Chapter Text
Peace should have come now that he was alone, finally back in his own room at the hotel. After all, Alastor had spent far too long as a captive of Vox’s, his plans relying on Charlie being in the right place taking more time than he hoped, so privacy should have been the answer to washing away the foul phantoms of Vox’s touches.
Instead, Alastor found himself pouring whiskey and lighting a cigarette at his table by the bayou, unable to gaze into his mirror and see how he looked. Not only was he avoiding his sleep-deprived dark eyes, but the idea of making eye contact with himself caused him to shudder and his skin crawl.
The skin crawling meant even a shower was out for the moment. Alastor would never tell himself that he feared what any touch might recall, but the whispering intrusive thoughts were trying to say it. Another sip of the drink to deny their efforts, followed by a long drag.
Had it been worth it – to offer himself up so he could make the long play and break free of Rosie’s chains? Ultimately, yes, but the cost of gaining his soul back cut deeper than what he prepared himself to endure. He’d gone into the shark’s reef knowing that his pride would take a hit, knowing it’d likely be the greatest hit he’d ever endured, but his intentions to ultimately come out on top kept his anger largely at bay.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the private things Vox did. Alastor knew he’d suffer just as well behind closed doors, but not having been much of one for Vox’s idea of personal showboating, Alastor guessed wrong. Even having known Vox for as long as he had, the Vee had taken a different darker turn since they stopped coexisting semi-peacefully.
Instead of exclusively violent physical torment and being forced to sit through grandiose narcissistic speeches meant to make him feel small, he was subjected to even more roaming hands, sexual encounters of varying degrees of disgust, and forced into poses of submission. Never mind the tail touching, where Alastor had to make a mini-bargain to keep Vox’s mouth shut about that – only for Vox to announce his lie to all of hell in a way that invited questions that Alastor never wanted asked.
Alastor swallowed, his thoughts turning to worrying about what questions might come his way when he finally left his room. Eventually he must, if only to show his strength and resilience.
Why did he come back to the hotel, where the questions would be most plentiful? He placed his cigarette in the ash tray and dropped his head in his hands. Fingers dug into his scalp around his ears and antlers.
Something about his entertainment, or that’s what he claimed when Charlie first asked if he was staying or had other plans. Truthfully, he hadn’t anticipated the question coming as soon as they headed towards the hotel, Charlie asking before they even set sights on their home. How he managed to give any answer without rousing suspicion of his fragmented mind was anyone’s guess.
The answer only came to him when he turned to respond to Charlie, his eyes landing on her dad, the fallen angel mumbling unconsciously as he rested against her back while she carried him. Lucifer. Yes, there was something about Lucifer that made him want to stay. Of course, he said nothing about the king, opting to just say “entertainment.”
A bitter laugh clawed its way out now, memories replaying of seeing Lucifer when the fallen angel was captured by Vox. It would be Lucifer that’d be the only “friend” that Alastor saw before Vox’s “End of Heaven” gala. Not that Lucifer could ever be counted as a friend, but Alastor didn’t consider anyone a friend, so he used the word almost ironically.
Lucifer was his rival as far as all were concerned, and yet when Alastor saw Lucifer look at him from inside his captive egg-shaped device, it took every bit of Alastor’s masking capabilities to hide the skipped heartbeat inside his constricting chest. He couldn’t help but notice the slightly disheveled look of Lucifer’s hair beneath his hat, as if he’d been laying on one side too long. Nor could he help the pounding in his ears as he knew what was coming, thanks to being stuck by Vox’s side during half of his conversations with Carmilla.
Somehow, he offered Lucifer only a sarcastic wave, followed by a jovial taunt. On the inside he repressed his fevered imagination of them breaking free of their confines, destroying Vox and his plans, and disappearing together into the safe shrouds of shadows.
Outside, he heard Lucifer call him “Red Guy” as if he still hadn’t learned Alastor’s name. A recall to the game they had always played at the hotel, where Lucifer would call him bellhop, Bambi, Strawberry, Red, etc. instead of his actual name. While there was something cathartic about hearing a piece of their daily encounters of a time before his confinement, it was probably the worst moment for a comment that made him feel forgotten when he only had mockery surrounding him.
Now that everything was over, his mind returned to reflect on the exchange, replaying it over and over as blood dribbled down Alastor’s face from where his claws had dug deeper into his scalp than intended. He told himself at the time that Lucifer was just being an idiot running on reflex, that he still had a sign on his door that proudly declared Alastor’s name for all to see (never mind as a warning of spells meant to keep Alastor from breaking inside his room again).
Did he though? Or did Lucifer feel excitement when Alastor was captured and took down the sign as if to say, “Well, won’t be needing this anymore!” Did he remove it and the memories of Alastor washed away? For any demon Alastor would’ve laughed at the question; the idea of any sinner or hellborn forgetting him, The Radio Demon! Absurd! But for a timeless entity such as Lucifer? The sinner might hold no more meaning to him than a thorn dug into his heel, one forgotten a few days after throwing it away. It had been days since his capture by the time of Vox trapped Lucifer, hadn’t it?
Suddenly, the idea of staying for the “entertainment” of seeing Lucifer felt like the dumbest idea Alastor could have decided. Absolute foolishness, he concluded, and began wondering if he should try rebuilding himself somewhere else.
Nausea from the back of his throat appeared without warning. Gagging it back, Alastor told himself it was from the ludicrous idea of staying only for Lucifer, and not from the prospect of leaving everything, including the king. Well, perhaps he could put off the decision for now, if only to ease his queasiness, but the possible outcome of such a decision still weighed on him.
