Work Text:
Many have described Hell as the domain where the souls of those who defied the laws of Heaven in life are bound to eternal suffering. Many wax poetic of unspeakable atrocities (and, quite frankly, much more creative than anyone Up There could ever plan: drowning in a boiling blood river, seriously?), some assure the real Hell is other people, and the mere existence surrounded by the worst rejections of mankind is a sufficient punishment; an old sport even claimed Hell was actually empty, and all the demons were among the living.
In all those visions there was a figure in the background, always looming, never less imposing: him , Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil, God’s former favorite, who rules this godforsaken domain with terror and an iron fist.
That very same figure Alastor was watching in that moment…
…snoring softly with a gigantic, duck-shaped plushie clutched in his arms
Alastor exhaled a low sound of exasperation and reluctant indulgence, adjusting the blanket over the deceptively thin shoulders of the Morning Star, who was still wandering blissfully in the land of dreams even though the morning had long since turned into day, and stroking the platinum locks that had decided to ignore such mundane things as gravity, to curl into absurd angles on the pillows.
If someone had told Alastor that, after the battle with Vox and the freedom from his chains, he would have ended up sharing a room with the Short Boss of Hell Himself, he would have howled with derision for such an idiocy (and probably torn the poor soul apart, if Charlie was far enough). But there he was, retrieving the monocle from his nightstand, on his side of the bed, in Lucifer’s offensively yellow room.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen!
Really, sometimes he still thought he was under the hypnotic effect of that pathetic flat-face, or at least that he had hit his head hard enough to permanently destroy what was left of his sanity, because the situation he found himself in now was utterly peculiar, to say the least.
He still hasn’t the slightest idea of how he ended up involved with the Devil himself, although he suspects that patching each other up from their wounds may have somehow contributed to the debacle. (Oh, what a priceless spectacle it was to see the mighty King knocking at his quarters’ door to ask him if he had any ointments to soothe electric burns! And Alastor even gained some brand-new golden stiches across his chest and a pristine bandage for the arm as compensation! That was the kind of deal he “lived” for, Ha-ha!).
In any case, Alastor had found himself unwillingly victim to feelings, ad it was obviously all that ridiculous ringleader's fault! He was quite certain the ex-seraph was poisoning his coffee: it was the only possible explanation for the way his stomach churned every time he laid eyes on the Devil.
It was still a bitter pill to swallow that those sensations were, in fact, butterflies; a realization that often left him with the sudden, violent urge to find the First Man’s guitar and finish the job himself.
But if you were to ask Alastor, he was still convinced Lucifer had actually messed with his beverages at least once.
And that’s how the high and mighty, and now finally free, Radio Demon had found himself on a completely different kind of string! Oh, how mercilessly ironic fate can be! And the biblical devil, of all people? Well, at least no one could say Alastor leaves things halfway!
Once the initial shock of their... arrangement had settled, Alastor started to realize that the Morning Star was, in fact, a walking collection of highly specific habits, all accurately catalogued in Alastor’s mental Grand Compendium Of Quack’s Quirks: the way he insists on peeling the oranges so the rind forms a single, long spiral (and, if it breaks midway he would magically fuse it back on the fruit and start again); or that he requires a perfectly odd number of rubber ducks in the bathtub (as if some numbers can be odder than others); or, again, how he chooses the socks’ color based on how the day “feels” (because that Friday clearly screamed turquoise!).
And then, of course, there was the obsession with pictures
The King seemed possessed by the need to capture every mundane thing on that squared screen, and that was certainly not an exaggeration: from a burned toast made by Charlie to a questionable ornament in a display case, nothing, beside Alastor himself, was immune from that abominable photo-treatment.
Alastor truly wondered if the not-quite-man’s memory was more akin to that of a gold-fish than that of a 'Golden-Angel'; but, again, this was the same Devil capable of naming all the books in the Lost Library of Alexandria in chronological order, so Alastor simply catalogued the picture-peculiarity around the 143rd entry of his Compendium and moved on without a second thought.
At least at the beginning
The first time Alastor really noticed the extent of that specific obsession was in the library.
During the reconstruction of the Hotel, Charlie had insisted on installing a room where sinners could read and relax, and Lucifer had enthusiastically obliged with his daughter’s idea, though he had filled the shelves only with copies of his personal collection (the originals being far too precious to be left in the filthy hands of sinners, and Alastor couldn’t honestly blame him). The result, however, was boringly predictable: the room remained untouched by the guests, often making it a perfect sanctuary for the improbable royal couple to enjoy a little ‘bookflix and chill date’, as Lucifer called them.
