Chapter Text
Gluing ducks to himself hadn’t worked. Not only did that lead to awkward questions when one was discovered (not everyone in the hotel was as respectful as Vagastasia), but it was very hard to sit comfortably with ducks digging into your back—and that defeated the purpose of the ducks. This was not about discomfort. This was about joy.
Lucifer hummed thoughtfully, looking at the designs in front of him. The bathtub of ducks had possibilities. Not only did it result in nearly complete coverage, but there was a pleasing rightness to it that suggested this was meant to be. Rubber ducks had first been intended for the bath, right? Remove the water, replace it with ducks—that had to produce joy.
But Lucifer had never been able to restrict himself to just one iteration. A few different bath designs followed—a duck bath, a standing bath (for even more complete coverage), a lazy river—before it occurred to him that he might fit even more ducks into a ball pit—a duck pit. It was this design that he was working on when Charlie knocked on his door.
“Hey Dad! Vox has just arrived for the group therapy session.”
“Has he? That’s nice.” Lucifer hastily slammed the sketch book shut and slid it under the designs for the deer trap (like a bear trap, but with a particular resident of the hotel in mind).
He was not entirely sure why Charlie was telling him this or even which one of her friends Box was, but as a father it was his job to be supportive. Lucifer did his best to look interested.
“Yes! I didn’t even need to bribe anyone.” Charlie exhaled. “I was really worried that the other Vees wouldn’t go for the idea, but when they dropped him off, Velvette said “It’s about bloody time he gets over himself” and even Valentino said he was looking forward to a few hours without Vox complaining.”
“Really?” Lucifer racked his brain frantically, trying to summon some memory of these people. Nothing came to mind. “Well, it sounds like if anyone needs therapy, it is this Lox chap.”
That had been the wrong thing to say. Charlie’s brow furrowed. “Dad, did you forget that you’re also doing the group therapy?”
What? “What? No!” Lucifer lied. “Never! I just—” He looked at his desk, desperately searching for some excuse. His eyes fell on the duck-a-day calendar. “Was that today? Oh golly. Time flies—”
Charlie’s expression relaxed. “So you’ll go?”
“Of course! I said I would, didn’t I?” When had he agreed to this?
Charlie’s face registered relief. “Thanks, Dad.”
A memory surfaced. Charlie had come to him a few days ago, wanting his advice on the situation between the red guy and the TV chap, and how they might induce the pair to settle their differences in order to avoid a repeat of the trouble with heaven. Lucifer had assured Charlie that group therapy was just the ticket, and that he was certain that with the proper inducement the pair could be made to see the advantages of, if not resolving their differences (one had to be realistic), at least not letting them escalate to their detriment. He didn’t remember much after that—had he zoned out?—but Charlie had hugged him, thanked him very warmly and left in high spirts. He’d obviously agreed to something…
Charlie was looking at him expectantly.
Lucifer gulped. “Uh—it’s happening now?”
Charlie nodded. “Vox is in the therapy room. No sign of Alastor, but I’m betting that he will show up as soon as he realises that you are sitting down with Vox.”
Lucifer summoned his tailcoat and top hat, taking a quick moment to make sure he was fully dressed, no stray ducks sticking to him. Perfect. He linked his arm through Charlie’s. “Lead the way.”
Charlie took him to the lift. “It really means a lot that you’re doing this. I know how much you dislike Alastor, so the fact that you’re prepared to put your differences aside—well, it really shows how much you believe in the hotel.”
Alastor? Oh, hell no—
Lucifer swallowed, as Charlie’s genuine gratitude hit him in the stomach like a punch to the gut. “Remind me what the objective of today’s session is?” he said weakly.
“Of course! I’ve been talking to Belphegor—I really want to make sure this works, you know, that we do this properly—and the first session is all about finding common ground, building a foundation of trust before we start airing our differences—”
Lucifer nodded. The bellhop and that TV head definitely needed to sort themselves out—issues out the wazoo, both of them! But he was still unsure why his presence was necessary. After all, his differences with the red guy were one hundred per cent justified—and the TV guy had trapped him in a weapon and used him to attack heaven. Charlie couldn’t possibly expect him to be polite to either of them, could she?
“—and to have you there, leading by example,” she squeezed his arm, “neither of them can possibly say no.”
Fuck.
She could—and did.
Lucifer swallowed. “Charlie, honey, that’s a really sweet idea, and I’m flattered that you’ve included me in it, but I’m not sure it’ll have the result you think it will. I mean, the bell hop and uh, Nox, they’ve both of them made their lack of respect for hell’s hierarchy…and for me especially…obvious. I have no influence over either of them.”
Charlie sighed. “I know this won’t be easy—and it’s going to take a lot more than one therapy session! But it means the world that you’re giving this a try, dad. And I’ll be there to lead the discussion and make sure everything goes smooth—uh. As smoothly as it possibly can.”
This was even worse! Charlie present to witness his utter incapability at any kind of meaningful interaction with sinners—and those two sinners in particular! Why them? “I don’t know—”
“Ah, what do we have here? The king of hell gracing his subjects with a rare appearance!” As if on cue, the shadows in the corridor curled, twisting together, lengthening, taking on weight and form and a wide, pointed grin with an unnecessary amount of teeth. Alastor sneered as he stepped out of the shadows, twirling his staff. “What is the special occasion? Run out of snacks? Can no longer face the existential dread? The spectre of your failure was too haunting to endure in isolation?”
Lucifer bristled. “Not that it’s any of your business but—” He caught Charlie shifting anxiously in his peripheral vision and swallowed the retort “—I’m accompanying my daughter to group therapy.”
Alastor chuckled. His laugh—like the rest of him—seemed designed to get under one’s skin. It was almost impressive just how annoying the fellow was. Had he studied it? Made an art form of irritation? It was tempting to try and distill him down, see what it was about him that always provoked a reaction… “What a splendid idea! But isn’t that, oh, about ten thousand years overdue?”
“Listen here, you obnoxious eyesore—”
Charlie squeezed his arm and Lucifer fell silent. “It’s never too late for therapy. I’m very proud of dad for being willing to give this a go.”
Proud! His daughter was proud of him! Lucifer’s eyes welled up and he was so distracted blinking rapidly, that he missed what was said next.
The elevator arrived and he stepped into it with Charlie. Alastor could teleport, but decided to annoy them by getting into the elevator entirely uninvited.
“—the hotel residents done to deserve being graced by royal attention?”
