Archive of Our Own

Lucifer knew what happened. He knew it the second he laid eyes on Alastor while stuck in that godawful fish-bowl trap that Vox had concocted. 

He had seen the shadows under Alastor’s eyes. His pale complexion, the strained pull of his smile. His hair, always so neat and tidy, tangled like someone had been ripping their claws through it and burnt at the ends as if he had stuck his finger in an electrical socket. 

He pretended not to see. He had put on a show, been a good boy and kept his mouth shut, because there were some buttons you simply do not press, no matter what silly rivalry you have going with the other guy. 

The silence continued in the weeks following Vox’s devolution into nothing more than a jabbering screen. Everyone had returned to the hotel, weary and wary. Alastor did not speak of what happened. Lucifer did not speak of what happened. They continued to bicker and snap at each other. They played silly pranks, like a couple of kids. Lucifer hid Alastor’s coffee mug in increasingly bizarre places around the hotel, forcing him on a scavenger hunt every morning. Alastor swapped the sugar for salt, ruining Lucifer’s own coffee, and stole the No Alastors Allowed sign from next to Lucifer’s door. 

Despite the teasing and the irking and the occasional real shouting matches, neither one of them brought up what happened. Alastor did not mock Lucifer’s inability to harm sinners, or his painful naivety that led to him being captured by Vox in the first place. Lucifer did not bring up Alastor’s time spent in the V Tower, or the way he was paraded around Pentagram City like a prize of war. 

Lucifer had seen the footage. It was distorted, like all footage of Alastor, but he had seen the way his ears had laid flat to his skull and the miserable hunch of his shoulders. He had seen the way that Vox touched Alastor - squeezing his shoulders, laying a hand on his knee, leaning into his space despite the way that Alastor tried to sway out of the reach of grasping blue claws. 

Lucifer should have been elated. He should have found it funny. 

He didn’t. 

•

“Fancy seeing you down here, sire.” 

Alastor’s voice was abnormally quiet. No showboating for the demon that night, it seemed. Lucifer gave him a noncommittal hum and sipped his drink. 

It was one of the rare few times that the bar was empty. Charlie had taken most of the residents out for some sort of night on the town. Lucifer didn’t know. He didn’t really care, either. Showing his face in the city was a touchy subject for him and she hadn’t pressed when he sheepishly declined. 

Husk had gone along on whatever field trip the Hazbin crew had ventured out on. Alastor walked over to the bar and poured himself his own drink. He settled in across from Lucifer, much as he had the day that he had quit the hotel and set the whole miserable ball rolling. 

Several minutes passed in silence. Lucifer looked down at his drink. He swirled the glass, letting the ice cubes tink against the sides. 

“Was it worth it?” 

“Hm?” 

“Was it worth it,” Lucifer repeated. “Being his captive. Letting him… just letting him.” 

In his peripheral, he saw Alastor stiffen. His smile went rigid and his fingers tightened over his glass of scotch. 

For a moment, Lucifer thought that Alastor wouldn’t reply. It was the first time they had ever talked about it. The first time Lucifer had talked about it at all, aside from the day it happened. 

“Yes,” Alastor finally said. “Eventually, yes.” 

Eventually. Lucifer had been Vox’s captive for a few hours. Two months later and he still woke up screaming every night, his arms shredded by his own claws where he tried to pry away the phantom shackles that had drained his grace like some sort of horrific, mutated leech. 

Alastor had been there for a week. 

Lucifer shivered and took another sip of his drink. 

•

Lucifer entered the lobby with a smile on his face. It was stiff and made his cheeks ache, but still he smiled on, determined to be as welcoming as possible. 

Not that it mattered. The sinners still avoided him. Even when he walked through a crowd, they gave him a wide berth, like he was a drop of soap in an oil slick. 

The word that he couldn’t harm sinners had spread like wildfire. Still, they were wary of him - his power had levelled a good chunk of the city and vaporized a few dozen of its denizens, after all. He was harmless, but he was still a predator, and they stayed away.

Alastor didn’t seem to have the same problem. 

