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Alastor's teeth shone with threads of saliva as he widened his mouth, turning his head side to side as he tried to peer down his own throat. He wasn't trying to examine his tonsils for fun, of course – there had been an itch plaguing him since the early hours of that morning, and he hadn't gotten up to any activities recently enough to account for it.
That was to say – he hadn't had anything shoved down his throat for a while, squirming sinner or otherwise.
It was rather difficult to tell whether or not his throat was redder than usual, given his overall colour scheme. He cleared it with a crackle of static as he snapped his teeth closed, grabbing a glass from the countertop and filling it with cool water. A grunt from outside the bathroom indicated Lucifer had finally decided to join him in the world of the awake, and Alastor swigged that glass of water before wiping his mouth on his pyjama sleeve.
Pyjamas – in the presence of another person. In the presence of Lucifer, no less, and the idea was still somewhat bizarre.
“Alastor?” Lucifer's sleep-groggy voice called out. Alastor pressed a delicate claw to the skin under one of his eyes, pulling down a little as he leant forward and stared critically at his own face. Made for radio, indeed – particularly with the redness in his waterlines he'd woken up with that morning.
It would be next to impossible for anyone else to tell, given the aforementioned colour scheme. He pushed his hair out of his face, combing through it with his fingers – before it inevitably returned to its messy bob once again, completely impossible to train into anything else.
He shrugged. Perhaps his body was simply protesting the idea of sleeping in another's room – next to another. It was taking some getting used to, despite the fact it had been several weeks – over a month? – now. Alastor shook his head at himself, lifting one wry brow as he mentally asked himself what he was doing.
No denying that having the King of Hell by his side would be a powerful statement. No denying the whole thing was interesting, in a way so few things were that managed to capture his attention these days.
No denying that something in him seemed to have softened towards the other man, even within the brief span of those few weeks.
“Alastor?” Lucifer called again, clearly distressed at Alastor's continued absence – and silence. Alastor huffed a sigh, blasting static into the room until it bounced off the bathroom tiles in a screeching echo of feedback.
“Here, sire. Can a sinner not take care of his morning ablutions without your interference?” Alastor asked drily, his radio filter thicker than usual to cover the slight rasp in his voice as he strode back into the bedroom. He kicked aside a rubber duck without thinking of it, the squeak as it hit Lucifer's desk irritatingly similar to those dragged from his own throat at the least convenient of times.
He wanted very much to rub at his eyes again, one ear twitching with a tickle somewhere in its depths. Alastor was not one to give into such impulses, particularly where somebody else might witness them. Lucifer's face brightened, the man looking nothing like the King of Hell in his too-large pyjama shirt, his hands disappearing into its sleeves as they flopped about his wrists.
“No. I mean – yes, of course you can. I just – I woke up and you weren't here, so... I don't know. Ugh, I don't know. Sorry,” Lucifer muttered, dragging a hand through his own hair as he let out a sigh of frustration.
“I am not your absentee wife, Lucifer. You needn't worry about me disappearing – I am employed here at the hotel, unless you've forgotten?” Alastor pointed out with a smattering of canned laughter. Gold spread over Lucifer's cheeks as he flushed, a scowl pinching his brows into a tight furrow under the messy spill of his bed-hair.
“Fuck you. You don't have to be an asshole,” Lucifer shot back, the perfect picture of petulance.
Alastor's grin widened.
“Oh, but I'm so very good at it. As for fucking – not today, perhaps. I have rather a lot to do.” He leant in, capturing Lucifer's chin with his claws. Angling for his mouth but adjusting his attack at the last moment, just in case it was Lucifer's wandering tongue that had his throat feeling so odd in the first place.
He pressed a kiss to the other man's forehead, a gesture that nobody would believe him capable of, even if Lucifer was prone to bragging.
That scowl softened under the touch of his lips, wrinkles smoothing back out into soft skin. Lucifer's hands landed on his hips, claws pressing against him with an insistence Alastor recognised, one he huffed a laugh at through his nose as he drew back to shoot Lucifer a wry glance.
