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“Hey, dad?”
“Hm, what’s up?” Lucifer hums, peeling another sliver of apple skin off of the fruit in his hand with a thin paring knife. He’s planning on cutting a couple of apples up for Charlie and taking them up to her, except he’s seen them done up all nice before to look like little bunnies and he’s pretty sure he can manage the same thing except with little duckies. That seems like it would be a cute thing to do for his daughter: she loved them as a kid, and you’re never too old for fruit! Gotta get those vitamins! There’s no sun in hell, after all, just the oppressive and looming light of heaven!
He could probably magic an actual duck-shaped apple into existence if he put his mind to it, but he’s pretty sure doing it like that skips the ‘special ingredient: love’ step of the whole thing.
“—even listening to me, dad?”
Lucifer jumps, blinking. Shit! “Oh, hey, Charlie! What’re you, uh—wha-what’s going on with you? Hey, you still like apples, right?”
“What?” Charlie asks, frowning. “I mean, sure?”
“Great!” he says. Maybe he should get an orange, too. “What were you saying?”
She sighs, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the kitchen counter. She looks a lot like her mother when she does that, and it fills Lucifer with both impossible fondness and a kind of… niggling little ache, right behind his breastbone. Probably indigestion.
“—not acting like himself,” she’s saying, “and I’m worried. He usually likes to cook…”
“Oh, yeah!” Lucifer blurts, patting the countertop. He’s rolled up his sleeves to peel the apples, and the marble surface of it is a little cold shock against his palm. “And the new kitchen’s great, we made it nice and big just like a place like this should have! Maybe we should cook something, then?”
She smiles at him, but it looks a little painful. Fuck. He grins back, trying not to cringe.
“Um, that’s kind of surprising of you to say!” she says.
“That’s me,” he says, shooting a weak finger gun at her. “Full of surprises!”
“I mean,” she starts, gaining a little energy when he doesn’t contradict her, “if you think it will help! Not that I thought that you wouldn’t want to help, just, um!”
Well, that’s good, at least. He’s been trying to be as helpful as he can! It’s—a little weird, sometimes, but he’s pretty sure he’s been nailing it more often than not. He can usually wrestle himself into shape to get it eventually. And people have mostly not noticed otherwise! Or else they’re just not saying anything because he’s the literal king of hell! It’s hard to tell sometimes!
“So you’ll help me figure out what’s wrong with Alastor?”
“What?” Lucifer blurts. When the fuck did that come into the conversation? “Wait, him? Fuck no!”
“But…” Charlie looks like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You just said, dad. I don’t understand!”
Well, that makes two of them!
“It’s not—look, kiddo,” he says, sighing. “I didn’t mean it like that. Anyway, I don’t think food will help that guy, if he’s who you’re worried about.”
“What?” Charlie asks. “What do you mean? Do you know what’s wrong with him?”
“Yeah, no, he’s dying from a festering holy weapon wound. Right in the ticker!” He taps his chest, drawing a jagged line from his heart to his opposite hip, about where he’s noticed Alastor’s demonic energy concentrating to keep his insides on the inside the few times he’s seen him around the hotel.
“Dad!” Charlie shouts, and Lucifer jumps so hard that his wings poof into existence and he drops the apple. Fuck! Now it’s all dusty—well, not super dusty, that pushy little maid actually does a fair job of keeping everything clean, but it was still on the floor. Maybe he can wash it off? But Charlie literally just watched him drop it, that would be—wait, shit, Charlie’s talking to him.
A pair of hands land on his shoulders and Lucifer flinches, blinking. Charlie’s mouth is moving in front of his face, saying—sounds, definitely, except it takes a few seconds before he can start parsing any of it into words.
“—mean dying, he’s—” Oh, more sounds! Sounds are—great! It’s been longer than the three second rule for the apple by now, hasn’t it? “—and you didn’t think to—?!”
“Um,” Lucifer says, wringing his now-empty hands together. “What?”
This time Charlie doesn’t say anything at all and just stares at him for several seconds. They feel like quite possibly the worst several seconds of Lucifer’s entire life, including that time he got physically kicked out of heaven. Oh, yeah. There was actual kicking involved. The pearly gates hit him on the way out and everything. Oh, fuck, his stomach is clenching so hard he thinks he might need an antacid or something.
Charlie turns around and walks out of the kitchen.
“Wait—” he stutters, reaching out. “Charlie!”
“It’s fine, dad!” she calls back. “Just—don’t worry about it!”
He worries about it. He picks up the apple, washes it, and doesn’t stop worrying about it.
