Chapter Text
Lucifer wakes. Not suddenly, not with a lurch, but as quickly as a flat stone might roll down a shallow hill. His phone, rattling its way towards the edge of his cluttered nightstand and upsetting a metropolis of empty mugs - their contents ranging from cold dregs to cultured fur - as it goes, continues blaring Charlie's ringtone. From within a lumpy den created by far too many blankets and pillows, an ashy arm emerges and slaps blindly at the nightstand, nudging the phone into a weighted descent instead of silencing it.
"Fuck," says the lump sometimes known as Lucifer.
On cue, his phone beeps and rolls to voicemail.
"Fuck," Lucifer grumbles again and, in a glorious sweep which sends plushies and pillows flying, swings upright, thus beginning a mad scramble across the sheets. Half on the bed, legs kicking and escaped arms swiping at the phone, he spills ultimately childish grunts from a twisted grimace, snatches his cell and stabs a thumb into the redial button, placing it against his ear whilst rubbing his crusty eyes in irritation.
"Dad!" Charlie yells down the receiver, "hey! Sorry, did I wake you up?"
"What? No," Lucifer laughs awkwardly, "no, no of course not, I was just ah-," and rolls onto his back, contemplating any excuse he could offer, "reading,"
"Oh, okay," Charlie chuckles, not buying it, but thankfully moves on, "so, nothing big, not that important, but, there's a kind-of... Situation? Happening?"
Any lingering sleep which clung to Lucifer's bones is very quickly shaken off as tires squealing, distant screaming and several deafening crashes run together across the aether.
"Where are you?" He snaps, launching off the bed and flicking sparks off his fingers to conjure suitable clothing in place of his loose and comfortable sleep shorts, "doesn't matter, I'll find you, stay right there."
Charlie isn't given a chance to reply; Lucifer hangs up, slips the phone into his coat pocket, and vanishes in a helix of scarlet glitter.
Through starlight and space, Lucifer seeks Charlie's energy signatures - which, if translated into human comprehension, looks like violet smoke interwoven with gold lightning - and beelines towards them. The closer he gets, the higher interference runs, stemming out of other souls within proximity of his daughter's. Some are unimportant, a blur melting into the background, but others are familiar like Vaggie's steel blue and silver, the pornstar's baby pink, or the bartender's checkerboard red and black. Oh, and, that other one, that one which even here, outside existence, Lucifer feels creeping around his aura and poking at it with slimy tendrils; brass like old machinery, sickly chartreuse and that bright amber often found in crystal tumblers. The Radio Demon. Alastor to most, Al to those with a deathwish, and creepy piece of shit to Lucifer.
His soul is more vivid than its brethren, because of course it fucking is.
"Charlie," Lucifer calls once he drops back into reality and lands on the sidewalk beside her, "what's going on, what did the bellhop do now?"
"Dad, please," Charlie groans, exasperated behind her wide, darting eyes and stress lines, "Alastor is helping! It's not his fault at all!"
"Sure, sure," Lucifer dismisses and looks around, scanning past smoking car wrecks, burst sewage pipes spewing their ire through cracked asphalt, and the usual trash fires until he alights on two-storey limbs and floating symbols, "him making snacks out of pedestrians is just a bonus, I guess." This isn't to say that he isn't vaguely intrigued, watching Alastor's tree branch fingers picking screaming sinners up by their legs, tossing them in the air, and ducking his head to catch them in his gaping maw.
"Sir, Charlie's right," Vaggie interjects, dragging Lucifer's contemplative gaze to her braced stance. There is blood in her hair, he notices idly. "Alastor wasn't even with us when Vox's goons attacked us, he just appeared from the shadows and threw up a shield."
"Uh-huh," Lucifer steps out into the road, expertly dodging a careening bumper with no effort, and holds his arms out, "and where's that shield now?"
"Dad," Charlie snaps, eyes glowing, hair flying and voice verging on resonance, "stop. I didn't call you here to criticize Alastor; I called you for help."
