Alastor spends the rest of the day in relaxation – running a nice long shower, listening to some superb Dixieland on the radio, even indulging in a spot of tap dancing across his dimly lit rooms. Once he grows peckish, he sits into the more integrated swamp backyard right off his parlor and enjoys a juicy rare venison steak. His mood and the lingering aftertaste of Lucifer on his tongue provides delicious seasoning to his meal. For the first time in five weeks, his food tastes something other than bland. Alastor heard the smell of those particular fluids usually left much to be desired, but he presumes that doesn't pertain to fallen celestial beings, as Lucifer's ejaculate tasted decidedly less fusty and more… clean somehow. Like bitter rain perhaps, except with a slightly more unpleasant texture.
Even the fact his tail has been discovered by Lucifer hasn't managed to put a damper on his mood. Alastor has taken to hiding it assiduously, as it doesn't at all fit with the image he's trying to portray, but he supposes that Lucifer won't molest him about it if Alastor forbids him to. With all his vaunted talk of boundaries (utter nonsense, an excuse for those too weak to take what they wanted), Alastor supposes Lucifer will keep his hands to himself until Alastor invites it (and in case of his tail, that would be precisely NEVER).
Still, having something new he can leverage against Lucifer is a decidedly good thing. Alastor wonders how long it will take for Lucifer to beg to touch it and what exactly he would be willing to give up for it – a taste of his precious blood, perhaps? It's been so long since Alastor's last sampled it, and no matter how not-unpleasant Lucifer's seed was, it couldn't hold a candle to the ambrosial delicacy of his divine blood.
Flattery – Alastor reminded himself – flattery was the key to success. This meek play-pretend business was sure to be tiring in short order, but the stakes were high enough to warrant the use of such measures. Just like he'd lured Husker into giving his soul away by losing a few hands first, Lucifer is going to be no different. Alastor simply has more skin in the game than before.
He reads the day's newspapers, keeping up with the latest gossip from other Rings as he hums along a few Jelly Roll Morton tunes. Ah, that man was good with the crowds. For a moment, he's transported back home, to his glory days – when he used to report on his own crimes over the radio between the latest jazz hits. Those were the good times. Especially because he could go for a drink after work to one of his favorite haunts and listen to people discuss the latest disappearances with mingled terror and relief. People would ask him for his input on the matter, which he was more than happy to provide. It proved a delightful diversion (of every kind).
It is approximately around eleven in the evening that he gets a knock on the door. His ears perk up. If it's Charlie, he's going to be very disappointed. If it's Niffty, he'd be terribly surprised she knocked (as she was more liable to crawl in through the chimney, even with a fire going).
Alastor hopes it's Lucifer, the idea of the King of Hell coming to him without even a full day having passed… How delightful of a prospect that would be?
There's another knock on his door, and Alastor slowly rises from his seat – it wouldn't do to appear too eager. He strolls to his door and smoothly opens it, narrowly avoiding getting knocked on the head by Lucifer's tacky apple staff.
"Oh!" Lucifer exclaims, "I was beginning to think you were out."
"No, I was looking at some sheet music," Alastor lies through his teeth.
"Right, I remember you can play the piano."
"Not just the piano," Alastor says smugly. "Do come in, don't hover at the door."
Lucifer enters, bedecked once again in his full outfit and utterly ridiculous top hat. Alastor privately thinks that it looks so undignified, why; a serpent circlet or even a tiara would suit him much better. No wonder no one is taking him seriously in this getup.
Alastor leads Lucifer to his seating area in front of the fireplace and offers him the left armchair, which Lucifer graciously lowers himself into.
"Can I get you anything?" Alastor offers under the guise of politeness. "Coffee? Whisky?"
"Are those my only two options?" Lucifer asks, sounding somewhat disappointed.
"There's a bottle of moonshine I've been keeping for a special occasion, provided you're interested?"
"That's…a bit too hard for my tastes." Lucifer trails off. "I wouldn't mind a glass of whisky, I suppose."
Ah, so it was a liquid courage kind of night? Alastor could work with that.