“What did I just say?” He prompted. The innocent, wide-eyed look Lucifer shot him sat far too well on his face for this to be the same man he'd been warned about in his youth; the Devil himself.
“That you're good at being an asshole?” Lucifer was also terribly skilled at playing dumb.
Alastor's grin twitched, a rueful sputter of static clattering low in his throat. It tickled that that itch, enough that the corners of his eyes watered with the cough he tried to suppress – and before Lucifer could notice it – before he could level his concern Alastor's way when it was decidedly unwelcome and assuredly inconvenient – Alastor melted into the shadows, seeping under Lucifer's door and into the hotel proper.
He hadn't been lying – he did genuinely have a lot to do.
* * * * * *
Alastor rubbed at his throat, his eyes still burning in the wake of the sneeze all this floating sawdust had dragged from him. Renovations were a messy business, the room filled with drop-sheets and the scent of paint stripper, and he watched as his shadow minions worked at sawing through a plank of wood. It was all well and good that Lucifer had rebuilt the hotel after the battle with Adam and his forces – but he hadn't taken into consideration the reinforcements required if a sinner such as Zeezi ever decided to stay.
The beds he'd installed could withstand a lot – Alastor could certainly attest to that – but when one of their guests resembled nothing so much as an elephant crossed with a hippopotamus, some extra care needed to be taken.
That wasn't even addressing the main issue, the strength of the floors – but Alastor wasn't certain planks of wood would be enough, there. Steel bars, perhaps, but installing those himself would involve ripping up the entire floor and starting again. Lucifer could simply snap his fingers and accomplish it all behind the scenes, something Alastor would be needling him to do before too long.
His ears twitched as sawdust clung to his fur, a staticky cough catching in his throat. He narrowed his eyes at the work still going on, abruptly deciding that his minions had it well enough in hand. He didn't need to be here any longer – and that was a blessing, because he wasn't certain he could stand to be here any longer.
Alastor needed to sit down, because the sawdust creeping into his sinuses had obviously clogged his airways, his breath wheezing a little in his sore throat. He sucked in air through clenched teeth, the best filter-system he had for the moment, and wandered into a spare guest room without thinking about where it was he was going.
All he knew was that he needed to sit – to catch his breath after the banalities of hotel renovation had tried to murder him.
Luckily for him, this guest room was already equipped with an armchair and a bed. Alastor rubbed a knuckle against the corner of one eye, trying to clear errant motes of dust from it, stifling a yawn as he glanced over at that bed.
He was not a man particularly given to day-time naps. It wasted precious hours, put him in a place of vulnerability quite unlike sleeping at night. There were folks awake during the night, of course, but far less of them than would be during the day. He couldn't explain why that bed seemed so tempting – this wasn't even his space.
Wasn't even Lucifer's.
There was no logical reason at all for his exhaustion – which made it all the more frustrating when his legs carried him to that bed without his consent. Perhaps if he told himself he was just testing the give of the mattress – checking the quality of Niffty's housekeeping – then yes. He could excuse the fact that he sat down on the edge of it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tried to quiet the buzz echoing in his skull.
Worse than the usual hum of his static; that, he'd gotten used to. This was more like the thrashing of a hornet, trapped underneath a glass. It whined and echoed and ached, spiking a discomfort in his temples that he hadn't known in years. Alastor opened his eyes, blinking at the brightness of the lights shining down from the ceiling, his ambient static hissing in displeasure.
His shadow, ever helpful, darted from his heels and flicked the light switch, plunging the room into something approaching darkness. Red light still seeped in through the windows, the curtains doing their best to block it out, and Alastor's hands crept up into his hair, claws rubbing at the base of his ears.
Maybe a Hell-wasp really had gotten into his skull. Maybe it wasn't an exaggeration.
Alastor blinked, the edges of the nightstand blurring a little. He'd dislodged his monocle and he hadn't even noticed. A glance around showed it sitting some few feet away, waiting innocuously on the bed for him to reach over and pluck it back up. He twisted in place, his spine creaking a little, reaching out to grab it – but this mattress had been possessed by something that wanted to drag him into unconsciousness. The sawdust he'd inhaled was the spore of poppies, and like Judy Garland he found himself sinking ever lower, until his face pressed against soft sheets, his legs still dangling off the edge of the mattress.