“Oh, dad’s not going to regular group therapy,” Charlie explained. “This is a special session.” She pressed the button for the third floor. “With Vox.”
In the close confines of the elevator, the sudden drop in temperature was very noticeable.
“Vox?” Alastor laughed. “Good heavens! I did not expect he would be willing to show his face in public—least of all at the hotel—for some time yet!” His lips curled. “Then again, his face is about all he has to show right now.” He elbowed Lucifer, smirking at him sideways.
The red guy seemed to be alluding to something—something he thought Lucifer would know. Lucifer did his best to look unimpressed and stepped out of elbow range.
“I think it’s very brave of Vox to agree to this,” Charlie said. “And that it’s only right that we meet him in the same spirit. Dad agrees. Don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Absolutely.” Were they still talking about the Box guy? The one who’d turned him into a power source?
Alastor’s eyebrows rose. “Well! This is a certainly cruel and unusual punishment… Then again, I suppose if anything is to discourage one from taking over heaven, it is getting more closely acquainted with the sort of being that populates heaven!”
Lucifer glared. That was a dig, he was sure of it—
“You know,” Charlie said with a casualness that would not have fooled anyone. “Dad and Vox aren’t the only ones with differences that need to be resolved. You could join the session too—”
“Ha, ha!” Alastor’s cackle ricocheted off the small walls of the elevator, twanging every single one of Lucifer’s nerves in the process. “I’d rather let Rosie’s cannibal chums eat me alive.”
“You should do that,” Lucifer suggested. “Then at least someone would enjoy your presence.”
Alastor’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Lucifer, his dislike bared.
Lucifer showed his own teeth, feeling his blood stir. The fog had lifted, and he felt alert, focused, aware of the blood pumping in his body. For a rare moment in his ten thousand odd year non-existence, he felt alive—
Charlie gripped his arm tightly. He could feel the unspoken reproach: you said you’d be nice.
The elevator reached the third floor. Lucifer was only too glad to step out. “Come on, Charlie. Let’s leave the bellhop to his duties.”
For some reason, Alastor followed them down the hallway to one of the purpose built meeting rooms. “I wonder how much of the hotel will be left standing after this ‘group therapy.’” He drawled—and that was irritating too.
Lucifer clenched his jaw. He would not give the fellow the satisfaction of a reply— “That’s rich, given how much of it you destroyed going after those loansharks—”
“Ah, his majesty remembers my work!” And the fellow had the unmitigated cheek to preen. “Here I was, imagining that the king barely remembered who I was, and all this time he’s been a fan!”
Lucifer scoffed. “There’s little to admire in brute force and violence.”
“Oh, you’re more a fan of psychological torture? That explains why you’ve agreed to participate in this group exercise.”
Charlie was looking really worried now. “I think it’s wonderful of dad to be the bigger person here—”
“About the only time he will ever be ‘bigger’—”
And he wasn’t even original! “Listen here, you self-aggrandising prick! Charlie’s doing something for hell. What have you done—besides almost get yourself and half of Pentagram city blown up because of your massive ego?”
Charlie twisted her hands together. “That’s not exactly what happened—”
Lucifer was on a roll. “You’re unwilling to do group therapy? Fine! Fuck off and leave it to those willing to put in some actual effort instead of just posturing and smirking in the corners.” He shooed Alastor away with an imitation of the man’s trademark hand-flap. “You don’t have what it takes for self-reflection anyway.” Those regular once a decade therapy sessions with Belphegor were paying off—had Charlie noticed his use of therapy-speak?
She was wincing—maybe she’d missed his brilliance. “What dad is trying to say—”
“You know,” Alastor said blandly, his smile fixed in place, teeth clenched. “Perhaps I was too fast to dismiss the idea. I think I’ll join you.”
He strolled ahead of Lucifer and Charlie into the meeting room.
Lucifer stared at the door. How...? The fuck—
Charlie gave a giddy squeal, and hugged him tight. “Thank you!”
Lucifer patted her arm on autopilot. What on earth had just happened? “…any time, sweetie.”
This meeting room consisted of three sofas arranged in a U-shape, facing the window. Blood coloured velvet curtains were drawn back to allow a pleasant view over Pentagram city. Alastor had taken one of the side sofas. Lucifer moved to take the other, only to discover a flatscreen TV propped up against the back of the sofa. The TV looked familiar.
As Lucifer squinted at it, a pair of eyes popped into view, accompanied by a downturned mouth.
“What happened to you?” Lucifer asked as he took the sofa at the base of the U. “Didn’t you used to have a body?”
The television screen glowered. “I want to make it very clear that I am here against my will. I want no part of this fucking feelings nonsense.”
Lucifer looked to Alastor.
“It was ripped from him,” he explained. “In a display of that deplorable brute violence that your majesty so despises.”
“Ah.”
Alastor sprawled, insolently setting his shoes on the sofa. “I believe the moment was caught on film and uploaded to that ‘social media’ the youth are so enamoured by.”
“Really.” Lucifer patted his pocket, searching for his phone.
Charlie dragged a chair into the front of the room, and sat on it, clearing her throat. “I am so pleased that the three of you agreed to do this,” she said. “Not only are you setting an amazing precedent for the citizens of hell—if three of its most powerful citizens are willing to set aside their differences and talk—”
“Set aside fuck all!” The television screen was so agitated it bounced up and down on the sofa, narrowly avoiding falling over the edge. “I’m not sorry for anything! If I have any regrets, it is that I didn’t fire that rocket when I had the chance—”
Charlie raised her voice. “And talk, why, anyone can! And not to mention, hell will be a lot safer once the three of you’ve buried the hatchet—”
“Why settle at a hatchet, my dear? I happen to know of a very nice little plot where no one would ever find Vox—or pieces of Vox if you’d prefer that.”
Charlie pinched the bridge of her noise. “We are not burying Vox.” She took a deep breath. “Now. I recognise that with the…history…between the two of you, that saying sorry and taking accountability is not going to happen instantly. Instead, I think that for today, our focus should be on sharing.”
The television pursed his lips. His expression suggested he might have preferred the unmarked grave. “Sharing?”
“I am familiar with the concept,” Alastor allowed. “Though I am of the opinion that it applies exclusively to other people.”
Charlie sighed gustily. “Sharing is caring. Why—” She was off, enthusiastically detailing how sharing was the first step towards a new hell—a kind hell-a hell built on cooperation and friendship.