"Splendid, let me fetch some glasses." Alastor says amiably and heads towards his (admittedly rather sparse) liquor cabinet. Aside from the aforementioned whisky and moonshine, there's a bottle of Rosie's favorite sherry, which Alastor isn't inclined to share with anyone other than the intended recipient. The image of Lucifer primly sipping on sherry is, however, a deeply amusing (and slightly emasculating) one.
He takes two of his crystal whisky glasses between his fingers and the whisky bottle as well. Better keep it on hand to dose Lucifer if he proves amenable. With a genial smile of a perfect host, Alastor strides back to the coffee table wedged squarely between the armchairs for optimal distance, and deposits their glasses on the table.
"One finger?" Alastor asks as he uncorks the bottle. "Or perhaps two?"
"Uh, one is fine."
Just one – how pathetic is that? Alastor hopes Lucifer is a lightweight, that way he can still hopefully get some entertainment out of the evening.
He pours liberally, a shade more than the proscribed finger, but Lucifer doesn't offer a protest. Then he pours himself the equivalent amount, corks the bottle and deposits it on the table between them before seating himself in the other chair. Alastor crosses his legs and takes hold of his glass, leaning forward slightly with his glass held lightly in his grasp.
"What shall we toast to?"
Lucifer seems taken aback as he hastens to pick up his glass. "I don't know? What do you want to toast to?"
How boring of him.
"To civility," Alastor says in an airy tone and clinks his glass against Lucifer's.
"Hah," Lucifer offers a brief chuckle. "To civility, then."
With a significant look, Alastor brings the glass to his lips and reminds himself not to knock it back like he used to during the Prohibition, where it was prudent never to be caught with a full glass – just in case of an impromptu raid by the authorities. To be fair, Alastor never saw them make much of an effort, as the entirety of New Orleans was gleefully flaunting the law; from the many home-brewers making moonshine, to the smugglers making a living through rum-running. Ah, the free spirit of his hometown – Alastor misses it so.
Lucifer takes a small sip, and doesn't react to the burn of the liquor, which is both encouraging and saddening at the same time.
"Quite strong," Lucifer comments. "Peaty, I like it."
Alastor's grin turns a fraction more genuine.
"Drink a lot of whisky in your spare time, your Majesty?" Alastor asks mockingly, though quite mild by his standards.
"Is there a single soul in this hellhole that hasn't at some point sought answers at the bottom of a glass?"
"If not before their untimely demise, then surely after." Alastor graciously concedes the point. He savors the burn on his tongue and the warmth crawling down his throat. He truly should partake more often.
Lucifer offers a wan smile and takes another sip, this one more substantial. Alastor observes the movement of that eminently bitable throat and sucks on his own tongue, imagining the burst of flavor Lucifer's divine blood would provide.
Lucifer hums, swirling the remainder of the liquid in his glass. With an absent-minded wave of his hand, a gold-rimmed glass appears on the table, half-filled with a clear liquid and a tiny dropper.
Alastor is tempted to ask what in the tarnation Lucifer is doing, but he fails to come up with anything witty enough to say before Lucifer picks the dropper up, sucks up a minute amount of liquid from the summoned vessel, and proceeds to dose his whisky with a single drop. After that's done, he deposits the dropper back into the gold-rimmed glass and picks his drink back up, passing it back and forth under his nose to, presumably, savor its scent.
Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Alastor succumbs: "May I inquire as to what you are doing?"
Lucifer looks at him with utter incomprehension. "What do you mean?"
"What did you add there?" And why, which remains unspoken.
Lucifer blinks three times. "…water?"
"A single drop?" Alastor quirks an eyebrow about as high as it can go.
"Yeah," Lucifer says, clearly perturbed by the discussion. "One drop is enough."
"What for?" Alastor asks, genuinely befuddled.
Lucifer looks to the side, blinking rapidly like his brain has been switched off. He turns slowly to Alastor and points to the glass still clutched in his left hand – "Um, to bring out more flavor?"
Alastor tilts his head almost all the way to his left shoulder. "To do what now?"
"Are you deaf?" Lucifer narrows his eyes. "I already told you – it's used to enhance the taste. That's how they do it in Scotland – you know – the place it was originally invented?"