A little rest, perhaps. He must have slept worse than he'd thought.
Just a moment to relax his eyes.
* * * * * *
“Maman,” Alastor called, coughing into his fist. He shivered, unable to warm his bones despite the humid heat clinging to his skin, the blankets draped over his shoulders. “Maman!”
“Here.” His maman walked into the room, sweat clinging to her temples. The air within his bedroom was almost wavering, a roaring fire failing to chase away his chill.
Alastor looked up at her, his head filled with the absolute certainty only a child could ever entertain, his understanding of the world lacking in nothing. He knew what was going on, and his huge brown eyes were incredibly serious, even glittering with fever as they were.
“Maman. I am dying.”
He expected the proclamation to be met with despair – for his maman to admit that he was right, that she'd been trying to hide the truth from him for the entirety of this week. Alastor sniffled, making to wipe his nose on his forearm – but his maman stilled his hand with a soft smile as she sat down on the edge of his bed.
She reached out with a handkerchief to wipe his nose, her lack of response or distress to his announcement upsetting in a way the knowledge that he was dying hadn't been. Alastor's eyes watered. Wasn't she going to miss him?
“You're not dying, mon cerf. Ah, my little performer. So dramatic, no? Here. Eat this.” His maman held up a spoon, Alastor's nose wrinkling as he eyed up whatever thick concoction was clinging to the end of it. Death might be a better option. “Alastor.”
No ignoring the quiet warning in her voice, and though his lip curled and his teeth tried to clench shut against the instruction, Alastor opened his mouth with a grimace, trying not to gag as he swallowed that overly spicy, sticky mouthful.
“I know. 'yuck',” his maman said out loud what his face was trying to communicate, picking up a damp cloth and dabbing at the sweat on his temples. It was rough, cheap material, rags repurposed from clothing, and Alastor shuddered again as that material rasped over his skin. Whisking his sweat away–
Licking the sweat from his forehead. Rough, bumpy, textured like sandpaper – Alastor frowned, eyes still closed as he tried to claw his way to consciousness past the cotton-wool in his mind. An odd dream, a memory that hadn't surfaced in long years; that touch of his mother's hand behind the rough cloth against his temples.
He could still feel it now. Could feel the gentle swipe of it, though it was quickly growing uncomfortable – and static sputtered as he finally managed to drag his eyes open, the faint whisper of air over his forehead more than a little alarming. Alastor was confronted by the sight of a fluffy paw, a skinny black leg tipped with white – and he jerked back, disturbing KeeKee enough with his sudden movement that the cat let out a chirp of surprise, leaping from the bed and scurrying through the keyhole in a wisp of pink sparkles.
A grimace marred his features, lip curling away from sharp teeth. Sweat clung uncomfortably to his nape, and he wiped with distaste at the spot that infernal cat had been licking, hoping she didn't carry any diseases – hoping even harder that she hadn't just been licking something decidedly less pleasant than him, as difficult as that might be for some people to imagine.
Alastor looked around, bleary-eyed, finally spotting his monocle still laying on top of the blanket. Not wanting to risk the dangers of that bed once more, he forced himself to his feet, rounding the bed before plucking it up and settling it on his face.
He blew out a breath, a cough catching in his throat and puffing his cheeks out when he tried to swallow it. It was ridiculous – to think he could be getting sick. Demons in Hell didn't get sick, it was one such benefit of being dead. Perhaps somebody had tried to curse him, and this mild inconvenience was all they'd managed.
With a jaw-cracking yawn, Alastor straightened his coat, collapsing into shadows and pouring himself down the stairs. He was a waterfall of darkness, skirting around ankles and meandering this way and that, his mind far more scattered than usual. Even in this form, he could pick up on the scent of something cooking in the kitchen – could hear the sizzle of meat. A good meal ought to set him to rights.