He brings a plate of apples up to her room later. The ducks turned out looking pretty fucked up, if he’s honest, so he made the second apple into bunnies. Apple slices just aren’t meant to have duck bills. Charlie’s room is in the same hallway as his, except about halfway down. It was a little bit weird, at first, that his daughter felt like she had to place herself in the middle of the building as a mediator between Lucifer and that jumped up walkie-talkie, but once Lucifer thought about it, he decided that he probably didn’t want to be right next to the room that his daughter shares with her girlfriend.
Yeah, this way is better for everyone.
He’s about to knock when he hears a sound from the other side of the door and pauses. For a single, terrifying moment, his thoughts refuse to derail from the reasons I would hate to share a wall with my kid and her significant other, but—no he’s pretty sure she’s crying. Or close to it. There’s a watery, frustrated tone to her voice.
“—just don’t get it,” Charlie is saying. Lucifer steps a little closer, angling his ear toward the door. “It’s like he doesn’t even care! Except then he turns around and helps so much, so I don’t even know what to think!”
“Charlie…” Oh, Vaggie is in there with her. It’s nice to know that they’ve properly worked out the whole Vaggie-was-secretly-an-exterminator thing, since that apparently was an issue. To be honest, when Lucifer first met Vaggie, he didn’t realize that Charlie didn’t know. Her coloring is pretty distinct, nevermind the angelic weapon she pulled out to fight off the loan sharks. He was trying hard to be polite about it. After all, he’s a former angel, too! It’s another thing they have in common! “I’m sure he has his own things going on. He seems like a sweet guy most of the time, and he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care.”
“Then why is he so confusing!” Charlie’s voice grows loud with frustration. “Ughhh! I feel like I’ve had one real conversation with him in the past few years and everything else has just been—like that! And then I thought that since we had that one talk, things would be better now, because he understands and he said he would support me—he even helped rebuild the hotel! But now it’s just like it was before!”
Lucifer swallows, turning the plate around in a circle in his hands. His ears are ringing a little.
“I feel like I’m being jerked around,” Charlie says more quietly. “And I was—okay with it, I guess? I think I just figured it’s how things were. But then I got my hopes up and it really, really sucks.”
There’s a soft ‘whump’ sound, like she’s face-planted into her bed or couch, then a little bit of shuffling. Vaggie’s voice comes from a little bit closer to Charlie than it was before.
“Maybe you should ask him?” she suggests quietly.
“How am I supposed to ask him,” Charlie says, “when he’s impossible to talk to? Besides, I’m busy worrying about Alastor. Dad said he’s dying!”
Right, okay. Lucifer truly, genuinely considers turning around and leaving, but—he’s pretty sure that doing so would make him a really shitty dad. If he’s trying to step up, he has to do it in the difficult moments, too, not just the easy ones like when he gets to dunk on losers like Adam or magic some support beams into reality.
He takes several very quiet steps back to the part of the hallway that turns in toward her room, takes a deep breath, and then walks toward Charlie’s door while letting his footfalls land with firmer thumps on the carpet than he usually makes. Their voices quickly fall silent, and when he gets there, he knocks on the door.
“Charlie!” he calls, putting a smile into his voice. “I brought you some fruit!”
There’s a moment of silence. “Uh, dad?”
“That’s me! Youuuur father! Dad! Lucifer! Did I—uh, did I mention I brought fruit?”
Another moment.
“You can come in,” Charlie says quietly.
“Phew,” he says, swinging the door open with a flourish. “You know, they say to always knock once your kids hit a certain age, but they never say how stressful it is! And, oh, Vaggie’s here! Nice to meet you! I mean see you again! We’ve—hah—obviously we’ve met, uh—anyway! I cut you up some apples!”
He proffers the plate, grinning even as he cringes at himself. Charlie and Vaggie are sitting on a large settee that Lucifer helped pick out, Charlie half-sprawled into Vaggie’s lap as the latter pets a hand over her hair. He’s glad she likes the couch! Once Lucifer comes in, Charlie sits up. She smiles at him awkwardly, reaching out to take the plate.
“Right…” she says. “Um, thanks, dad.”
“Right-o!” he says, swinging an arm in an encouraging little uppercut. “And, y’know, I was thinking about what you said earlier!”
“You were?”
“Sure! That, uh—” He winces. “—Alastor. I’m pretty sure I can heal him right up! Like to like, angelic power for an angelic wound, he’ll be good as new! Probably can’t fix whatever’s wrong with his personality, though.”
Charlie shoots to her feet, dropping the plate of apples. Vaggie dives to catch them, quickly setting them aside on a little round tea table with a clatter as Charlie jumps forward to grab Lucifer’s arms.
“Really?!” she demands excitedly. “You can do that?!”
Lucifer blinks, reaching up to hold her arms right back. “Fix his personality? Definitely not. That shit’s terminal.”