Oh, they certainly feared him, but without the television Overlord’s competition, Alastor had once more risen to the top of Pentagram’s totem pole and had become something of a celebrity at the hotel. Wherever he went, a flock of nervous little sinners followed, gasping and oo-ing and ah-ing over his every word. They wanted interviews; pictures; autographs. A few even offered their souls, which Alastor happily snapped up like a particularly ravenous Hungry Hungry Hippo. 

Lucifer observed Alastor and his little fan club traipse across the lobby. There were perhaps a dozen of them, whispering and giggling excitedly to themselves like a bunch of high school girls. They all collectively squealed when Alastor summoned his staff and leaned on it, immersed in a conversation with Charlie. 

Lucifer rolled his eyes. Alastor pretended to revel in the attention - always a sucker for the spotlight, that one - but from Lucifer’s vantage point he could see the way that those fluffy ears flicked in irritation, occasionally laying back completely when someone released a shrill gush of excitement. He saw the way that Alastor would stiffen when his little troupe got too close and how he outright flinched when one tripped over their feet and nearly collided with him. 

Alastor had never liked being touched. It seemed that sentiment had only grown since returning to the hotel. Now, he didn’t even use touch to his own advantage, something that he had previously never had a problem with, as Lucifer himself could attest. 

He watched Alastor gracefully move through the crowd, craftily avoiding brushing against the other sinners as he went. 

Oh, Bambi, what did they do to you? 

•

Lucifer’s nightmares had started to take on a different shape. 

They always consisted of him trapped in that awful little Egg of Doom, but as of late, he had been dreaming that Alastor was there with him. 

Lucifer was trussed up, his arms and legs spread and bound. Alastor was tied to the wheely chair, watching with dead eyes as Vox circled Lucifer like the one of the sharks he so coveted. Everyone was silent. The only thing Lucifer could hear was his own panicked breaths wheezing in and out of his lungs. 

Vox was touching him. He flipped Lucifer’s hat off of his head. Carded his claws through his hair, letting them drag against his scalp until trickles of golden blood slipped down the collar of Lucifer’s shirt. Plucked at his clothing. Cupped his waist, giving the defined curve a squeeze. Poked and pinched and touched, touched, touched until Lucifer felt like he was going to scream from it. 

The worst part was not Vox’s hands on him. No, the worst part is having to face Alastor. Seeing that glassy gaze reflected back at him and feeling a sick sense of camaraderie. Was this what Vox did? Or was there something worse? Something that even Lucifer’s subconscious shied away from? 

He woke sweaty and shaking. He sat up, then rose from the bed silently. He didn’t bother to get dressed - it was nowhere near morning, and he didn’t give a fuck what the residents saw him wearing, anyway. 

He slipped out of his room and made his way down to the bar, the clop of his bare hooves muffled by the thick carpet. Alastor was already there, nursing a glass of whiskey and staring at nothing. 

Lucifer poured his own glass and settled in next to him. The couch cushion compressed, tipping Lucifer a little closer than he intended. Alastor flinched violently, his red gaze snapping to Lucifer with something like accusation. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Lucifer said. He quickly scooted back, giving Alastor his space. He half-expected Alastor to get up and sit on the other side of the couch, or maybe leave altogether, but he didn’t. He simply looked away, his ears rising from their defensive position. 

They drank in silence, as they almost always did. It had been months since the fight. Months since Vox. 

Lucifer and Alastor were not friends. They barely passed for acquaintances. But this, they could do. Drink together. Silently swap ghosts, as if that somehow helped. 

The atmosphere was different that night. Lucifer fiddled with a loose thread on his pyjama pants, his fingers needing something to do. He glanced at Alastor and just as quickly looked back down. 

He couldn’t ask. Even if the question wasn’t wildly inappropriate and probably triggering besides, Alastor would never tell him. Not truthfully, anyway. 

Lucifer swallowed, his mouth dry. It was none of his business. He didn’t need to know. Didn’t even want to know, really. But he had to. It was driving him insane. 

Slowly, silently, he extended his magic towards Alastor. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Magic like this was fickle - it could tell him a plethora of things, or nothing at all. 

He held his breath as his magic brushed against Alastor’s. Alastor didn’t move. He gave no indication he noticed at all. 

