Alastor loses track of time completely, buried in Lucifer's golden hair and enveloped in his beautiful crimson wings. It would seem there has been a truly staggering backlog of tears to shed, as it took him what seems like forever to stop, Lucifer not relinquishing the hold on him for a single moment.
When was the last time he was held like this? Back when he was ten, eleven maybe? Who held him last when he was falling apart, that he'd actually welcomed it?
Only his mother came to mind.
At some point, his breathing has managed to even out, and his sobs petered out into infrequent whimpers. All throughout, Lucifer remained a quiet support, hands smoothing down Alastor's back in a way that felt like comfort instead of grating on Alastor the way unsolicited touch usually did.
Alastor swallows and pulls slightly away, ready to pull himself together. His gloved hands abandon Lucifer's silky hair with some reluctance. The second he lets go, Lucifer's hands fall away as well.
Alastor feels the tug of a fishhook somewhere inside at that.
"Sorry, I didn't…" Lucifer moves his hands away, self-consciously. "I just wanted to comfort you."
Alastor looks down at him, unable to muster a single scrap of his usual defenses. "I didn't mind," spills from his lips like a dirty secret.
"Ah," Lucifer averts his gaze, wings fluttering and falling away, folding up once more. "Good to know."
Alastor's fingers flex by his sides, still tingling with the touch that's no longer there, despite his gloves. It feels like something has been imprinted across the receptors in his skin, an indelible brand that sends tingles skittering all the way up his spine to the base of his skull.
"Um, here you go." Lucifer offers a tentative smile and hands him a warm, damp towel conjured out of nowhere. "So you can wipe your face."
Alastor accepts the unexpected kindness without a word. It feels strange after all the comfort Lucifer provided, that he would balk at wiping Alastor's face himself. Perhaps he felt he'd pushed Alastor's currently nonexistent barriers too far for one night.
Alastor brings the warm cloth to his face and notes something odd. "This…doesn't smell like sulfur."
"Why would it?" Lucifer asks, visibly confused.
"All water in Hell smells like sulfur." Alastor states with a frown.
Lucifer grins proudly. "Not the one I conjure."
"You can conjure water?" Alastor inquires, finger clutching the towel tighter. "Pure water?"
"Of course!" Lucifer says easily. "How do you think I get my coffee to taste, well, right?"
"That's why it was so good…" Alastor murmurs under his breath.
"Yeah…now you know – my family secret!" Lucifer chuckles, eyes apologetic and soft.
Alastor knows an olive branch when he sees one, and wonders why he saw none of the other ones Lucifer tried to extend him previously.
"I mean, if you wanted to make coffee with it…I could give you some?" Lucifer offers easily, like it's nothing. "A liter or two, maybe? Would last you a week at least."
Purified water.
In Hell – where everything was irrevocably tainted. Just another undeserved kindness Lucifer is so apt at producing and giving away for free. It doesn't feel right.
"And what would you want in return?" Alastor asks, part of him hoping for an equitable exchange for once.
"Wh–what would I want–? Alastor!" Lucifer exclaims slightly perturbed. "It's just a…paltry kindness. I don't need anything in return – it costs me nothing."
"Nothing you do…is paltry." Alastor murmurs softly.
"Umm…okay." Lucifer averts his eyes, visibly discomfited by the compliment. "Thank you?"
Alastor decides now would be a good time to wipe his face, as it would save him from making any further (unfortunate) commentary. The lightly steamed cloth feels incredibly soothing to his abused skin. It is a good thing his eyes are blood-red, as he would die of mortification at their blood-shot state were he still alive.
Lucifer steps away, leaving his personal space.
"So, ah… you don't have to stay here, you know? You're free to go to your quarters, get some rest. You don't have to do anything – it would be cruel of me to expect you to entertain me in any fashion tonight."
Alastor thinks about retreating to lick his wounds in private – it would be the dignified choice to make – the easy and logical choice, for sure. So why… Why does it fill him with dread instead?