Alastor had been halfway through a particularly riveting novel of Agatha Christie, the coat draped over the back of the armchair where he sat with poise, and his Duck Season mug filled with black tea floating placidly next to him (since he still refused to use a coaster).
Lucifer, on the other hand, had set his clockmaking guide aside long before, replacing it with the sketchbook usually reserved for his silicone projects, and decided that lying with his head dangling over the sofa’s armrest was the only logical position for drawing.
The room was filled with the crackling of the fireplace and the scratchy sound of charcoal on paper, an almost pleasant scenario, sure, but if Alastor had learned anything from his years in Hell, it was that peace was just a temporary illusion.
The abrupt creak of the door opening had startled them both: it had been left unlocked, since they had assumed all the other residents were asleep, but they had evidently underestimated the busybodies they lived with.
Alastor started to thicken the shadows under his armchair, ready to teleport himself in his tower and call it a night: their… situation wasn’t exactly brand new at that point, but they had still decided to keep it a secret from the rest of their peculiar collective. The staff had probably grown suspicious given how much more civil they appeared toward one another, but there was quite a difference between not throwing knives at each other in the kitchen and getting caught in such a… not-hostile conduct!
Alastor looked down, and down, and down, to a small, familiar shape trotting inside. He exhaled a condescending, yet relieved sigh, and his shadows recoiled when KeeKee let out a demanding meow before jumping directly onto Lucifer’s stomach.
Of course, Alastor was well prepared for the reaction, having endured it countless times, but the ear-splitting squeal that escaped the King still made him glance at the windows, half-expecting the glass to shatter.
Once the initial acoustic assault had passed, Lucifer wasted no time: in the blink of an eye the sketchbook vanished in a swirl of glitter, as he began to onslaught the cat with a oh-so-very-evil petting attack.
Alastor tried to force his attention back to the page, he was just about to confirm his suspicious regarding the culprit, but Lucifer’s overexcited presence was making him crave a real murder. With a sharp click of his tongue, he raised his eyes from the book, a biting remark already on his lips, only to find the King looking at the cat with such wide eyes full of joy, that the only thing that died were the words in his throat.
After subtly checking his mug (because that horrible sensation of insects in his stomach was once again there), he decided to let it slide; just a rare moment of generosity on his part, and absolutely nothing more.
However, his magnanimity was immediately put to the test when Lucifer fished out his phone and began snapping pictures, the device’s glow reflecting in his ecstatic eyes.
At the time, Alastor had simply dismissed that, it wasn’t even relevant enough to be included in the Compendium: during his captivity, the doll-demon had sufficiently demonstrated the digital age was obsessed with feline portraits; it was a common, yet tedious, symptom of the modern world.
He assumed it was just a moment, a temporary distraction to occupy the King's restless hands, and looked down at his novel once again.
Luckily, Lucifer was so immersed in his photoshoot that he failed to notice the far too soft smile on the demon’s lips.
It was the second incident, however, that truly forced the matter into the records of his Compendium.
Despite what half hell assumed, Alastor didn’t live his afterlife only choosing and chasing the tortuous streets of chaos, well, at least not entirely.
Some days, especially in the earliest hours, he preferred the quiet, calming path of a slow morning: just him, a cup of black coffee and his newspaper on the balcony. And, more recently, a certain sleepy angel, who could really use a name-change, since he definitely was not a Morning person.
For the record, Alastor hadn’t asked Lucifer to accompany him in his morning rituals, but the king still insisted on crawling out of bed at dawn with him, muttering something about ‘quality-time’ while trying to put on his duck-slippers the wrong way around, and Alastor could do nothing but manifest a cream jug next to his paper, irritatingly defeated and smitten.
Alastor had already finished his venison, and decided to make his way towards the railing, to enjoy the infernal havoc before his radio show, for once as a mere spectator, leaving Lucifer at the table scribbling on a napkin that had previously been used to lay out the thin strips of apple rind (Not a spiral, Al! What are you, a barbarian? Everybody knows that apples must be peeled in slivers, come on! ).
The radio demon definitely did not discompose himself when a soft weight alighted on his left arm, and certainly didn’t adjust his posture to allow Lucifer’s head to rest more comfortably there.
It was just one of their little habits: after eating a sufficient amount of sugar to bankrupt a candy store, Lucifer would usually join him at the railing, sometimes sharing fun facts about the landscape they were observing (Did you know that the Pentagram isn’t a perfect star? Yeah, the Doomsday District’s corner is just a bit smaller than the others! It’s barely noticeable, but it had always bothered me!), but more often he would stay in a contemplative silence, soothed by Alastor’s perpetual static.