Lucifer hadn’t known what he was looking for until it was right there, lighting up his senses. Purity. Beneath all the layers of sin - and there were many - Lucifer could sense a spark of virtue. One tiny twinkle of white bobbing in an endless sea of inky black. He knew what it was before he even touched it. 

Alastor was a virgin. 

Lucifer breathed out, his hands unclenching from where he had subconsciously curled them into fists in his lap. It was inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things - there were endless ways to hurt someone, even like that, that did not steal that particular scrap of innocence. But Alastor had retained his virginity. Surprising, for someone that had existed for over a century, but ultimately it meant nothing. 

It meant everything. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” 

Lucifer looked up guiltily. Alastor was watching him. He was not angry - or at the very least, not snarling or going Full Demon Mode - but rather looked… indifferent. Curious, maybe. 

Lucifer looked away. “Yes. I’m sorry. I should have asked.” 

“Even while I was his captive, he was afraid of me.” 

Lucifer closed his eyes. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear this. 

“Vox is many things, a coward among them,” Alastor went on. “I expected it, you know. I had… prepared myself for that inevitability. But even at his strongest, he was still weak.” 

“That is not strength,” Lucifer hissed. 

“No. But to a man like Vox, power is power, no matter the source. He had me right where he wanted me and still he could not take the final plunge. It would be almost laughable, if it wasn’t so damnably pathetic.” 

Lucifer opened his eyes. He rested his head against the back of the couch and turned to look at Alastor. “You talk as if you wanted him to, just to prove you wrong.” 

He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Alastor’s placid smile curdled, his eyes darkening. 

“I wanted none of this,” he said lowly. “Least of all your pity. I knew what he was. I knew what he was capable of. I chose to make the deal anyway. Risk and reward. It was necessary.” 

Except it wasn’t so simple, was it? Something had happened, even if Alastor would never admit it, not even to himself. 

“I don’t pity you,” Lucifer finally said. 

“Liar,” Alastor snapped. “You wouldn’t have gone searching if you didn’t.” 

“There is a difference between pitying someone and sympathizing with them.” 

Alastor looked away. His claws dug into the cushions next to his thighs, rending the expensive fabric. 

“He would not stop touching me,” he finally gritted out, as if the words had to be ripped out like a thorn. “Even before… before everything. I told him countless times. That’s why I knew how to word the deal. I knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself.” 

Lucifer knew. He’d known since the day he met Alastor, when the stubborn deer had danced away from Lucifer’s touch, but readily forced his own. 

He had a special relationship with touch, too - though while Alastor was averse, Lucifer was starved. 

He drew out every hug with Charlie because he simply couldn’t stand to let her go. She was his only point of contact - the only one who dared to get near enough to him to even bump his shoulder or brush the back of his hand. 

To have that weaponized against him…

He shuddered, bile crawling to the back of his throat. 

He didn’t say he was sorry. Alastor wouldn’t want to hear it. Instead, he sat there, allowing Alastor to calm his breathing and gradually compose himself. 

It was only once they had settled back into some semblance of neutrality that Lucifer spoke.

“Can I get you another drink?”

•

They were playing chess. 

It was a game Alastor enjoyed - or rather, he enjoyed winning. 

Lucifer had never been particularly fond of it, but he liked indulging Alastor, when the prickly demon would allow it. 

It was raining outside. Not blood or acid, but regular rain, coming down in an icy deluge that made the hot grounds of Hell steam. Most of the residents were watching the movie Charlie and Vaggi had put on in the parlour. Others, like Alastor and Lucifer, had found quiet corners to curl up in. 

They were in the library. It was dark, their only light a single reading lamp poised over the table to see the pieces by. Niffty had been by a while ago with a mug of cocoa for Lucifer and a coffee for Alastor. The hand-drawn duck and deer faced off against each other across the table. The joke had lost its humour a while ago, especially because now, the deer was at Alastor’s elbow and the duck had exactly twelve marshmallows melting in it. 

“Checkmate,” Alastor said triumphantly. 