Alastor returns his neck back to its usual position. He cannot help but point out: "This isn't scotch, your Majesty."
"So fucking what?" Lucifer says defiantly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment at being contradicted. "I was going to offer you to try it, but now you can fuck off and drink yours like a heathen."
"It enhances the taste, you said?" Alastor inquires, intrigued despite himself.
Lucifer gives him a venomous glare and gulps down the rest, letting it linger in his mouth a moment longer before swallowing. He manages all this without breaking eye contact with Alastor.
"Fine," Alastor sighs theatrically, "a drop, you said?"
Before Alastor can reach for the dropper, Lucifer floats it out of his reach like the petty little clown he is.
"That's the second apology you owe me today. Or is it third?" Lucifer's annoyed frown is somehow both hilarious and adorable.
"Oh?" Alastor purrs. "Were you keeping score?"
"I suspect I will be forced to," Lucifer says honestly. "Why can't you be a normal person for literally five minutes, huh? Would it kill you? 'Cause I'm starting to suspect it might."
"How was I supposed to react?" Alastor asks, genuinely perplexed by Lucifer's gripe. This wasn't even in the top one hundred rude remarks he's made to Lucifer since the beginning of their acquaintance.
"A normal person would take in the information provided instead of ridiculing the person trying to teach them something."
"It seemed arbitrary to me," Alastor shrugs.
"So much for civility." Lucifer sighs and looks Alastor in the eye with an imploring look. "Please, Alastor. I didn't come here to fight."
Whoever said that please was a magic word (oh, it was his maman), was apparently right, because, while Alastor doesn't want to concede an inch, he senses he's pushing Lucifer's limits too early in the evening.
"Oh, alright." Alastor says with an exaggerated air of concession. "I apologize for ridiculing your attempts at teaching me how to imbibe like a proper Scotsman."
Lucifer keeps the glass where it is, far away from Alastor's (bodily) grasp. He could always snatch it with a tendril, but that would only piss Lucifer off further.
"That apology was absolutely abysmal." Lucifer says flatly. "Care to try again?"
Alastor feels ticked. "I apologize for my ingratitude."
Lucifer's expression remains profoundly unimpressed. "Can you at least pretend you actually mean it? Your acting is shit."
Alastor feels hard-pressed to mention that his face was made for radio, but manages to barely restrain himself.
"Fine!" Alastor snaps. "I should have let you finish before running a commentary."
Lucifer looks reluctantly impressed. "You know, that was pretty good. Thank you, apology accepted."
Alastor takes in a deep breath. "May I have the dropper now?"
A corner of Lucifer's mouth quirks up in a decently charming smile. "Nope," he says, the last syllable popping like a kernel of popcorn."One down, two to go."
"What am I supposed to apologize for, exactly?"
"You really can't think of anything?"
Alastor takes a damnably slow sip of his whisky. "Are you referring to my exit earlier today?"
"What else would I be referring to?!"
Alastor shrugs, affecting nonchalance. "The timing felt appropriate."
"What, a fuck-em and fuck-off strategy? Real smooth."
Alastor frowns. "Were you expecting me to linger?"
"You were in my bed. Had I wanted to kick you out, you would have been flying out my window at five in the morning."
Alastor grins. "That would have been hard to explain, what with me being in a state of undress…"
Lucifer flushes with anger. "You can turn into shadow in less than a second, if anyone saw you naked, it would be because you wanted them to!"
Alastor concedes a point in Lucifer's favor.
"Would it have killed you to stay a bit longer and part ways like a normal person?"
"Define normal."
Lucifer expels a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm down. "Ok, I forgot who I was speaking to for a moment."
Alastor raises an eyebrow in question.
"A fucking two-hundred year old man who somehow has less experience with relationships than an average fifteen-year old on Earth."
Alastor finds himself distinctly irritated. "Your point being?"
"For someone obsessed with the notion of civility and feigned politeness, your grasp on social expectations is vanishingly minuscule."
Alastor drains the rest of his glass. Fuck Lucifer's pompous little ritual in particular.
"Did you want me to stay and cuddle?" Alastor says venomously, left hand gripping the edge of his armchair in a manner that threatens to rend fabric.
