Archive of Our Own

Lucifer never intended to interfere with Charlie’s redemption project. He remained skeptical of its success, though he never voiced it outright. Instead, he kept his distance, attending therapy sessions under the guise of curiosity—but in truth, it was just an excuse to spend more time with her. He preferred their private moments outside of the hotel’s structured activities, their quiet conversations away from prying eyes.

But Charlie, ever perceptive, saw through his avoidance. And so, she introduced mandatory staff dinners, a subtle yet undeniable tether ensuring he remained involved.

At first, cooking was a shared responsibility among the staff. But it quickly became clear that only he and Alastor had any real skill in the kitchen. What began as yet another competition—each vying to impress Charlie with their culinary prowess—slowly morphed into something else. As their relationship shifted from adversaries to something far more complicated, their cooking sessions became less about rivalry and more about simply existing together. Time alone was a rare luxury for them, both weighed down by their own responsibilities. These moments, fleeting as they were, became a quiet reprieve.

Sometimes, Charlie joined them, eager to learn, her enthusiasm infectious. And Lucifer—who had never been particularly good at explaining things—found himself stepping back, watching as Alastor guided her with a patience and ease he lacked.

It stung at first, the realization that Alastor was better at something so inherently parental. But over time, Lucifer stopped fighting it. Maybe it was better this way. Charlie already had a father who had failed her in so many ways. Perhaps Alastor’s presence, his guidance, was simply filling in the gaps Lucifer had left behind.

It had taken him months to trust Alastor with his greatest insecurity—his failures as a father. And even longer for Alastor to convince him that he wasn’t beyond saving.

Lucifer had believed him. Foolishly.

He should have known better than to put his faith in anyone, especially a sinner. Trust had never been kind to him. It had only ever led to disappointment. Alastor wasn’t the first to hurt him, and he wouldn’t be the last. Yet despite everything, Lucifer couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been created with trust embedded into his very being—an inescapable flaw, a cruel joke played by the universe, ensuring that no matter how many times he was betrayed, he would always, somehow, trust again.

Lucifer couldn’t even remember how it started.

***

A year and a half had passed since the last extermination, and for the first time in a long while, things were changing. Heaven was working with Charlie. The hotel was thriving, filled with sinners seeking redemption. And Lucifer—watching it all unfold—found himself drawn in despite himself.

He wasn’t good with therapy. He had no interest in talking about feelings or untangling the mess of someone else’s mind. But he realized something unexpected—sinners felt safer knowing he lived among them. To the newcomers, he wasn’t just the King of Hell. He was something else. A presence. A reassurance.

And before he knew it, they started coming to him—not in fear, but in curiosity, in quiet admiration. Some of them even wanted to know him. Not as Lucifer, the fallen Morningstar. Not as the ruler of Hell. But simply as him.

And somewhere along the way, he had become something akin to a father to a handful of wayward souls.

It was strange.

The thought of fatherhood had always been a weight on his shoulders, a role he had never felt worthy of. He had failed Charlie. Failed to protect her from the loneliness he himself had lived with for centuries. Failed to shield her from the burdens that came with being his daughter.

And yet, these sinners—these broken, lost souls—looked to him as if he was something steady. Something safe.

It terrified him.

From Heaven’s side, Emily had been appointed as the ambassador supporting the hotel and its redemption project. And somehow, despite himself, Lucifer found himself drawn to her. She was kind—endlessly so. Always smiling, always radiating a warmth that reminded him of Charlie. But for reasons he couldn’t quite define, it was easier to trust her.

Charlie, as much as he loved her, was the last person he wanted to burden with his problems—especially when those problems revolved around his ever-complicated relationship with a certain Radio Demon. And Charlie herself.

Emily was different. She looked like a child, but she was older than both Charlie and Alastor, a fact that was easy to forget until she spoke with the kind of patience that only came from centuries of understanding. She listened to him in a way no one else did. She never judged, never tried to fix him—just listened. And for the first time in a long time, Lucifer felt understood.

Perhaps that was why he trusted her. Because in her own way, Heaven had betrayed her too.

Lucifer tried to divide his attention between Charlie, Alastor, Emily, and the sinners. But, as always, when things were too good, they began to fall apart.

Charlie seemed happy for him, but Alastor started to drift. He would disappear for hours at a time, sometimes not returning until well into the night—if he returned at all. And when Lucifer did see him, there was an edge to him, an irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

Lucifer had never been the most perceptive when it came to the people closest to him. He could be blinded by his own distractions, missing what was happening right in front of him. And maybe that was why it took him too long to notice the shift—the way Alastor had begun treating him differently.

Their relationship had always been built on tenderness, not intimacy. There was a quiet understanding between them, one that didn’t need words.

But lately, it felt like even that was slipping away.

Lucifer couldn't sleep, so he spent most of his time lying in bed, watching Alastor. In sleep, his face lost its usual sharpness, the ever-present grin softening into something quieter—something almost genuine. It had been a week since they had last laid here together like this. A week since Alastor had let himself linger.

And Lucifer wasn’t sure if that silence between them was a temporary distance or the beginning of something breaking.

He wanted to talk to Alastor about it, but he wasn’t good at this kind of conversation. Every time he gathered the courage to approach him, the fucking guy would simply disappear into the shadows, slipping away before Lucifer could even find the words.

Lucifer wondered for a while if Alastor needed space, if so, he was ready to give him all the space he wanted. Only if that meant Alastor would come back to talk to him in the end.