To go back to his rooms and face what he's done away from the proof that his misdeed has failed and that Lucifer is alive and well, if not entirely unharmed by his actions? To re-imagine the previous night, the maiming, the deluge of golden blood, the light as it leaves Lucifer's eyes–
No.
His guts churn uncomfortably, like an overly shaken soda bottle about to be cracked open.
"What if I don't want to…leave…right now?"
His silent admission shocks Lucifer, who can only muster an inarticulate: "Um.." in response.
"What if I don't want to go back to my quarters tonight?" Alastor reiterates, hoping Lucifer will understand what he's trying to convey without him needing to spell it out in gruesomely graphic detail.
"Well, I could… ward a room for you on the 12th floor?" Lucifer hedges. "I think the entire floor should be empty right now… You could sleep there? Or…somewhere else if you don't want to be in your room."
Alastor swallows thickly. He doesn't want to say it. He would rather say nothing at all.
"Or if you wanted–" Lucifer says gently, "–you could…stay here?"
Alastor breathes a sigh of relief he wasn't aware he'd been holding in.
"We could just…sit down on the couch?" Lucifer goes on, careful and tentative as if speaking to a feral creature caught in a bear trap. "Listen to some music?"
Alastor casts his gaze to where Lucifer has pointed and notes there is indeed a new piece of furniture in the room, a dark red damask sofa facing the white marble fireplace he remembers so well…
"That couch is new." Alastor remarks, grasping for something inane to say.
"Yeah, well, you kinda wrecked the last one." Lucifer jokes.
"You didn't fix it?" Alastor asks, curiosity sparked.
Lucifer looks at him with a lopsided smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I will find out as some point." Alastor promises.
Lucifer grins in delight. "Why, would you like to wreck this one too?"
Alastor stops for a moment to savor the brief burst of joy blooming across Lucifer's angelic features.
"Is that supposed to be innuendo?" Alastor asks with narrowed eyes.
"Perhaps," Lucifer says coyly.
Alastor huffs out a laugh. "Maybe some other time."
They are both too tired tonight.
"Ah ha," Lucifer huffs, embarrassed. "I thought I could just play some music, something nice and relaxing. Maybe some Strauss? We don't have to do anything…complicated."
Alastor sighs. Nothing about this has ever been uncomplicated.
"Come on, sit down. I'll put a record on." Lucifer goes to a small unassuming cabinet and when it opens, there's a small gust of golden magic emanating from it.
"That wasn't there before." Alastor notes as he heads for the couch and sinks into the soft and springy upholstery.
"Ah, yeah," Lucifer rubs the back of his neck. "I connected it to my collection in the palace."
"You have a collection?"
"Oh yes," Lucifer's eyes sparkle from across the room. "Quite an extensive one. Let me see… Schubert…Schumann…Strauss! No, senior… ah, there we go! Strauss Junior! Good, hah…hmm..let's go with this one…"
Lucifer puts a record on and goes to sit on the couch, keeping a respectable distance, half a couch away. Funny, considering they spent the better part of the past half an hour plastered against one another, Alastor's tears soaking into Lucifer's hair. Mercifully, Lucifer chose not to say anything about it.
The strings vibrate in the air, as insubstantial and ephemeral as the first sunrays peeking over the horizon. Timid flutes join in, floating over the melody like wispy clouds trailing across a clear sky. The horns and bassoons take over the serene melody which builds slowly and delicately, like a sleepy morning over a calm, undisturbed lake. For about a minute, he merely enjoys the subtlety of the orchestral arrangement, imagining a clear and pleasant vista stretching out before his eyes. The melody is achingly familiar, but Alastor doesn't know the name of it. It sounds elegant and timeless – a beautiful waltz that used to be danced with much enjoyment somewhere over the ocean in the very heart of Europe, long ago now.
"Recognize this one?" Lucifer asks lightly, offering him a brief side glance.
"I do…but the name eludes me." Alastor admits.
Lucifer sinks into the upholstery and smiles. "An der schönen blauen Donau."