Lucifer smiled and handed his king over. Alastor curled his fingers around it, briefly hiding it in his hand before depositing it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He snapped his fingers and the board rearranged itself, a new king appearing on Lucifer’s side. What Alastor did with all of the kings he had won, Lucifer didn’t know. The lone two that he had managed to collect over the past few months he had put on the shelf over his mantle, next to his favourite picture of him and Charlie. 

Sometimes, when the nights were particularly bad and he feared falling asleep, he would lay awake with one of those tiny figures in his hand and run his thumb back and forth along the familiar grooves of it. If he was lucky it would help soothe him to sleep and he would wake with it still resting in his palm. 

They continued playing for a while. Their drinks went cold, but a snap of Lucifer’s fingers fixed that. The mugs slowly got closer and closer with each sip until they were resting side-by-side. 

At one point, Alastor reached for his drink at the same time Lucifer did. Their fingers brushed. Lucifer snatched his hand away as if burned, a half-formed, hysterical thought bursting into his mind: what if Alastor left? 

“Sorry,” he blurted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” 

Alastor made a small noise of frustration and picked up the mug that used to be Lucifer’s but was now filled with his special dark roast. 

“You can touch me, Lucifer. I’m not made of glass.” 

“But… but you…” 

Lucifer blushed. Communication had never been one of his strengths. Damnit. 

“I am amenable to touch when it suits me,” Alastor clarified. “It is not always, or even very often. I prefer physical contact on my own terms, as you well know. Though I do not appreciate being treated as if I am some quivering maiden unable to handle even the slightest provocation or difficulty.” 

“Sorry,” Lucifer said again. 

Alastor gave him an impatient smile. “Apologize again, dear, and see where it gets you.” 

Another ‘sorry’ clung to the tip of Lucifer’s tongue. He managed to swallow it back at the last second. He bit his lip instead and looked over the chess board. 

“How am I supposed to know if you’re okay with being touched? I don’t want to assume that you are or aren’t.” 

“Well, you could always ask, for a start,” Alastor quipped. He started to say more, then stopped, hesitating over the words. “I… can understand how that may be difficult, though,” he granted. “Sometimes I can allow it. Sometimes I even find myself enjoying it. Other times… other times it feels as though I want to flay myself to be rid of the feeling.” 

Lucifer mulled over Alastor’s words. He understood, to some degree. He had never admitted it before, not even to himself, but towards the end of him and Lilith, before she had left him completely but long after they had truly fallen apart, she would come to him, desperate and wanting. He would never say no. He was her husband. 

The memories of what came after were hazy. He would find himself in the shower with no idea how he had gotten there or how long he’d been there, his skin scrubbed so raw that the water sluicing off of him had started to run gold. 

He shuddered and closed his eyes, shoving the thought aside. Absently, he ran a finger across the place where his wedding band used to sit. It had been months since he’d taken it off, but he imagined that he could still feel its indent pressed to the skin there. 

“You should come up with some sort of system,” Lucifer suggested. “You know, like the stoplight thing? Red for no, green for go, yellow for take it slow?” 

He cracked an eye and watched Alastor’s ears fold back to his skull. “Is that not some sort of depraved sex thing?” 

Lucifer snorted softly. “Consent isn’t only about sex, but yes, that type of system usually applies. It would be helpful though, to know what sort of mood you’re in.” 

“It is more complex than that.” Alastor looked away, the furrow of his brow highlighting his frustration. “There is more middle ground than simply ‘take it slow’.” 

Lucifer hummed consideringly. Yes, he could see it. Alastor was an enigma, a man with his own unique tastes and endless complexities. To try to group them all into one simple subcategory wasn’t viable. 

“What about a scale?” Lucifer asked. “Like one to ten. One is ‘if you touch me, I’ll rip your head off and use your liver for my next pâté’. Ten is ‘you can touch me however you want’.” 

He expected Alastor to immediately disregard the suggestion, but was surprised to find him mulling it over. 

“That could work,” Alastor finally said. “Anything for you to stop treating me as if I am broken.” 

“Oh, Al,” Lucifer said quietly. He reached across the chessboard and left his palm up, allowing Alastor to do what he liked. After a moment, Alastor extended his hand and placed his index finger in Lucifer’s palm. The rest of his hand remained on the table. Lucifer gently closed his fingers around the slim length of Alastor’s singular digit and gave it a small squeeze. “I don’t think you’re broken. Not at all.” 