Charlie laughs wetly and pulls him into a hug, lifting him off of the ground entirely in a spin. Lucifer squeaks, his hat falling off his head as his daughter squeezes him.
“Thank you!” she says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, dad!”
Oh! Daughter! Daughter hugging him! He tries to pat her on the back, which he can kind of only reach a little bit with the way she’s crushing his arms. “Of course! Anything for you, Charlie!”
She sniffs, setting him back on the ground and holding him out at arm’s length. “I knew you’d be able to help!”
He smiles weakly, gaze darting to the side. “I, uh, I’m sure you did. I mean, I’m glad you did!”
“—that, Vaggie?” Charlie is jumping over to her girlfriend excitedly, squeezing her hands. “He’s going to—!”
Lucifer picks up his hat, dusting off the top, and resettles it on his head.
“—won’t die! Right, dad?”
“Of course!” Lucifer shoots her a thumbs up. “I’ll take care of it! Don’t forget to eat your apples!”
“What? Oh!” Charlie grabs a little duck-shaped slice from the plate. “Sure! Thanks. These are really cute!”
He shoots her a thumbs up, then remembers that he just did that a few seconds ago, and hides his hands behind his back instead, nodding with a smile. “Cool! Cool, cool, cool. Okay, well, I’m going to just—uh, I’m going to go and work a miracle, haha!” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, walking backward towards her door. “You know how it is! Your old man the seraph!”
“Okay, dad!” She’s smiling as she waves goodbye to him, resettling on the couch with her legs curled up underneath her. She looks so happy. She looks so much like her mother. She’s saying something else, but Lucifer’s momentum is already taking him out of the room, the words trailing after him like leaves in the wind. Her tone is light and happy, and he can’t help but smile at it.
Lucifer stumbles out of the room, closing the door behind him, and immediately crosses the hallway to thump his forehead into the wall. Then he raises his head and does it two more times, dull thunks that reverberate into the unoccupied room he’s banging his head against.
He takes a deep breath and walks off toward Alastor’s rooms.
Lucifer’s plan of attack does not involve allowing Alastor a choice with regards to seeing him. He’s sure the “radio demon” (whatever that means—isn’t he some kind of deer? Are the antlers radio antennae? Do radios have antennae? There were some in the tower blueprints—) doesn’t want to see Lucifer, but that’s Alastor’s problem, not Lucifer’s. He’s not going to capitulate to the passive-aggressive-growing-on-straightforwardly-aggressive unwelcoming behavior of a man who is half-heartedly trying to steal his daughter out from under him. They’re going to stay locked in a passive-aggressive war of domestic bonding with Charlie where Alastor cooks homemade jambalaya or bakes pastries thrice a week while Lucifer reupholsters the lobby whenever Charlie mentions liking a new color pattern, and they’re going to like it.
Come to think of it, it’s been a few days since the smell of cinnamon tempted Lucifer out of bed in the morning (early afternoon) to slog all the way down from his room and into the kitchen just to spitefully chew on some vindictively delicious old fashioned donuts. Maybe the weirdo is actively dying.
Anyway, he skips all the faffing about things like walking down the hall and knocking, and manifests directly into Alastor’s bedroom.
If he’s perfectly honest, he sort of expected that he would be attacked immediately and with great prejudice after re-entering existence in Alastor’s space. The room, however, is quiet. Alastor’s quarters are dark, except for the ambient, slightly greenish low light of the giant hole in reality that’s turning the walk-in closet into a Louisiana bayou. Lucifer isn’t sure if those are actually the real wetlands, though—he’s never been (mosquitoes: eugh), and he doesn’t remember how many eyes real Earth alligators have. Is it three? The ones glowing an ominous red in the waters of Alastor's weird swamp have three.
Alastor himself is buried under a thick down comforter, curled up with his knees protectively in front of his injured abdomen. There are exhausted smudges under his eyes like dark bruises. His ears are relaxed atop his head, and there’s a faint, closed-lip smile on his face even in sleep. There’s a book on the bedside table, too, marked halfway through with a tasseled bookmark. Altogether, it’s all kind of humanizing. Especially the part where Alastor is asleep in the middle of the afternoon for some reason that is presumably better than the reasons Lucifer has for sleeping through the daylight hours. Lucifer hates it, thanks.
He flicks on the bedside lamp. “Hey.”
There’s a dramatic screech of radio static as Alastor shoots awake, eyes quite literally blazing open with a glaring yellow light. Lucifer winces and covers an ear.
“Calm down,” he says over the squeal of microphone feedback. “It’s just me.”