Alastor’s smile took on a fixed quality.
The television squinted. “Is she… She’s serious about this shit, isn’t she.”
“Extremely,” Alastor said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Show some respect,” Lucifer warned both of them. “This is my daughter you’re talking about.”
That was exactly as effective as he’d known it would be. Alastor sneered and said nothing, Box rolled his eyes. Lucifer ignored them both and concentrated on Charlie.
He tried to listen. He really did. But when Charlie waxed lyrical about healing and the power of friendship, he couldn’t help but think of how idealistic he and Lilith had been back in the day, the plans they’d had for humanity, and from there it was a quick plummet to The Fall, and his fear that Charlie’s plans would also end up a nightmarish distortion of themselves, wielded against her like a weapon…
That led straight to his latest therapy session with Belphegor and her recommendation that maybe, just maybe, he should consider socialising more or even just making a friend (just one singular friend would do). From there it was gratitude that Charlie at least had the social thing figured out—where on earth did she find these people?—to the memory of the last time he’d left his room. That gaudily dressed fellow, the one who hogged the TV remote, he’d wished Lucifer luck with his latest duck iteration and Lucifer, answering on autopilot, had said ‘You, too.’ God. Just the memory of it made him cringe. Ugh. Forget social interactions, he should just stay in his room for eternity—
“So you see, the first step on your path to glorious friendship is finding common ground! Let’s take turns sharing something that we enjoy.” Charlie beamed. “Alastor! How about you start—what is a hobby you have?”
Alastor beamed widely. “Oh, I like to occasionally let off steam by rending a person limb from limb.”
“Eurgh.” Lucifer stared at him. “That’s a hobby?”
Charlie pressed her hands together. “Dad, we’re not here to judge.”
Lucifer bit his lip. “Are you sure? Some things just invite judgement.”
Alastor chuckled with what sounded like actual enjoyment. “Nothing turns around a bad mood like the knowledge that someone else is having a markedly worse time—and hearing the screams to prove it!”
Charlie smiled brightly and stepped on Lucifer’s foot. “That is, uh, an honest admission—maybe a bit too honest—but thank you for getting the ball rolling, Alastor! Dad?”
Lucifer opened his mouth.
“Ducks do not count,” Alastor cut in.
“I am not only interested in ducks.”
“This is a safe space,” Charlie reminded the three of them. “People are allowed to say what they like. Without commentary,” she glared at Alastor, “or judgement.” She looked sternly at Lucifer. “So! Dad?”
Lucifer rubbed his chin. “I suppose I quite enjoy musical theatre.”
“There we go! Well done! Anyone else?”
Alastor and Vox were silent.
He hadn’t actually been hoping either of the pair would like musicals, had he? Ugh. What was wrong with him? He knew sinners only disappointed—and yet, somehow he always made the same mistake, always hoped—
“And you, Vox? What is something that you enjoy?”
“Uh… I guess feeding my sharks.” He glowered. “Which I am currently unable to do because someone couldn’t take a hint and fucking die already.”
Alastor hummed and inspected his nails. “How long is this going to take?”
Charlie massaged her forehead. “True therapeutic breakthroughs can take months or even years… But I scheduled four hours for this today.”
Four hours? Lucifer bit his tongue. He could do this—
“Four fucking hours?” Vox complained. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s only natural to feel some discomfort at first,” Charlie assured him. “But the results will be worth it. Now—”
A knock at the door. Vagalala stuck her head in the door. “Hey, babe. I hate to interrupt but I need you for a moment.”
Charlie’s gaze softened as it rested on the other woman, even as her forehead creased with anxiety. She looked at her subjects and her expression wavered. “This is kind of important…”
“Vagatha wouldn’t interrupt unless she needed you,” Lucifer reminded her. “We’ll be fine for a minute.”
Vamilla gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, sir.” She held the door open so that Charlie could join her.
She was a nice kid—if only more angels were like her! Open-minded, practical, and best of all, totally devoted to Charlie! The pair didn’t go in for public displays of affection, but Vagarilla’s feelings for his daughter were clear in the way that whenever she walked into a room, it was Charlie she looked for first, it was Charlie she stood beside, it was Charlie’s hand she reached for…
How long it had been since any had sought his company first? It felt like decades—centuries—since any had looked at him with anything like affection… It was a little shocking, how much he hungered for it. Angels were supposed to be perfect, after all, and perfection lacked nothing. And yet, there he was, night after night, in a bed that was far too empty, no matter how many ducks he put on it—
Charlie stepped back inside. “I’m really sorry. But, uh, something’s come up, and they really need me there.”
“Too bad, so sad,” Vox said immediately. “Guess you’ll have to text Val, tell him to pick me up.”
Charlie winced. “I guess so…”
Lucifer felt a stab of guilt that immediately decimated the relief of seconds before. Charlie had been looking forward to this—working towards this for so long! Could he really let his daughter’s plan come to nothing?
“Not necessarily.” What was he saying? Lucifer shrugged, trying to look as though the words coming out of his mouth had everything to do with him. “I mean, we’re all here and you said this wasn’t like a proper session… All we have to do is establish some common ground?”
Charlie looked at Lucifer. “Dad, are you suggesting…?”
“We do this without you?” He nodded. “I mean, it won’t be as good as if you were here, of course, but I think the three of us can handle this.”
“What? No! Call Val!”
“This endeavour is doomed to fail. All you’re doing is wasting our time by prolonging the inevitable.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Charlie hugged him tightly. “Just give it a good try, that’s all I ask.” She hurried out of the room.
He had done it! Charlie was happy, he was the best dad ever—
“Well, that explains why you signed up for this pointless endeavour.” The bell-hop scoffed. “Honestly! Is there anything you wouldn’t do if Charlie asked it off you?”
—he was trapped in a room with these arseholes for four more hours.
Vox sneered. “Seriously! Watching you walk into my trap… Talk about pathetic!”
Alastor nodded. “Such desperation to win his daughter’s approval—a daughter who hardly even remembers his existence!”
Lucifer grit his teeth, and set the timer on his phone for four hours. “Like I give a fuck what either of you think.” He tossed his phone back onto the sofa and sat down, arms crossed and one leg kicked up in front of them.
“That’s right!” Alastor crowed. “You’re much too good to associate with failures like us by choice, right?”