He popped up without warning, pleased as punch to find it was Lucifer himself playing chef. Alastor leant against the kitchen counter, his elbows crossed and his tail squirming against his belt as he stared avidly at the frying pan full of bacon Lucifer had cooking. If he let his mouth fall open, he knew thick strands of saliva would drip between his teeth, and he considered it for a moment – if only because he knew Lucifer would be appalled.
“For me? Why, you shouldn't have,” Alastor grinned, his head tilted slightly as one ear tried its hardest to press down against his skull. There was still a vague sense of discomfort within his ear canal, the kind that made him want to dig his knuckle in to relieve the pressure.
“I didn't,” Lucifer replied. He jostled the pan on the hob, plucking another one from the rack and setting it down on another burner, cracking several eggs into it without pausing. “But if you ask nicely, maybe you can have some.”
“I always ask–” Alastor paused, lifting his knuckles to his mouth as another cough tickled his throat. The kitchen was uncommonly warm – Lucifer must have been at this a while – and he shrugged off his coat as Lucifer turned to glance at him with a frown. “I always ask nicely. It's tantamount to my niceness that I'm even giving you the option,” he finally finished, folding his coat over the back of a chair and pushing up his sleeves, heat still creeping into his cheeks.
Concern flickered onto Lucifer's features, his gaze darting over Alastor's flushed face. He abandoned the pans he had on the stove, reaching over the counter with one hand, angling for Alastor's forehead.
Alastor pulled back, suspicion flaring to life behind his ribs.
“What are you doing?” He asked. Lucifer knew that touching him with such familiarity in a public space was equivalent to playing with fire; a more dangerous kind than the flames he was currently ignoring.
“You look – Alastor, are you alright?” Lucifer said lowly, flicking his fingers and summoning several ropes of golden magic, power that flipped the still cooking bacon and eggs for him before it set several plates onto the counter with a clatter.
“As acid rain,” Alastor confirmed, his tone dripping with condescension. Lucifer's scowl deepened, the lines between his brows betraying his true age for a moment, and Alastor softened his voice. “I inhaled rather a lot of sawdust. It seems as though my lungs weren't particularly fond of this decision.”
“Well, it was a dumb decision,” Lucifer agreed, the concern on his face easing a little as he turned back to the hob. “You want a drink?”
Alastor hummed a confirmation. Something cool, to soothe the burn in his throat – that was what he needed.
Lucifer snapped his claws, a pitcher of fresh lemonade materialising on the countertop. Water dripped down the outside of it, the condensation of the room clinging to the glass, and Alastor shivered as he watched one droplet mirror the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck, sliding down towards his collar.
He gulped greedily at his first glass, barely pausing to feel grateful for the fact that Lucifer had been minimal in his use of sugar. He'd never liked it when it was too sweet, not even when he was alive. Alastor placed the glass down with a thunk, staring at his own claws. They were distorted through the glass as he refilled it, the bright red of his fingers somehow muddied to brown through that interference – and he blinked, dizziness washing over him as the room turned fuzzy, the sizzling of bacon and eggs in the frying pan suddenly sounding remarkably like rain hitting the corrugated tin roof of the porch he'd grown up on.
“Lu–” Alastor started, wondering what else Lucifer had put in that lemonade, his hand shaking where he tried to brace himself more steadily against the counter.
Drumming rain, the kind that ought to be a relief in this sweltering summer – but Alastor was still wracked with his fever, his skin almost searing his maman's hand when she touched his forehead, his veins filled with ice.
It hit their roof and echoed through his skull, the soft splash of heavy raindrops landing in thick mud outside an odd, gluggy accompaniment to the noise. He blinked blearily at the window, confused by how dark it had gotten.
“Maman,” he spoke up, despite her insistence that he tried to rest his throat. “Is it night already?”
The smile she shot him was tinged with soft amusement, though Alastor couldn't help but think her eyes looked a little tired. Smudged at the corners, like she'd put her makeup on and forgotten about it – but she would never do that. It was bad for the skin, she said.
“Just cloudy, little one. How are you feeling?” She murmured. Alastor shivered, miserable and sore.
“Cold,” he answered without hesitation. His maman nodded, the mattress lifting a little when she stood.