“W̵h̷a̵t̷ ̴a̸r̴e̷ ̸y̸o̷u̵ ̶d̴o̸i̵n̷g̷ ̷h̸e̵r̸e̷?̶”
“I said calm down,” Lucifer says, and lets his wings unfurl so that he can press the jagged, demonic energy radiating from Alastor back into its original constraints. Namely: one injured, deer-shaped near-corpse. “I’m here to help you out!”
“What,” Alastor grits out. His snarl can technically be called a smile, but only barely.
“Charlie’s been worried about you,” Lucifer says, propping his hands up on his hips. Alastor is sitting up now, comforter pooled around his hips. His pajamas are long-sleeved and double-breasted, just as red as the rest of his wardrobe, and the length and color both conveniently hide whether or not he’s secretly bleeding out from the torso.
Alastor smiles meanly. “Oh? And I suppose our dear Charlie asked for her father to violate the privacy of her hotel’s denizens by breaking into somebody’s room while they slumber, did she?”
Lucifer hesitates. “Well. Not exactly.”
Alastor spreads his palms out wide in front of him, an unmistakable well, then?
Lucifer glares at him. “I’m here to heal you, you glorified bellhop. Oh, yeah, that’s right!” he adds as Alastor’s eyes flare wide in affront. “We can alllll tell you’re falling apart! And I know the smell of the type of demonic rot that comes from the effects of a holy weapon! Nasty little injury, that. Adam’s little goons have always been pretty sadistic, if you ask me. Anyway, you need a good old-fashioned miracle healing, Alfred, and I'm the only option around. So!”
“It’s Alastor.”
Lucifer ignores him and sticks a hand out. “Get ready to be healed!”
“Ņ̵̞͉̓̃̄͐̐́̉͘o̴̪͊́͐̔̾̑͝.”
“...What?” Lucifer asks. “Am I, uh, am I hearing you right? What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Alastor leans forward, managing a pretty decently menacing expression despite being half-dead, in bed, and in his pajamas. “I said no, seraph. I am not selling my soul to anybody, let alone the likes of you. I would truly,” Alastor says, his smile widening to inhuman proportions, “rather die.”
“Did I miss something?” Lucifer asks, half-exasperated and half-worried. “When did we start talking about selling souls?”
Alastor’s voice curls around Lucifer’s ears, wheedling into his brain like a really weird but effective form of ASMR. “You want to make a deal, don’t you?”
Not really. Lucifer doesn’t do deals! He just takes sacrifices, and that was mostly the mortals’ idea in the first place. Still, he won’t say no to a sacrificial goat—or deer! Maybe he can get Alastor to fuck off in exchange for his life. Except, hang on, Alastor specifically did not want to make a deal with him and oh shit Alastor is in fact still talking.
Lucifer wants to bang his head on a table. The pleasant popping static of Alastor’s voice modulator layered over the deliberately smooth radio star accent is like the permanent fucking background noise of Lucifer’s brain at baseline.
“—ignoring me,” comes the garbled, hissing radio static, no longer from Alastor’s mouth but now broadcasting into the ambience of the air around Lucifer as an undeniably malevolent, angry weight quite literally darkens the entire room.
“I’m not,” he blurts.
Alastor’s eyes narrow. “Come again?”
“I-I-I’m not ignoring you,” Lucifer says, twiddling his thumbs before shaking his head. “I mean, not on purpose. At this specific moment in time. I wish I was ignoring you on purpose, actually, your face is incredibly unpleasant to look at. You should consider doing something about that.”
Whatever Alastor says next is too filled with radio interference to separate into real words and also not filled with radio static enough to keep Lucifer’s attention, but the look on his face does a lot of communicating once Lucifer manages to focus on it for a few seconds.
“Hey, I’m trying my best here!” Lucifer protests. “The old noggin isn’t what it used to be!” He bonks his fist against his head a couple of times, leaning casually against Alastor’s bedside table with his other hand. “Knock knock! Must’ve watched too much TV in the last few decades or something, don’t you know that stuff really kills the attention span?”
Something in there must have been the right thing to say, because the whole shadows-and-scary-eyes light show dies all the way down until it’s just Alastor, grinning like a weirdo, watching Lucifer with a slight tilt to his head.
Static fizzles through the air, a distracting buzz against Lucifer’s ears. “—seem rather—with certain—…ions,” Alastor acknowledges slowly. One of his ears flicks when Lucifer taps his nails against the polished wooden tabletop, and Lucifer stares at his mouth so intently to figure out what the hell he is saying that he forgets to pay attention to what he’s actually hearing. It turns out that a permanent smile makes for really shitty lip-reading. “I had—simply—pay…”
“Haha. Uh, come again?”