It was a familiar feeling.

Reaching for something, only to find it slipping through his fingers.

Lucifer had felt this before—the slow, inevitable widening of distance between himself and the people he cared about, the creeping sense of isolation he never seemed able to stop. It was an old, well-worn pattern, one he had spent lifetimes trying to break. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, it always seemed to return.

Alastor was avoiding him. That much was obvious.

At first, Lucifer had tried to be patient. He told himself that Alastor had his reasons, that the radio demon had always been prone to unpredictability, to disappearing when it suited him. But this was different. The space between them felt deliberate, like a widening chasm Lucifer didn’t know how to cross.

He wanted to know why.

Charlie had been the one bright constant amidst the uncertainty. Her redemption project was finally yielding results—sinners were changing, Heaven was listening, and for the first time in centuries, the barriers between realms were beginning to blur. In celebration, she had decided to throw a grand ball at the hotel, inviting dignitaries from all corners of Hell and even extending invitations to Heaven’s representatives.

Lucifer had no intention of interfering. Charlie worked tirelessly to make the event perfect, pouring every ounce of energy into ensuring it would be a success. And because she needed Alastor's help to make that happen, Lucifer chose to stay away.

Whatever was happening between him and Alastor—it wasn’t Charlie’s burden to bear.

And if Alastor needed space, Lucifer would give it to him.

So long as, in the end, he came back.

That was the unspoken condition, the silent hope Lucifer clung to. He could be patient. He could let Alastor have the distance he sought. But only if it meant that, eventually, Alastor would return—that he would look Lucifer in the eyes and tell him what had changed.

That he wouldn’t just disappear entirely.

Like Lilith.

The thought struck like a blade, sharp and unwelcome.

Lucifer exhaled slowly, forcing it down, burying it beneath the weight of routine. He had walked this path before—wrapped himself in the trappings of royalty, adorned himself in the finery of his station. It was armor, in its own way. The regalia of a king, the role he had played for longer than he could remember. 

But at least it was familiar.

He had spent centuries attending galas, moving through grand halls with effortless charm, playing his part to perfection. And tonight would be no different.

Lucifer stepped into the ballroom, the polished marble beneath his heels reflecting the warm glow of the chandeliers. He moved with the same practiced ease he always had, offering nods of acknowledgment, indulging in brief pleasantries, letting the role consume him. This, he knew how to do.

But even as he played his part, there was a distance creeping in—a familiar detachment settling over him like a thick fog. No matter how much time passed, how much Charlie reshaped Hell with her relentless optimism, no matter how many hands reached for him, the weight always returned.

At first, it was subtle—a quiet pull at the edges of his thoughts, a whisper urging him toward the solitude of his workshop. Then, before he knew it, he was standing at the edge of the room, watching rather than participating—present, yet never truly part of it.

The ball was Charlie’s triumph. She had poured weeks of effort into this night, her enthusiasm woven into every golden banner, every carefully selected guest list, every flourish of elegance that made the hotel shine. The grand ballroom glowed with warmth and life, laughter and music swelling in the air. Sinners and dignitaries mingled, glasses clinking in celebration.

Lucifer watched it all unfold from his quiet corner, the sinking feeling tightening its grip.

Lucifer had never been one for crowds, but Charlie shone in them. She was in her element, beaming as she greeted her guests, her warmth extending to everyone she met. For the first time in ages, she truly looked like a princess.

And he—he was barely a shadow in the corner of the room.

Alastor wasn’t there. That shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, but he caught himself searching the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of red and black, a familiar grin. He had half-expected Alastor to emerge from the shadows just to make some quip about the event, to lean in too close and whisper something maddeningly cryptic into his ear.

But the absence was palpable.

Lucifer turned away from the crowd, his gaze falling instead on Emily. She stood beside him, bright-eyed and smiling, holding out a hand. “Dance with me?”

He hesitated. But then, why not? Charlie was busy. Alastor was absent. And Emily… she was easy to be around.

So he took her hand.

The dance was effortless, familiar, something muscle memory still remembered after eons of galas and courtly affairs. Emily laughed when he spun her, light and carefree in a way he envied. It was easier to pretend, just for a moment, that the hollowness hadn’t returned.

Between dances, they stood in the quiet of the ballroom’s edge, watching the celebration unfold. Lucifer’s gaze drifted back to Charlie, who was deep in conversation with a group of guests. It should have filled him with pride, seeing her command the attention of the room, watching her navigate the politics of the night with ease.

Instead, the guilt gnawed at him.

How many times had he let this happen? Drifted from her, let his own darkness build walls between them? It had happened before—when Lilith left, when Charlie was just a child clinging to his leg, begging him to come with her. 

He hadn’t fought for her then. 

Would he lose her again now?

Emily nudged him lightly with her elbow. “You’re thinking too much.”

Lucifer let out a humorless chuckle. “It’s all I seem to do these days.”

She tilted her head, studying him with knowing eyes. “You’re drifting, aren’t you?”

His smile faltered. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You never do.” She folded her hands in front of her. “You’re scared of losing people, so you push them away before they can leave on their own.”

Lucifer’s gaze returned to Charlie. She was laughing at something one of the guests said, glowing with the joy of the night. She was radiant, thriving—without him. He had barely spoken to her all evening. When was the last time they had truly talked? Had she invited him to breakfast this morning? Had he answered? Had he missed evening tea again? How many dinners had he skipped?