"Which translates to…"
"The Blue Danube, which is… not wholly accurate, in my opinion. Rolls off the tongue better, I suppose?"
"What would be the more accurate translation?"
"On the beautiful blue Danube." Lucifer informs him, pleasant and placid. "I know, sounds a bit clunky, even to me."
Alastor imagines a large river barge with immaculately dressed couples dancing in front of a full orchestra, just gliding down the wide river. Yes, the impression of water and joy is definitely there.
"It's probably one of the best known waltzes of all time," Lucifer says lightly.
Alastor wonders whether Lucifer has danced to it before, back when he still had an interest in staying alive and enjoying at least a part of his immortal existence. Or nigh-immortal, as it were. It would probably have been with Lilith, or even Charlie. Alastor recalls Lucifer's admission that dancing doesn't make him think about dying and wonders if he should initiate once more. Would Lucifer even like that, or is he too tired for dancing at this late hour? Not that their previous dance happened any earlier in the day…
When he braves a glance at Lucifer, his eyes are closed and he's swaying slightly to the beat, following along in his mind, perhaps even imagining that he's playing the violin part of the arrangement. A human Lucifer would have been a violinist, Alastor muses, and a famous one at that. People would flock to the concert halls to have a chance to listen, and pay a small fortune for it, too. For a second, Alastor can see Lucifer playing fiddle in some smoky speakeasy, and the image is deeply ridiculous, as if someone as refined as Lucifer would go to a lowly place like that, but the idea of it isn't so easily dislodged from his mind once it takes root. Lucifer, dressed in a pair of dark slacks, his pink pinstripe vest replaced with something matching but in a darker hue, rolled up sleeves, just playing his heart out as the audience drinks their ill-gotten liquor, smoking and talking, glasses clinking against tabletops or raised in toast… He has a feeling Lucifer would have enjoyed such a thing – playing for a crowd. Had Alastor heard him perform whilst alive, would he have asked for a recording so he could play it on the radio? Would he have dared approach Lucifer in the first place – bought him a drink, spoken to him about his music, his inspirations, his dreams?
Just imagining the look Lucifer gave him after performing in front of him the first and only time, the starry glow in his eyes as he asked for Alastor's opinion… imagining that on a more flawed, human face… would it have moved Alastor any less?
Alastor tears his eyes away and looks at the gramophone, still diligently scratching away at the record, and can't help but imagine a simpler time, a simpler situation. Lucifer's pale hand in his, contrasting against the coloring given to Alastor by a mixture of his maman's creole and his father's… (unworthy of mention) heritage. There were places to dance, for two men... Or two women, if one knew where to look.
For a split second, he imagines Lucifer as a woman, perhaps a friend of Mimzy's, a silly flapper rich girl, with blindingly blonde hair up in a solid wave, a lavalier necklace hanging from a pale, china-frail neck and no matter how intriguing the image is, Alastor shakes it off. The earlier fantasy of Lucifer much as he is now, only dressed in late 1920s male fashion coalesces in his mind once more, and is perfectly appealing in its own right. And Lucifer is still sitting half a couch away, all but melted into the upholstery as the fingers of his left hand flicker, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Alastor's right hand twitches next to his hip, and he swallows. Lucifer's mild smile makes something in Alastor twist up painfully.
He wants to say something, but words seem cheap, and refuse to form either in his brain or his throat.
"I love this," Lucifer murmurs happily and Alastor forgets to breathe. "Just…listening to good music."
Alastor wonders whether his company is needed at all, or whether him being there has facilitated Lucifer's enjoyment, at least by a tiny fraction. Ordinarily, he would say something about good company, but finds he cannot form the words.
I'm glad you don't want to die right now, Alastor thinks; something solid lodging itself in his throat, like an errant shard of bone he's failed to grind up in his teeth.
When has Lucifer's continued existence become so important to him?
Why does he want to preserve it?