Alastor hurrumph’d but didn’t press the issue. He looked down at their hands - the size difference was so vast that his finger poked out of the confines of Lucifer’s fist past the first knuckle. He wiggled it once, as if testing Lucifer’s hold.

After a moment, he withdrew. Lucifer let him go. They returned to their chess game in silence. 

•

It took six months for them to hold hands properly. That was the day that Lucifer discovered what level five of the Alastor Touch Metre entailed. 

Lucifer knew his limit and played within it, never pressing for more. Each tiny piece of himself that Alastor allowed was a gift in itself. To overstep and break the bounds of their tentative agreement was beyond imagining. 

Most days after they came up with the scale, Alastor resided at a one, or perhaps a two if he and Lucifer were alone. At one, Alastor preferred his space. Lucifer would sit across from him, or on a different part of the couch if they were drinking at the bar. Two, and Alastor would allow Lucifer into his space so long as they were not touching - sharing a settee, playing chess or Scrabble, eating together.

Three and four were a series of trials and errors. Eventually, Lucifer parsed out that at three, Alastor would allow the most minimal of contact - shoulders or elbows brushing, the outsides of their thighs touching when they sat next to each other. Four, Lucifer could be intentional with his touches. A hand on the small of Alastor’s back to let him wordlessly know he was passing by. Cupping his elbow to get his attention. Barely-there caresses that every other resident of the Hazbin took for granted, but that Lucifer found the greatest joy in. It was like a dance. Each brush of his fingers across Alastor’s jacket set his fingers tingling and sent sparks racing up his spine. 

The night that Alastor turned to him and said “five” with unwavering confidence, Lucifer thought he might burst into flames. He had to actively keep his palm from sweating when Alastor gently enveloped his hand within his own much larger one. His long fingers curled over the back of Lucifer’s hand nearly to his wrist. 

They turned their attention back to the movie Charlie had put on. They were tucked into the darkest corner at the back of the room. No one could hear or see them. 

Lucifer always thought he preferred the light, but there with Alastor in the deepest shadows of the parlour, he felt more joy than he ever had, even when he had still been a creature of Heaven.

•

It took them until level seven to finally kiss. 

Lucifer hadn’t been expecting it. They had been sitting comfortably at a six all evening, Lucifer’s legs thrown over Alastor’s as he lounged back against the arm of Alastor’s sofa and scribbled in his sketchpad. Alastor was reading a book, a glass of whiskey next to his elbow on the side table. 

Alastor closed his book and gently pushed Lucifer’s legs off of his own. Lucifer sat up immediately, unbothered. He was used to fluctuations in Alastor’s tolerance for touch. 

He was only mildly perturbed when Alastor reached out and plucked Lucifer’s sketchpad out of his hands. 

“Hey, I was-” 

“Seven,” Alastor said, and then he leaned in and kissed him. 

Lucifer froze, so shocked that for a moment he didn’t know what to do. It had been so long. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. 

He was snapped out of his surprise when Alastor pushed against him a tad more insistently. Lucifer reached up and cautiously threaded his fingers into Alastor’s hair. His actions earned him a small hum of approval. 

They carefully explored one another in the newfound territory they had carved for themselves. Lucifer’s hands never strayed below Alastor’s waist - instead he touched his hair, his shoulders, his chest. He ran his hands down Alastor’s arms, tangling their fingers together briefly before smoothing them back up until he cupped either side of Alastor’s throat. 

Their kisses started as dry, closed-mouth things, tentative and sweet. Alastor was clearly inexperienced. Lucifer wondered if it was his first kiss ever, then pushed the thought aside. That little path was a bit too hazardous to be traversing so soon. 

Eventually, Alastor opened his mouth, his lips parting slightly. Lucifer didn’t try to stick his tongue inside. Instead, he caught Alastor’s upper lip between his own, giving it a slow, gentle suck before switching to the bottom and applying the same kind of pressure. Alastor released a soft noise, his fingers spasming over Lucifer’s shoulders. 