Well, shit. Egg on Lucifer's face. Stupid bellhop and his distracting cannibalism. The creep isn't bothered about it - Lucifer half-turns to check - he's even playing a jaunty jazz tune from somewhere indecipherable as if a bloody rampage is a normal Thursday for the guy. Maybe it is, Lucifer doesn't know or care. Sighing, calling his demonic attributes out of hiding, he pushes off the ground, air and feathers rushing around him, and propels himself across the street.
"Lu-ci-fer," Alastor sees him immediately, dial pupils honing in on his lofty heights, and his horrible, not at all attractive or normal, grin broadens, dripping viscera, "so good of you to join us,"
"Yeah well, a party's a party," Lucifer smirks, "I see you've already hit the buffet,"
"Mm," Alastor's hum rumbles like a growl and rattles nearby windows, "are you sure I cannot tempt you, your majesty," and his hand is all angles and joints as he lifts up a bisected zebra sinner between thumb and forefinger.
"Thanks, but I quit," Lucifer waves a hand and glances at the chaos below them, "apparently I'm meant to help you, but with what I have no idea,"
"I informed dear Charlotte that I had the situation under control," Alastor sighs in a way that mimics a felled tree toppling, and swallows the sinner in one gulp, "I can only assume my methods of negotiation aren't up to her standards, but you may assist with clean up, if you wish?"
"Sure. How d'we make you less-," Lucifer scans Alastor's gangly form, all twenty feet of it, and briefly wonders whether his clothes are enchanted to grow when he does or if he has to do it manually every time, "uh, big?"
"Ah, one moment," before Lucifer can protest or dodge, a pointed hand wraps around his entire torso and thighs, plucking him out of the air. He tries to fight, obviously, by pushing at blood-slippery claws and fluffing his wings, but Alastor doesn't even flinch and starts shrinking. The smaller - here meaning less eldritch, given that he boasts a good seven feet on a good day - he gets, the further his hand withdraws and the quieter that jarring music becomes, until Lucifer is standing, in broad daylight, blood coating the street and several walls, with Alastor's arm flush to his lower back and Alastor himself leaning into him as though on the cusp of dipping him into a kiss.
And Lucifer... Blinks, hesitates, when he should be pushing him away. His hand has risen to Alastor's bicep he realises, and the coat beneath is surprisingly soft, well made.
"DAD!"
"Lucifer!"
Lucifer whips his head around at Charlie's scream. A second later, the air moves, a humid wave washes over him and a scent like moss after rain fills his senses. There is a crunch, sickening and wet, and a warped scratch like a record being interrupted.
"Fuck," Alastor chokes and black blood coughs over his chin.
The first thing Lucifer's dazed mind says is: spear. He moves without thinking, momentum spawns from panic, and he tumbles ungracefully to his knees, arms outstretched to catch Alastor who is taking a fast-track route to smashing his head on the curb.
"Spear," Lucifer says aloud, staring at the too-white blade sticking out of Alastor's stomach.
"Your observation skills-," a full bodied cringe seizes Alastor's frame and jolts it inwards, his hands tearing Lucifer's lapels as they snatch at them, "are as exceptional as ever, my-," another cough - stop, you're getting blood on your coat, Lucifer thinks but can't force past his stopped lungs - "my liege."
"Ohmygod, Alastor," Charlie sobs, appearing skidding to the ground on Alastor's other side, and something in Lucifer spikes, curling his arms as though trying to shield Alastor from Charlie's outstretched hands.
"You got in the way," Lucifer says to Alastor, not taking his eyes off his agonised grimace, "why the fuck did you do that?"
"Dad!" Charlie cries and Lucifer ignores her.
"I wish I knew," Alastor chuckles, broken and wet, "then maybe I would feel better about dying for it."
"You're not-," this is Charlie, fighting against Vaggie who has arrived and is now crushing her in a tight embrace, "you can't- Dad, you can- you can heal him, right?!"