Alastor’s eyes narrow again. He repeats himself. This time Lucifer catches something about “attention,” and nods rapidly.
“Yeah!” he agrees. “Yep, that’s right! Trust me, bucko, when I try to offend you on purpose, you’ll know! Uh, were we still talking about healing you?”
Alastor opens his mouth. There’s a knock on the door, and the conversation comes to an immediate halt as both of them turn to look at it.
“Um, Alastor?” comes Charlie’s voice. “Are you in there? It’s Charlie! May I come in?”
Lucifer blinks, confused. Something on Alastor’s face turns knowing and sly, which sends a sudden spike of apprehension through the pit of Lucifer’s stomach. Why—?
“Of course, my dear!” Alastor calls, loud and clear, all charming transatlantic accent and disingenuous smile. He slides out of bed, and Lucifer barely has time to catch sight of a pair of hooves hitting the floor before Alastor is waving a hand and dressing himself by magic, hair brushed and tailcoat buttoned. He even has his monocle on, suddenly. “Your father and I were just having a very interesting conversation!”
“Wha—dad?” Charlie is coming into the room, blinking as the overhead lights flicker to life. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Lucifer asks. “Didn’t you want me to heal Alfons?”
“Alastor.”
“Fuck you.”
“Dad, I told you to wait!” Charlie says, plaintive. “I said I needed to talk to Alastor about this first!”
“What? When?”
“Literally like twenty minutes ago!” Charlie looks ready to throw her hands into the air, but she takes a deep, careful breath, and visibly counts to ten in her head. “You know what? It’s fine!” Lucifer’s heart stutters in his chest. “Thank you for coming to help Alastor.”
Lucifer tries to grin at her, but Alastor’s eyes are watching him, smug and satisfied, over Charlie’s shoulder. That fucker. Lucifer is going to heal the shit out of him, and then they’ll see who’s smug about it!
“—outside?”
“Where?” Lucifer asks, blinking.
“In the lobby, dad!” Charlie says.
“Oh, alright. Uh—are you talking about me?” he double-checks, pointing at himself.
“Yes!”
“Right! Of course!” He doffs his hat to her with a flourish, and pointedly doesn’t do so for Alastor. “I’ll… see you in the lobby?”
Charlie just stares at him expectantly, faintly confused and more than a little frustrated.
Lucifer flees.
“Okay, so!” Charlie starts when she finds Lucifer hovering awkwardly at the bottom of the staircase. He’s still not 100% sure if he’s supposed to be meeting her here, or bringing something here, or—but she doesn’t seem surprised to see him, so he’s probably in the right spot. She’s also not alone: Vaggie is trailing after her, along with a couple of her other friends. The spider demon, for one, and also the winged bartender, who makes his way behind the actual bar to—what, start his shift? Does he actually get paid for this? Lucifer thought that he was just an alcoholic with free bar access.
“—talk,” Charlie is saying. “Okay?”
He nods frantically, letting her grab his hand and tug him over to the lobby couches. “That sounds like a great idea, sweetie!”
Her eyes soften. “I’m glad, dad.”
Oh, fuck, why are there so many people here? What are they supposed to be talking about? Are they planning an intervention for Alastor because the guy is too egotistical to accept some help?
Charlie sits him on one couch, and sets herself on the one opposite. There’s a little coffee table between them, providing a little bit of distance. Vaggie sits next to Charlie, and the spider demon leans over the back of the couch, bending over in a manner that’s so seductive that it loops all the way back around to rote.
Nobody sits on Lucifer’s couch. He offers her an encouraging smile, and Charlie half-smiles back, reflexive.
“Well, um,” she starts, steepling her fingers together. “The good news is, I talked to Alastor! I think we’re on the same page now about deals. I don’t want him to feel like he has to pay anything to get—you know! Basic medical care?”
It’s a little more than basic, Lucifer thinks, but what does he know? Anyway, the overall point still stands. Most people in hell have health insurance, but that’s only because health insurance was such a hellish concept that the moment it was invented up-top, the demons immediately stole it for themselves. Lucifer is a little impressed at the ingenuity, if thoroughly unimpressed with humans’ continued utilization of the free will he gave them to extort one another.
“—some moral support while we talk about us, though,” Charlie finishes, hesitant tone finally bolstering into determination as Vaggie pats her arm and the spider shoots her a thumbs up. “What do you think?”
Uh, fuck. “About what?”
Charlie’s expression drops. “Having a conversation, dad. So we can understand each other.”
“Sure!” he ekes out, strained. So this is—about Charlie and him! That’s…. great! “Wh-wha—uh—what did you wanna talk about?”
Charlie looks at Vaggie for a second, who nods at her. “Well,” she starts, “I guess I’ve just been a little confused...”
