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Charlie announces the team bonding activity for the week at breakfast that day with a wide grin and excitement dancing in her eyes. She had a whole slideshow ready, detailing exact reasons why they should build a ski hill and go snowboarding on said hill. What prompted this, Alastor has no clue, but he has zero interest in… in… whatever this harlequin and her father are apparently plotting.
No doubt he put that idea into her head, one way or another. Perhaps inspiring her through one of his inane rubber duck inventions. Only God knows how many rubber duckies one fallen angel needs.
“It’ll be fun!” Charlie cries, throwing her arms in the air in a show of enthusiasm. “We can have races, and we can do tricks, and we can have hot cocoa and marshmallows by a fire afterwards.”
Alastor nearly gags at the mental image, but he is prim and proper and put-together, so he doesn’t let his trademark grin slip from his face. When Rosie forced him to work here—or rather hang out, considering that this hotel doesn’t have many guests at all and there isn’t much work to be done—he hadn’t expected tasks this taxing. The lack of bloodshed is seriously getting on his nerves.
Although, he can technically stab someone through the neck with a ski pole. He’s never done that before, but there’s a first time for everything. He’s always open to exploring new ideas.
“Obviously, Bambi would never beat me.”
Alastor’s head snaps over to where Lucifer is gloating, one leg kicked up over the other, his fingers clasped behind his head and tangled in his locks of golden hair. He’s as smug as he usually is, his hat perched on the armrest of the sofa. Lucifer shoots a look at Alastor, a knowing smirk, and Alastor hates how he responds to that accursed nickname now. Of course, this is all Lucifer’s fault.
“What exactly am I supposed to be beating you in?” Alastor says, tilting his head with faux nonchalance. “Terribly sorry, but there are far too many activities in which I can soundly trounce you, so you will have to be a little more specific.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m the one beating you!” Lucifer cries, springing to his feet and stabbing a finger at Alastor. “And it’s snowboarding! I’m going to beat you in the art of snowboarding. Bet you’ve never snowboarded in your life.”
“And I suppose you have? My, I thought that after your ugly separation with your rather prissy wife, you were holed up in your room with your sad heaps of—”
Alastor doesn’t miss Angel’s sighed “Here we go again” when Lucifer holds his staff high and summons a thundercloud indoors, packed with lightning bolts.
*
Constructing a large mountain decked out in snow, with rocks and trees littered along the path for an extra fun touch, is not easy. What is easy, is constructing a large mountain decked out in snow and rocks and trees for the express purpose of winter sports using Lucifer’s immense power. Whilst Lucifer would most certainly be uncaring—and Alastor would revel in the chaos—of crushing random sinners’ houses behind the hotel, Charlie is a tad more uncomfortable with the whole prospect.
Permanent relocation of the residents is thus required for this large-scale project. Cherri chased people out with bomb threats. Niffty overloaded the buildings’ pipes with roaches and ants. Charlie and Vaggie went knocking on each door to convince residents to leave… with varying levels of success.
The most efficient method by far is Alastor’s, who merely uproots buildings with the sheer force of his shadow tentacles alone and hurls them far, far away. Sure, Charlie may be mad and reprimand him, but sometimes, one must put up with a little murder to get things done. Besides, who’s to say that they died upon impact? They could be trapped under rubble and praying for death instead.
Unbeknownst to them, Vox did wake up in a house with three walls and its roof smashed to smithereens. Thankfully, Valentino and Velvette were both fast asleep and completely unaffected by the apparent violence.
Land now cleared, Lucifer merely needs to twirl his staff and manifests a dollop of snow. A large one. One that’s at least a hundred times Alastor’s height. A quaint ski lift chugs along thick wires, ferrying wooden chairs up the slope. There are cabins situated at the top of the mountain, just barely visible over all the cliffs and natural ramps and slopes in the way.
“Wow!” Charlie cries. “It’s like Sinsmas came early!”