This time, however, the king was evidently more inclined to the first option.
“Oh! Look, Al!” Lucifer stopped his explanation on how the Clocktower wasn’t made of actual gold, to point at the crimson sky above them: “That cloud is shaped like a duck!”
Alastor let out a soft hum, squinting his eyes towards the red celestial canopy above them: that particular cloud could actually resemble a waterfowl, of course, but only if someone is used to thinking about ducks morbidly, and by that point Alastor had simply accepted the king’s avian schizophrenia.
The weight on his arm vanished abruptly, leaving the Radio Demon momentarily unbalanced, as Lucifer detached himself with an enthusiastic hop, his hand already diving into his pocket, frantically searching for that hideous device.
Alastor simply adjusted his sleeves, his smile remained sharp and hollow as always, nobody would notice the slight tightness of his grin, certainly not Lucifer, since he was so absorbed by the glowing screen.
He wasn’t jealous of that ridiculous square for stealing the undivided attention of the King of Hell, Heavens no! it was just mildly irritating that Lucifer chose a piece of technology when there was a far superior company right beside him! That was it: just a mere matter of priorities!
The radio demon himself was most definitely not competing against a glass brick for Lucifer’s consideration, he hadn’t fallen that low!
With a soft exhale he stepped away from the railing: their breakfast appointment had clearly come to an end, and it was time to start his show anyway; but, as he made his way to his tower, he started to consider that this little quirk wasn’t, in fact, so little as he had initially thought.
By the third time what had initially considered as a mere, yet annoying, quirk had escalated to the Problem Level
Charlie always had quite an eclectic mind, her ideas often fluctuating between the spectacularly delusional to the rainbow-y catastrophic, providing decent entertainment for the people smart enough to watch her from a sufficient distance. Unfortunately for Alastor, he was right in the fray to be swept up by her last ‘Connection’s Cuisine’ program.
She came up with this exercise after the memorable time when Alastor couldn’t prepare his usual dinner and half of the staff almost organized an insurrection (and dear Niffty was more than ready to provide the guillotine): now every member of their heterogenous collective was in charge of the evening meal. Charlie wanted everyone to make a dish full of memories and meaning, but most of the times they end up eating from some hideous take-away bag.
This time Alastor was looking with resentment at the greasy boxes that allegedly contained the distant and mutated cousin of a pizza (“it’s Italian, and so am I, dolls, so I count it as a personal meal!” chuckled Angel to justify that abomination).
Lucifer, on the far side of the dining table, wasn’t apparently bothered by the oily crusts on his plate, with a slice in one hand and a pencil to scribble on the receipt in the other, and, if his movements where any indication, he was also swinging his legs under the table.
Alastor was in the middle of a particularly compelling explanation on how to use the freshly acquired hands of Niffty’s roaches to mimic some basic signals in jazz, Charlie was confabulating with Vaggie pointing at some suspicious cards covered in glitter, and Angel was trying to sit on Husker’s lap “by accident” for the fourth time: Ah, the grand, majestic chaos!
The cozy atmosphere was shattered by a sudden clatter and a wet thud as Angel finally managed to upend Husk’s drink right into the cat-demon’s lap with a sweeping motion of his second set of hands
The table erupted. Charlie’s laughter was a bright, melodic peal, and even Vaggie couldn’t suppress a smirk at the sight of a dripping, swearing Husk.
From his distant perch, Alastor prepared a witty, scathing remark about the proper dining etiquette, his eyes instinctively flicking toward the head of the table, already expecting to exchange a condescending look with the King, but the seraph was laughing his heart out with the rest of their collective, a silver tear of joy rolling down his cheek.
Mirroring Angel’s action Lucifer extracted his phone as well, but, unlike the spider, he didn’t snap a picture of the grumpy bartender: he decided to capture Charlie’s radiant expression, the reluctant curve on Vaggie’s lips, and the undeniable smirk on Angel’s face.
Alastor was more than ready for the telephoto lens to be pointed at him, his usual reminder to be excluded from the frame already on his lips, but it turned out to be unnecessary since Lucifer didn’t even glance at him: no, he framed directly Niffty’s maniacal stare right next to his elbow, letting the camera slide past the demon like water on a duck.
Alastor forced his smile a fraction wider, disguising the slight twitch of his eye: now, that was a step too far.