"Charlie, I-," Lucifer finally looks at her and his heart breaks, knowing he can't dry those tears; not this time.
"Unfortunately, Charlotte," Alastor's grin is starting to ebb, drooping at its corners as though his body cannot uphold its magical seams any more, "from the excruciating burn currently spreading through my abdominals, I would assume the blade is angelic steel. Even one as powerful as the Morning Star cannot heal that kind of wound."
A quiet presence lowers in Lucifer's periphery, looming like a storm cloud and equally hair-raising, and although he doesn't look up from watching Alastor's blood splashing rubies upon the blade, Alastor does and his eyes narrow.
"Al, I didn't-," says the crackling shadow beside Lucifer, "that wasn't one of my guys, I'd never-,"
"Hush, you," Alastor croaks, "ours was never a sentimental rivalry and I will not have you ruining-," feedback whistles as his face contorts.
"Hey, don't speak," Lucifer murmurs as gently as he can, bringing a hand up to caress Alastor's cheek. Either because his strength cannot manage it, or due to a reason Lucifer will never learn, Alastor lets him. "I can't save you, but I can dull the pain. Blink once for yes; twice for no."
Alastor's eyes are almost closed now, his face turning pale beneath the blood, but he locks his gaze with Lucifer's, exhales a ragged sigh, and blinks twice. Against all odds, Lucifer laughs softly and brushes a thumb under Alastor's eye, swiping away the lone tear which escaped there before anyone else sees it. It isn't much, but something twitches in Alastor's cheek that almost looks like gratitude. Charlie is saying something, her words bubbling and high, Vaggie murmuring comfort that Lucifer can't quite hear, and though his aura picks up vague shapes gathering around him, there is a pull, an innate tug, keeping his gaze on Alastor's.
"None of that," Alastor croaks and swipes a weak hand at Lucifer's cheek. At first, Lucifer is confused, and then he realises, heart sinking and stomach twisting: he is crying. "I won't have you-,"
The radio demon in Lucifer's arms pauses as though stuck on a word, his gaze glossy and unseeing. His hand falls. Charlie's sob echoes oddly in Lucifer's ribs, unknowingly synchronising with his sunken heartbeat. A disconnect prickles at his nape and, eventually, with a feeling like a black hole has opened in his gut, he understands why. All the white noise and static, which accompanies Alastor wherever he goes, has stopped.
"Fuck," Lucifer breaks then, bowing and clasping Alastor to him, not caring about the sharp ache where the angelic blade digs into his abdomen; not caring about Charlie's aggrieved wailing or anything other than the odd emptiness inside him. He closes his eyes, tight and unyielding, inhales blood, moss and earth, and then...
-
Alastor wakes. One moment, the room is dark and foreboding, its soundscape limited to the bayou's insects chirping in the distance, and the next there is warm firelight and filament bulbs flickering to life, white noise fizzling in the air and Alastor's eyes scarlet become drops in an otherwise shadowy ocean. Like a fairytale vampire rising from their coffin, he sits up straight, cracks his neck and takes a deep, humming breath. No clocks exist in his suite and none are needed; the radio frequencies he thrives on are present across every mile of Pentagram City and have synchronized his circadian rhythm with the dawn.
Shadows consume Alastor and his silk pyjamas, swallowing him in inky tendrils, and then spit him back out by the mantle piece framing his fireplace, fully formed and fully dressed in his usual crimson attire. Why waste the day climbing into clothes when he has magic at his disposal, is his reasoning. With an elegant finger twirl, his radio staff is conjured in one hand, the other habitually adjusts his coat, and then he is off, spinning on his heel and making for the door.
This is unironically his favourite time to be outside his room in the hotel. Now, when the sun is barely risen and no other guests are awake, or perhaps late at night, when only he and the stars continue onwards, though the latter has points deducted thanks to the hotel's resident on-again, off-again insomniac and ex-archangel. Once or twice, which is one time too many, he has wandered onto the rooftop terrace accessible from the penthouse floor hoping for solitude and been cursed by Lucifer already there, often perched atop the railing and contemplating heaven's distant planet. Alastor, being who he is, never retreats during these late-night collisions and, to be fair to someone who does not deserve it, Lucifer is delightfully reticent too.