Lucifer nods, trying to focus, but it feels like he’s catching maybe two words out of every five. She mentions ‘listening’ at some point, which is how he knows this is going to be a problem, and the whole thing feels a lot like talking with Lilith the past few months before she—well. He twists his wedding ring around on his finger, trying to look engaged and understanding even as his head buzzes with the sensory echo of radio static that his thoughts have been fixating on for the past half hour. He thinks he just about gets what this is about, anyway. He just has to acknowledge the issue—because it is an issue, he knows it’s an issue—and let her say her piece. He has to make sure she feels heard. He has to—
“Dad?”
Charlie is waiting for him to say something.
“No, I understand!” he says, and then goes silent for an abrupt second. His hands are wound tight into the fabric of his pants, knuckles pale and bloodless. “I totally get it! You’re completely right!”
Vaggie squints her eyes suspiciously at him, squeezing a hand over Charlie’s arm. The spider demon smiles, nodding encouragingly as he moves one of his four hands in the universal gesture for ‘you’re doing great, go on!’ Is there more he should have said? Charlie looks like she’s expecting more, and she says something—to that tune, probably, except that there’s blood rushing in his ears and six pairs of eyes all staring right at him and all that Lucifer catches is that it was some kind of question that he’s expected to come up with an answer for, and he can’t.
(Eight pairs of eyes, counting the spider? No, it would be nine, wouldn’t it? Charlie plus Vaggie plus the bartender plus four from the spider? Shit, that’s seven.)
“... Yes,” Lucifer tries, guessing blindly, because it’s either that or ask Charlie to repeat herself and he thinks that maybe a 50% (probably less, probably she asked something with a little more nuance than a yes-or-no question and he’s not stupid, he’s aware of that) chance of getting it right is better than 0%.
He wants to go back to his room and go back to the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness for the rest of the week, please, and is also ashamed of wanting to do that because he’s so, so aware of how important this is for Charlie.
Charlie’s face wobbles dangerously, a little bit like she’s angry and a little bit like she’s trying not to cry. Shit, fuck, balls, Lucifer is the worst father in existence—and that’s saying something, considering who his father is. He can’t even own up to it, because just seeing it happen—she really does look so much like her mother! Sure, she’s got his coloring, but—the cute button nose, the big, beautiful eyes, the way they both look when they’re disappointed in him! He’s so full of fondness that he can’t breathe! Why is everyone still so fucking busy staring at him when Charlie is crying?!
His fingers start to prickle, like he’s been squeezing them so tight that he cut off the blood flow. Oh, fuck, Lucifer thinks he might be having a panic attack.
“I just don’t understand,” Charlie says, leaning over to put her face into her palms.
“Sorry,” he whispers, but it comes out quiet and hoarse, sort of wheezing because he can’t get air into his lungs—she doesn’t hear. He should leave. He should get out of here before he makes things worse. Worser. He still—gosh, she really went to all the trouble of dedicating a living space for him in the hotel and he’s going to just run off? But wouldn’t it be kinder than staying? He can’t keep jerking her around like this! He’s such a piece of shit, she’s crying and all he’s doing is sitting here like an asshole wondering about how long it would take to pack up his belongings and move again.
(Not long. He only brought the stuff he actually cares about, which turns out to be several portraits, his work desk, and upon second review, a bed to sleep on. He kind of just manifests his clothes out of the aether. It’s why the Pride Ring fashion houses have such a hard time replicating his look. The material is 99% the thread that makes up the fabric of reality and 1% cotton to keep it all anchored in reality.)
He’s right, though, he thinks, blinking hard. He needs to leave. He needs to stop getting Charlie’s hopes up that she has something other than an occasionally-overpowered useless deadbeat for a father. Sure, he’s the big boss of hell, but does that even matter when he keeps pulling things like this? He can just call to check if she needs anything every couple of months (several months) like before. She won’t care as much over the phone, and he won’t have to—he needs to—
“Okay, then!” Hands land on his shoulders, the voice blaring so loud in his ear that what would normally be unintelligible noise somehow manifests into words. Lucifer nearly jumps out of his skin but manages to keep his demonic attributes from manifesting at the very last moment.
The couch dips next to him. He turns his head. It’s the spider demon whose name he doesn’t remember even though they were definitely introduced at some point. He’s wearing a miniskirt, Lucifer registers absently. Interesting fashion choice.
“Charlie. Charlie. Dollface,” the spider is saying. “Let’s calm this down a bit, okay? Didn’t you wanna have a real conversation or somethin’?”
Lucifer’s head swims, heady with the rush of oxygen as he remembers to breathe again. He doesn’t really know this guy, but with even one person on his side of the couch-versus-couch divide, this suddenly feels marginally less daunting than facing down the collective armies of heaven.