He meticulously cleaned his hands with a napkin and offered a clipped, polite nod to the room before vanishing into the shadows, leaving more than half of his dinner on the table.
Alastor was slowly reaching the brink of madness one click at a time.
It was as if the brightness of that wretched rectangle was not only burning his retinas but imprinting itself in his brain as well, corroding his sanity and eroding his attention.
And perhaps worst of all was that, deep down, he knew he shouldn’t care. He was the Radio Demon, the Terror of the Pentagram, and no piece of glass and metal could claim such authority over him.
But there he was: lying in a bed that felt far too cold, waiting for Lucifer’s return after an endless meeting with the Sins, eyes glued to the chandelier trying not to acknowledge the endless array of frames that adorned the walls of the room.
He could feel the weight of all those printed eyes looking at him, mocking him from every angle, constantly reminding him of their presence, and his own absence among them.
He was fantasizing about the pleasure of setting the portraits alight and watching the flakes of ash flutter on the floor, when a swirl of crimson fire captured his attention.
Lucifer emerged in the middle of the room, stumbling slightly as he was already trying to take off one of his half-manifested boots to reveal the neon pink socks he had chosen that morning.
“Oh, finally, peace! I couldn’t take it anymore!” he groaned, undoing his bowtie with a weary haste “I swear, if Mammon dares to sneak another shitty tax into the Lust Ring just to piss off Ozzie, I’m gonna shove that paper so far up in his ass he’ll choke!”
Lucifer wasn’t exactly prone to this kind of degenerate language, at least compared to the rest of the depraved souls they were surrounded by, but when the infernal bureaucracy was involved even an ex-seraph had the right to lose his temper, and especially if that ex-seraph was dealing with the very Sin of Greed.
“It appears the meeting wasn’t as productive as you anticipated, hm?” Alastor tried to sound casual, his eyes still anchored to the ceiling without really seeing it. The words were like sandpaper on his tongue, but he still composed himself enough to suppress the urge to snap against the King in honor of the only thing Lucifer had asked at the very beginning of their arrangement: ‘clarify before terrify’; and, even if they hadn’t shaken on it, Alastor always prided himself on being a man of his word.
“Oh, tell me about it!” Lucifer chuckled, and with a snap of his fingers he swapped his formal white attire for his favorite yellow sweatpants and a way too big ‘borrowed’ red shirt he had long ago claimed as his pajamas: “I knew it would have been a total waste of time, but Belle convinced me to go by promising to show me the new Sleepy Sunflowers she managed to grow down in Sloth, and let me tell you, they are absolutely adorable! Well, at least if you don’t mind the snoring sounds…”
Lucifer continued to flit from topic to topic as he approached his vanity, but Alastor this time was only half-listening to his stream of consciousness, at least until something finally caught his complete attention: “… Satan complained when I asked him too, because of course he had to, but, in the end, he finally let me take a quick pic of him. I haven’t updated the photo of that stupid lizard in like a century! The last one was still in black and white, can you believe it?”
Alastor always considered himself a fine strategist, capable of turning every situation to his advantage, and if that wasn’t the ideal opportunity, nothing would ever be: “Indeed, my dear” he said, his voice smooth as silk, but he dialed up his static by a fraction to cover the slight tremor: “it appears that recently you’ve been quite fond of this whole… photographic passion”
It was a familiar dance: a suggestion here, a hint there to gently guide the conversation like a conductor with his music; a sophisticated approach to the… problem, definitely not petulant nor desperate.
“Passion? Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it that” Lucifer said, finally hopping onto the bed with a light bounce; failing to notice the subtle rigidity in Alastor’s posture: “You know, it’s not like a hobby or anything, and I’m definitely not an expert. No, it’s just that sometimes I want a tangible reminder of the ones I care about the most, and this is an easy way to do it, that’s all”
The static stopped abruptly, just as Alastor’s train of thought did.
“Anyway,” Lucifer struggled to suppress a yawn, his fingers fumbling with the lamp until the room was plunged into a thick, suffocating darkness. “I think I ate one too many Dreamy Donuts... they’re so good, but they always make me wanna sleep for a decade. ’Night, Al!” he murmured, already drifting off, his breath slowing into a rhythmic pace.
Alastor didn’t respond, his voice knotted in his throat.
The sheets felt now like a cage, the silence no longer a comfort but an oppressive weight over him, and, when the morning finally came he didn’t need to rouse, since the sleep had completed avoided him.
The words kept spinning in his head over and over, a broken record of a painful reality: A tangible reminder of the ones I care about the most. The phrase was a needle stuck in a groove, scratching over his sanity.