“I have just the thing.”
“–the thing. Alastor? Are you listening?” Lucifer's voice cut into his thoughts like a whip, and Alastor started. His elbows were locked, his hands pressed so firmly against the countertop that his claws were leaving marks, and the past few minutes seemed to have vanished.
“No,” he muttered, because he couldn't rightly say that he had been. A plate of food slid into his line of sight, and he glanced up to meet Lucifer's yellow eyes, once more filled with concern. “Perhaps whatever you were talking about was so dull, my mind switched itself off.”
Deflection. Deflection and something vaguely insulting, that ought to distract Lucifer from his ill-placed worry. Poking the man's pride was a surefire way to guarantee a reaction – at least, under normal circumstances. Something about these circumstances must be very abnormal, because though a spark of irritation flashed in Lucifer's gaze, he didn't rise to the bait.
“Considering I was talking about your broadcast, I doubt that. Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Lucifer asked again, his hand creeping over the counter. Alastor knocked it aside with a hiss and sputter of feedback, grabbing the plate of food Lucifer had served up.
“I told you – I'm fine. Exhausted, perhaps, by your demands on my time. Maybe if you'd let me sleep for an entire night without trying to sate your–” Alastor's biting complaint was cut off as the door opened, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. He deliberately looked away from Lucifer as the other man jerked backwards, whirling toward the plates of food and dishing up more servings.
“You're welcome!” Lucifer said, far too loudly. “I figured I'd do everyone a favour and give you something that's actually cooked, for once. Maybe it'll improve your breath.”
“Perhaps if you'd stop trying to shove your nose – such that you have one – in my business, you wouldn't be forced to suffer through such a thing,” Alastor hissed back, not bothering to check who it was that walked through the door.
From the exasperated sigh, it seemed Vaggi was the unfortunate soul to walk in on their supposed bickering, the woman clattering around in the pantry before heavily dumping a nearly-empty jar of instant coffee on the counter.
“Alright – who hasn't put coffee on the shopping list? I've told you, if something's getting empty, put it on the list before we're out,” Vaggi snapped. No hesitation in the face of one Overlord and one King of Hell, and Alastor felt too out of sorts to be dealing with her when she was in this sort of mood.
“Speaking of out – I believe I have things to do. Good luck.” He aimed that last phrase at Lucifer, all false sweetness as he paused to gulp down the bacon on his plate like a snake choking down a hen's egg. No need for it to go to waste, after all.
He melted onto the floor, disappearing before anyone had a chance to stop him.
At least – that had been the plan.
“Oh,” Alastor muttered, forced back into corporeality moments before he managed to slip under the door. He stumbled, throwing a hand against the nearest wall to stop himself from losing his balance – something that was getting increasingly difficult to maintain as the floor rocked and shifted beneath his feet.
He heard a fork clatter against a plate, Lucifer's voice raising in spite of Vaggi's presence.
“Alastor?”
Alastor shook his head, trying to discourage any undue displays of concern. He was perfectly fine, he was–
He was tipping heavily to one side, the inside of his ear throbbing and his vision going blurry. Vaggi let out a confused sound, smothered under the crash of cutlery and porcelain hitting the floor as Lucifer vaulted straight over that kitchen counter, a hand catching Alastor under each arm as he suddenly found their height difference reduced by a significant amount.
It was his knees, he realised. They'd failed him, folding beneath him like cardboard, and he tried to push Lucifer away, because he didn't need this level of concern. He'd simply stood up too fast, his body was too lanky for his heart to reliably pump blood everywhere at once – it had forgotten to send oxygen to his brain. Nothing a brief sit-down wouldn't remedy.
“What the–”
“D-don't worry about it. Uh. Don't tell Charlie about this, I'm sure it's – it's fine. Shit. Um–” Lucifer fumbled for a way to explain this to Vaggi, even as Alastor blinked stupidly at the golden buttons on his vest, trying to fight the buzzing in his skull.