And Alastor—

Lucifer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’ve been so preoccupied with him,” he admitted. “I hadn’t even realized how much I’d let everything else slip away.”

Emily’s expression softened. “That’s how it happens, Lucifer. Little by little. You think you’re just taking a step back for a moment, and then suddenly, you’re alone again.”

The realization settled over him like a slow, creeping tide. It had happened before. When Lilith left, he told himself it was temporary, that he just needed time to adjust, to make sense of what remained. But days became weeks. Weeks became months. He had turned inward, sinking into solitude, and when he finally looked up—Charlie had stopped waiting.

Now, history was repeating itself.

He had let his pain consume him again. He had let the absence of someone dear pull him away from everything else. Alastor had withdrawn, and instead of seeking answers, instead of trying, he had done what he always did—retreated. He had let his own grief steal time that should have belonged to Charlie.

He had spent centuries believing himself above such mortal flaws, yet here he was, making the same mistakes, falling into the same patterns. Charlie had reached for him. Again and again. And each time, he had let himself slip further away.

Lucifer swallowed the lump in his throat. “What if I’m failing her again?”

Emily didn’t answer right away. She let the question hang between them before saying, “Then talk to her. Let her in.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You do,” she said gently. “You’ve done it before.”

Lucifer let out a quiet, weary sigh. “And if it’s too late?”

Emily shook her head. “It’s never too late for love.”

The words lingered in his chest, pressing against something raw.

Lucifer glanced at Charlie one last time before looking toward the ballroom doors, half-hoping, half-dreading that a certain familiar figure would finally walk through them.

No luck.

Emily was right. 

He’s going to lose them—both of them. 

Unless he does something about it.

***

If he wanted, Lucifer could move through a crowd like a ghost—unnoticed, unremarked upon. But not tonight.

Tonight, he wanted to reach Charlie.

He spotted her across the room, standing with Vaggie and Bee, laughter dancing in her voice as she spoke. She looked radiant, her joy infectious, her hard work manifesting in the grandeur of the night. The warmth she brought to the ballroom was undeniable, and for a moment, Lucifer just watched her—the way she effortlessly commanded the room with kindness rather than authority, the way people naturally gravitated toward her. She was everything he had once hoped for and more.

And he had almost let himself drift too far to tell her.

He stepped forward, weaving through the crowd. As he reached her side, he leaned in close and murmured softly, just for her:

“Hey.”

Charlie turned, surprised to find him standing there.

Lucifer placed a light but steady hand on her elbow. “Can I steal you for a moment?”

Her brows lifted, but she smiled immediately. “Of course.” She turned to Vaggie and Bee with a quick, “Excuse me.”

Lucifer led her onto the dance floor, his pulse steady but his nerves betraying him in small ways—his grip a little too careful, his movements just a little too deliberate. He tried not to show it.

But Charlie saw right through him.

She tilted her head as they swayed to the music. "Is everything okay?" Her voice was gentle, searching.

Lucifer exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You always notice, don’t you?”

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Dad.” Her eyes softened with concern.

Lucifer hesitated. He had spent so long keeping things unspoken, locking words behind pride and old wounds. But not tonight.

“I just…” He swallowed, gathering the courage. “I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you.”

Charlie blinked, her breath hitching.

Lucifer tightened his hold on her hand as they moved, his voice quieter now, more raw. “Of everything you’ve built. Of what you’ve accomplished. I know how hard it is to hold onto hope in a place like this, and yet you’ve done it. You’ve done what no one else has.” He let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “Certainly, not me.”

Charlie shook her head, her grip on his hand firm. “Dad—”

“I know I wasn’t…” He faltered, then forced himself to continue. “I know I’m not the best father. I’ve failed in ways I can’t even begin to count.”

Charlie’s eyes glistened, but she said nothing, letting him speak.

Lucifer exhaled shakily. “But despite everything, despite my flaws, despite the distance I sometimes put between us… I want you to know how much I love you, Charlie.”

Charlie made a small, choked sound, and before Lucifer could say anything else, she crashed into him, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Aww, Dad! I love you too!” Her voice wavered, thick with emotion. She held onto him tightly, like she never wanted to let go. “Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me. Especially coming from you.”

Lucifer closed his eyes for a brief moment, resting his cheek lightly against the top of her head.

He had spent centuries wearing masks, keeping his emotions guarded, never allowing himself to be vulnerable in public. But right now, in his daughter’s arms, with the world still moving around them, he didn’t care if people saw.

For once, he didn’t want to hide.

“You once offered to listen,” Lucifer said hesitantly, his voice softer than usual. “If I ever wanted to share what’s going on in my head.”

Charlie straightened up to look at him, her expression shifting from surprise to quiet, hopeful anticipation.

Lucifer hesitated only a moment before exhaling, almost shyly. “I think… I’d like that.”

Her eyes widened, but before she could respond, Lucifer quickly added, “Not tonight, obviously. You still have guests to attend to. But soon.”

Charlie’s face lit up, her smile radiant. “There’s nothing that would make me happier, Dad.”

Lucifer felt something loosen in his chest at her words. It wasn’t much, not yet—but it was a step. And if tonight had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t keep standing still.

Now, for the harder part of the night.

He has a certain Radio Demon to hunt down.

***

There weren’t many places in Hell where Alastor could hide from Lucifer—none, really, if Lucifer truly wanted to find him. That was the reality of being the king of Hell. And yet, despite his omnipresence, despite the sheer inevitability of his pursuit, he still had to search.