Silent camaraderie like that tends to unearth memories; dark trenches, pungent mud and lingering gunpowder smoke lit by meagre cigarette embers. The less Alastor considers those grim recollections, the better.
Right now, in a present untouched by military stalemates, Alastor is alone in the staff kitchen. Unlike the one which caters to guests - clinical, steel and lifeless - the room around him is almost homey, whitewashed shaker cabinets that could be handcrafted if he hadn't seen Lucifer conjuring them, polished oak countertops and the gas-stove oven Alastor is currently positioned in front of. His hob-top percolator is slower than that ghastly modern contraption used by the other inhabitants, but one cannot argue with the rich flavours it produces from his meticulously ground beans. There are many things which Hell ruins simply through existence and Alastor is exceedingly glad that coffee is not an example.
He would truly lose what is left of his sanity if that were the case.
Over the following hours, the hotel awakens. In dribs and drabs, its regulars filter into the kitchen, greeting Alastor with varying degrees of cheer, and his coffee - kept warm by a tiny flutter of magic - slowly recedes in his bespoke 'duck season' mug with every passing acquaintance. The most recent is Charlie, peppy as she always is, who goes above and beyond everyone else in both greeting him, and launching into a conversation.
"And I know, I know," she laughs, merry and tinkling, "you're not a babysitter, and I'm not asking you to be, but I mean," and rotates her own mug in her hands, "it is the entertainment district and-,"
"Unfortunately, Charlotte, as much as it pains me that I cannot be your escort," Alastor tells her, standing with his now empty mug and carrying it to the Belfast sink, "I have other business to attend to this morning,"
"Oh," Charlie sounds genuinely disappointed in her open way, "okay, that's okay, I'm sure I'll be fine with Vaggie beside me,"
"I'm sure you will," after upending his rinsed mug on the sideboard, Alastor twirls in place and blesses her with his biggest fake grin, "your angelic beau is quite the savant when it comes to her deadly weapon and your protection. Why, I'd argue that you could not possibly be in safer hands!"
"Aw," Charlie simpers, her smile earnest and soft, "thank you, Alastor,"
"You are most welcome, my dear," Alastor inclines his head, twirls his microphone for effect, and allows his shadows to engulf him.
He has, of course, twisted the truth somewhat. Whilst he will have business to attend to, his prerogative and Charlie's are intertwined. The hotel, for all its glaring faults and irritating 'guests', is attached to his reputation, and the last thing he wants or needs is a certain, egotistical flat screen behaving in a way which might upset his life's carefully maintained balance. Where would he get such easy entertainment if not here? Nowhere else is anywhere near as pitiful on a daily basis.
Speaking of pitiful, his shadows coalesce him in the corridor separating the two penthouse suites or, more accurately, right at Lucifer's door. This is confusing. Namely, because the human-adjacent being has an uncanny knack for wriggling under Alastor's skin as yet unseen from any others, but equally due to why in Hell Alastor's shadows deposited him here. The control he usually exhibits has lapsed somehow, allowing the shadows to send him somewhere he cannot begin to understand, and no amount of frowning at the apple carved upon the door's surface provides any concrete answers.
Stranger still, Alastor steps closer, resting his forehead over the apple and shutting his eyes. It isn't difficult for him to seek sound, even here through Lucifer's wards, and what he hears is... Not a lot. Shuffling, sleepy murmuring; sheets whispering. All signs that Lucifer slumbers away, ignorant to the world, and no reason whatsoever for why Alastor feels transfixed, like his feet have become stuck in industrial-strength glue. Almost as though he craves proximity to the underwhelming king.
Nonsense, he thinks sharply and cuts himself free, swerving off down the hall towards his own room, I must be going doolally.
