Chapter Text
In hindsight, Alastor knows it was only a matter of time before his little secret was discovered.
While his well-known penchant for coming and going as he pleases has provided some cover, the frequency — and rather public nature — of his little disappearing acts has begun to draw suspicion. Just yesterday, Alastor beat a hasty retreat in the middle of Charlie explaining her newest idea for the hotel, with Vaggie at her side and Angel half-listening on the couch as he scrolled on his phone. He excused himself as gracefully as he could manage, if his memory is correct, although he has no recollection of what he actually said. He was too preoccupied with keeping his meager breakfast inside his stomach until he reached the toilet.
Somehow, today is only worse. It hardly seems fair to be forced to camp out in a dimly lit bathroom in a seldom-used wing of the first floor of the hotel. He hasn’t consumed anything since an ill-fated attempt at lunch the day before, and yet his stomach seems intent on turning itself inside out, utterly determined to find something to expel.
Panting, Alastor wipes the drool from his lips and rests his forehead against the mercifully-cool rim of the toilet bowl. He needs to think, to find a solution to this impossible predicament, but his head feels like it is full of cotton and his stomach is already twisting in a way that he has come to recognize as the prelude to yet another round of retching.
A growl rumbles in his throat as he squeezes his eyes shut. Nearly a century of clawing his way to the top of the overlord caste to become the Radio Demon now stands on the precipice of utter ruin all because of a single night of indiscretion, and Alastor cannot think.
But the truth is, the time for thinking has passed. There are really only two options, and neither of them are particularly good. The first is to try and remedy the situation using the methods available to hellborn. The second is to extract the problem by tearing himself apart.
His hand moves to his belly and he clenches his teeth against the almost primal urge to protect. He scoffs at the simple trick of biology, the hormonal shift that makes him not want to end the small life he unexpectedly finds himself carrying. It’s nothing more than that.
It isn’t.
His body convulses with another bout of retching, and Alastor is almost grateful for the distraction.
“Alastor?”
The sweat on the back of Alastor’s neck runs cold. He knows from the voice of alone who is standing in the doorway, but he looks anyway. Lucifer’s face is plastered with shock. Alastor is certain his expression looks very similar, his permanent grin not withstanding, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before his stomach heaves and he chokes up more bile.
Lucifer rushes to him, hands reaching, and Alastor panics.
“Stop!”
Lucifer does, his hand barely a breath away from Alastor’s back.
“Don’t touch me,” Alastor pants, resting his forehead against the edge of the toilet again. He needs to get up, to smooth the wrinkles from his dress shirt, to force his ears to stand at attention, to do anything to preserve the illusion that he is alright, but it is all beyond him. Little flashes of white light are sparking in his vision and he feels very close to fainting. His pulse flutters in his throat like the wings of a hummingbird.
Lucifer kneels beside him, hands still outstretched. Incapacitated as he is, Alastor resents that Lucifer feels the need to treat him like a skittish beast.
“Alastor, let me help me. I want to help you.”
“I don’t care what you want.” His hand grips the toilet bowl with such force that a hairline crack appears in the porcelain. “Leave me alone!”
Lucifer shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. Not when you’re this sick. You shouldn’t even be sick. Do you know what’s wrong?”
The laughter slips out before he can stop it, softly at first but quickly growing in hysteria until he is heaving again. The muscles of his stomach flutter as they squeeze against the emptiness.
Then, Lucifer touches his arm and Alastor’s world comes crashing down.
The sensation is almost impossible to put into words. Something calls out from within him through that simple touch, and something that simply is Lucifer answers in turn, like blood knowing blood. Before Alastor can even take in the look of utter disbelief on his face, he knows that Lucifer knows his secret.
He hears something like the shriek of a steam engine whistle bounce off the titled walls of the bathroom. Belatedly, he realizes that the sound came from him. He pulls away from Lucifer only to collapse gracelessly onto the floor when his trembling arms refuse to hold him. Every breath makes a horrible rasping noise on the way in, and every exhale is too short. He feels hot and cold by turn as blackness creeps at the edges of his vision.
He hears a voice, but muffled, as though he were deep underwater. He is not entirely sure that he isn’t. He can’t breathe. He is drowning on dry land, he is sure of it. He is going to die.
“Four things you can feel.”
Finally, the voice cuts through the static in his mind like the lamp of a lighthouse in a storm.
“Think of four things you can feel,” the voice repeats. It is impossibly gentle, yet firm.
Alastor flexes his claws involuntarily and becomes aware that there is now something soft and fuzzy between them.
That’s one thing, this fuzzy… whatever it is. There is cool tile beneath his legs and solid warmth against his back, which brings his total to three. He needs one more, but other sensations seem to elude him. A whine of distress buzzes in his throat.
“That’s good. You’re doing great,” the voice murmurs, and the praise loosens the vice around his lungs a little.