Certainly, it's to further his own goals, as Lucifer's favor, his power, could be instrumental in helping Alastor break out of his bondage. But would that make him as desperate, as unsettled, as unmoored as he's been feeling? Alastor values his freedom above anything else, and has been laboring to reclaim it after foolishly signing it away at the age of nineteen. Back then, he'd presumed there was nothing after death, content to gain more power for his own means, to better purge his city of scum. It didn't escape his notice, with the benefit of hindsight, that the entity that had been whispering to him during infrequent voodoo rituals his grand-mère performed, had taken notice of him, but only offered a pact when he'd been cornered and desperate, bemoaning his lack of pure physical strength that would have allowed him to break free of the encirclement the goons had put him into – and as he lay on the muddy ground, getting the tar beaten out of him, he had given himself over to the eldritch whisperings at last – risen up like a wraith and the unleashed shadow plunged into their flesh, devouring them to the sound of sickening, gurgling screams and the audible snap and crackle of bone.
His initial reaction had been one of mute shock and incomprehension, the sharp pain in his ribs more acute than the macabre spectacle he'd witnessed. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, there was nothing left in the dark field around him except footprints of his assailants. Would people notice they were just…gone? Did they tell anyone they were going to assault Alastor and where? The footprints simply disappearing…
He told the shadow that people would notice, but the thing just cackled with a sharp grin and sunk into the ground, leaving five sets of imprints in the softened ground, walking towards the river and… that was that. The shadow grinned, took on his shape, and melded with him once more, as innocuous as a shadow should be – lying on the ground dormant and still.
One day, he would be free once more. Free to kill for a greater purpose at all times, instead of only when his interests fully aligned with that of his deceptive master.
And Lucifer, still taken in by the music…would he help Alastor regain his freedom? And how much would that cost Alastor?
How many more dances, and fleeting touches, and coffee, and sex would it take?
How many more truths will he have to give up before Lucifer finds the worst of them all?
Alastor considers, briefly, what result he might obtain were he to simply…admit it. Tell Lucifer about the cancer he'd fostered in his soul, and oftentimes relished it – if only it didn't come with the side-effect of losing his freedom…
Wouldn't Lucifer empathize with someone enslaved?
He might.
But would he agree to help Alastor? Has Alastor given him any reason to? He failed to keep his word, several times, and then…
Sullied his hands with his immaculate blood.
If Alastor were in Lucifer's shoes, he wouldn't wish to extend a helping hand, even if he got compensated for it.
What were those words Lucifer threw in his face before his untimely exorcism? 'You trampled the last bit of goodwill I had for you', was that it? Alastor supposes he should start engendering some goodwill, no matter how distasteful or daunting the prospect might be.
Lucifer's grandfather clock strikes midnight to the lively accompaniment of flutes, violins and the occasional strike of the tympanis.
He expects Lucifer to open his eyes any moment now, turn towards him and ask something, but the waltz continues on, uninterrupted. Lucifer is still smiling, as if oblivious to the fact he holds power over Alastor until three truths have been sacrificed on the altar of their deal.
The frenzied violins, supported by the rest of the orchestra, usher in the conclusion of the waltz and the record crackles with silence for a protracted moment. Surely, Lucifer will ask him now. There's no reason not to. But the silence lapses once more, Lucifer never having opened his eyes, and a sound of piccolos , clarinets and violins fills the room. The lively melody, underscored by vivacious clinking of a triangle, makes Lucifer's serene smile bloom into a straight out grin.
Cymbals keep smashing in the background, to dizzying swirl of the violins and frantic trills of the piccolos. Lucifer's shoulders are bouncing with the melody, higher on the fortes and more subtle on the pianos, both of his hands raised, fingers gesticulating in minute movements, as if he were pulling the strings of a marionette orchestra. On anyone else, such actions would look ridiculous, but Lucifer manages to make it appear almost… endearing. The movements get bigger and freer at the coda, Lucifer sitting up straight, looking like a conductor ready to receive applause for a rousing performance.
Alastor would clap if he weren't certain it would be mistaken for mockery.