It made sense, in a cruel, celestial way. After all, Angels were beings of Love, were they not? It was their divine burden to care for everything and everyone.
Everyone. From the lowliest sinner to the most arrogant Sin.
Click
Everyone. The cats, the ducks, the fallen, the faithful.
Click
Everyone had a place in that glowing, digital sanctuary he held so close to his heart.
Click
Everyone...
Click
...but him
Click
He could do nothing but allowing that realization to settle into his bones, heavy as lead and cold as the void. He watched the shadows on the ceiling retreat, chased away by a dawn that felt like an intrusion, just like him.
Countless of questions were screaming in his exhausted mind, each one more destabilizing than the other: if Lucifer didn’t care for him why starting all… this? Why keeping him so close if he was so indifferent to him? Was it all a revenge? Or worse, a game?
The very thought left him nauseous. The sensation of being tricked run down his spine in a cold shiver, leaving him more unsettled than he could ever imagine.
His hand reached for his hair, pulling mercilessly and scratching his scalp: that was a pain he could understand, that he could control, but the silent whine inside him was unyielding.
He took a deep breath to suppress the unnatural knot in his throat. He was still the Radio Demon after all, not a creature designed to kneel under the weight of invisible wounds or sentimental decay.
And if Lucifer decided to play with him, well, now Alastor intended to win.
With determination rushing through his veins Alastor rose from bed, his movements neat as always, as he forced himself to adjust his posture and stead his breath. Every gesture was mechanic, a part of a routine that didn’t quite fit anymore, but he forced himself to continue: first came the shirt, buttoned to the chin, then the socks and trousers; he was just adjusting the straps across his chest when a soft groan emerged from the pile of sheets behind him.
Alright, it’s show time
Alastor didn’t turn around, his fingers moving sharply as he knotted his bowtie an inch below the suffocation level.
“Well, good m’rning, beautiful” Lucifer chuckled hoarsely, propping himself up on one elbow, his golden hair a chaotic halo that crowned his head “Why ‘re you up so early? It’s barely dawn”
“I’m afraid some of us have important matters to attend to, Sire” Alastor replied, his voice cutting the soft atmosphere like an icy knife “But do not worry, my dear, I’m sure that pixel brick of yours will provide quite a sufficient substitute for my presence as always, don’t you think?”
Lucifer’s brows furrowed, the sleepiness vanishing from his eyes in an instant. He sat up straighter, the sheets slipping down his chest. “Whoa, okay, easy there! If you woke up in a bad mood you could just have said so, you know? No need to be all cranky with me, Al!”
“My apologies for being such a disappointment this morning” Alastor finally turned to face the King, his hands jazzing around to emphasize the biting words: “I won’t bother you with my irritating presence any further, so you can focus your precious and apparently limited attention to someone you actually care for!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the strain of panic and pain was clear in the angel’s anxious tone: “Where does it come from? Of course I care about you! Who said otherwise?”
“Why, that’s a curious question!” Alastor finally snapped. With a swirl of shadow he manifested his cane, tapping his claw on the head until the eye of the microphone became bright red “If I recall correctly you made quite the statement last night! Here, let me refresh your memory”
With a final click of the dial, static hissed through the room, before Lucifer’s own voice filled the air, repeating the words that had plagued Alastor all night long: ‘...Sometimes I want a tangible reminder of the ones I care about the most...’
“So, since you haven’t even expressed the slightest desire to capture a moment with me, I’ve came to the only logical concl-“
“FUCK! ”
Alastor had expected a whole list of possible reactions, maybe a flimsy excuse, a confused explanation, or even an offended outburst, but seeing Lucifer jumping out of the bed like a jack-in-the-box definitely wasn’t in his first five guesses.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” the angel dashed towards the cluttered desk in the corner of the room, scattering papers, working tools, and assorted trinkets across it like confetti, in a frantic search for something “where the Hell did I put it?”
Alastor was just about to ask if he had, quite literally, lost his marbles too, when Lucifer finally emerged from the blizzard he created panting and holding a well-worn but clearly beloved notebook in his trembling hands: “Ah! There it is!”
Alastor only raised a skeptical brow, unsure about how an old journal could possibly be the answer for Lucifer’s lack of consideration. Lucifer must have read the confusion in his tight smile, because he lowered the notebook to scratch the back of his neck in an awkward gesture.
