very obvious to Charlie. Good Lucifer, did that smell good.
“Careful there, darling!” Alastor trilled with his usual exuberance. “Wouldn't want you slipping and hitting your head now. Where else would I have my daily dose of smiles?”
Charlie laughed nervously in Alastor's arms, because she found him and herself and the entire point of existence ridiculously funny. “You smile more than enough for the whole of us here, Alastor.”
“But yours are entirely special, dear.” Alastor's smirk was devilish, and Charlie decided that as Princess of Hell that should be illegal, because there was only one devil and it was not him.
Husk suddenly walked past. “Save it for when I'm not sober,” he muttered, loud enough for the both of them to hear.
That broke the spell. Just as quickly as they had found themselves in each other’s arms, they sprung apart. Charlie discovered she sorely missed the feeling of arms wrapped around her just a moment ago. Or maybe it was just Alastor she missed.
She tried to reel in her thoughts. They were running rampant too often.
They walked the remaining steps down to the lobby floor, silent. From the corner of her eye, Charlie watched as he summoned back his microphone stand. He must have sent it away to whatever interdimensional locker he had when he caught her. As if feeling her gaze on him, Alastor glanced at Charlie just then, and for one second, they shared a palpable look. It only ended too soon, once they were in the midst of other demons, both of them looking away yet again before either could decipher what it meant.
Lovely day, you’re having, Charlie, now everything’s awkward.
Just then, an opportunity to distract herself came her way, presenting itself in the form of an incessant tug on the hem of her shirt.
She looked down, and saw that it was Razzle, head turned upward toward her. He bleated.
“Oh!” She bent down. “Something for me?”
Razzle nodded and made gestures with his front hooves, miming a phone that he pressed to his ear.
“Right, a call.” She looked for her phone. Weirdly enough, Razzle didn’t have it. “D'you have my cell?” she asked, just to be sure.
He shook his head. Razzle turned and pointed to the other side of the room. There, Dazzle stood by the far wall that divided the lobby from the elevators, and he waved at them when he caught their gaze.
Charlie turned back to Razzle. “There?”
Razzle nodded vigorously.
She casted an apologetic look towards Alastor, who watched them with an indiscernible look on his face. Worry bubbled in her gut. She hoped this wouldn’t persist. "We'll continue after I take this call?" asked Charlie.
He tipped an imaginary hat to her, still with his closed off expression. A tiny smile was the only thing that donned his features. “I'll be looking forward to it.” Then he turned and headed for the lobby area.
Charlie watched him go, ignoring the anxiety she could feel beginning to crawl under her skin. It was nothing, she said internally, but she wasn't convincing enough, even to herself. Mercifully, before she could dwell on it, Razzle gave her shirt another tug towards the elevators, and she had to tear her gaze away from Alastor's retreating form as she was led to the other half of her bodyguard duo.
“Who’s calling?” she asked Dazzle as she met him by the telephone, Razzle fluttering ahead of her towards him. The receiver was set atop the table, waiting for her, but she remained rooted in place. Charlie couldn't really handle another nosy reporter like last time.
Razzle and Dazzle shared a look, and it struck Charlie as odd when they simply shook their heads at her in unison. Her stomach churned with unease once more. It was nothing. Simply nothing. Nevertheless, she thanked them and sent them off. They bleated happily as they left.
The phone on the table ominously sat patient as a king on his throne peering down at a kneeling subject. She didn’t pick it up. And then she felt foolish, because it was just a telephone, right? Before she could think too much about it plus the meaning of life and the universe, Charlie snatched the blasted thing with a suddenly steeled resolve, but her heart was hammering in her chest when she slowly pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”
The voice on the other end was not one she wished to hear from. “Charlotte, my dear! How are things going on at the motel? Is my baby alright?”
“Hotel,” corrected Charlie.
“Same difference,” Lucifer flippantly replied.
Charlie rolled her eyes. It was forced, an attempt to trick her jangling nerves into thinking talking to Lucifer was entirely fine, was entirely okay, was definitely not nerve-racking despite being his one and only daughter. She knew she was just fooling herself one way or another. An attempt to laugh only fell flat. “Hello, Dad, good to hear you're the same as always.” Charlie tried to sit on a nearby chair, her free hand worrying the other braid into a wavy mess. “Yes, everything's alright here. And I'm not your baby anymore—we talked about this.”
“Well, that is true.” Lucifer chuckled, and Charlie's heart hiccupped when she heard the snake venom laced in his tone. “And you know what is true as well? That I care. I care so much that I'm worried about what people are saying about you, Charlie. About us—the family.”