His disorientating confusion reaches a head hours later. Trailing after Charlie in shadows, slipping between them as easily as skimming a hand through water, was ordinary, as was watching her and Vaggie be ignored by any passing sinner they tried to foist flyers upon. Angel Dust, fresh off a shift, eventually joined them, not to assist in flyer distribution but to simply chain smoke nearby, and because he follows the lanky pornstar wherever he goes, Husker too. Again, normal.
And then hired goons carrying Voxtech gadgetry and wielding Wrath-forged weaponry attempted to launch a surprise attack. Alastor relished the chance, leaping from shadows and stretching his mental muscles alongside physical ones, branching beyond imitation mortality into his fearsome eldritch form. Which is what led him here, humbled by angelic steel and his own poor decision making, bleeding out in Lucifer's arms. The moment where the air shifted, where the spear slicing through the air caught his senses and he acted without forethought, there had been a pull, a lurching tug beneath his sternum. Before he knew it, he was a barrier between Lucifer and harm, a shield hewn from flesh and bone; a sacrifice to a divinity he usually abhors.
"Hey, don't speak," Lucifer tells him, gentle and caring in a manner which makes Alastor's dying pulse skip, "I can't heal you, but I can dull your pain. Blink once for yes; twice for no."
Alastor is on fire. The holy blade is seeping its antimatter poison into his bloodstream, scorching him inside and out in the worst kind of absolution, and his trademark grin is fading. He is fading. Pain is excruciating, incessant and harsh like direct sunlight; everything he is melting and smouldering without pause. But he doesn't want pity or charity, so he blinks twice, dislodging an embarrassing tear that, strangely, Lucifer wipes away, concealing his torment in an act of kindness that Alastor can't understand.
But nothing, absolutely nothing either Hellish or Heavenly, compares to how painful it is watching tears form within Lucifer's eyes. For him; those tears are for him. Until that point, Alastor thought he wanted that, to see Lucifer suffer, and yet his morbid delirium hastens to disagree, sending his hand up to caress those tears away.
He is cold. Cold, aching and so, so very tired. And still, he uses what little energy is left for comfort. How unreasonably ironic. Alastor tells Lucifer that he doesn't want his tears, that he doesn't want to be their cause, but... Everything goes black, all colours running away and all light extinguishing.
And then, after floating endlessly in the absence of life...
-
Vox wakes. Alone and sprawled amongst elegant, navy silk sheets, his screen half-submerged in an ergonomic pillow, he acknowledges the hand which has outstretched to the empty space beside him in the night, curls his fingers inwards, and closes his eyes above a deep sigh. Val hasn't stayed; Val never stays. The Vox who exists on the outside, the one with all the charm and detachment, isn't bothered. But the other, the one who still carries his old name like a tarnished medal, is burdened with a hollow ache, a coldness around his core which never rises to the surface. Fuck.
Rolling onto his back, drawing his hands down his monitor and leaving brief imprints in their wake, Vox stares, unseeing, at the dark ceiling above him - too high for his LCD light to reach - and places his palms on his quietly thrumming chest as though trying to encourage warmth within. If he were less than he is, if he were in the habit of vulnerability, maybe he would find Val, coax him back to bed, and talk about the importance of non-sexual intimacy, but he doesn't; can't. Instead, he climbs laboriously out of bed, uses his internal server's connection to the room around him to switch the lights on, and stretches. Beneath his skin, cybernetic elements whir merrily and, on his ribs, ocean blue vents exhale as though they are windows exposing his lungs.
"Another day in paradise," he mutters mordantly and pads across thick-pile carpeting, heading for the walk-in wardrobe to get himself less naked.
He has nowhere immediate to be, so he dresses down, here meaning navy blue slacks and a white collared shirt, collects visually plain yet exceedingly expensive accessories from a dressing table, stares blankly at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and turns away with a sigh. He needs coffee. In the old days, in the chapter of his afterlife which marks the beginning of Volume Two: After Alastor, he would have had his morning brew with a breakfast of cocaine, but he needed it then, when a world which had been vintage crimson and comforting radio static turned empty blue and silent.
