olive branch

...When The Devil Heals A Sinner

Last night's chill was no more than a memory when Lucifer woke up the next morning, no match for Hell's sun. Pentagram City is finally righting itself, Sinners creeping from their homes and businesses, more cautious than they were during their first Extermination Day, all too wary to believe the Exorcists are really gone this time.

Rising from his bed, Lucifer readies himself for the day, sure Charlie's already planned out all their activities. As he makes his way down to the lobby, their unofficial gathering place, he combs his fingers through his hair, adjusting his hat where it lays crooked on his head. He summons his cane with a flourish, humming an old song he can't quite remember the name of but likes nonetheless. 

When he reaches the first floor, he's only marginally surprised to see Alastor already there, suit prim and proper, not a wrinkle on it. His lips are stretched wide into a cheshire grin, eyes crinkled at the corners. He's humming his own song, but much like last night, Lucifer can hear the dissonant tune it carries. He wonders if Alastor even notices it, and it's with this thought he realizes it's a performance—an act.

His posture is too rigid, like his limbs are cut from stone. His smile is too wide, like he's hiding a grimace, and there's an energy thrumming in him, one Lucifer is all too familiar with.

Angelic power.

Lucifer exhales in a rush, stray observations finally connecting over the last week.

He's dying.

A few thoughts rush in quick succession through his mind, all scrambling to be the loudest.

He's dying—Charlie will be sad—he's in pain—why is he hiding it—pain pain PAIN—

The holy energy of Alastor's wound radiates off him in waves, and Lucifer wonders how he first missed it. He had been busy repairing the hotel, and then helping Charlie prepare for its reopening with the others, but he still should've noticed.

When he properly enters the lobby, steps muted, Alastor quiets, sharp eyes zeroing in on him like a hawk. Lucifer can't help but feel like a fieldmouse, caught in his piercing gaze.

Clearing his throat, he tentatively says, "Al?"

Alastor's head cricks to the side, a silent challenge. Lucifer abruptly realizes he knows he knows.

Not one to be bested by a Sinner, a dying one at that, he says with more force, "Al."

"Yes, Your Highness?" Alastor somehow manages to make the title sound sarcastic, watching Lucifer with thin amusement. He has the insane notion Alastor's an actual deer, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

"Can I talk to you for a minute, Al?"

"Why, you already are, Sire." Alastor hums, tune crackling. Fucker.

"In private," he hisses, shoulders locking as he hears commotion from upstairs. The others will be down soon.

Alastor hums again, smile thinning. It feels like a warning.

Lucifer's eyes narrow, jaw setting, radiating his own warning. We can do this somewhere else, or where everyone can see. Your choice.

With a long sigh like it's the most inconvenient thing ever asked of him, Alastor stands, back rigid as a tree trunk. He silently leads the way to the back of the hotel, towards the kitchen. Niffty won't be in until after Charlie lays out the day, giving them an hour.

The kitchen is an odd mix between modern and archaic, thanks to Alastor. After the initial renovations, he had fought valiantly for modifications, apparently offended with the stainless steal appliances. Lucifer had argued that they would need cutting-edge equipment to meet the demand of the Sinners already lining up to sign in, while Alastor insisted it wasn't necessary. Charlie eventually stepped in, allowing Alastor to change a small portion of the kitchen to his preference, where he could do his own cooking. Lucifer frankly thought it was excessive to give one demon his own corner of the kitchen, but had eventually relented when Charlie reasoned it would mean not having to constantly reshape the kitchen when Alastor inevitably tried to magic it his way.