He was right—so why did it sound so wrong? Lucifer glowered. “Like I would choose to hang out with you—with either of you.” He jabbed a finger at Alastor. “You make no secret of your disdain for others and your enjoyment of their pain. You’re remorseless, self-centred, and if my daughter didn’t like you for whatever reason, I’d have you kicked out of the hotel.”
Alastor grinned at him. “You can try.”
He ignored that. “And you, Box. I’m not sure that you’re not even worse.”
That got both of their attention. Alastor stopped smirking, and Box glowered. “Worse? Than—than him?”
“Worse.” Lucifer glared at both of them. “You pretend to care—and then you don’t. Or you do care—but it doesn’t stop you doing the utterly horrendous shit you do.”
Box’s lip curled—an achievement for one whose face was a flat screen. “Spare us! What makes you think you have any right to lecture us on our sins—after all, aren’t you the original failure?”
Alastor cackled. “Oh, you’ve been working on that zinger for some time! How long did you workshop that for, Vox? Did the test audiences approve?”
“You shut the fuck up too—”
Lucifer grit his teeth, forced down the stinging in his chest. They were just sinners. Particularly annoying specimens, but still just sinners.
For Charlie’s sake he could—he would ignore them. He settled down, arms crossed, and did his best to tune out the screaming match taking place in front of him.
After a lot longer than it should have taken, Alastor and Box seemed to recognised the futility of the endeavour and lapsed into sullen silence.
“How much time is left?” Box demanded.
Lucifer started out of his thoughts. He glanced at the timer. “Three hours and forty minutes.”
“Look.” The television set adopted a slimy tone, one evidently intended to be suave, charming. “Suppose we just say we stayed the full four hours.”
“What—leave now?” Lucifer was scandalised—and then mad at himself. Sinners found new lows! They were constantly finding new lows! He should not be surprised by this.
Box nodded so enthusiastically he fell over. “No one but the three of us ever has to know,” he said once Lucifer had propped him upright again. “Come onnnnn. What do you say, Al? Let’s ditch this joint!”
“No,” Lucifer said flatly. “Charlie wants us to stay, so we’re staying.”
Alastor loosed one of his irritating laughs. “Who would have thought that the devil would be such a stickler for keeping his word?”
Lucifer pinched his nose. He was doing this for Charlie. “You could leave.”
Alastor waggled a finger at him. “We’ve danced this dance before, and remember how well that worked out last time?”
“It worked amazingly last time.” Days—multiple consecutive days—without any radio interference. It had been glorious!
“Ha, ha! That was a once-off.” Alastor’s smile was vicious. “You cannot expect a repeat performance.”
“Performance of what?” Box demanded. “You mean dancing figuratively, right?”
Lucifer snorted. Something was very wrong with the television’s circuits if he thought Alastor and he would dance…
Absently he opened a portal into his bedroom, rummaging through his belongings until he found the bottle of rye Satan had sent him from the Wrath ring. “There!” He manifested a table complete with an ice-bucket, tongs and three glasses. “What do you gentlemen say to speeding the three hours along with a drink?”
Box had shut up and was gaping, open-mouthed. Even Alastor had gone silent, teeth clenched, glaring at him, his ears lowered.
Lucifer felt incredibly self-conscious. “I was being polite. I don’t think either of you are actually gentlemen.”
The gaping continued. “Did he just...”
“Mm-hmm.” Alastor crossed his arms. “With no concern for the laws of matter or physics, or anything.”
What on earth had he done to get such a reaction?
“How?” demanded Box.
“The rye is brewed on Wrath. In the usual way.” Lucifer scooped three ice cubes into a glass and cracked open the bottle. “You’re under no obligation to share it.”
“Like hell I’m passing on this.” Box practically vibrated with excitement. “Wrath bourbon’s supposed to be some of the best.”
Lucifer poured him a glass. “Bellhop?”
“Don’t mind if I do. I prefer mine neat.”
Lucifer filled his glass with ice-cubes. Alastor narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. He accepted his glass with a smirk. “Cheers!”
Lucifer raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers.” The first sip was all warmth and light—until it hit the back of the throat with a kick that might have come straight from one of Wrath’s skeletal horses. “Hooo! I forget what a punch this packs.”
The bellhop was doing a pretty good impression of someone who wasn’t choking. Lucifer turned away to hide his smirk (Charlie really wanted him to be nice), and instead got a full view of the television’s rather large and unexpectedly blue tongue trying to reach the rim of his glass.
The sight was equal parts repellant and fascinating. Lucifer stared. Where did he put that? The size of the flatscreen did not match the length of that tongue in anyway. Did it manifest as needed? There was a pressure in the air that suggested the presence of electricity. Was the tongue generated at will? If locking tongues, would that feel like an electric shock or vibration—
“Really, Vox?” Alastor’s voice dripped with disdain.
The tongue disappeared and the television was all fury. “What am I supposed to do? You try drinking without arms.”
Lucifer set his glass down. “There is an easy and obvious solution.” He snapped his fingers, summoning a twirly straw decorated with a sparkly duck. “Voila!”
This masterpiece received exactly none of the applause it deserved. Box stared at it, while Alastor threw back his head and howled.
“It’s not that funny!” Box roared.
Alastor said something about turnabout being fair play. It was hard to tell. He was laughing a really extraordinary amount. There were tears.
Lucifer shuffled closer to Box. “Uh… Is he okay?”
“He’s a sadistic red freak,” Box replied. “The furthest thing from okay in existence.”
That wasn’t true—some of the manifestations of the sins were downright disturbing on a cosmic level. Alastor was only distressingly human—but this prompted Alastor to explain. Wheezing, he said something about a chair, Box, a diner, a milkshake—
Box began shouting.
Lucifer rolled his eyes. He took another sip of his drink, savouring the richness of it: you could almost taste the heat of the soil, the endless fields of wheat, that particular dry-grass smell that hung around Wrath, undercut with a subtle hint of sulphur… and that lingering burn! With wrath bourbon, you felt it all the way down.
Absently, he reached for his sketchbook, flipping to an open page. He sketched out a basic straw, before drawing the twirly version he’d created for Box. Granted, the second design was less efficient… But it was fun. And fun was in short supply in hell.
Was that the problem? The straw was out of place?
Lucifer sketched a few more designs in between a few more sips of the rye. It was a surprise to realise that Alastor leaning over his shoulder in a manner far more suited to a shadow than a man. “Do you mind?”