Lucifer sighs happily at the subtle crackle of the record, and in the ensuing silence, opens his eyes.
"Ahh, I do so enjoy a good polka."
"Is that what it was?" Alastor asks, trying to sound as interested in the information as he is in Lucifer's expression.
"Sure was!" Lucifer says in a chipper manner. "The Trisch-Trasch Polka!"
"It was…very lively." Alastor states truthfully.
Lucifer turns to him with a radiant smile, clearly very happy.
Is this how Lucifer would always be, if Alastor didn't try to needle him most of the time?
Is this how he used to be, before his wife left him – or were any moments of joy and happiness as fleeting as a passing dream?
The next piece starts playing, a stately melody ushered in by violins and cellos, soon joined by clarinets and bassoons. Oboes trill, as the string section crescendoes and Lucifer gives him a bright look.
"Would you like to dance, Alastor?"
In lieu of a verbal answer, Alastor gets up and extends his hands like the perfect gentleman he always pretends to be. Lucifer grins up at him, thrilled by the affectation, or perhaps merely by the prospect of dancing, and places his hand upon Alastor's, who gracefully pulls him out of his seat.
With a few elegant steps, Alastor leads Lucifer to the vast empty middle of his rooms and positions them. He awaits the next subtle lull in the music and when it restarts, signals they are to begin. Lucifer follows his lead effortlessly, just like that first memorable time they danced. This waltz is not as frenetic as the previous one they partook in, and Lucifer smiles broadly as they glide around the room in wide sweeps, his neck extended prettily like a swan's. Alastor executes a modest dip during the pianissimo, Lucifer bending backwards gracefully.
As percussion swells, Alastor picks up the pace a bit, noting that Lucifer is enjoying the vivaciousness and Alastor lifts him up for a half-rotation, then brings him down again. The waltz doesn't stay lively, however, turning a bit more sedate, a bit more somber, and Alastor tries very hard to keep the mood up while it lasts, relieved to note that Lucifer's smile doesn't drop for a single second. Alastor must admit to himself that Lucifer is a wonderful dancer, infusing each movement with energy and poise, and following every cue as if he's been attuned to Alastor for years. That kind of ease with an infrequent partner was enviable.
Ritardando stretches on and on, and Alastor risks bringing Lucifer closer, flutes floating above them in a long trill, resolving into bold horns and trumpets, signaling the impending end of the waltz. Alastor raises Lucifer up, above his head and spins him in a circle, Lucifer laughing as his lush crimson wings spread out, helping Alastor hold him aloft.
He stares, spellbound, at the vivid plumage, at Lucifer's bright, lightly crinkled eyes, and wishes the music would go on. He hopes for another waltz, or even a polka, but the silence stretches and the needle reaches the end point of this side of the record.
Ever so gently, Alastor lowers Lucifer and deposits him on the ground, the flutter of Lucifer's wings sending a cool updraft against Alastor's ever-smiling face. Reluctantly, Alastor relinquishes his hold on Lucifer and takes a polite bow. With a delighted grin, Lucifer fucking curtsies him, his wings along for the ride, folding like a delicate lady's fan.
"Another?" Alastor asks, hoping against hope that Lucifer will take him up on the offer.
Lucifer looks up and cracks a massive yawn, hiding it somewhat unsuccessfully behind the dark fingers of his left hand.
"Ordinarily–" Lucifer says apologetically, stretching his shoulders out. "–I would like nothing better, but I'm really beat. Sorry." His wings fade from sight, and he rubs his eyes, as if the last of his energy was expended on the dance and on powering up his smile.
"Would you like me to turn the record over? Or to put it away?" Alastor inquires.
"Oh, would you?" Lucifer smiles in gratitude. "Put it away, I mean? I would really appreciate it. I think I need to wash my face unless I want to fall asleep standing up."