"I would have actually liked that, yes!" Lucifer exclaims, utterly exasperated.
Alastor's brain stutters to a screeching halt, like automobile tires grinding to a stop before they hit a pram. "You what?" He asks dumbly.
"Yes, Alastor, I am that fucking desperate that I actually wouldn't mind a warm and willing body lying next to me for an hour or two. Are you going to mock me for that as well?"
The gold-rimmed glass avec dropper lands back on the table with a deafening clunk.
For once, Alastor finds himself rendered entirely speechless. Lucifer wants…
"You want…" Alastor tries to comprehend, but fails to coalesce a thought.
"I want some Goddamn intimacy, yes. Sue me!" Lucifer says crossly and reaches for Alastor's whisky, pouring himself half a glass. Alastor cannot even find it in him to be mad that Lucifer is burning through the stuff, he's that stunned.
"I…" Alastor says haltingly, "…wasn't aware."
"Yeah," Lucifer says with the glass raised in mock-toast. "That's become pretty clear."
Alastor stares as Lucifer drains a quarter of the glass and then bares his teeth with a hiss.
"Great. Now that you know, would you have stayed?" Lucifer asks, expression betraying his utter lack of expectations towards a positive answer and Alastor feels somewhat…strange about it. Would he have left regardless?
The answer is a resounding yes. He definitely wanted Lucifer to be disappointed by his leaving. But knowing Lucifer is angry and wanting more is somehow different to knowing Lucifer was left feeling…worse off? Not the unquantifiable worse-off of wanting more and being denied, but the worse-off of accepting what was essentially scraps.
Alastor needed Lucifer in a good mood – a giving mood – not this… abject dejection. What the Hell was he supposed to do about dejection? Lucifer was already miserably depressed most of the time and Alastor found it annoying and bothersome to observe on a daily basis. Horny-puppy Lucifer was better than abandoned-in-the-rain Lucifer.
"I can stay in the future," Alastor says quietly.
Lucifer looks at him like he sprouted three additional heads. "Hah! Funny joke–" Lucifer raises his glass, voice strained. "–almost had me there."
"I'm not joking," Alastor says seriously, his smile as dim as his stitches allow.
Lucifer gives him a hurt look and leans back in his chair, holding the glass in both hands and staring into the amber liquid contained within.
"Ask me after midnight if you don't believe me." Alastor offers.
Lucifer squeezes his eyes shut, expression pained. His breathing is…unnatural. Rushed, labored; somehow wrong.
"You were right." Lucifer says in a strange tone, eyes shut tight, almost like he's afraid of opening them. Alastor is too absorbed in trying to decipher what's happening to interrupt. "You were right and I hate it."
Alastor forgets to breathe.
"I let everything around me fall to shit."
Alastor lowers his glass, resting it against his knee.
"I shut myself away to stop…" Lucifer shudders, expression pained." I just wanted everything to stop."
Alastor watches, unblinking – frozen in place.
"Seeing them suffer, more and more arriving every day, trapped forever –" Lucifer's breath hitches with a painful spasm, the whisky in his glass sloshing around as his black fingers tighten around it in a bruising grasp. Alastor has the vague impression the glass might soon shatter. "–and knowing I can't stop it, knowing it is futile to even try–"
Alastor jerks forward in his seat, torn between conflicting impulses – one is to act, the other – to listen.
Lucifer's voice breaks on the words, like a ship running aground in a deadly storm. "It destroyed me."
Alastor fears what comes next – the tears, or worse, and doesn't know what to say.
Lucifer swallows and his head drops down. Alastor hears a subtle noise that could almost be a sob, but when it happens again, he realizes it's actually…laughter?
Lucifer's eyes open, remarkably free of tears.
"Come on, mock me."
Alastor would like nothing better, but genuinely finds himself at a loss for words.
"Tell me I am weak."
Alastor grits his teeth.
"Tell me I am pathetic."
Alastor says nothing.
"Tell me it's all my fault."
Alastor shakes his head – to clear his thoughts – to deny – to–
"Tell me I am a waste of life! A failed King who cannot even fucking die!" Lucifer growls in self-recrimination. "Tell me, Alastor!"