He should probably stop mourning a relationship which died decades ago. Probably.
The apartment he spends little time in takes up the entire top floor of Voxtech's tower, boasting open-plan spaces, a state-of-the-art kitchen, sleek modern living room and a thin layer of dust everywhere except the kitchen countertops. He sees the irony in this, of course he does - he and irony are old friends - but Vincent is the one who wanted this, not Vox, and Vincent is miserable without anyone to share it with, so Vox keeps away. A less maladjusted person might be troubled by this distinction between the old him and the new, but he hasn't been adjusted since...
Well, it's been a long time.
Alastor probably doesn't even think about it; Vox definitely shouldn't, but sentimentality is load-bearing to his operating system and can't be deleted, no matter how much it pains him.
Sufficiently caffeinated and after placating the hole in his soul with food, Vox takes the elevator down a floor and heads for his control room. He likes it here, where electrical hums vibrate off the walls and every process can be managed with mere flicks of his fingers; where the facsimile life pulsing through his cables merges effortlessly alongside the ones held by high definition monitors, uninterrupted WiFi connections and, despite his belief that the waves are clunky and a touch outdated, Bluetooth signals. Here, he can connect the USB port on his inner wrist to one of his external drives and siphon out the memories which are painted crimson and smell like Sazerac.
It isn't quite the same as forgetting, but it helps dull the ache.
Tuning into the monitor which shows a distinct perimeter and cobbled-together facade, Vox sinks into his custom-made office chair, props his feet up on the desk, and settles down to observe. At first, his gaze drifts to the precarious radio station festooned to one side and, hating the aggrieved clunk which catches his unsuspecting motherboard, scowls whilst redirecting his stare to the hotel's other side. He saw the jaunty apple perched there before word reached him about its occupant, at which point a seed was planted amongst his fine-tuned synapses. Seventy years he has lived in Hell, a lifetime by Earth's standards, and throughout it all he believed Lucifer was a distant figurehead. The King of Hell, absent and practically divorced from both marriage and his reign, not seen and not heard like a traumatized child; an unfit ruler if ever there was one.
And then, during one of his late nights in the wake of an argument with Val, he saw something which let the seed sprout into curiosity. His cameras pointing at the hotel's rooftop terrace picked up Lucifer first, perching on the railing with his - even Vox can admit - stunning wings spread and his face upturned in melancholy contemplation. In that moment, Vox leant forwards, eyes focusing, and scripture learned during tedious Sunday School lessons as a child leapt from his memories, using the collection of symmetrical features, cornsilk hair and mystical eyes as evidence towards an irrefutable fact: that Lucifer, first of God's creations and first to receive paternal scorn, is beautiful. Breathtaking and golden like a sunrise which, of course; he is the Morning Star.
He almost didn't see Alastor, so distracting was this new fluttering elevation in his CPU, until Lucifer's misery sharpened, inclining to a figure at his side, and Vox couldn't avoid noticing the tall, elegant crimson frame standing at the railing. What a pair they made, their colour palettes inverted yet almost matching, but what surprised Vox more than anything was the lack of action or words. The demon and the angel looked at each other - a beat too long if Vox is counting - and then continued watching over the city as though this was normal, as though they could be comfortable around one another. He didn't know Lucifer and still doesn't, but seeing Alastor, champion of sharp words and animosity, relax in that way was... Jarring.
Thus began a new obsession. Whilst still Alastor related, tracking the radio demon's movements became an accompaniment to following another's, until Vox found himself looking for that white top hat just as often as the scarlet coat which won't leave his memories. So, when the day leads him to sending a few lackeys into the entertainment district in the hopes that he can aggravate the princess and bring Alastor out of hiding, his pulse skips when, minutes after Alastor starts eating any unfortunate pedestrians, a whirl of scarlet and gold deposits Lucifer at his daughter's side.