“Dad?” she started warily. Dread pulled her brows down. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“I'm reading the newspaper, darling. Care to explain?”
She realized with a sinking feeling that this was beginning to go downhill. Fast. Charlie wasn’t unfamiliar of what her father was talking about. Beside her was the paper itself, the headline blaring out in an ugly bold font, 'Princess of Hell Still a Hack!' However it arrived at her hotel was a mystery to her. With a quick flick of her fingers, she flipped it facedown as she attempted to console Lucifer. “Oh. That. Heh, it's nothing I can't handle—”
“Nothing?!” —someone is making use of selective hearing today, Charlie thought to herself— “This is slander to our name, Charlotte! Mockery! It’s almost blasphemy down here. It's unacceptable.” Lucifer seethed. “Do you know how insulting this is?”
Yes, as if it wasn’t Charlie being mocked in the news. “Dad, it's just an article. By a small-time tabloid of all things.”
“Small-time, hmm? Then how did it arrive at your doorstep if it's so small-time for your five-star hotel?”
The jab did not fly over her head. “I never said we were a—”
"This isn't the first time, either!” There was a crashing noise on Lucifer's end, like an object being thrown and breaking on the floor. “Didn't you learn your lesson after that shameful interview with that bitch on TV?"
Charlie resisted the urge to tear her hair out. Her voice rose in irritation. "But that was even before the hotel was running, Dad! Before Alas—" She bit her tongue before she finished the name. That was information she still hadn't yet divulged with her father. There just never was a perfect time.
"Before what, Charlotte?" Lucifer’s voice lowered dangerously. She knew what that voice meant: to scare her into telling what just she was hiding. The joke was on him, though, because she was already at the limit of her fear.
"Nothing," she said, too quickly for nonchalant dismissal. Damn it. "But that's beside the point—"
"The point being you're wasting your potential on this lost cause," Lucifer cut off. "Don't do any more damage on the Magne name, Charlotte. Just quit it."
Charlie drew in a shaky breath. It was already infuriating to deal with pesky reporters looking for tabloid-worthy drama, and having to deal with an additional Lucifer was just unbearable. But this was her project, her brain child. Her responsibility, she reminded herself. She wasn’t giving it up so easily because of a sermon on the mount from her father.
"No."
Charlie could almost hear Lucifer's eyebrows rise to his receding hairline. "And why not?"
“Because it's working, Dad,” she reasoned out, and it was the truth. She looked around; at the fully furnished space, the gleaming elevators, Husk heading towards the barroom out back, Nifty trailing behind with a feather-duster, on the way to tidy up the bar before it opened for the late afternoon. Despite everything, hope filled her. “The hotel is seeing progress—”
"Dear, you'll see a bird in hell and say it's alive—"
"Dad—!"
"Enough!” he cut her off for the umpteenth time during this conversation. “I am having none of it! You may be a child no longer, but you forget who you're talking to. I've seen more than a million lifetimes' worth of failure and crushed dreams, and let me tell you this, I know one when I see one."
And there went her hope; with it, her self-esteem. Charlie's ears were ringing. “You can't say that," she said, her voice small.
"What?" Lucifer sounded annoyed.
"You can't say that!" Charlie shouted into the phone, as though it was the object of her anger and not her father. A demon on their way to the elevators startled. She turned her back to them, facing the wall. The phone made a noise of distress in her clenched fist. "That's the thing, Dad, you haven't seen it. Not in person."
There was a long pause, so long that Charlie began to wonder if Lucifer was still there. The ringing in her ears only increased. Then, through the noise in her head, she heard him tell her, "Then I'll clear my schedule."
It was her turn to be taken aback. "What?"
"You say I haven't seen it—fine. I'll see it for myself." He sounded like he won, and with the claustrophobic sensation of being buried alive, Charlie felt like he already did. “You better show me something worthwhile or I'm burning it to the ground with my own two hands."
"W-wait,” she spluttered. “When are you coming—?"
He didn’t give her an answer. He hung up.
Charlie’s chest felt like a hollowed out cavity as she dropped the phone from her ear, letting it hang limply from her hand, and inside the cavity the maelstrom of emotions she had been feeling since the beginning of the call threatened to tear through her already thin skin. The ringing in her ears had become unbearable, and it banged against the back of her eyes, slamming against her skull from the inside, and it was too much. It was too much it was too much it was too much.
The next thing Charlie knew, she was ablaze.