“That’s exactly the atmosphere I was going for,” Lucifer declares, though Alastor can see right through his lies. He throws one arm around Charlie’s shoulder. “Now, we can have all the skiing, snowboarding, or bobsled races that you could ever want.”
Charlie throws her arms around her father, who’s beaming with the pride of a thousand suns, if suns had pride. “Thanks Dad. I really appreciate it.”
“No need to thank me, Charlie. I’m just glad I can help you make your dreams come true.”
Whilst the denizens of the Hotel are busy admiring their new property built on stolen land—though, if the King owns all the realm, is that really considered stealing—Alastor sees his chance to sneak away. For all the bravado he showed earlier, he’s not particularly excited to try his hand at this strange sport that he’s barely even heard of, much less attempted. His rather short life revolved mainly around his mother, his job, and his hobbies, which are murder and the culinary arts. He should make use of this distraction and slink off back to his room in the hotel, or his secret hideout, somewhere where they wouldn’t think to look—
“So, you ready for our little competition, Bambi?”
Alastor’s eyelid twitches. Lucifer shoots him a shit-eating grin. “You know, you can back out if you’re scared. I’m not gonna judge you, except I totally am.”
That’s it. Alastor’s claws clench so tight around his staff he almost snaps it in half. His own aura flares, curling around him with the force of cyclonic gales, the light erupting from his feet glowing a raging mix of both viridian and crimson.
As cool a customer as he’d like to seem on the outside, there’s a reason he belongs firmly in the Pride Ring. Not that Alastor would ever admit it or even give that notion the time of day.
*
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Angel says, as he stands at the top of the mountain clad in winter gear—the most covered up he is in a long while—alongside a violently shivering Sir Pentious (from the cold) and a quivering Husk (from the long way down). Angel doesn’t think Husk has any reason to be so afraid, considering that he has wings, of all things.
“When is anything ever a good idea when it comes to those two?” Vaggie mutters.
“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” Charlie says, though her smile is strained. “I’m sure they’ll be the best of friends after this!”
“Or the best of boyfriends,” Angel quips, and Husk shoots him a look, momentarily forgetting about his acrophobia.
“That’s my dad!” Charlie cries indignantly, but from the horrified look on her face it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. The entirety of Alastor’s existence can be considered horrible to some degree, but entertaining the very real possibility that Alastor could be her stepfather takes the cake.
“Oh, they’re going,” Vaggie says, stabbing a finger at the two who have just kicked off from the starting point, apparently gliding down the snowy trails on their respective staffs instead of perfectly fine and good boards that Lucifer magicked for their use. In a flash, they disappear in streaks of gold and red.
“So, wanna bet?” Cherri says.
Husk snorts.
“I’m betting that our King tops,” Angel says.
*
Despite never having snowboarded before, Alastor must say that it has a rather gentle learning curve. Made all the simpler thanks to his staff that responds to his every command. He swerves to avoid the odd pine tree or boulder, sliding up ramps and soaring into the air. The exhilaration makes him heady, his undead heart racing a mile a minute, second only to the excitement he chases when he stabs people to death.
Neck-to-neck with him is none other than Lucifer himself. Snow sprays from the back of his staff, and Lucifer’s clothes billow around him from the rush of a cold draught. For a brief moment, they lock eyes, and Lucifer makes a face, sticking his tongue out like a kindergarten bully.
Well, Alastor refuses to be on the same level as this clown, which is the exact image he conjures when he sees Lucifer and his goofy grin and crimson cheeks.
Besides, no one said they had to win this fair and square. This is Hell, after all.
Tentacles spring from his back, lashing at a tree and cleaving it in half. The tree falls right in the middle of Lucifer’s path. But Lucifer’s reflexes are good—he’s not the King of Hell for nothing—and he deftly soars into the sky, angling his cane up just inches from where it would have struck the log. White wings sprout from his back, red feathers ruffling in the wind. The sight would be magnificent if not for the fact that Alastor hates his guts.