His throat ached, clamped against a cough, and his shoulders shook as it escaped his control regardless. Lucifer turned back to him, adjusting his grip, and–
“Maman,” Alastor protested, wriggling in his maman's hold. He was too big to be carried like this, he was nearly nine years old – but his maman didn't listen to him, her arms firm under his knees and against his back as she hauled him to her cluttered, cosy bedroom.
She hushed him, settling him down on her very own bed, its pillowcases threadbare and the blanket almost worn through.
“Sit here, mon cerf. Your blankets are too stale, they need washing. Be patient, darling. I'll bring you my tea.”
Alastor didn't have time to offer an argument – not that he was able to really call one up, because a cough captured him in its grip the moment he tried, his shoulders shaking as he settled back against her pillows, watching her leave through blurry eyes. It was his glasses – he needed his glasses. Without them he might as well be blind, and he stared miserably at the vague outline of the door frame, shivering as sweat–
Trickled down the back of his neck. Alastor blinked, his vision almost as blurred as it had been in that memory, but his feet – hooves – planted firmly on a floor instead of a mattress. A blanket was draped over his lap, the cuffs of his shirt oddly loose.
“There you are,” Lucifer murmured, his voice sucking Alastor more solidly out of his memory and into the present. It didn't help his vision, for his monocle was nowhere to be seen, but Lucifer's face was close enough that when Alastor turned his head he could plainly see that pale skin, the corners of his eyes taut with worry. “You passed out.”
“I didn't,” Alastor immediately denied, the response almost reflexive. Lucifer snorted, lifting one brow in a look that said more clearly than words could ever manage just how believable that lie was. Alastor's cheeks burned – no. Not just his cheeks.
His entire frame felt as if it were on fire, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead. He shivered in spite of this warmth, dread seeping into his bones.
“...Did anyone see?” He could concede that – perhaps – he'd lost awareness of his surroundings for a split second or two. A lapse in his control that he couldn't afford, not and maintain his status. Lucifer reached for Alastor's face, and this time he didn't pull away. What point would it serve? He was firmly trapped within the prison of Lucifer's room, ensconced in one of the armchairs he'd brought over from his own suite.
Claws skimmed over his forehead, Lucifer's brows pinching together as he pressed the back of his hand to Alastor's skin, brushing aside his sweaty bangs. A flicker of confusion, then, dancing in those yellow eyes.
“I didn't know sinners could get sick,” Lucifer said quietly. Alastor huffed out a blat of static, denial rising in him once more.
What else could it be, though? He was more than meticulous about what he ate and drank, for there were plenty within the hotel – and out of it – who would try their luck with poison. Even Husk had dared it, once, slipping arsenic into Alastor's glass of whisky. It had given him a stomachache for a week – and he'd made sure Husk had as miserable a punishment as possible, wading through Alastor's pocket bayou in search of catfish.
He hadn't tried such a thing again.
Alastor let his lids drift shut, defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders. He might have to admit that Lucifer was right about something, Heaven forbid.
“Perhaps that irritating little demon-pig Angel calls his son carries a disease of some sort. It managed to sink its fangs into my leg the other day,” Alastor mumbled, feeling as though he were spinning in place in the darkness, quite certain that the room itself was perfectly still.
Lucifer hushed him as his words turned raspy, his throat clogged with static and his shoulders jerking as he choked on a cough.
“Wait here. I think I have something to help,” Lucifer told him. Alastor snapped out a hand, his eyes squinting open when Lucifer pulled away, and he gave the man an expectant glare. “Oh. Uh – only Vaggi saw. I told her I... I told her I poisoned you, just to see what would happen. She... told me not to do it again.”
Alastor would have laughed – if he wasn't worried it would turn into another cough. His grin twitched, one tooth snagging on his lips as his smile thinned. He let his eyes close again. A nod, and he released Lucifer's arm, listening to the chime of magic in the air as he sighed out his frustration.
He waited, the room almost too silent in Lucifer's absence, trying to dredge up memories he'd thought long gone. It seemed as if this fever was good for one thing, at least.
“Here, darling.” His maman's voice, calling him out of the doze he'd slipped into. Alastor sat up, struggling a little against the weight of even the thin blanket draped over him, reaching up to adjust his glasses when his maman slipped them onto his face.