For a brief moment, Alastor considers – the weight of every single human life that ever lived – man, woman, and child – how heavy would that be on someone who actually cared?
"Rip me to shreds, you bitch–" Lucifer spits venomously, "–what are you hesitating for?!"
Much to Alastor's confusion, the sight elicits a reaction he utterly fails to comprehend – he gets achingly, hopelesslyhard.
"You want me to punish you? Is that it?" Alastor says deceptively calmly.
"I thought I was punishing myself, but perhaps I'm not capable of that. Maybe I need someone as twisted, unfeeling, and entirely unrepentant as you are for that."
"You sound almost grateful." Alastor notes, perturbed by his visceral physical reaction to what he's witnessing.
"I hate you." Lucifer says emphatically.
Oh, is it hate now? Alastor must be coming up in the world.
"The feeling's mutual," Alastor says blithely, even though the word doesn't fully fit the sentiment percolating in his veins.
"You're everything that's wrong with humanity – the utter lack of empathy for your fellow man – the complete disregard for what another person may be feeling – the acrid, all-consuming selfishness of you!"
"Oh, am I the embodiment of all sin now?" Alastor says snidely, putting his glass on the table before he shatters it in his rage.
"You're the embodiment of MY sin!" Lucifer shouts, horns exploding out of his forehead, eyes flooding with crimson and gold, the fire burning effervescently above his hair, like the echo of a forsaken halo he once possessed.
He must be the most arresting creature in all of creation, with his eyes incandescent with pure, unfiltered fury that feels more like a benediction than a million prayers could ever hope to manage.
"Prideful and oblivious to consequences! And so certain that every action you're taking is the correct one!" Lucifer snarls and downs the rest of the liquid in his glass before hurtling it full force into the fireplace where it explodes into a million pieces, the dregs of alcohol still clinging onto the glass igniting for a blinding moment.
Alastor trembles in his seat.
"Tell me what you want," Alastor utters, throat barely functioning around the rasp of his words.
"I want to murder you." Lucifer says in a low, menacing growl that goes straight to Alastor's cock.
"That's…not on the menu," Alastor barely manages to say, radio static invading the air between them as his antlers sprout out, entirely against his will.
"What if I'm in the mood for venison tonight?" Lucifer says dangerously, and Alastor groans helplessly in his seat as a full-body quiver overtakes him; like a million volts of electricity coursing through his undead body.
The radio flickers from station to station, unable to follow Alastor's commands, as he isn't capable of rational thought.
"Stop asking," Alastor growls, deep and feral like an animal dying of rabies. "And take it, my King."
Like a demon possessed, Lucifer rises from his seat, crimson wings sprouting from his form and carrying him across the table to Alastor, where he hovers above him like a malevolent spirit looking down upon his hapless victim.
"You dare mock me."
Alastor stares up helplessly. It wasn't intended as such. A provocation, to be sure, but not mockery.
Lucifer raises a black, clawed hand and with a motion worthy of a puppeteer master, every single stitch of Alastor's clothing comes undone and splits apart, turning to ash.
"You're aroused," Lucifer notices at last. "What did I tell you – suicidal. Mad as a hatter."
"Speaking of hats, take yours off."
"Why?"
"It makes you look stupid."
"Hah, I was under the impression you actually believed I was," Lucifer says wryly, his demonic grin legitimately terrifying.
"No. I don't think that at all." Alastor says and genuinely cannot tell whether it's the truth, or some primitive sense of self-preservation kicking in at last.
Lucifer says nothing, and with a snap of his fingers, he's completely bared to Alastor's gaze, his clothing banished who knows where.
Alastor is torn, so torn–
"Are you lonely?" he asks Lucifer, attempting to uphold the stipulation of their deal.
"Who wouldn't be–" Lucifer chuckles, staring him down, his gaze like a long and sharp pin stabbing into a butterfly. "–with you for company?"
Somewhere deep, Alastor feels that stab, right in the center of his ribcage.
"You said you wanted to ruin me," Lucifer sing-songs mockingly. "Well, give it your best shot."