Alastor’s smile deepened. “Just curious as to what it was that held your concentration!” he sang. “I admit, I did not expect it to be something so benign as a simple straw.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Surely something so mundane is beneath your majesty’s attention? It’s just a straw.”
“Yeah—but it could be a perfect straw.” Lucifer regretted the words as soon as he said them. What would sinners—especially these sinners, flawed and proud of it—understand about the striving of angels towards perfection in everything?
“I want to see!” Box was bouncing up and down again, this time in danger of upsetting not only himself but his drink. Lucifer held up the sketchbook.
“Huh.” Box studied the sketches. “That’s actually good, but yeah. Wasted on straws.”
Lucifer huffed, closing the book. Exactly why he didn’t share his work!
“You ever think about putting sharks on these things?”
Lucifer snapped his fingers. The sparkly duck vanished, replaced by the blue twirly straw, with a shark mounted on it.
“Hell yeah!” Box enthusiastically slurped down the bourbon, only to choke, eyes watering. “Wow—that’s strong!”
Alastor snickered. He stood crossing the room to a radio set tucked away on a side table in the corner—had that always been there and Lucifer just failed to notice it?—and adjusted the dial. “Either of you object to some music? As his majesty has demonstrated, the time might go faster with a little entertainment.”
Just what part of what Lucifer had done was entertaining? No, he wasn’t going to give Alastor the satisfaction of asking. Lucifer nursed his bourbon, rolling his eyes as Alastor kicked back his feet, leaning back on his sofa, theatrically conducting the music…
“Drama queen,” Box muttered out of the side of his mouth.
Lucifer snorted agreement.
“This is really good stuff. You say you got it from Wrath?”
“Satan sends me a bottle every now and then.”
“Satan himself?”
“Well, yeah.” Lucifer turned to Box. “Why is that a surprise?”
“Uh—” Box seemed to struggle to explain himself. “The sins, you know? They seem well… And you’re…”
“Go on,” Alastor purred. “What is his majesty?”
“Fuck you! It doesn’t matter!” Box took another pull on his sparkly shark straw and dissolved into coughing.
Alastor seemed to find this hilarious.
Lucifer rolled his eyes and said nothing. He did not want the soundtrack for the next three hours to be Alastor’s maniacal cackling…
His glass was unexpectedly empty. Lucifer reached for the bottle. “Can I top either of you up?”
They both agreed, Alastor hastily downing the remainder of his glass in one gulp that left his eyes watering, but no other outward display of pain (though the music skipped a beat), and Box slurping up the remainder of his drink with a disgusting gurgle. As Lucifer refilled their glasses, he was reminded of a similar phenomenon when drinking with the Sins. Neither Ozzie or Mammon would allow the other to consume more than them, persisting in matching drinks, until both were hopelessly inebriated, yet still insisting that they could handle another drink. Pathetic! Prideful--and these two were no different! Lucifer luxuriated in his knowledge of superiority.
One song ended, another began.
This new song tugged at Lucifer’s memory. There were no lyrics, but he knew the tune—there should have been lyrics. He hummed, trying to place it. Just at the tip of his memory—
“Murder is free.” Box leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Ha! Knew I knew that song. From the movie—what was it? ‘A Woman Scorned.’” His screen had taken on a vaguely reddish tinge.
Lucifer, putting his hand in front of it, discovered warmth radiating off him. “I knew I knew it.”
“Your majesty’s a fan of classic film?” Box brightened. “Naturally! A man of taste—”
“It was a musical before it was a film. They did a reprise performance of it down here in hell. We had almost the entire original cast.” Lucifer sighed happily at the memory. “Now that was a performance!” He still had the programme somewhere in amongst his collection of theatre memorabilia… Would that still be at the palace or had he brought it with him to the hotel…?
“You must see the movie,” Box was saying. “It is the definitive version! The actor’s performance, given new power by the use of camera angles to enhance the moment, the right shot matched to the right emotional beat, fuck, even just the smoothness of the scene transitions—no need for vamping to cover up scenery getting moved on or off stage—”
“But that’s part of the fun of theatre!” Lucifer protested. “And no one notices the stagehands, or if they do it’s part of the magic—the conventions!” He found himself sitting up, waving his hands for emphasis. “Theatre’s got an energy to it, a life—that you’ll never get, not even from the best film. That moment of hushed anticipation, just before the curtains part—”
“What about when the lights dim in a theatre, just before the main feature?” Box demanded. “And the soundtrack starts, a single note, or a word, that travels straight down your spine—”
Lucifer shook his head. “No comparison!” He almost spilled the bourbon, so he took a quick sip of it, to ensure he was in no danger of losing his drink. “In the theatre, you never know what is going to happen—because no two performances are ever exactly alike—”
“And that’s the advantage of film! Given how passionately you spoke of perfection earlier, surely you see the advantages of being able to select the best performance, preserve it, surround it with the other best interpretations of the other scenes…” Box’s voice seemed to have lost its nasal, grating quality. Instead as he argued, his screen flushed, his eyes light with something that wasn’t electricity, Lucifer found himself oddly compelled.
He didn’t watch TV, he remembered vaguely. It killed his already struggling attention span—
“Watch the film,” Box persisted. If he’d had a hand, Lucifer was pretty certain it would have been on his knee—and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “You’ll see that I’m right. It’s elevating the theatrical version into something more—”
“But the film, no matter how good, can’t replace the theatre,” Lucifer protested. “The energy—it’s not there.” Why was it so hard to put his thoughts into words? “When you watch a film, you’re only consuming it. You can have your own thoughts about it, but you don’t influence it in any way. Live theatre, on the other hand—the actors’ performance is influenced by the audience. The audience reacts to the show, and that energy is communicated to the actors—the performance is shaped and made new every time. It doesn’t exist outside of the theatre. You can film it, but that cannot do it justice because you cannot capture the—the energy of a theatre on film.”
Box wriggled, doing his best to swivel his screen around to face Lucifer, while avoiding upsetting his drink. “I’ll concede that a film doesn’t have the atmosphere of the theatre—but that’s a small price to pay for the increased realism of the film set compared to the painted scenery and artificially inflated gestures—”
“Theatre’s not about realism!” Lucifer shot back immediately. “It is about intensity—heightened emotion, the effect—”
Alastor’s cackle startled him. He’d entirely forgotten the man was still there. “You may argue in favour of pure cinema, but your own actions betray you, Vox. How many of your shows do you film before a live studio audience?”