“—your part, now you gotta let him say his bit. S’what you always—” Charlie is nodding along and Lucifer tries to listen. “—right?”
“... Right,” Charlie says, sniffing. “Sorry, dad. Angel is right.”
Lucifer has no fucking idea what just happened.
“No problem!” he says, trying for ‘cheerful’ and landing on ‘strained.’ “Sounds good!” How many times has he said that today? Probably too many.
The spider demon—Angel! Lucifer’s got it now—still has an arm around his shoulders, but he releases Lucifer at the first sign of agreement, retreating to a single hand on his shoulder. “Great, your majesty! So what’s goin’ on?”
“With what?”
Charlie makes a very quiet noise, like she had a reaction to that, but Angel keeps his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, so all Lucifer sees is the vaguely open, friendly expression that is still pointed at him.
“Charlie feels like you—” Oh, fuck, is that what she was explaining? “—care, even though ya’ve been steppin’ up real helpful otherwise,” Angel explains.
“I’m sorry!” Lucifer turns to tell Charlie immediately. Angel pats his shoulder sympathetically. “Of course I care, Charlie, I promise! I’m just—you know me! Good ol’ dad, haha—I can be a little—” He nearly chokes on the words. “—scatterbrained!”
Charlie looks down at her hands, caught between Vaggie’s on top of her knees. “Dad, some of the things you miss are important.”
“I know,” Lucifer chokes out.
“Why can’t you at least care enough to pay attention when it’s important?”
“Charlie…” Vaggie says, with all the faint alarm of a rank-and-file angel who just heard an insult said to a seraph. It’s almost funny, if Lucifer thinks about it too long.
A hand squeezes down on his shoulder and Lucifer forces himself to relax a bit. It’s weird. He really doesn’t know this Angel guy, but he’s kind of grateful to have literally even one person who seems to give enough of a shit to keep his attention somewhat in the right place for his daughter’s sake. It’s working… a little bit. Mostly because people don’t really touch Lucifer very often, so the hand on his shoulder is kind of hard-resetting his brain every time he remembers it’s there. If he thinks about it too long, though, he just zones out again.
“I don’t know,” Lucifer says, interrupting whatever Vaggie is whispering to Charlie. The prickling that’s been building behind his eyes ever since Charlie’s face crumpled spills over, and he feels hot tears suddenly run down his cheeks.
“Huh?”
Lucifer cringes. “I don’t know why. I just don’t pay attention. I’m sorry, honey. I promise it’s not because I don’t care.”
“... You just don’t?” Charlie asks, voice soft as she notices that he’s crying. She sounds—like she’s trying very hard to be sympathetic, mostly, but there’s just a little hint of skepticism in her tone that stabs right through Lucifer’s breastbone and starts twisting.
He stares at his hands in his lap, wishing he hadn’t discorporated his cane. His hands are so twisted up in the fabric of his pants that they’re going to need ironing after this, which he knows he isn’t going to do. He shouldn’t be crying in front of his daughter, he’s supposed to be the one protecting and supporting her.
“I know it’s not what you need from your dad,” he tells his knees. “I really—trust me, I really know. And I know that ‘sorry’ doesn't change anything, either."
It’s the kind of sentence that’s supposed to be followed up with ‘but’ and then a list of ways he’s going to make it okay, except he does not know how to make it okay. He’s been trying. He’s really been trying.
“—on drugs or somethin’?” Angel is asking.
“What?” Lucifer frowns at the same time as several people exclaim something at Angel. “No.”
“Maybe you should be,” Angel mutters, but backs off.
“Dad,” Charlie interrupts. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”
Lucifer’s heart drops into whatever pit exists lower than hell. “Charlie, I—I’m trying. I’m—I can’t, I’m sorry, I just can’t.” He drags his hands into his hair, displacing and knocking off his hat, and finally buries his face in his palms. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Not like that! Oh no, dad—wait, just hold on.” Charlie turns to her friends. “Guys, can you give us some space? I really appreciate you supporting me, but…” Lucifer really is glad that his daughter has friends. A support system can be really important when you’re having a hard time, and he hates the idea that his daughter might ever feel alone in the world, even though he knows his own behavior really doesn’t reflect that. “...in private to start with, to be honest.”
“Sure, sweetcheeks,” Angel says, unfolding himself from the couch. He retrieves Vaggie and the bartender, who has been pretty much silent this entire conversation except for to stare at Lucifer with increasing amounts of simultaneous judgment and sympathy, and proves himself stronger than his spindly, spidery form might suggest by dragging them both out of the room.