Because Alastor wasn’t just somebody. He was him. And that complicated things.

Lucifer narrowed his search to the three most obvious places: his own bedroom, Alastor’s bedroom, and the Radio Tower. Three places that reflected three instincts in Alastor’s lexicon—fight, flight, or freeze.

Lucifer’s bedroom. He dismissed it almost immediately. For obvious reasons.

Alastor, like all sinners, sometimes felt the weight of everything crashing down on him. When the noise of Hell became too much, when the mask he wore for the world grew heavy, he had one place where he could just be —Lucifer’s room.

Since they had become an item , that space had turned into a sanctuary, a place where Alastor didn’t have to watch his back. Where he didn’t have to anticipate a trick or scheme. Where he knew, beyond a doubt, that Lucifer would protect him. Every time before, when he’d sought refuge there, the signs had been obvious—even when Alastor tried to hide them. And Lucifer had seen none of those signs lately.

Which meant he wasn’t there.

That left two options. And where Lucifer found him would determine how this night unfolded.

The Radio Tower. Alastor’s stronghold. His domain. It was where he retreated when he was angry—when emotions threatened to boil over into something even he couldn’t control. It was a place of fight.

Lucifer had only entered uninvited once , and he had no desire to repeat that mistake. If Alastor was there, it meant he wanted distance. It meant this would not be an easy conversation.

Alastor’s bedroom. The safer option—relatively speaking. It was where he disappeared when he needed to shed the persona, to strip away the performance, to just exist. The room itself was a gateway, an extension of his true sanctuary—a bayou stretching into the unknown, untethered from time or reason.

It was a place of flight.

If Alastor had gone there, it meant he wasn’t just hiding.

He was hurting.

Lucifer wasn’t sure which possibility unsettled him more.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

One way or another, he was going to find Alastor.

And when he does, there would be no more running.

***

Lucifer was almost surprised when the doors to Alastor’s room opened for him.

Alastor had told him, more than once, that he could come and go as he pleased. But after whatever had happened to make Alastor start avoiding him, Lucifer had been convinced that the invitation had been revoked.

Yet, here he was.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. His eyes swept over the familiar space—the part of the room that still resembled the hotel. Empty.

Not a good sign.

Sighing, Lucifer turned toward the far end of the room, where reality itself stretched and unraveled into something older, wilder— his territory. Alastor’s true retreat. A pocket of the bayou that bent to his will, where time lost its meaning and the rest of the world faded into irrelevance.

Lucifer could sense him.

More than that, he could feel the lingering weight of Alastor’s magic, coiled tightly around this space. A ward, perhaps? No— not quite . It wasn’t a barrier meant to keep Lucifer out.

It was a reflection of what Alastor felt inside.

And that was what made Lucifer pause.

Whatever had driven Alastor to retreat here, Lucifer was at fault. That much was certain. He wasn’t sure how , not yet—but he would find out.

And when he did, he would fix it. Somehow.

Lucifer stepped forward, feeling the shift beneath him as polished wooden floors gave way to the soft, damp earth of the bayou. The transition was seamless, a quiet unraveling of the hotel’s reality into something far older, far wilder.

The air was thick with moisture, heavy with the scent of moss, wet wood, and the faint metallic tang of distant rain. The cypress trees stretched tall and gnarled, their roots weaving through the ground like the veins of something ancient and restless. Fireflies flickered in and out of existence, their pale glow casting fleeting glimmers across the darkened waters.

Lately, this place had started to feel like home. Safe. Which was ironic, considering it was Alastor’s domain, not his. But in the quiet hum of the bayou, in the way it breathed and shifted with the rhythm of its creator’s soul, Lucifer found a strange sense of peace.

Tonight, though, it was different.

The swamp mirrored Alastor’s feelings—always had, always would—and now it was subdued, almost mournful. The dampness carried a chill that didn’t belong, clinging to Lucifer’s skin like regret. The usual symphony of crickets and distant jazz was muted, replaced by something softer, something hollow. The rippling of water against tree roots, the occasional groan of old wood shifting in the breeze—it reminded Lucifer of quiet, muffled sobbing.

Alastor had felt him the moment his hand touched the doorknob. That much was certain. And if the Radio Demon had wanted to disappear completely, to bury himself in the endless reaches of this place, Lucifer would never be able to find him.

He swallowed.

Lucifer took a slow, measured breath, feeling the shift begin deep within him. His bones lightened, his body reshaped, and feathered wings unfurled in a cascade of celestial radiance. The transformation was second nature, yet it always carried a weight of memory—a whisper of what he once was, what he had left behind.

The first angels had their second forms, manifestations of divine power and purpose. Every angel was different, their forms unique, yet they all shared the essence of the sky—the mark of the heavens they were born from. Lucifer’s form was not a duck, though he might have preferred that. Something humble, something unexpected. But no, fate had woven a different image for him.

A swan.

Not just any swan, but a six-winged seraphic creature, a being of both ethereal grace and formidable presence. His wings, layered in pure white and touched with threads of gold, stretched wide as his form solidified. For a moment, the bayou was bathed in an otherworldly glow, golden light spilling between the cypress trees, reflecting off the murky water like liquid sunlight. It was as if day had momentarily broken through the eternal twilight of this hidden place.

Then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he ascended.