“Hey now!” Box swivelled frantically to face Alastor. “That’s different!”
“Is it?” Alastor smirked. His eyes were half-lidded and there was a pleasant purr in his voice—a deep, breathy note that hadn’t been there earlier--that made even the insolence in his challenge palatable. “How is it different?”
Box spluttered. “It’s obviously different! Why—”
Was the bourbon having a mellowing effect on the bellhop? He must demand an entire crate from Satan the next time he saw him. “Does this mean you agree with me, bellhop—that the theatre is the best medium of expression?”
“Ha, ha! On the contrary—you are both sadly mistaken!” Alastor nodded proudly in the direction of his radio. “Radio remains the superior medium for broadcast or any kind of performance—because it forces one to distill everything down to its barest essentials! Shorn of the flourishes of the theatre or the special effects and close ups of film, the actor must rely only on his voice, wielding it like an instrument, a tool, to elicit the desired emotion.”
“That’s not an advantage—” Box started.
Alastor ignored him. “The resulting performance is a masterpiece in subtlety, in understatement—the antithesis of show and gaudiness! And the radio host, uninfluenced by the feedback of his audience, must curate his musical choices unencumbered by any sort of outward influence or pressure.”
Lucifer frowned. “And that’s a good thing?”
“Indeed! Free from the need to pander to his viewers—” Alastor sneered pointedly at Box, “the radio host answers only to his sense of what is most fitting, allowing him to produce the most meaningful playlist, the most fitting selection of songs.”
Lucifer digested this. He was having some difficulty adjusting his ideas to make sense of Alastor’s argument... Because the bellhop was that annoying? Or had he had too much bourbon? Lucifer looked at his glass. Empty—again? But he’d just filled it!
“You say you don’t listen to feedback,” Box was saying. “But it’s no coincidence that anyone who publicly criticises your radio show disappears in extremely violent circumstances.”
Alastor sighed, holding out his glass so Lucifer could refill it. “My dear, if people want to volunteer for a place on my show, who am I to deny them? Anyway,” he nodded to the radio. “That song you both so admired didn’t originate in either the musical theatre or the film, but in the jazz clubs of the South—where it was appropriated by your ilk, sanitised, made uniform, and thrust upon the public, a pale shadow of its former self.”
“Not this again!” Box rolled his eyes. “Just because something becomes mainstream doesn’t mean it’s been stolen—”
“Easy for you to say, you pilfering prick—”
The jazz clubs of the South… Lucifer hummed. It had been far too long since he’d visited earth. Technically he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but heaven, if they noticed, generally didn’t do more than send a strongly worded reprimand… No, the last time had been—oh, that business with that young man in Georgia. Johnny. Lucifer nodded. Now that young man could play!
What had become of him? He’d not arrived in hell, Lucifer was pretty sure he would have been informed. Still alive then? Making music—or was that prodigious talent being allowed to go to waste as he slaved away in one of those pointless endeavours humans put so much stock in? A farm, perhaps, or some other dead end job—heaven’s forbid, a factory producing the same pointless crap that the world was already swimming with. It made him sick.
He could still remember Eden, the perfection of it, the promise of it—the potential! Eden so lovely, and the rest of the world, just out there to be claimed, to be shaped, to be shared… And what had the humans done with it? Commodified it, divided it, broken it… Even their music had a derivative feel to it…
Lucifer’s thoughts drifted back to ‘A Woman Scorned’ and he shuddered. “At any rate, it’s still better than that godawful—”
“—fucking—”
“—tacky—”
—remake.”
Lucifer blinked. Either there was something wrong with his ears (and there was nothing wrong with them, his ears were perfect, like the rest of him), or he, Alastor and Vox had just voiced the same thought in unison. “Did we just…agree?”
Alastor recoiled, physically wriggling away from him. “Absolutely not! Impossible!”
Box’s flummoxed expression flickered and reformed into his usual face. “Statistically, it was bound to happen eventually.” He coughed. “I just didn’t expect it to be the 2023 A Woman Scorned remake.”
Lucifer frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing!” Box’s laugh had an embarrassed edge. “It’s an anomaly, that’s all. We shouldn’t read anything into it.”
“Ha!” Alastor crowed. “For once, Vox is making sense!”
“Oh—so you do agree with Box.”
Alastor’s grin widened in a way that was not possible given the size of his face. “Agree—with that lousy picture box?”
“I don’t fucking want your agreement!” Vox shouted back. “Your opinions are as dated as you are—”
“Time has no bearing on classics—”
At it again. Lucifer mournfully picked up his glass. Alastor and Box clearly had a history—a history that he had no part of. He was there simply to facilitate their agreement. How ironic was that? Even in his daughter’s hotel, he was an afterthought, a means to an end and no more…
But pathetic as that was, at least it was not as bad as the 2023 remake. “Were they trying to make a film everyone would hate? Seriously what was that?”
Box nodded enthusiastically. “Right? And with the star power they had, it should have box-office gold!”
He was getting too close to the edge again, so Lucifer pulled him into his lap. “That’s what I was saying! Theatre isn’t film—so film actors aren’t necessarily going to understand a piece of that nature—”
“Nature nothing! It’s the director’s fault—like what was he thinking?”
“Ah, this is where the superiority of radio shines, chums!” Alastor’s eyes glinted at them from the sofa opposite. “Sequestered from public opinion, radio is free from the pressures of Hollywood executives who think they know what audiences like, or the feedback of theatre loyal fans, or even the actors themselves, desperate to put their own spin on role that has already been made iconic.”
“Where was the nuance?” Lucifer lamented. “The heart of the story was all gone—”
“Dumbed down for kids with the attention span of goldfish! And the amount of time devoted to the female character’s shoulders—clearly the cameraman had a fetish—”
Alastor shuddered. “Would never happen on radio!” He plopped himself down on the sofa on Lucifer’s other side. His hand was on Lucifer’s shoulder. “Everything today is so—so overtly sexualised.”
“For a reason—sex sells! You can’t blame media for giving people what they want—”
“But you tell them it’s what they want as you serve it, don’t you? Self-created supply and demand.” Was Alastor deliberately getting close to prove a point? Whatever he was doing, it was very distracting.
Lucifer struggled to clear his head, contribute to this argument. “Kids today—no respect! And the decisions they make… Do they think free will grows on trees?”