"Feel free," Alastor says easily and leaves his spot, hopefully less reluctantly than he feels it to be. He heads for the gramophone and pulls the handle up and away from the record. With careful fingers, he takes up the record by its thin edge and places his thumb on the label. His shadow locates the vinyl sleeve and holds it aloft for Alastor to slide the record back in. He takes the record without a word and cracks open the cabinet he saw Lucifer pull it out of previously. Browsing the collection alphabetically, he slides it back where it belongs, between Strauss and Stravinsky.
From somewhere behind him, he can hear the faucet running in Lucifer's bathroom, followed by barely audible splashing.
The cabinet closes with a subtle click.
Alastor takes a fortifying breath and straightens out once more. What now? He takes in the room, and notices that it seems marginally less empty than before, what with the addition of the record collection, the grandfather clock, the couch, and a pile of papers, books, and most curiously – quills dipped in ink on the desk – the room looks more lived in. It's still sparse, but not as achingly empty anymore.
Lucifer emerges a tad more fresh-faced from the bathroom.
They look at each other from across the room and for a long moment, neither of them says a word.
Alastor wonders whether Lucifer feels just as wrong footed, just as uncertain about the situation they find themselves in.
"Could we just… retire for the night?" Lucifer asks – his exhaustion evident.
"Is that your first question for the day?" Alastor asks, feeling the warning tingles of compulsion prickling the skin of his neck.
Lucifer exhales in a tired huff. "Fuck, forgot all about that… ugh, sure, whatever."
One question wasted. So far, so good.
Alastor answers. "I wouldn't mind. Though… I find it odd that you would welcome me?"
"I'm not going to throw you out, Alastor." Lucifer groans and undoes his vest.
"You should." Alastor says truthfully, too wrung out to dissimulate effectively.
"Yeah, well… I don't want to." Lucifer says simply and shrugs out of his vest, hanging it over his desk chair.
"Why?" Alastor inquires, needing to understand Lucifer's reasoning.
"Because…" Lucifer pauses, fingers halting on the second button of his pristine white shirt. His expression falls, turning about as appealing as the downswing of an executioner's axe. Alastor can almost taste the precipitous change in Lucifer's mood.
"How many times did you want to die today?" Alastor asks quietly, startling Lucifer so badly he actually looks at him square in the eye from the left side of the bed.
"That's…not a fair question." Lucifer murmurs and looks down at his buttons.
"Just answer it."
"I was happy in the morning?" Lucifer offers before his face falls. "I was miserable in the night. I…I don't want to die right now… Is that good enough for you?"
Alastor wishes he could vanish the table between them and just–
"It'll have to do." He says, instead.
Lucifer shrugs and removes his shirt, draping it over his vest.
Alastor wishes he could understand, but he doesn't. Still rooted to the spot, he wonders aloud: "Why me?"
"Huh? What do you mean?" Lucifer asks, half-turned away from him, busy pulling his boots off.
"Of all the sinners in Hell, why allow me…near you."
"Allow?"
"Fine, choose."
Lucifer stows his boots next to his desk and turns to Alastor with a contemplative look. When they eventually emerge, the words are as plain and unadorned as his tone: "Because you offered."
"That's it?" Alastor asks, bewildered.
"Yeah," Lucifer shrugs. "It's that simple."
Alastor stares mutely at Lucifer's trousers sliding down his legs as he steps out of them and throws them carelessly over the rest of the clothing now adorning the chair. Lucifer drags the palm of his left hand down his tired face and shuffles over to the left side of the bed – his side of the bed. How long has he been sleeping on that side of the bed? Was it a habit from being married to someone for so long that Lucifer couldn't even imagine changing it now?
Alastor looks at Lucifer crawling under the covers and attempting to make himself comfortable. What should he do now?
Undress?
Ask Lucifer for a pair of pajamas?
Have his shadow fetch a pair from his quarters?
Instead of asking or making an executive decision, he just stands there gormlessly, paralyzed with indecision.
"You can always take the couch if you really want," Lucifer chimes in from the bed, eyes two dim stars in the sparsely illuminated room. "I can't guarantee how comfortable it is to sleep on, though, especially for someone of your height."