Then again, hate is a strong word, which implies that Alastor cares about him to a rather large degree. It’s more accurate to say that he doesn’t exactly care about Lucifer much at all.
Annoyance, he thinks idly, as he gains more momentum, the firepower from his shadow trailing behind him helping him along. He’s more annoyed than anything.
Lucifer lands with a splash of snow, the impact so large that it must be intentional. Wet snow crashes like a tidal wave into Alastor. Cold rips through him, because he’s not built for this sort of temperature. His shadow anchors him, keeps him upright to stop from toppling over like a matryoshka doll.
They launch attacks at each other, one after another. What started off as pranks (not in the name of good fun) soon turns into an all-out battle with lacerating tentacles, beams of holy light, swarms of dolls of darkness, and the occasional volley of fireballs carving craters through the snow.
They’re reaching the base of the mountain now, just a few tens of metres more. Despite their best efforts in sabotage, they are still on par with each other, neither gaining the upper hand. Normally, if he were about to lose, Alastor would throw a competition and claim that he wasn’t interested in it in the first place. It usually riles people up enough that they’d get mad, and he can deal with them the old-fashioned way: through a contest of brute strength.
But Lucifer? No, something about this smug, smirking, snake-man thing ignites an innate sense of competition in a I can’t possibly lose to him sort of way. Maybe, just maybe, Alastor wants to trample the King under his boot—or heels, actually—and watch him beg for mercy or crown him the next ruler of Hell.
Yes, that’s a nice thought.
From Lucifer’s cane, a burst of golden light propels him faster, sending him just a few inches farther than Alastor.
“See ya, sucker!” Lucifer shrieks, tipping his hat. It’ll look more smug if his face wasn’t misshapen from how strong the gales are rushing against them, and his words are lost to the wind howling by Alastor’s ears.
In response, Alastor merely sends out another cluster of tentacles, snaking their way in zigzags towards Lucifer and coiling around his waist. With a tug, Lucifer yelps as he loses his balance and goes tumbling off his cane. As he falls, he snags Alastor’s coat and pulls him down as well.
Both fly, rather unceremoniously, through the air. Then, they land in a tangled heap of limbs. However, they are on a steep slope, the steepest in this Ring of Hell, so they start rolling. Lucifer screams in Alastor’s ear, so loud that Alastor nearly goes deaf. It’s worse than the screech of radio feedback.
It’s hard to tell who won, really, when the massive snowball wheels past the finish line, across the road, down the main street, and crashes into an office building. The snowball crumbles into chunks of snow, cars, rubbish, unfortunate pedestrians, and, of course, Lucifer and Alastor themselves.
Lucifer is feather-light. This information is foisted onto Alastor, who’s lying on his back with the King sprawled all over him. Lucifer groans, clearly in the throes of… confusion, perhaps? And vertigo? Alastor himself is a little light-headed, but it’s nothing that he can’t handle.
Alastor grabs his poor staff—bruised but intact—and hops to his feet, because he has a reputation to maintain. Unlike their King, whose name has probably been dragged through the mud, swamp, and slush by now. Lucifer lies with his limbs spread-eagled, like a starfish melting in the heat of the sun. Alastor can almost see the rubber ducks circling over his head as he struggles to regain his composure.
“Dad, are you okay?” Charlie soars through the sky, touching down right next to them. “Alastor, why did you do that?”
“Do what, my dear?”
“This… Whatever this was! It’s supposed to be a friendly competition!”
“Oh, that was never in the cards, was it? I heard that we could have races. ‘Friendly’ wasn’t spelt out in the conditions.”
Charlie looks like she wants to argue. Alastor plasters on his wide grin, still managing to keep his nonchalant front in spite of the adrenaline currently coursing through his veins. It’s been a while since he felt this way, the high of a worthy challenge. Too long has he just taken whatever he wanted from those weaker than him—or those with a leash around his neck—but with Lucifer? Lucifer knows how to get on his nerves, which buttons to press even without being consciously aware of it.