Alastor sighed loudly. “These new sinners! They think they can do whatever they like without consequence now they’re in hell…”
“Brain rot—and they enjoy it! Like, what the hell, Velvette, why should I care that some guy with a carrot up his butt is trending—”
“No stamina.” Alastor shook his head sadly. “Barely put up any sort of a struggle. And then their screams! All laced with profanity, scarcely broadcastable… It makes you wonder if anyone takes any pride in their work anymore!”
Pride?
Lucifer felt something warm unfurl in his chest. Alastor, if nothing else, had pride…
“And don’t get me started on interns. You’d think they’d be grateful to work for an organisation like Voxtek, right? They’d be keen to sign away their souls. But noooo, instead it’s all, ‘I haven’t had a bathroom break in forty-eight hours, I’m going to explode’ or ‘I want to spend Sinsmas with my loved ones’—bitch, if you had loved ones, you wouldn’t be in hell!”
Alastor chuckled. “Ah, the torment of a corporation!” He began to needle Box on the challenges of remaining CEO while a disembodied head.
Lucifer hummed, absently stroking Vox’s screen as he leaned against Alastor. This could be worse. This could be a hell of a lot worse…
***
They’d pushed the sofas back against the edges of the room, clearing a space for Alastor to whirl Lucifer around. Hand on the small of Lucifer’s back, a jaunty swing classic emitting from the radio, Alastor swung Lucifer out, only to grab his hand, twirling him seamlessly back to draw him neatly against his body.
Lucifer had a brief impression of warmth, strength, and a hint of tobacco mixed with something fresh and growing—moss, perhaps?—before he was jerked back, led through a bewildering series of steps. Unable to keep up, Lucifer gave up trying to think about what was next and let the rhythm guide him.
“There!” A snap of Alastor’s wrist and Lucifer was wrapped up snug against his chest like a parcel. “The Lindy hop—as performed in the clubs of New Orleans decades before your swingers ever heard of it.”
“Fine!” grumbled Box from the sofa where he watched. “Maybe television didn’t invent the whirly-bird… But that dance of yours has elements of the Charleston, it’s not original either! Besides, what’s the big deal if we popularised it?”
Alastor sighed theatrically, nudging Lucifer towards the sofa. “The big deal, you pompous twit, is your continued exploitation—”
Lucifer obediently climbed onto the sofa. His head still whirled, as though he were still being spun around the room. His chest was breathless, and he felt an absence where Alastor’s hands had been only moments before.
Once again, he pulled Box into his lap, settling his arms around the television screen. “Wow. I don’t know who invented that, but whoever they were, they get my applause. That was a workout and a half.”
Box’s eyes rolled up to look at him. “You okay, your majesty? You’re looking kind of flushed.”
“Let me catch my breath.”
“Ah, my apologies!” Alastor chuckled, dropping onto the sofa beside Lucifer and Box. “I forgot how ancient you are.”
“Fuck off,” Lucifer said from habit, rather than because he meant it. He was extraordinarily content—in a way that made no sense because he was surrounded by two of the most aggravating sinners in all of hell—and he should know.
Alastor smiled—a sleek, smug smile, as if he reflected upon a secret only he knew. “You’re a surprisingly good dancer—easily led.”
Lucifer spluttered. “Is that a compliment or are you insulting me again?”
The smile widened. “Both.”
“Honestly,” Box complained. “If you’re going to flirt right in front of me, the least you can do is give me an actual view.”
Alastor hissed and snatched back his hand. “We are not flirting—”
Lucifer propped a cushion against the back of the sofa, then settled Box on top of it. “How’s that?”
Alastor blinked. “We are not flirting.”
Lucifer pouted. “Could have fooled me.”
This again seemed to be the wrong response, judging from the error message on the television screen and the sheer amount of static currently filling the air.
Lucifer huffed and folded his arms. “You’re both very boring.” He readjusted himself on the sofa, so that his cheek rested against the edge of Box’s screen and he wasn’t looking at Alastor. The hard edge of the television dug into his flesh, but the heat of his screen made up for it.
“Too bad you don’t have a body.” Lilith liked to complain that he was a cuddly drunk—that’s what was going on! He was drunk.
“My, my! You have not even been alone four hours, and you are philandering! What will Valentino think?”
“We got an open relationship! Not that you know the first thing about relationships—”
“I know they are a pointless waste of time and a drain on intellect and emotions both!”
“Like you’re any better! You love to act all superior but there’s nothing sane or rational about you ripping the intestines out of some poor sap—”
“Do I detect a note of jealousy? Come and see me when you’ve got a body again, and I will happily disembowel you—”
They were so confoundedly noisy! Fuck them both. Lucifer reached over to give Alastor’s arm a warning squeeze. “Volume down.” Anyway, he wasn’t drunk—not really. More in that happily buzzed state where everything was nice and cozy, and actions didn’t have consequences…
“—try not to cream yourself when I do.”
Box snarled. “There you go! All high and mighty, but you’re the first to get crude. For all you act all old-time values and charm, you’ve got a filthy mind. I’m not fooled, not one bit!”
“Sure you’re not projecting? It must be so difficult for you right now. Projecting is about all you can do.”
This was still better than what happened after the warm and cuddly stage. At some part of the evening, Mammon pushed Ozzie too far and they quarrelled, and Bee took Ozzie home and Levi saw Mammon into a taxi, and then it was just him, Satan and Belphegor, and the prospect of going back to an empty palace alone and the cuddly drunk abruptly became a weepy drunk—
“Fuck you and your high horse, too! You might be too much of a coward to embrace opportunity when it comes, but I’m not going to let you fuck up a once in a lifetime opportunity to make out with the king of hell—”
“Darling, the devil is not that into you—”
They were being so stupidly noisy. “Says who?” Lucifer demanded and pushed his mouth to Box’s screen.
For a moment he wondered if he’d missed entirely—and wouldn’t that be embarrassing, Alastor would never let him forget it, not ever—but the buzz of static made his skin prickle in a way that was not unlike the box—Box’s box, hah—before the bad tickle.
Bad tickle. Lucifer suddenly registered that this was an extraordinarily bad idea.
Before he could pull away that tongue was gliding over his lips and it did hum and tingle and wow, was that interesting! Box tasted of copper and electricity, the way the air did just before a storm.
The static in the room had suddenly increased. Lucifer opened his eyes—hadn’t realised that he’d closed them—to see Alastor gaping at them.