He soared above the treetops, his keen eyes scanning the vast stretch of bayou below. The world beneath him blurred into rippling water, tangled roots, and shifting shadows. Alastor was here—Lucifer could feel him, the pulse of his magic like a distant hum against the stillness of the air.

He just had to find him.

Lucifer and Alastor had spent countless hours in this place, letting the weight of their human facades slip away, surrendering to the quiet simplicity of their instincts. Here, in the endless sprawl of Alastor’s private world, there were no expectations, no politics, no burdens of the past pressing against them. Just movement. Breath. Freedom.

Alastor’s forms were limited—he was either the great stag, swift and untamed, or the eldritch creature lurking beneath the surface of his smile. There was no in-between for him. But Lucifer… Lucifer had no such limits. He was a shapeshifter, a creature of ever-changing design, capable of slipping into any form he desired.

More often than not, he chose the form of a snake, gliding effortlessly through the bayou’s waters, coiling around tree branches, watching Alastor from the shadows with gleaming, amused eyes. But sometimes—when the night felt softer, when he wanted to feel closer, when he longed to meet Alastor on equal ground—he became something else. A doe.

It was a rare thing, a private thing, but on those nights, Alastor couldn’t resist. The moment he saw Lucifer shift, something flickered in his crimson eyes—a wild spark, a challenge accepted. And then the chase would begin.

Lucifer would bolt through the bayou, leaping over tangled roots, skimming across shallow waters, his hooves barely making a sound. Alastor would follow, swift and relentless, closing the distance between them with each bound. It was a game they both knew the ending to, but neither cared. They ran until exhaustion turned their laughter breathless, until the cool embrace of the night air wrapped around them like silk.

Eventually, they would slow, their frantic race dissolving into something softer. Beneath the shelter of the cypress trees, they would collapse together, Alastor curling his larger form around Lucifer’s, his antlers resting against the soft fur. In those moments, there was nothing more. No past. No future. Just warmth. Closeness. Just them.

Lucifer longed for these moments. The weightlessness of them. The simplicity. The fleeting illusion that, for once, nothing was wrong.

With every minute that passed without finding Alastor, he retraced his steps, trying to pinpoint exactly where things had unraveled. How they had gone from warmth and closeness to this suffocating silence.

Where had he failed this time?

Because it was always his failure, wasn’t it? Lucifer Morningstar. King of Hell. The greatest failure of them all.

He had never been a good father—Charlie deserved so much more than what he could give. And he was an even worse partner. Selfish. Distant. Closed off. Always so convinced he was protecting the ones he loved by keeping his struggles locked away, only to end up pushing them further from him. Alastor and Charlie always noticed when something was wrong with him. Always saw the cracks forming before he even acknowledged them himself.

Why was it that everyone else could see what was happening, and he—the all-seeing, all-knowing Lucifer—could not?

At first, his relationship with Alastor had been a storm, all sharp edges and stubbornness, neither of them willing to yield. Even after things changed between them—even after they admitted, in their own hesitant, clumsy way, that they wanted this—they still fought.

Often.

It had taken Charlie and Angel practically forcing them to sit down, locking them in a room together, for them to finally listen. It had taken hours of patient, exasperated explanations for them to understand something that should have been obvious.

They were both terrible at communication.

Lucifer hated being a burden, hated the idea of weighing anyone down, especially the people he cared about. And Alastor—proud, untouchable Alastor—hated the thought of anyone seeing him as weak.

So Lucifer kept his pain to himself, convinced he was doing the right thing. And Alastor pretended he was untouchable, even when he was bleeding inside.

They were fools.

And now, because of that, Lucifer was here—alone in this endless bayou, searching for one of the few people he couldn’t bear to lose. 

A sudden flash of light among the treetops caught Lucifer’s attention. Instinct overruled thought as he tucked his wings tight against his body and dove, weaving between the branches with practiced precision. The wind rushed past him, ruffling his pristine feathers, but he did not slow. Not until the last possible moment.

Just before impact, he spread all six wings wide, catching the air in a powerful, controlled stop. The force of his landing sent ripples across the lake’s glassy surface, distorting the reflection of the looming cypress trees and the pale glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to their roots. His wings clapped once, twice, before folding elegantly against his body. Water lapped gently at his legs, the quiet sound swallowed by the vast, oppressive stillness of the bayou.

Lucifer turned his gaze, scanning the darkened waters and the tangled marsh beyond. Desperate. Searching. Hoping.

Nothing.

No shadow of antlers breaking through the mist. No familiar figure wading through the reeds.

A sharp pang of disappointment curled in his chest, tightening like a vice. He could not cry in this form, but the weight of it settled heavy in his wings. Restless, he stretched them wide again, beating the air a few times before straightening his long, elegant neck. Then, with a deep breath, he called out—a rich, echoing trumpet-like sound—melancholic, deep, and unmistakable in the vast stillness of the bayou.

It was not just a sound.

It was a plea.

A swan’s call for their soulmate.

Come back to me, love!

Lucifer turned his head sharply, every muscle in his body going taut. Had he imagined it? A shift in the undergrowth, the faint crack of a twig under careful hooves. His breath caught as he turned fully, his golden eyes locking onto what he had been searching for—twin pinpricks of gleaming crimson, watching him from the shadows of the bayou forest.

Alastor.

Relief surged through him, followed almost instantly by something far heavier. Hesitation. He saw it in the way those red eyes flickered, uncertain, poised on the edge of flight.