The mug she was holding out to him gained clarity, still a little blurry at the edges as he shivered. It was one of the novelty mugs she was so fond of, one of those funny little sayings he didn't quite understand printed on the side. He would, she told him. Once he got a handle on wordplay, and with her as his teacher he was sure she was right.
Alastor just liked it for the red deer painted over the words 'Have Fawn!'
The scent of cinnamon was strong in the air, strong enough that he could smell it even through his stuffed up nose. He screwed up his face a little, turning his head away – but his maman pushed the mug into his hand anyway, wrapping his fingers around its handle until he held it on his own merits.
“I know,” his maman said with a soft smile, perching on the edge of the bed.
“Yuck,” their voices added in unison, a giggle almost dragging another bout of coughing from Alastor's throat. His maman helped him steady the mug until his shuddering passed, her hand settling on his shoulder as she pressed her lips against his hair. It was probably extremely unpleasant.
Alastor pulled another face, sticking out his tongue as the tea within the mug steamed, the vague scent of citrus winding through that of the cinnamon. He swallowed, knowing his maman was right, that–
“This should help.” Lucifer's voice cut into Alastor's consciousness, and he tried desperately to hold onto that memory; to remember the scent of his mother's tea. He'd always hated having to drink it, no matter how well it worked, but his chest suddenly ached at the thought that he would never again get to smell that unique blend of cinnamon and orange, and–
He could still smell it.
Alastor looked up, hands reaching automatically for the mug Lucifer offered him. A copy of the one he'd used to use, though he would have been privately amused if Lucifer had chosen the one meant as a dig towards the king himself. He would have found it even funnier if Lucifer had chosen the one meant to taunt him.
“What is...” Alastor started, trailing off when he wrapped his claws around the mug, his lids closing a little as the smell of cinnamon and citrus wound through the steam curling off its surface.
“It's tea,” Lucifer explained, arching one brow. “You drink it.”
“I know what tea is!” Alastor snapped, swallowing back a cough.
“Okay, good, because you were apparently too stubborn to admit you were getting sick, so forgive me for doubting your intelligence,” Lucifer retorted. There was barely a flicker of heat to his words – though they were as biting as Alastor was used to, Lucifer couldn't seem to push down his concern.
Useless.
Alastor sighed. “I just... it seems awfully familiar. A recipe that... no matter.”
Lucifer tilted his head – but didn't press. He never pressed for details Alastor was unwilling to share freely; not unless whatever he was refusing to discuss posed a danger to the hotel, Charlie – or Alastor himself.
“Look, maybe there was finally a germ on Earth that was enough of an asshole, it ended up down here. You're sick – drink the tea, Alastor. It should help,” Lucifer repeated, circling around to the side of the armchair, his voice softening once more. He wrapped a hand around Alastor's shoulder, his other dropping to encourage Alastor to lift the mug to his mouth.
Yuck, Alastor thought, wrinkling his nose as he took a long draught and tasted the contrasting spices bubbling over his tongue, that cinnamon running hot down his aching throat. He scraped his tongue against his teeth, the end of it slipping from his mouth in a vain effort to ease the faint burn of that flavour.
“It even tastes the same as hers,” he muttered, memories swirling in his mind, mirroring the eddies of steam drifting off that tea. Lucifer's soft grin turned quizzical, puzzlement shining in his eyes.
He didn't ask, and Alastor didn't offer an explanation. Something in Alastor warmed, a tight furrow pinching his forehead as he stared down at the mug in his hands. He didn't protest when Lucifer leant in, pressing a kiss against his cheek.
“There. Just in case the tea doesn't work,” Lucifer murmured. Alastor made a low sound of amusement, wryly shaking his head.
“It will.” An admission that cost him nothing. “It always did.”
Though he didn't particularly care to be fussed over, Alastor let Lucifer adjust the blanket – let him comb his fingers through his hair as he sighed and tipped his head back. He sipped at the tea again, cinnamon spice tickling his nose.
Thank you, maman. I don't know how you did this.
But thank you.
~fin~