“We’re gonna get your head between your knees, okay?” The voice asks, but it isn’t really a question—not when he already feels his body being guided into position. He doesn’t resist. He couldn’t if he tried.
“Great, Alastor. That’s really good. We’re going to take some deep breaths, okay? I’ll do it with you.”
Alastor shakes his head. Anything beyond the shallow sips of air he sneaks into his burning lungs is impossible.
“You got this. It’s okay. Just follow me.”
One of his hands is guided away from the soft thing and his held against something warm and flat.
“In.”
The new thing beneath his palm expands—
“And out.”
—and contracts. The pattern repeats and Alastor struggles to follow until his lungs unlock with a gasp. His lips tingle at the sudden rush of oxygen, and he feels himself list to the side.
“Alastor. Stay with me. Breathe In. And out.”
His hand clutches the solid thing under his hand like a drowning man clinging white-knuckled to a passing piece of flotsam.
“Good. You’re doing so well, Alastor…”
It is impossible for him to tell how long he stays like that, sucking in breath after shuddering breath. When he at last sits up and opens his eyes, it is Lucifer’s face that comes into view. Distantly, he realizes he’s been clinging to Lucifer’s shirt with one hand and, unexpectedly, a large plush duck with the other.
The devil offers a small smile, but it does nothing to mask the concern in his eyes.
“There we go. You’re okay, Alastor. You crashed out pretty hard there a second. We’re just gonna stay like this for a while, okay?”
Alastor squeezes his eyes shut. Lucifer is treating him like he is weak. Fuck, he is weak. He’d come apart at the seams in front of the King of Hell, all his cards revealed, his secret exposed, his—
“Nope, let’s not do that. Breathe, Bambi. Come on, head back between your knees.”
His body moves under Lucifer’s hands like a puppet, and he finds himself bracing for… something. Pain. Rejection. Some hitherto unthought of form of humiliation. Instead, he feels Lucifer’s hand sooth up and down his back. He hates that it feels comforting.
“You still with me, Alastor?”
“I’m fine,” he replies through numb lips. It rankles when Lucifer accepts the lie with a hum, but then having the man assert that he wasn’t fine would have done the same.
For an indeterminate amount of time, they sit on the bathroom floor in the quiet, Alastor breathing in time to the rhythm of Lucifer’s hand on his back, until the latter finally breaks the silence.
“How long have you been sick like this?”
Alastor doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want Lucifer involved, though he knows it’s already too late for that. “About two weeks.”
“Has it always been this bad?”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle, sire.”
It’s a lie. He’s slumped against Lucifer’s side, weak as a newborn fawn.
“Have you been able to keep anything down?”
Alastor is silent.
“For two weeks?”
Silence.
“Okay, that’s… not good. Like, really not good. You’re probably really dehydrated, and—fuck. Okay. I know you’re not going to like this, but we need some help to triage this situation. I want to call Belphegor and have her come and look at you. Like, right now.”
Alastor’s stomach lurches with a queasy rise of panic. Having anyone else learn of his delicate condition is intolerable, let alone the ruler of the Sloth Ring and one of the Sins.
“Hey, hey. Breathe, Al. Just breathe,” Lucifer soothes, wrapping his arm around Alastor’s shoulders and giving a little squeeze. “It’s okay. She can keep a secret. She’s hell’s best doctor, bound by oath and all that. Even if she wasn’t, I am the King of Hell, and that comes with its own set of perks. We need some help managing this, and I don’t think ginger tea and crackers are gonna cut it.”
For the first time since their little melodrama began, Alastor's eyes meet Lucifer’s. He looks away almost immediately.
“Fine.” Trying to argue with him on the matter would likely be pointless.
Lucifer lets out his own tight sigh of relief. “Okay. Just hang on a little longer.”
The devil shifts into a taller version of his usual form and picks him up with an ease that Alastor would have found offensive had he not already been on the threshold of unconsciousness. He swears he can feel the life in his womb stir again in recognition at the touch of its sire. Alastor is by no means an expert on pregnancy, but even he knows that it is far too early to feel any quickening. His head lolls against Lucifer’s shoulder, defeated, as the devil opens a portal to his own royal suite.
“It’s alright, Bambi,” Lucifer murmurs as he crosses over the magical threshold. “I got you.”
Alastor promptly curls in on himself as soon as Lucifer lays him on the bed. Part of this is for purely practical reasons: laying in the fetal position is easier on his stomach than lying stretched out on his back. But part of him wishes he could simply disappear or will himself back to a time when his body was only his own and not subject to the whims of kings or fetuses or nausea. He is only distantly aware of Lucifer making a phone call to whom he can only assume is Blephgore, although he calls her “Bel” and speaks with a familiarity with which a lowly sinner like himself would never dream of addressing the ruler of the Sloth Ring.