Was it just Alastor, or was the air beginning to suffocate him? Perhaps fresher air would help. Facing the outside world wasn’t quite an option yet, but the hotel’s public spaces were a soft exposure.
Putting out his cigarette and downing the rest of his whiskey, Alastor collected himself and proceeded to the mezzanine above the lobby, looking to see if there was anything else to distract him from his unwanted musings. His eyes travelled amongst the sea of sinners, not one of them drawing his interests – but a certain other hell denizen caught his sights.
His gaze sharpened at the sight of Lucifer, watching the king try mingling as he moved towards something or someone. Perhaps Charlie, who wasn’t too far away. Charlie, another person that he wasn’t sure if she had ever cared about his capture, other than at the gala when she called out to him and tried running to his side. Was that real or a public act? After all, a princess should seem upset when the host of her passionate project is in the hands of her enemy.
Why was this air just as suffocating as his room? Would he ever be able to breathe without feeling on the cusp of gasping?
One last look at Lucifer slightly lessened his struggles to breathe, but Alastor no longer wanted to spend time in public areas. Lost in thought within his room about his torments while in Vox’s captivity, or publicly hiding his insecurities as he mingled with the sources of his doubts, private torture sounded least risky to damning his reputation.
It took time for Lucifer to wake – more time than anything else since his fall. Coming back for what was essentially being harvested for his energy, at one point continuously for what felt like hours of the “bad tickles” (wasn’t so much a tickle as excruciating by then), Lucifer felt like he was under a sea of murky heavy waters until he surfaced. When he came back, his mind was fuzzy as if he’d almost drowned, and the first thing he looked for was someone to be there. For someone to care.
In the bright fluorescent light of his room Lucifer saw no one, not even an unusual shadow. He was completely alone. Panic tried setting in, his hazy mind was the only thing slowing it down. Fortunately, before the haze fully lifted to allow a panic attack to take its place, his room door opened and revealed Charlie.
“Dad, you’re awake!” She cried out, a white washcloth in one hand and a small blue bucket in the other. Both fell from her hands, droplets of water in the bucket swishing over the rim. Charlie ran to him and gave him a hug across his body, Lucifer still prone on the bed.
The sight of her rushing to his side with her arms open in embrace elated him, but Lucifer’s joy was immediately poisoned when Charlie’s hug triggered a choking reflex to recoil from her. Only the heaviness weighing down his limbs stopped the kneejerk reaction of pushing Charlie away.
For someone like Lucifer, where touches from the precious few he cared about were highly desired and rarely given, feeling the reactive need to draw away at his daughter’s embrace stopped all brain function. How could he feel such a way about Charlie?!
A horrible sensation of red-hot ants crawling over his hands, hooves, and randomly along his torso almost made him vomit. The sensation was worse where Charlie rested on him. What awful connection was happening?
The answer struck him with a sharp, unwelcome clarity – that only the awful box-thing with its snug locks and harvesting cables connected all the areas now burning. How could a machine cause this vile feeling, even when touched by a loved one?
“Dad?” Charlie asked as she pulled her head up to peer at him. “Are you okay? You’re getting clammy.”
Immediately he forced a laugh that wanted to be cheerful, but sounded hollower than he was willing to let escape. He clamped up and tried rushing out something positive for his daughter. “Oh, you know me! I’m fine; I’m just always being the weird one.”
Wow, lame response, Lucifer grimaced.
“Dad…” Charlie responded, her voice sympathetic and hesitant.
Before she could find her next words, Lucifer hurriedly continued, “I’m okay, really! I just need a minute. Maybe let papa have a few minutes to himself?” He could feel himself about to spiral into a panic attack if he couldn’t keep up pretenses around Charlie. The best option was for her to leave, even though a large part of him yearned for her to continue her hug while the remainder of him just wanted to remove her as fast as possible. He almost cracked at that heartbreaking realization.
Charlie bit her lip. “Sure, dad. I’ll check on Vaggi. Please come find me downstairs in the lobby when you’re ready? I need to help her with hotel duties now that sinners are starting to show up.”
“Sure thing!” Please leave quickly so you don’t witness this, he silently pleaded. The clamminess of his skin grew as each second passed.
She nodded and finally withdrew, standing up while adding, “I’m going to leave the cold water here in case you need it. Feel free to come down whenever, okay? I mean it. I’ll be there for a while.”
“Thanks, Char-Char,” Lucifer smiled his best reassuring expression.
Bidding him a final goodbye, Charlie left, and Lucifer’s torment of wanting to call her back and yet feeling relieved to be alone only intensified. With a bit of effort, Lucifer flopped to his side and curled up, back to his door. Being isolated was not what he wanted! He was isolated in that box-like thing, with Charlie’s girlfriend briefly there before leaving him alone again, where the dizzying pain had intensified and stayed that way.
Knowing he was heading towards a panic attack and being able to use that knowledge to curb it from happening were two different things. Try as he might to use techniques he learned, such as breathing deep and finding things for his five senses, they weren’t effective. Their usefulness was usually tied to stopping fearful emotions of being lonesome in his palace, but these torn feelings of longing/repulsion? They were new and his efforts to head them off were in vain.
Wetness began to grow along the corners of his eyes before running down his cheeks, heart palpitations mounting with each tear dripping off his chin, and his breathing became shallow and rapid despite efforts to prevent what was happening. Lucifer buried his head further into his knees. The reek of his dried blood was the only scent he could find for his sense of smell, and that was entirely unhelpful.
No, Lucifer was fully in the midst of his panic attack, and now he could only ride it out, pull it together, and then go to see his daughter as he faked being back to his usual self. His stomach sank at the idea of pretending to be normal again when he knew he wasn’t anywhere close to that.