Which brings him here, crouched on a rooftop out of sight, and watching Lucifer hover around Alastor's gigantic, snarling head whilst smirking as if he has nothing to fear from eldritch nightmare creatures. Vox supposes he doesn't, being who he is; he has probably seen and been targeted by worse.
Alastor grabs Lucifer mid-air and that's odd. In all the time Vox has known him, Alastor rarely touches anyone unless absolutely necessary, either in aid of manipulation or otherwise. But the occurrence which has him leaning forwards, putting all his processing power into zooming in and tuning out all other inputs, is Alastor shrinking down to normal size, holding Lucifer against him in what can only be called an embrace, and leaning into him like... Well, like he is about to kiss him. And Lucifer stares, blinking away his devilish accoutrements and holding onto Alastor's arm.
What. The fuck. Is going on?
The scream snaps Vox back to reality, his gaze zooming out and swerving towards its source, but Charlotte isn't hurt, isn't even moving - is locked in her angelic girlfriend's arms - and is directing her wild-eyed stare at...
Oh. Fuck no.
Everything inside of Vox freezes as if experiencing a coolant leak. In slow motion, he watches Alastor cough blood, collapse in a disjointed tumble, and be caught in Lucifer's swift-moving arms before he hits the curb. An angelic spearhead, terrifying and silver, is jutting from Alastor's middle. No. No, no, no. This isn't how this is supposed to end, not like this.
He is at ground level before he can comprehend the electrical charges sparking around his limbs, before he can wrap his head around what he is seeing and what it really means. When he finds himself again, he is standing beside Lucifer, limbs rigid and empty, and looking anywhere except at Alastor's agonised glare is impossible. Don't die, he tells him in his mind, don't make me go on without you. But these are Vincent's words, not his, so he doesn't say them.
"Al, I didn't-," he hears himself actually say, "that wasn't one of my guys, I'd never-,"
"Hush, you," Alastor croaks back and Vox wishes he wouldn't exert himself, "ours was never a sentimental rivalry and I will not have you ruining-," feedback whistles as his face contorts and grief wells up through Vox's core, drowning his circuits, when he realises he may never hear it again.
Lucifer hushes Alastor, caressing his cheek and soothing him, and Vox is hit by a jealousy which, on the surface appears ordinary; why did Alastor never let him use such gentility? But in flitting his gaze between Lucifer's entrenched misery and Alastor's unwavering attention on the monarch, Vox gains confusion too, one which wonders how he can get Lucifer to look at him that way. He must be losing it, must be experiencing a glitch because Alastor is fucking dying like a selfish prick, how fucking dare he?
Yet again, he hears Charlotte before anything else settles upon his awareness. He doesn't need to look, to see the lack of breaths rising in that bony chest or the snuffed-out light in those painfully familiar eyes because there is a new silence beneath Hell's usual soundscape.
No more static, his mind tells him and that might just be the most agonising thought Vox has ever had.
He drops, knees ringing as they hit the sidewalk, and reaches out to- what, touch? Comfort someone who will no longer feel it? He never makes contact. Lucifer snarls, fire spilling between his teeth and horns bursting from his brow, and twists away from him, gathering Alastor's cooling remains to his chest.
"Dad, it's okay," Charlie soothes, voice breaking around tears, and Vox blinks at his unlikely saviour, "they used to be friends, he won't hurt him,"
Friends, Alastor's ghost whispers cruelly in Vox's memories, there are no friends in Hell, Vincent.
You fucking idiot, Vox replies, his mind crumbling in a way his exterior cannot, I said friends because I couldn't say-
"It's fine, princess," he says coolly and stands, not looking anywhere except the body in Lucifer's impenetrable embrace, "I can tell when I'm not wanted." Until he slopes an unbothered gaze to her, feeling nothing for her big, wet eyes and shaky frown, "if there's a funeral, you know where to find me," and zips away into a nearby power line.