He feels the mattress dip and cracks open an eye to see Lucifer sitting on the edge. He puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Belphegor’s going to be here in about ten minutes. Is there anything I can do for you while we wait? Do you want to try drinking some water?”
The only response Alastor can manage is to curl tighter in on himself, shrinking away from his hand. To his credit, Lucifer does not push, pout, or try to touch him again. In fact, he seems to be doing his utmost not to touch him anymore than necessary as he pulls a coverlet up over his shivering form.
By the time Belphegor does arrive, Alastor is drifting somewhere just shy of the here and now. It is a novel sensation, one that he would never indulge in under ordinary circumstances. To be an overlord, after all, is to exist in a constant state of war. A single lapse in vigilance could be enough to precipitate the fall of even the strongest sinner, but that life of blood and strife seems so very far away as he lies in the bed of the king, the very bed in which these seeds of his destruction were sown.
Lucifer and Belphegor speak in hushed tones at the far end of the room. Alastor hates they are speaking about him. The whispering stops and Alastor feels Lucifer’s presence at the bedside.
“Al? Bel’s here and she’s going to take a look at you, okay? I can stay if you want, or I can go.”
“Go,” Alastor croaks, his voice barely more than radio static. Even though they had been intimate, the idea of Lucifer at his side as Belphegor examines parts of him that had never bore scrutiny makes him almost as nauseous as the morning sickness.
“Okay, Al. I’ll be right in the hallway if you need me.”
Lucifer’s benign presence is replaced with Belphegor’s, and that is enough to pull him fully back to the present. Alastor’s teeth are on edge as during the entire examination. He’s waiting for some kind of reaction from Belphegor, but the Sin of Sloth seems utterly disinterested despite the fact that a lowly sinner has somehow defied the laws of nature to carry the child of the King of Hell himself. In fact, she looks so close to falling asleep that Alastor feels compelled to clear his throat from time to time to keep her awake so the whole dreadful business can conclude as quickly as possible.
He tries to distance himself from his body again when he feels her apply slick gel to his belly. He turns his head away from the screen of the machine that she’s set up and catches sight of the plush duck toy Lucifer had conjured for him when he’d been spiraling sitting placidly near the pillows. Alastor wants to rip its smiling face off. Instead, he reaches up and runs the back of his knuckles over its impossibly soft white body.
After what feels like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, Belphegor announces that she is finished and Lucifer, who has returned to his typical “fun-size” stature, is permitted back into the room.
“You’re about ten weeks pregnant,” Belphegor says, stifling a yawn. Alastor is secretly grateful that she has decided to speak directly to him rather than about him to Lucifer.
“I think we all know that it should have been impossible for you to conceive as a sinner, and yet you have. As such, I have concerns about the effects of your carrying what is essentially an angelic spawn.”
Lucifer frowns. “Is he in immediate danger?”
Belphegor yawns again, her eyelids drooping dangerously. “It’s difficult to say. I have never seen anything like this. The only point of reference we have is the Queen’s pregnancy, and even that is not an exact match to this situation. I imagine it will cause significant strain on his body, and it’s almost certain that some kind of intervention will be required. I will look into the matter and develop a course of action as quickly as possible. In the meantime, I recommend monitoring Alastor closely.”
Alastor shifts on the bed. The idea of being monitored at all, let alone closely, makes him itch.
“Additionally,” Belphegor continues, addressing Alastor again. “I am concerned about your low weight and the severity of your morning sickness. I’m going to set you up on an IV to help with the dehydration now and give you some anti-nausea medication, but finding food that you can keep down is imperative.”
“Thanks, Bel,” Lucifer says, offering the sheep demon a little smile. “I appreciate you keeping this close to the chest.”
“Yup,” she answers as she sets up a pole on which she hangs a bag of saline. Alastor is vaguely impressed that her hands move as efficiently as they do when she seems moments away from falling asleep on her feet. Then again, she is the CEO of all of Hell’s hospitals.
Alastor watches as the needle slowly disappears into his flesh with a calm he does not feel. A war is raging inside of him, one that threatens to destroy him or at least raze what is left of his already questionable sanity. He needs an answer to the question that burns on the tip of his tongue, but the very thought of asking it brings a wretched ache to his chest. He draws a quick, hitching breath, and the words tumble out.
“Can the pregnancy be terminated?”
The moment of silence that follows is crushing. Alastor keeps his eyes trained on Belphegor and pretends he cannot feel Lucifer’s eyes on him.
To her credit, Belphegor’s expression doesn’t change. Or maybe she simply doesn’t care. “It should be possible. I will need to look into a few things before I can say for certain.”
Alastor nods, wondering how it could be possible to feel such intense relief and crippling grief at the same time.