Strangely enough, that was one of the most fun activities he’s done in a while. If the mountain stays, he’d be happy to put Lucifer in his place again and again. Now, that would be entertaining, to laugh at his paltry attempts at beating Alastor and being so enthusiastic at something so very insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
“I daresay, Charlie, that this team bonding activity of yours must be one of the best ideas you’ve had in a while,” Alastor declares. “Now, might I suggest some improvements to your design?”
At the top of the hill, Cherri hands Angel a dollar bill.
“What’s this for?” Angel asks.
Cherri winks. “The King was on top, like you said. I saw it with my keen eyes.”
Sir Pentious nods sagely, putting his binoculars down—or, as he likes to call it, his ocularscope. “Yes, well, that was what I saw too.”
Cherri’s messing with him—Sir Pentious; Angel knows that much, but he won’t turn down a dollar. Sir Pentious, on the other hand, is an incredibly innocent soul.
*
The ski resort is a massive hit, shockingly enough. However, it does need comprehensive repairs every so often. Partly because it becomes a free-for-all battleground. Sure, sinners do ski and snowboard and sled the correct way, but there are some sinners out there who seriously need to be restrained and given a lesson on how to enjoy ski resorts properly.
One of those sinners is Alastor. Not surprising, and this nomination does not need further elaboration.
Another one of those sinners is her father, King of Hell, Ruler of the Pride Ring, Embodiment of Pride, Misser of Lilith, and Messer with Alastor, the very Lucifer Morningstar himself. Not that Charlie has the heart to restrain her father, though.
Winter sports aside, Lucifer and Alastor’s weekly ski battles have now become a sort of sport that Angel decides is a fantastic way of generating extra revenue for the hotel. He, Niffty, and Cherri make it a point to collect—read: extort—as much money as can from onlookers, even those who are just passing by and has no interest in it whatsoever.
In fact, they even end up on the 666 News as a weekly feature. What started out as live commentary eventually evolved into a glorified kiss cam. “Mounting sexual tension between the King of Hell and Hell’s Strongest Sinner” drew more views and ratings than any other headline they’ve had thus far. Much to Vox’s chagrin.
“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Lucifer says, slumping into the couch in the lounge after their twentieth round for the day. He drinks his hot chocolate with messy slurps.
“The people love the broadcast,” Alastor says as he sips from his vandalised “Duck Season” mug. Steaming black coffee is simply a must after gallivanting about in the snow all day. “Besides, I’m inventing new ways to top you every time.”
Lucifer spits out his hot chocolate. Alastor pretends not to notice, because this utter lack of decorum is far beneath him.
“What?” Lucifer cries, wiping at the chocolate dribbling down his chin. A poor choice of action when he’s wearing his favourite rubber duck sweater.
“Hmm? Was it something I said?”
“No, nothing, everything’s absolutely fine.” What’s Lucifer getting all shy about now? Then again, blushing madly and babbling his head off is not entirely unexpected coming from him. “A-Anyway, I suppose you mean ‘win’ when you said ‘top’?”
“Of course. What else could I mean?” Alastor doesn’t think he’s been this confused in a while. Does that word have another meaning he’s unaware of? Language changes over time, and he hasn’t been up to date on anything that he’s not at all invested in.
“Well, just know that…” Lucifer pauses, his whole face turning as red as his cheeks. He slams his cup down on the table, and more chocolate sloshes out and onto the surface. Ooh, Charlie’s not going to be happy about that. Lucifer stabs an accusing claw at him, the mere gesture itself a sign of challenge. It’s something to get Alastor’s blood pumping again. How peculiar. “Just know that next time, I’m gonna top you!”
It must be fate, because Husk and Angel walk in at that exact moment, chatting about something or other that was rudely interrupted by Lucifer’s passionate declaration.
“Shit,” Angel says.
“Now you owe Cherri that dollar,” Husk tells him.