Charlie moves to take his place sitting next to Lucifer. She hesitates for a moment before putting a hand on his back, rubbing it up and down awkwardly as he slowly tries to get his shivery tears under control. He’s never been a loud cryer. The tears just… sort of spill out of him, most of the time, almost beneath his notice. Lilith said that to him once, that it was strange how he could cry with a smile, like he wasn’t even paying attention to his own tears.
“Dad?”
“...Yeah, sweetie?” he asks hoarsely. Something about not even looking at her is making this conversation—easier, in an odd way. That seems fucked up, that his broken brain only cuts him some slack once he’s already fucked things up so thoroughly that he can’t meet his kid’s eyes.
“Are you… okay?”
Lucifer blinks, fat droplets dislodging from his eyelashes. He thinks he’s missed something again for a second, but then he realizes that she really did just pause. “Well, that’s a doozy of a question. Uh.”
“It’s okay if you’re not!” Charlie rushes to course-correct.
“It’s not, though,” he manages. “I’m supposed to be supporting you, Charlie.”
Charlie sighs, pulling her legs up onto the couch. It’s like a reflex—he turns, a little, and wraps an arm around her. She’s too big to tuck into his side properly, but she still leans her shoulder against his, her cheek pressed to the top of his head. He thinks he might have the crying under control now, so he scrubs his sleeves over his cheeks.
“If there’s anything that running this hotel has taught me,” she says, “it’s that we can’t always be who we think we’re supposed to be. But that doesn’t make who we are wrong, dad. Not if we’re doing our best.”
He reaches out, taking her hand. “You still really shouldn’t be the one reassuring me like this. But I appreciate it, kiddo.”
There’s a smile in her voice, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. “I love you, dad. And I’m sorry, too. I think I wasn’t listening very well, either.”
“That’s fine!” Lucifer blurts. “Of course it’s fine. I just… Charlie?”
“Yeah, dad?” she asks, squeezing his hand.
“I just want you to know…”
How is he supposed to explain this? He’s never really talked about it before, and he knows what he looks like. Charlie said it herself: he’s confusing, and he gets her hopes up, and he comes off like he doesn’t care. Two of those three things aren’t even untrue.
Maybe that’s where he should start.
“... I really care about you,” he says firmly, nudging her off a little so that he can look up into her eyes. “I know I’m not always amazing—or even okay—at showing it, but you are the greatest, most important thing I have ever done in my entire life. So—if, if I’m ever not cutting it, just give your old man another shot or two, okay? I promise I’ll catch up to where you need me to be eventually.”
Charlie smiles at him, teary-eyed, and Lucifer finds his own eyes prickling again. His daughter has grown up to be so beautiful, and so smart, and most of all so goodhearted. Who else is worthy of redeeming the sinners of hell? Not Lucifer himself, certainly—but he can’t think of anybody better for the job, and he’s going to do everything he can to support her even if he has to tear down the gates of Heaven all by himself. Just the thought is exhausting, but he’ll do it.
“—you,” Charlie says, and Lucifer’s stomach drops.
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Did he really miss what she just said? During a conversation like this? After he literally just told her that she was the most important thing in his life?
Lucifer is going to throw himself off of the top floor of this hotel. It won’t—can’t—kill him, but it might help with the way he thinks he’s about to throw up. Sometimes he hates himself. Sometimes he really hates himself so much.
“I love you, too!” he says, guessing blindly.
“Dad?” Charlie asks, and he just stares at her, wide-eyed, for several long seconds. “...Um, do you maybe need me to repeat that?”
What? Uh…
Lucifer nods. “Please,” he says, strained. Pay attention, pay attention, pay attention.
Charlie just smiles down at him, and he squeezes her fingers between his. “I do love you, dad. And I think I get it, a little. You’re having a hard time, too. I can tell that you really look out for me! And I’m an adult, you know. I really don’t mind also looking out for you.”
He gets all of it, even if he forgets to breathe until after she finishes talking. The relief is downright physical. If he had to ask her to say it a third time—
But. Then he processes her actual words.
“Really?” he asks.
“Really!” she says brightly. “I’m just glad you said something? I know it must be hard…”
Lucifer pulls her down into a hug. It’s her turn to squeak, but then she cuddles into his arms. She might be a whole head taller than him nowadays, but she still tucks her head into the crook of his shoulder just like she did when she was small.
“Thank you,” he tells her.
“We’re a family,” she says, sniffling a little bit. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, squeezing her gently like he can compress the tears out of her. He pets a hand over the back of her head. “Right back atcha, kid. Love you.”
“Love you, dad. We can take it one day at a time, okay?”
And that’s the most important part, isn’t it? As long as they’ve got that, they can work the rest of it out.