Lucifer's heart clenched. He wanted to swim toward him, to close the distance, to shift back into his human form and pull him close. To tell him, I see you. I’m here.

But the second he moved, the eyes vanished.

A sharp rustle of leaves. A sudden motion. Then the unmistakable sound of hooves pounding against damp earth, retreating into the depths of the bayou.

No.

Lucifer let out a desperate cry, but the only sound that escaped him was an undignified squawk.

No, no, no.

He unfurled his wings, powerful and radiant even in the murky dimness, and beat them against the water. Once. Twice. Then, with an explosive surge of motion, he propelled himself upward, droplets cascading from his feathers as he climbed into the air.

The chase had begun.

Lucifer tilted his wings, banking sharply to follow the flashes of movement below. He caught glimpses of red—the brief flicker of a tail, the slender curve of antlers weaving between the trees. Alastor was fast. The bayou bent to his will, branches parting, roots shifting to grant him passage. But Lucifer had the sky.

Higher and faster he soared, his keen eyes tracking every shift in the undergrowth. He wouldn't lose him. He refused to lose him.

With a sharp cry that split through the night, Lucifer folded his wings and dove.

The wind howled past him as he shifted midair, his swan form unraveling into his human one. He landed smoothly, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth—right in Alastor’s path.

The stag’s glowing red eyes widened in alarm. A flicker of shadow crackled through the air, and instantly, Alastor was no longer a deer.

But a momentum carried him forward, too fast to stop.

Lucifer barely had a second to react before impact. He braced himself, but not to withstand the collision—to protect. Just as Alastor crashed into him, Lucifer wrapped his arms and all six of his wings around him, shielding him from harm as they toppled.

They hit the ground hard, momentum carrying them across the forest floor in a tangle of limbs and feathers. The world spun, leaves and damp earth pressing against Lucifer’s back as they rolled. But through it all, he held tight, wings cushioning Alastor from every jagged root and uneven patch of ground.

Finally, they came to a stop. Lucifer lay flat on his back, breathless, staring up at the endless bayou canopy. And pressed against his chest, warm and trembling, was Alastor.

Human. Safe. Here.

Lucifer inhaled sharply, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. He fought to hold back the tears threatening to spill, but the sheer weight of relief made it impossible.

Above him, Alastor abruptly pushed himself up onto his elbows, his face twisted in fury.

“What the fuck were you thinking!?” he yelled, fingers twisting into the fabric of Lucifer’s jacket, clutching it, so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Lucifer wasn’t thinking at all. He had only acted —on instinct, on desperation, on the fear of losing Alastor before he even understood what had driven him away.

He reached up, cupping Alastor’s face with both hands.

Alastor flinched, his shoulders tensing as his eyes flicked downward, suspicious of the gesture. But then his gaze returned to Lucifer’s, one brow arching in a silent, questioning challenge.

Lucifer exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I missed you.”

The dam broke. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, tracing hot paths into his hair.

For a moment, Alastor just stared, his usual unreadable expression cracking open. Emotions flickered through his crimson eyes—anger, confusion, something raw and vulnerable beneath it all. He searched Lucifer’s face, scanning every detail, looking for something.

Whatever it was, he must have found it. Because without another word, he collapsed onto Lucifer’s chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck. His fingers tightened around Lucifer’s jacket, gripping him like a lifeline.

Lucifer let out a shaky breath and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his lips against Alastor’s temple.

No more running.

They lay there in the damp earth, tangled together, letting their silent tears run freely until they ran out on their own. Neither of them spoke, neither moved. The only sound was the slowing cadence of Alastor’s breathing against Lucifer’s neck, the quiet, shuddering inhales gradually settling into something steadier.

Lucifer held him close, tracing slow, grounding circles against his back. He wasn’t good at moments like this—at putting feelings into words, at dissecting the weight between them with careful explanations. More often than not, after an argument, they both acted as if nothing had happened. It was easier. A quiet agreement between them.

But this time, Lucifer couldn’t afford that.

Not when he had seen the hesitation in those red eyes, the crack in that unshakable confidence.

Lucifer swallowed, tightening his hold just slightly before speaking.

“Forgive me,” he murmured into Alastor’s hair, his voice soft but steady.

He felt the sharp tension ripple through Alastor’s frame, the instinctive bristling at the word forgive.

“I don’t know what I did,” Lucifer admitted, exhaling slowly. “But I know I hurt you. And I never meant to.”

He waited, bracing himself for the sharp, bitter retort—for the inevitable, You didn’t hurt me, or the lashing, sarcastic dismissal that always came whenever Alastor thought someone was implying he could be wounded.

But it never came.

Instead, Alastor remained perfectly still against him.

And that alone was proof enough that Lucifer had screwed up.

Lucifer decided it was best to keep going. Stopping now would only leave room for doubt to fester.

“You’d think that after spending over a year with people who care about me, I’d finally get used to the fact that I’m not alone,” Lucifer sighed, rubbing slow, absentminded circles against Alastor’s back. “But that’s only a fraction of the time I’ve spent being alone.”

“I know,” Alastor murmured, just as quiet.

Lucifer threaded his fingers through Alastor’s hair, and the demon instinctively pressed into the touch, his body relaxing ever so slightly.

“You did nothing wrong,” Alastor admitted after a long pause.

Lucifer tilted his head, eyes drifting down to Alastor’s pinned ears. He scratched gently at the base, watching as Alastor’s shoulders lost some of their tension.