“Yeah, maybe it’s not that clear” the angel muttered with a faint curve of his lips. He stepped closer, placing the journal on the bed right in front of Alastor, as if it were a peace offering between two warring nations.
“So…” Lucifer took a deep breath, still avoiding Alastor’s gaze “First of all, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. Now I realized how it sounded, but I swear I didn’t mean it that way” His posture hunched over slightly.
The King fidgeted with the finger that once was adorned by the ring “I know you despise cameras, phones and in general anything tech-related, you made it very clear when you torched the TV in the hall, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, you know? I wanted to respect your boundaries, that’s why I’ve never even asked for a photo. I thought I was doing you a favor, keeping all the tech stuff away and all, but now I see that I was making a different kind of distance”
“But, like you said I do like to have a tangible reminder of the people and the moments I care most about, it helps me during… those days, you know?” he paused for a moment, letting the words settle “And trust me I care so very much about you, Al, so I found a compromise” he picked the journal up from the bed, holding it out to Alastor.
Alastor took hesitantly the notebook, careful not to ruin the red leather of the cover with his claws. It felt heavy in his hands, not only from the usage itself: it was like Lucifer poured all his emotions in those pages, printing a memento from the devil himself.
For the first time since the night before, the knot in his throat loosened, replaced by a strange, terrifying warmth.
“A compromise,” Alastor repeated softly, his voice finally returning to its natural frequency, a barely audible hum to lull his words.
He opened the notebook
Oh
A finely detailed charcoal artwork of himself returned his gaze
It was meticulously crafted, every line drawn with a careful reverence to balance the final picture: from the slight curl at the tip of his hair, to the small mole in the corner of his lips, even the tiny white freckles were reproduced precisely in their spots.
But the most astonishing thing was his expression: Lucifer had captured his smile, his real one, the soft glimpse in his eyes, the little wrinkle in his nose. It was alive. It was perfect.
It was him
Him at the bar, mid-sentence with a Sazerac in his hand. Him in his red apron, dusted with flour while they made Pain Perdu together, his own recipe scribbled hastily in the corner of the paper. Even him asleep, his face pressed into the pillow and his ears flattened in rare, unguarded vulnerability. Him. Him.
Him
On the last page, Alastor finally recognized the moment: the hotel’s library. He saw himself sitting with poise in the armchair, his coat draped over the back, a tea-filled mug floating peacefully beside him. Now that he thought about it, Lucifer had been drawing before KeeKee interrupted their quiet ‘bookflix and chill’ evening.
Two small slips of paper slid from the back cover, capturing his attention: the first was a napkin, the very same one Lucifer had been scribbling on during their breakfast on the rooftop, Alastor was rendered in rudimentary lines, gazing at the city from the railing.
And the second one was the receipt of their take-away pizza, it pictured a sketch of a smiling Radio Demon, his expression soft and unguarded, clearly absorbed in that conversation with Niffty.
“Sorry, I wanted to finish this two over the weekend…” Lucifer broke the stunned silence, picking the notes up “Usually when I’m inspired I need to capture the moment as fast as I can, so I just… scribble on basically anything I have on hand, and then I sketch it properly when I have the time.” He smoothed out the napkin with a thumb, his eyes soft “I didn’t want to lose the way you looked right then, you know?”
“I…” Alastor words were stuck in his throat, leaving him on mute for once. His head was spinning at the very thought that, every time he assumed he was just a mere background for the photos, Lucifer was actually making him the protagonist of his portraits: “I suppose I owe you an apology, Lucifer”
“it’s ok Al, I get where all this came from. But promise me you’ll tell me if something upsets you like this again” Lucifer breathed a sigh of relief, finally meeting the demon’s crimson eyes with a gaze that was steady and warm: “I mean it, I really do care about you. I want you to feel comfortable with me, I want you to know you’re the only one I’ll never get tired of portraying, ever”
"Well," Alastor murmured, a faint but genuine tug at the corner of his mouth. He covered the two steps that separated him from Lucifer, placing a hand on his now goldish cheek: "I suppose I shall have to work on my posing, then. We wouldn't want the King of Hell to waste his charcoal on a subpar model, would we?"
Lucifer leaned to the touch with the softest chuckle, before covering the red claws with his own hand “Oh, what a tragedy! What would the papers say?”
Alastor’s laugh was muffled by a soft pair of thin lips pressed against his own. The radio demon closed his eyes, finally able to breathe freely again.
And if his Shadow sneaked out to snatch the notebook, a pen clutched in its shadowy claws ready to capture this perfect scene... well, that’s just another page in their own Compendium, isn’t it?