They stayed that way for a while, their mouths slotting together every which way. Alastor opened his mouth wider, a clear invitation. Lucifer flicked his tongue inside, twining the forks of it around the tip of Alastor’s. 

At that, Alastor finally pulled away. He was flushed, his ears drooping on his head. He looked good. Content. Happy. 

“I didn’t know it would be like that,” he said, and Lucifer’s heart broke just a little for him. 

“It can be like that whenever you want it to,” Lucifer said. Alastor had not changed his number, so Lucifer threaded their fingers together and pulled Alastor’s hand into his lap. “It’ll always be like that, Alastor.” 

“So I’m learning.” 

Alastor leaned in. They did not talk again for a long while.

•

Lucifer was jolted awake by a shrill shriek of static. Immediately, he knew what was wrong. 

“Eight,” Alastor gasped beside him, wet and ragged. “Eight, eight, eight, please.”

He snagged Lucifer’s wrist before Lucifer could even begin to move and pressed it to his chest. Lucifer could feel the rabbit-quick beat of Alastor’s heart beneath his pyjama top - his thin chest was rising and falling rapidly, his lungs trying to snatch air that would not come. 

“Relax,” Lucifer soothed, knowing that it was easier said than done. “Breathe. He's gone. There’s no one here but me.” 

He reached up and gently carded his fingers through Alastor’s hair. He didn’t grip or twist - he learned that lesson years ago. Instead, he simply smoothed through that unruly fringe, petting it back from Alastor’s sweaty forehead. 

Several minutes later, Alastor gave one sharp shudder; a single, violent head-to-toe convulsion, and then he finally relaxed. He breathed out long and slow through his nose and allowed his eyes to slip closed. After a moment he tipped his head, pressing into the gentle weight of Lucifer's fingers. 

Lucifer did not stop his monotonous stroking of Alastor’s hair, not even after Alastor fell asleep. 

He was still at it when Alastor woke several hours later and grumbled out a grumpy “five”, then rolled away. 

•

Lucifer sat on the settee by the fire, just as Alastor had instructed. 

They were not at the hotel. Hadn’t been for years, now. How many, Lucifer didn’t quite know - he had never been good with time. Heaven, Eden and Hell didn’t have seasons. There was only night and day, and the passage of days had started to blur together even before Lucifer had been banished from Heaven and thrown into the pit. 

Charlie, Vaggi and Emily had the whole redemption thing well in hand. Alastor and Lucifer had quietly retreated some time ago to leave them to it. They still helped where needed, of course, but that was less and less these days and Lucifer was grateful for it. It felt like something normal parents do. Step back and let their children continue on. 

The bedroom door opened. Lucifer glanced up and sucked in a startled breath. Alastor was standing at the threshold, his hand on the door frame and hip cocked, the perfect picture of sin. 

He was wearing Lucifer’s robe. Not his comfy pink one, but the one that he called his “drinking robe” - expensive crimson silk trimmed with carefully embroidered depictions of twining snakes that seemed to move with every shift of the fabric. It had been a gift from Ozzie. 

It came down to an inch or so past Lucifer’s knees, but on Alastor, the fabric stopped just shy of his mid-thigh. His shoulders were not as broad as Lucifer’s and the fabric gaped, showing off the delicate curve of one shoulder and baring the tantalizing plane of his torso nearly to his navel. 

Lucifer swallowed around a suddenly dry mouth. His fingers mindlessly kneaded over the caps of his knees as Alastor stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. He walked over to where Lucifer sat - calm, confident, poised. The exact opposite of how Lucifer was feeling. 

Lucifer made a startled sound in the back of his throat when Alastor swung a leg over his and settled himself into his lap. His hands came up around the back of Lucifer’s neck and loosely hung there. Lucifer’s hands went to the cushions at either side of his hips, steadfastly not touching. Alastor had not given his number. 

“What are you doing?” Lucifer asked hoarsely. 

“Mm, what does it look like?” Alastor purred. 

Lucifer blushed. “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t want to assume-” 

“Hush.” Alastor leaned in and ghosted his lips up the side of Lucifer’s throat. When he reached Lucifer’s earlobe, he gave it a light nip with his teeth. Lucifer shivered, the simple action making his cock thicken in his pants. 