“Thanks again, Bel,” Lucifer says, opening a portal for her back to her office. Her waiting assistants make quick work ferrying her equipment out of the bedroom, and within minutes he and Alastor are alone again. Alastor turns his face away from Lucifer in favor of studying the tacky design of wallpaper: thin stripes made of little apple motifs. The man is nothing if not consistent.
For several long moments, the only sound that can be heard is the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. Lucifer touches the side of the bed. “Can I sit here?”
“This is your bed, your Majesty. You may do as you please.”
Lucifer sighs, but Alastor feels the mattress dip subtly under his weight none the less.
“Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want around, but we need to talk.”
He isn’t wrong, but he is also the only person Alastor wants at the moment. The silence that follows baits Alastor into looking toward him. Lucifer eyes rest on his hands folded in his lap. When he does finally look up, his face is arranged in a mask of neutrality seldom worn by the king, impossible for even a seasoned deal-maker like Alastor to read.
“What do you want to do, Alastor?”
Alastor’s mouth goes dry. He tastes iron. He’s known about his “condition” since the vomiting started nearly two weeks ago, but he’s no closer to having an answer to that question now than he was then. “What?”
“I’m asking what you want to do about this… situation,” Lucifer says with the same infuriating calm.
Alastor bristles. “You cannot possibly expect me to decide.”
“You’re the only one who can, Alastor. It’s your body.”
“And it’s your fault that I’m in this predicament!”
Lucifer flinches. “I know.” His gaze returns to his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re… sorry? You—”
That’s it, then, isn’t it? Lucifer regrets getting him with child. He must. How could he, the King of Hell and ostensibly still a married man if the ring on his finger is any indication, possibly want a child conceived on the wrong side of the sheets of a sinner’s bed?
Well, at least the path forward is now abundantly clear! He’s not some wet-behind-the-ears sinner freshly arrived in Hell, and he knows damn well when he’s been dealt a losing hand. Without the support of the king, carrying this child would leave him vulnerable to all manner of threats—if he survived the pregnancy at all. He is already weak as a kitten as it is, barely able to keep his head out of the toilet for more than a few hours at a time. And while even Belphegor did not know how this would all shake out, Alastor is certain that indulging this folly will only result in him losing everything, the child.
No, there’s only one move for him to play with these cards.
“I don’t want it. I want to get rid of it.”
The ticking of the unseen clock is deafening, and Alastor doesn’t breathe until Lucifer finally speaks.
“I understand.”
Alastor’s throat closes, but it’s only when he tastes salt on his lips that he realizes with horror that he’s begun to cry. The tears that stream down his cheeks leave trails so cold they burn. He startles at the feeling of Lucifer’s fingers tentatively touching his arm and jerks back violently.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” He snarls. His hand slips down to his belly without his knowledge, let alone his consent, as though to protect what's inside.
That little flicker of life beneath his hand with whom he has suffered in secret these past few weeks will soon be gone, snuffed out by either Lucifer’s power or some contrivance devised by Belphegor, and he will be able to forget that all of this ever happened. In time, this will just be a momentary blip on the radar in his eternal damnation. He will forget that there was ever a time that he wasn’t so achingly empty.
He will.
He must.
“Breathe, Alastor.”
Lucifer’s voice pulls him from his spiraling thoughts, and he realizes with a jolt that he is all but sitting in the man’s lap, head resting against his shoulder. When did that happen? When had Lucifer shifted his form again to become large enough so he could hold him with ease?
When had fucking breathing become such a difficult task that he needed to be reminded to do it like he was some fucking imbecile?
Alastor wants to bite Lucifer until his teeth scrape against bone, to sink his claws into his face and make him bleed, to tear every feather from the wings that he keeps hidden somewhere.
“I’m going to be sick,” he says instead, swallowing hard against the thick drool that rushes into his mouth.
A bucket appears in his hands just in time. Lucifer sweeps Alastor’s hair back from his forehead as Alastor vomits, bringing up little more than bile. Each retch sounds like a sob. When the nausea passes, Lucifer works the bucket out from his death grip and guides his head back to his shoulder. He feels a deliciously cool wet cloth against his face, wiping away the tears and sweat and drool.
They stay like that for some time, Lucifer circling his thumb against the base of Alastor’s ear and Alastor fighting to regain some semblance of control over his emotions and his body. Slowly the pounding in his head begins to recede and the number of tears that slip from his closed eyes decreases. Something about Lucifer’s touch quelles his stomach’s constant churning and some of the tension seeps from his shoulders.
“Want to try drinking a little water?” Lucifer asks quietly. Alastor nods and finds the rim of a glass pressed against his lip. He takes a tentative sip and then another. It is cool and tastes of ginger. Moreover, his body does not immediately try to expel it.
“It’s okay, Alastor. It’s all going to be alright,” Lucifer murmurs.
Alastor knows it’s a lie, but for just a moment, he lets himself believe.