Alastor feels an almost crushing sense of relief at the fact that Lucifer has misinterpreted the source of his reluctance.
"I suppose that doesn't leave me with much of a choice," Alastor says quietly.
Lucifer sighs and burrows under the covers, his voice an indistinct murmur: "Your enthusiasm is fucking contagious."
Alastor takes an awkward step forward. "That's…not what I meant. I was merely…stating the obvious."
One of Lucifer's eyes fixes on him from across the room, tired, yet assessing.
"If you're waiting for an invitation, I hope a verbal one will suffice, because I'm too tired to compose you a damned letter."
"No need to be tetchy," Alastor attempts to diffuse Lucifer's exasperated anger. "I will be there shortly."
Needing a minute to compose himself, Alastor strides to Lucifer's bathroom, hoping that his host for the night will find that an acceptable detour. As the doors close behind him, he breathes out a sigh of relief to no longer have Lucifer's eyes on him.
This feels different – more discomfiting than the last time he shed his clothes in front of Lucifer. Is that because he isn't aroused in the least this time around? Alastor doesn't know for sure, and the thought is deeply disquieting. He looks up and is met with the mirror image of his own bathroom, albeit with entirely different décor and color scheme. Instead of muted, pastel green tiles, Lucifer's bathroom is clad in shocking, midnight black. The floor is a black and white mosaic tile, and the overly ornate mirror above the white marble sink is framed in gold. The art deco light fixtures spill out ambient, indirect light, and the bathroom is shockingly cozy for all its elegant austerity.
When he comes closer to the mirror, he is entirely unsurprised to see a motif of spread-out wings etched into the frame. The spout on the faucet is gilded, sporting an engraving of a coiled snake, and the elegant handles look to be made of black onyx.
The choice of colors is so incongruous with the rest of Lucifer's taste in décor that Alastor wonders whether he's stepped into a different dimension. Shaking his head, he decides to relieve himself before bed, just to occupy himself with something he could reasonably present as an excuse later.
Why black, of all things?
Pondering that as he aims into the black porcelain throne, Alastor looks up and his breath catches in his throat. The ceiling above him is vaulted and enchanted, a swirl of galaxies and stars twinkling serenely down at him. Naturally, it's a false sky, but the fact Lucifer would go out of his way to create a room for himself that offers a glimpse into the night sky above Earth…
Alastor stares up, completely transfixed by the beauty of the starry expanse.
Now he knows why the lights are so understated – it is so nothing can detract from the stunning view.
Does Lucifer simply lie in his tub and observe the movement of the stars across the sky? Is it a current view or merely a memory of a sky he saw before he was chained so deep underground, never to gaze upon it again?
It's hauntingly beautiful…
Alastor tears his eyes away.
He coughs and puts himself away, flushing the toilet after he's done.
He supposes he should wash his gloves instead of rematerializing. It would buy him more time. His heels click against the tiles as he walks back to the sink and pushes one of the handles up with his knuckles, the room filling with the sound of hot water. There's no bar of soap, a pitch black soap dispenser with a gold spout waiting to the left instead. He presses down on it and a trickle of sweet-smelling, pale pink liquid lands on the palm of his gloved hand. He lathers his gloves, feeling distinctly silly for landing himself in this situation, but he goes through with it regardless. As the lather is being rinsed under the hot spray of water, Alastor has a startling realization that there isn't a yellow duck in sight, something he would have expected Lucifer's rooms to be positively swimming in, but it seems the man has chosen to compartmentalize the damned things and leave them all in the palace.
Alastor stares at himself in the mirror.
That is precisely what he needs to do – compartmentalize.
He swallows and exhales shakily. Lucifer isn't here to watch him. That is the only thing making what he has to do even remotely bearable.
Alastor peels his gloves off, and leaves them by the sink.
His bowtie comes next.
His coat.
His shoes – the tiles are warm and comfortable.
He folds the clothing on the bare countertop extending off the sink.
His trousers.
His shirt.