“Alastor…” 

Alastor trailed his lips up across the shell of Lucifer’s ear, mouthing at the elvish point. Lucifer’s fingers dug into the couch cushions so hard that his claws ripped clean through. Stuffing spilled out around his straining knuckles. 

Alastor pressed himself closer, molding their bodies together from cheek to hoof. Then, he opened his mouth, his warm breath fanning across Lucifer’s cheek. 

“Ten.” 

•

Lucifer woke with a small cry. His hand flew out before he realized what he was doing, clamping hard over Alastor’s shoulder. Alastor jerked in the bed next to him and sat up, his antlers already out and eyes spun to dials. 

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” 

He couldn’t catch his breath. It was wheezing through the pinhole that his throat had become, but it wasn’t enough - he felt like he was drowning. It had been a decade, but he felt like he was right back in that fucking cage. 

His fingers fumbled over Alastor’s shoulder and slipped away. Alastor deftly plucked up his trembling hand and placed a kiss to the palm of it, then brought it up to cup the nape of his neck so that Lucifer could draw him in closer. 

“Seven, my light,” he whispered. “It’s alright, you can touch me. Breathe for me, Lucifer.” 

The antlers shrunk and dials disappeared until it was just Alastor in the bed; Lucifer’s Alastor, the one who made the coffee just right, who knew which pillow went under Lucifer’s head and which went between his knees, who knew his favourite duck and instrument and who always had the real maple syrup tucked away, just so Lucifer could use it on his pancakes in the morning. 

Lucifer didn’t realize he was crying until Alastor reached out and wiped away a tear with his thumb. He did it again under the other eye, but there were more and more and more and eventually he gave up and pulled Lucifer close to him instead, slotting Lucifer snugly under his chin and letting him sob into the front of Alastor’s nightshirt. 

He rubbed Lucifer’s back and hummed a gentle tune, not through his radio but with his voice. Lucifer could feel the vibrations where his cheek was pressed to Alastor’s chest. 

Eventually, the tears subsided, and Lucifer could release the death-grip he had on the back of Alastor’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “Your number-” 

“Is whatever you need it to be,” Alastor murmured. He nuzzled his nose against Lucifer’s cheek, his tongue flickering out to sample the salt left behind by his tears. 

“That’s not how that works,” Lucifer croaked. 

“I believe we came up with this system so that it would be my choice,” Alastor scolded gently. “This is what I’m choosing. Do you disagree?” 

“No,” Lucifer said quietly. He supposed he couldn’t argue with that logic. 

“Very good. Relax, dear. It’s over now.” 

He continued to rub Lucifer’s back until he had calmed down completely and went boneless in Alastor’s arms. A gentle tune was playing over the radio - Lucifer didn’t recognize it, but it was comforting nonetheless. 

“I thought I was past this,” Lucifer said quietly some time later. “It’s been years. Valentino put that fucker in a cardboard box and left him in a discount storage facility in the Doomsday District, for Christ’s sake.” 

“I still dream of him too, as you well know,” Alastor said. “Are you saying that I should simply get over it? That my feelings about the matter are unreasonable?” 

“What? No! Of course not!” 

Alastor chuckled and gently pressed his hand against Lucifer’s shoulder, urging him to lie back down from where he had sprung upright into a half-sitting position. 

“He will always be a ghost to us, my darling. With every passing day, his influence grows weaker, but I don’t think it will ever truly fade. We must live with that.”

Lucifer sighed and nuzzled into Alastor’s chest. “Since when did you become so emotionally intelligent?” 

Alastor outright laughed at that. He cupped Lucifer’s cheeks and dragged him up from the warm comfort of his chest. Lucifer pouted, but readily accepted the apologetic kiss Alastor placed on his lips. 

“Since a certain little duckie taught me what it means to have a home.” 

Despite having just cried, Lucifer’s eyes filled with tears. He buried his face against Alastor’s collarbone, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“I love you,” he finally managed to say. 

It was not the first time he had said it; not even close. Nor was it Alastor’s, but warmth still filled Lucifer’s chest when Alastor pressed a kiss to his hair and whispered back: 

“I love you, too.”