There was something very pleasing about seeing him actually lost for words, and, moved by the spirit of generosity, Lucifer reached up, hooking his hand around Alastor’s neck to bring him within kissing distance. The bellhop was too shocked to resist and soon Lucifer’s tongue skated over a row of very sharp teeth, tasting copper and bourbon, and a hint—just a hint—of something decaying. Alastor’s teeth scraped his lip and that was no longer just a hint of copper but a whimper—he whimpered—and Alastor was holding the sides of his face as he seemingly tried to devour him whole—
“This is so fucking hot.”
Alastor froze. Had he forgotten Box?
Lucifer supposed they owed the television an apology. He pressed his mouth back to Box’s—an invitation, the television eagerly accepted—and tugged Alastor’s arm. “Too much talking.” Nope, that wasn’t right. “Join us?” That was better.
Alastor’s lips curled, and Lucifer braced for the invective-laced rejection—knowing the bellhop, it would hurt but Box’s tongue dragged down his neck and his teeth sank into Lucifer’s flesh, and he gasped, eyes fluttering shut—but not before he’d seen a predatory glint in Alastor’s eye.
He felt fingers in his hair, holding him still and Alastor’s hot breath on the back of his neck. “This is a dangerously bad idea,” Alastor’s words were pitched barely above a growl, “but then you’re known for those, aren’t you?”
Lucifer found it hard to muster even the barest amount of outrage. Box was sucking at his collarbone and Alastor had grazed his teeth across his neck. It was only with supreme self-command and focus that Lucifer first loosened his collar and twisted around, manoeuvring all three of them into a kiss.
It was not elegant. If Lucifer was forced to, he must admit it was kind of sloppy. But it was undignified in the way of complete abandon, and it tasted like copper and the fields of wrath and a building storm and the tears of angels, and it vibrated through him until he wasn’t sure whose tongue he was tangled with, whose fingers beneath his shirt—
A jangling trill filled the air, dragging his attention away from the men—man—what percentage of Box needed to be present for him to count?—he was entwined with. The sound was familiar and insistent—
His phone alarm.
Lucifer jerked upright and grabbed the phone.
Alastor and Box stared at him.
“Uh—that was four hours.”
Reality seemed to hit like a splash of cold water. Lucifer’s face first paled, then warmed. Had he really—and with Alastor and Box of all people?
“My word.” Alastor’s tone was sardonic. He tugged his jacket straight and rebuttoned his collar. “Time certainly flies.”
Box seemed to be struggling the most out of the three of them. “What—I mean, did we—” He coughed. “That Wrath bourbon’s strong shit.”
There was a quick knock at the door. Lucifer had just enough time to conjure his clothes back into pristine order before the door swung open, Charlie leading a tall—very tall—sinner wearing a simply offensive amount of cologne into the room. “—here they are! And still alive.” The sheer gratitude on her face as she turned to Lucifer made it all worth it. “Thank you, dad.”
“Any time, sweetheart.” Yes, he was the best dad ever—
Alastor sneered in his peripheral vision.
The tall sinner scooped up Box. “There’s my big baby!” He cooed at Vox. “Did you enjoy playtime with the other toddlers?”
“Very funny,” Box complained.
“So, we’ll see you same time next week?” Charlie asked Box.
Lucifer froze. There were going to be multiple sessions? “Uh—”
“Forget it!” Box snarled.
Was it possible for a stomach to suffer whiplash? From twisting at the thought of a second session to dropping at Box’s clear dismissal, Lucifer’s internal organs were on a bungie cord of agony—
“Spend another four hours in this stuffy hotel? No. If this is happening again, it’s happening on my turf.” Box leered at Alastor and Lucifer. “Vee tower. Same time next week. I’ll put on a proper spread. Show you both a real good time.”
“Um. Well that’s a nice thought, but the object of the therapy session is to explore your feelings—”
“And what better way to explore feelings than over a carefully curated dinner, accompanied by some of Pentagram city’s finest beverages?” Box was at his oily best. “Trust me, Princess—I will put on a therapy session like nothing else.”
Charlie pressed her hands together, her smile cautious. “I applaud the enthusiasm, I really do! But—”
“Ha! I would like to see you try.” Alastor’s sneer would have been more effective had they not just been making out. Lucifer was vividly reminded of the scrape of those teeth over his skin… “Very well, it is a d—an appointment!”
The tall sinner, Box and Charlie all looked at Alastor with identical expressions of shock. “What—you mean that?” Box demanded. “You’ll be there?”
“Continuing the therapy?” Charlie’s voice hitched.
“Why of course!” Alastor’s smile was wide. “Like all Vox’s schemes, this one is sure to end in complete disaster! I wouldn’t miss it for almost anything!” As he cackled, his shadows curled around him. A moment later shadows, Alastor, the background music Lucifer had entirely stopped registering, they were all gone.
“Okay,” the tall sinner said slowly. “Something weird just happened, am I right?”
Box ignored him. “So! Your majesty. See you there, right?”
“Hmm?” Lucifer blinked. “Oh! Right. Yes. The tower thingy. Place. Sure.”
Charlie rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make sure he’s there.”
“Excellent.” Box’s grin filled his entire screen. “You won’t regret this your majest—Val!” His speech was curtailed, as the tall sinner tucked him under one armpit.
“Better get going,” he explained. “Someone gets a little cranky when he starts to run out of power.”
Now that was an interesting thought! Did Box run on power? Where did he keep his batteries? If taken apart, would there be grey matter inside the screen, or circuits and cables?
Lucifer hummed thoughtfully before regretfully remembering that he was not likely to find out. He emerged from his thoughts, only to see Box and his friend disappear out the door—
“Yes!” Charlie squealed and threw her arms around him. “I cannot believe that worked! Aaaaaah! Amazing! And no one is dead or blew up!”
It took a moment for Lucifer to realise that they weren’t in danger: Charlie was just excited. “Well, you know, I told you I’d handle it!”
“How did you do it?” Charlie grabbed his hands, twirling him around the room in a manner not that dissimilar to that Alastor had adopted. “Please! TELL ME EVERYTHING!”
Lucifer chuckled weakly. “Ah… No can do, sweetheart. What is it Belphegor always says? Nothing goes beyond this room…”
“You really opened up to each other, huh?” Charlie’s eyes welled. “I’m so pleased!”
“I don’t know if I would go that far,” Lucifer said cautiously. “But something sure happened.” His eyes fell on the empty bottle of bourbon.
Did he threaten Satan—or thank him?