His eyes reflect fear as his hands hover behind his back, not yet tangled in the knot holding his laces tight. He was so out of it last time that he didn't even notice he had allowed Lucifer to lie on him without it on.
This is the price, he reminds himself.
Of penance.
Of sin.
He looks down into the pristine sink and yanks at the knot, feeling the laces give as the pressure disappears. He hooks his clawed finger under the intersections and loosens the hold further, pulling from the middle up, and after he deems it loose enough, he repeats the process and releases the laces from the middle and down. Once it's hanging loosely upon his hips, Alastor unhooks the metal fastenings in the front. As always, being freed of it is both a relief and faint regret. The bared skin underneath is marred with the indentations of fabric and boning.
It's deeply human, and more vulnerable than he wishes Lucifer to see, but if he tarries any longer, he will lose his nerve altogether and flee these rooms like a coward.
He leaves his underwear on, led by Lucifer's example – at least something.
He smoothes down the corset and folds it up, leaving it on top of the pile. With a deep breath, he looks at his expression in the mirror and finds it blank, his smile bland and almost fearful.
Nervous.
His fingers tremble while taking the monocle off, and it makes him grit his teeth. He's as ready as he'll ever be. Alastor places his monocle on the right, next to his gloves, and leaves the bathroom without sparing the mirror a second glance.
The sparse lighting winks out the moment his feet are past the threshold. He closes the door behind him and turns around slowly, hoping that Lucifer is already asleep and that he will be spared the indignity of coming to bed so unpresentable and bared.
To his dismay, Lucifer's eyes glow in the darkness, taking him in. Mercifully, the King chooses to say nothing.
Alastor walks to the bed, making as little noise as he can and flips the covers on the right side of the bed over so he can climb in. Lucifer's unrelenting stare prickles across his skin. Only once he's covered to the chin does Alastor remember to breathe.
"What are you afraid of?" Lucifer asks softly and Alastor can feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing up in alert as the compulsion tingles at the back of his skull.
"Is that…your second question for the day?" He squeezes out, failing to suppress a tremble.
"You don't have to answer," Lucifer murmurs, and the overwhelming compulsion dissolves into muted discomfort. "I was just wondering."
"Do I look scared?" Alastor asks, turning to face Lucifer, who is looking quite alert for someone clearly on the brink of exhaustion.
"I'm not sure," Lucifer answers honestly. "Looks like a mixture of terror and apprehension to me. I just don't understand why, that's all."
It is terror, Alastor realizes. With a heaping, steaming side dish of apprehension. And possibly a mint garnish of utter, humiliating shame.
How can he tell Lucifer that he's never…
"I won't touch you, you know that," Lucifer says mildly, but there's an undercurrent of something else beneath his words – disappointment being Alastor's first guess.
He doesn't know which is worse, the fact that Lucifer is going out of his way to reassure him, or the fact that Alastor feels a kindred kind of disappointment in return?
"Just sleep, Alastor." Lucifer instructs, exhaustion finally winning.
"Aren't you going to use your two questions?"
Lucifer groans and cracks an eye open. "You can't take any more questions right now."
The observation is both ruthlessly astute and uncommonly kind, and Alastor has no idea what to do with that.
"I suppose that's good night, then." Alastor says superfluously.
"Good night, Alastor." Lucifer says tiredly, closing his eyes once more.
Alastor observes a while longer, the subtle gleam of Lucifer's blonde hair fanned across the pillow, awash in the palest purple and red coming from the city lights beyond the wide windows. As long as Lucifer doesn't watch him, Alastor's pervasive feeling of dread is muted.
How could he ever tell Lucifer what he is afraid of, when he isn't even sure himself?
'I'm afraid of what I will become with prolonged exposure to you' isn't exactly what anyone wishes to hear from a partner, even one as transactional and duty-bound as Alastor is.
No, the truth remains (as ever) the most dangerous thing to say of all.
Alastor imagines, for a brief moment, what it would be like to simply reach out and touch Lucifer with no fears or expectations on either side.
His hands remain stubbornly at his sides, buried deep under the covers.