“I was just too stubborn to admit that every second you spent with someone else was driving me insane.” His voice was muffled against Lucifer’s skin, but the frustration in it was unmistakable.

Oh.

“And when I saw you today, dancing with her , I lost it.” Alastor groaned, pressing his face harder against Lucifer’s neck, as if trying to disappear entirely.

Oh.

Lucifer blinked. “You were jealous of Emily.” It wasn’t a question.

Alastor immediately stiffened, then shot up, sitting upright in Lucifer’s lap with a sharp glare. “I did no such thing.” He turned his head away, ears twitching as though he could will them to stop betraying him.

Lucifer’s grin was positively wicked. “You were! You were totally jealous!”

Alastor bristled, huffing, clearly ready to bolt. His fingers twitched against Lucifer’s chest, his whole body tensed like he was about to run—but Lucifer wasn’t about to let that happen.

With a smirk, he caught Alastor’s wrist in one hand, and with the other, he gently cupped Alastor’s cheek, guiding his face toward him.

Alastor resisted, ears pinned flat against his head, his face growing impossibly redder.

Lucifer chuckled.

Fuck, he was so cute.

“She’s like a daughter to me, you know?” Lucifer said, his voice gentle, an attempt to bridge the gap between them.

Alastor’s gaze flickered with something unreadable before his lips curled into a sharp, mocking grin.

“Another? ” he sneered, crossing his arms. “Well, isn’t that sweet? Trying to make up for past mistakes, are we? Hoping if you ‘adopt’ enough strays, it’ll drown out the guilt of failing the one who actually needed you? But tell me, Lucifer—how many more daughters will it take before you stop being a disappointment to the first one?”

Lucifer's breath caught in his throat.

No, he didn’t mean that. He would never…

But Alastor’s expression didn’t waver. He looked satisfied with himself, smug even, as if he had planned those words to cut as deeply as possible.

Something inside Lucifer snapped.

With a sudden burst of strength, he shoved Alastor off him. Hard. Alastor tumbled backward, landing unceremoniously in the mud with a splatter. Lucifer didn’t wait—he spread his wings, using them to push himself upright in one fluid motion. He couldn’t afford to be in a vulnerable position, not now, not while facing this Alastor—the one that lashed out like a wounded animal.

Pain shot through his back as he moved, a sharp reminder of the impact from earlier. He winced but ignored it. His wings ached, the soreness settling deep into the bone. As he shifted, something pulled at his feathers. He turned his head and saw it—a jagged branch had pierced through the membrane of one wing.

With a growl of frustration, he yanked it out, not caring about the sting as a few white and red feathers tore free in the process. They drifted to the damp earth below, ruined.

Just like this moment.

“Stop! You are making it worse!” Alastor cried.

Lucifer’s gaze snapped to him, his irises burning gold, his pupils thinning into slits. Alastor’s breath hitched as he realized—Lucifer had shifted. His demonic form loomed over him, raw power radiating off him like a storm about to break.

“Fuck you, Alastor! ” Lucifer’s voice cracked with fury, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “ You’re the one who made this worse! ” He shouted, his voice shaking as hot tears spilled from his eyes again.

Alastor flinched at the sheer devastation in his tone, but Lucifer didn’t stop.

“I hate that every time you feel vulnerable or weak, you claw at my wounds just to make yourself feel stronger. You know what I struggle with. You know what I fear. And yet, every damn time, you throw it back in my face like it means nothing to you.”

Lucifer took a shuddering breath, his hands trembling at his sides. “ You think I don’t know I’ve failed Charlie? That I haven’t spent the last two centuries haunted by it? ” His voice dropped lower, raw, wounded. “Do you have any idea how much it destroys me to think I might not be enough for her? To think that one day, she might realize it too?”

Alastor’s usual smug expression was gone. He just stared, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, as if realizing—for the first time—that he had struck something far deeper than he ever intended.

“Lucifer, I…”

Lucifer clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He should have known better than to put his faith in anyone—especially a sinner. Trust had never been kind to him. It had only ever led to disappointment. And Alastor… Alastor wasn’t the first to hurt him, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.

“Keep your insincere apologies to yourself! ” Lucifer growled, his wings flaring out behind him, sending a gust of wind through the trees. His voice was raw, sharp as broken glass. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to smile, nod, and move on like it meant nothing —like it didn’t cut me open!” His eyes blazed as he took a step forward. “You don’t get to gut me and then expect a simple sorry to stitch me back together!”

For a whole minute, the only sound that surrounded them was Lucifer’s fast, uneven breathing. The air between them felt thick, heavy with the weight of everything that had led them here.

Alastor stood frozen, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. His lips, forever curved upward due to whatever cruel joke Hell had played on him, looked almost unnatural in the absence of amusement—thinned into something too tight, too forced. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—something raw. He swallowed, his fingers twitching as if grasping for words that refused to come.

Lucifer gave him ten more seconds to speak before turning, ready to leave this cursed place that, despite everything, he had grown to love. He spread his wings, preparing to take flight—only to be stopped by barely audible words.

“I was afraid.”

Lucifer whirled back to him, fury rekindled. “What the fuck were you afraid of!? There’s no one here to witness your nonexistent weakness!”

Alastor flinched but held his ground, his red eyes darkening. “I was afraid you’d leave.” His voice was quieter now, lower, as if he hated admitting it. “That you’d realize how easy it would be. That she’d convince you to go back—to Heaven.”

Lucifer’s wings tensed, his breath catching in his throat.

Alastor scoffed bitterly, his hands balling into fists. “You think I don’t see it? The way you still hesitate? The way you look at the sky like you’re waiting for it to call you home?” His voice cracked, and he turned his head away sharply. “And she—she could give you that chance, couldn’t she?”

Lucifer had never seen Alastor like this before—his usual bravado stripped away, replaced by something vulnerable, something real.

“Charlie’s redemption project is successful. If sinners can be redeemed, you can too. You have a kind heart. You don’t belong here,” Alastor admitted flatly, his voice devoid of its usual theatricality.

Lucifer’s jaw tightened. “I will never leave Charlie here.” His words were firm, resolute—yet, notably, he didn’t say anything about leaving Alastor behind.

Alastor let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Who said anything about leaving her?” He took a step closer, his red eyes gleaming with something dangerous—something desperate. “You said you created her with your angelic power. You’re seriously going to tell me that you’ve never considered the possibility that she could reach Heaven herself?”

Lucifer’s wings twitched.

Alastor narrowed his gaze, studying him. “Tell me, Lucifer,” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “In all these centuries, have you never once imagined it? The two of you, ascending together, leaving all of this behind?”

Lucifer opened his mouth—then closed it.

Because, of course, he had thought about it.

He had imagined Charlie standing in the golden light of Heaven, her joy boundless, her dreams realized. He had thought about what it would mean if she were welcomed into the place he had long been denied. And in the deepest, most buried part of himself, he had wondered—if she could find her way there, could he?

Alastor must have seen it in his face because he scoffed, his smile sharpening into something bitter. “That’s what I thought.”

“It was way before we started this… this arrangement. You can’t blame me for hoping.” Lucifer’s voice wavered as his fingers tangled in his hair, gripping so tightly it looked painful. His breath was uneven, his body tense, as if trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will.

Alastor stepped forward and gently took Lucifer’s hands in his own, prying them away before he could hurt himself. His grip was firm but careful, his thumbs brushing over Lucifer’s knuckles in a silent attempt to soothe him. Slowly, he guided Lucifer’s trembling hands to his chest and covered them with his own, pressing them against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I never blamed you for that,” Alastor said softly. “I would never blame you for that.” His crimson eyes flickered with something rare—something unguarded. “I’ve told you before. You don’t belong here. And Charlie doesn’t belong here either. This place…” He swallowed, shaking his head. “This place destroys all the good in you.”

Lucifer inhaled sharply.

Alastor’s voice dropped even lower, barely more than a whisper. “I love you, and I want you to be free—from this burden, from your past. Even if that means letting you go. I’d rather let you go now before it’s too late.”

Lucifer’s breath hitched. For a moment, he just stared at Alastor, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “You silly, ridiculous man.” His lips curled into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Is that why you were avoiding me? Because you wanted to what? Set me free?”

Alastor said nothing—only gave him a sad, knowing smile.

Lucifer sighed, tilting his head as if studying him. He could see the uncertainty in Alastor’s eyes, the way his fingers twitched slightly as if bracing for impact.

“You can stop worrying about that.”

Alastor blinked, his expression shifting into something startled. “What?”

Lucifer’s wings gave a small, unconscious twitch as he watched realization dawn in Alastor’s face. “Because it’s already too late.”

Alastor’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

Lucifer exhaled through his nose, his lips quirking in amusement. “I mean that I love you too, idiot.”

Alastor went completely still.

“You… what?”

“I love your stupid smile,” Lucifer continued, grinning despite the fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “Your even more stupid face, your horrible personality, your ridiculous clothes—”

“Alright, alright, that’s quite enough,” Alastor interrupted, pretending to be offended as he clapped a hand over Lucifer’s mouth. “Leave my hair out of this.”

Lucifer huffed against his palm, then suddenly flapped his wings. The unexpected gust sent Alastor stumbling backward with an indignant yelp, landing flat on his back in the mud with a startled bleat. Lucifer, unable to hold back his laughter, collapsed on top of him, giggling uncontrollably.

Alastor groaned. “I cannot believe you just—”

“We are so fucking bad at this,” Lucifer wheezed between laughs, his body shaking as he tried to regain his composure.

Alastor let out an exaggerated sigh, but his expression softened. Reaching up, he brushed his fingers along Lucifer’s cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. Without thinking, Lucifer leaned into it, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the warmth.

A quiet chuckle left Alastor’s lips. “I shouldn’t have said what I said before.” His voice was unusually hesitant. “When I felt you stepping into my room, I wasn’t ready to push you away just yet. And then when I saw how desperate you were to make it right, I panicked.” He exhaled sharply. “I know you said you didn’t want an apology, but I need to say it anyway—I’m sorry.”

Lucifer opened his eyes, taking a shuddering breath before meeting Alastor’s gaze. He let the silence stretch between them, the weight of everything unsaid pressing against his ribs. Finally, he spoke.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I promise,” Alastor said immediately, the words leaving his mouth in a rush. Then, after a beat, he added, “Does this mean we’re good now?”

Lucifer hummed, pretending to consider it. Then, without warning, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Alastor’s lips.

Alastor’s breath hitched.

When Lucifer pulled back, he smirked. “Not yet,” he murmured against Alastor’s lips. “But you’re on a good path to redeeming yourself, deer.”