Chapter Text
By the time the plane began its slow descent toward New Orleans, Lucifer had already checked the time on his phone six separate times and reread the last message Alastor had sent him at least twice that.
The message itself had been brief—characteristically so.
Text me when you land. I will be nearby.
That had been three hours ago, sent while Lucifer was still somewhere above Texas with nothing to do but sit in a cramped seat and think about the fact that he had not seen his boyfriend in two weeks.
Two weeks was not a long time. Objectively speaking. Hockey schedules had separated him from teammates longer than that, and Olympic training had taught him to tolerate stretches of isolation without complaint.
None of that experience, it turned out, made it easier to go fourteen days without seeing Alastor.
The moment the plane doors opened, the difference in climate made itself known immediately.
Colorado’s crisp mountain air had been replaced by something warmer, thicker—summer humidity pressing gently against skin as though the atmosphere itself had decided to lean closer. Even the airport seemed slower somehow, the sounds of rolling suitcases and overlapping conversations softened by the languid heat drifting in through the open concourse doors.
Lucifer slung his bag over one shoulder and followed the current of passengers toward baggage claim, nerves beginning to stir in his chest with the kind of restless energy he usually reserved for playoff games.
It was ridiculous, he told himself.
He had known Alastor for nearly a year now. They had navigated Olympic chaos, media scrutiny, and the strange adjustment to life afterward. Meeting his mother should not feel like stepping onto unfamiliar ice.
And yet.
His pulse had not settled since the plane touched down.
The sliding doors into the arrivals hall opened with a soft mechanical sigh.
Lucifer stepped through—and stopped.
Alastor stood a few yards away, exactly where the stream of arriving passengers spilled into the terminal.
He was dressed simply for once: a dark short-sleeved shirt, light trousers instead of the structured coats Lucifer had grown accustomed to seeing him wear. The Louisiana heat had softened his usual sharpness slightly, curls pushed back from his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less carefully composed.
And in his hands—
Alastor was holding a sign.
Not a printed one.
A handwritten piece of poster board, carefully lettered in elegant script.
MR. MORNINGSTAR
There was even a small, unnecessary flourish beneath the name.
Lucifer stared.
Alastor caught sight of him immediately, and the corner of his mouth curved upward with quiet satisfaction.
The sign tilted slightly.
“Welcome to New Orleans,” he said, perfectly composed.
Lucifer laughed before he could stop himself, the sound escaping somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming affection.
“You made a sign,” he said, crossing the last few steps between them.
“I felt it appropriate for the occasion.”
“You absolutely did not.”
Alastor lowered it slowly, expression unrepentant.
“I had supplies.”
Lucifer reached for him without thinking, hands settling automatically at his waist as he pulled him into a brief, tight embrace that lasted half a second longer than necessary.
God, he had missed him.
The warmth of Louisiana air clung to Alastor’s clothes, carrying the faint scent of something sweet and unfamiliar, and Lucifer felt the tension of the last two weeks loosen almost immediately.
“You flew three thousand miles,” Alastor murmured near his ear. “I thought a sign was the least I could do.”
Lucifer leaned back just enough to look at him again.
“I wasn’t expecting this.”
“That,” Alastor replied lightly, “was the intention.”
He folded the sign neatly under one arm with surprising care.
“Come,” he added. “Before the humidity fully claims you.”
Lucifer followed him toward the exit doors, heart still beating a little faster than normal, unable to quite stop smiling.
The first thing Lucifer noticed when they stepped outside the airport doors was the air.
Not simply warmth, but weight—a slow, enveloping heat that settled over his shoulders the moment he crossed the threshold, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant water. Colorado’s mountain air had been thin and dry, the kind that slipped easily into the lungs and vanished just as quickly. This was different entirely, something lush and persistent that seemed in no hurry to move aside.
“Good lord,” he murmured under his breath.
Alastor, already guiding him toward the parking lot with the quiet confidence of someone returning to familiar ground, glanced sideways.
“You’ve been here less than thirty seconds.”
“That’s all it took.”
Lucifer tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt as they crossed the sun-warmed pavement.
“I think the humidity just shook my hand.”
Alastor’s mouth curved faintly, amused, as he unlocked the car.
“You acclimate.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
By the time they were settled inside and the air conditioner surged to life, Lucifer leaned toward the vent with something approaching reverence, closing his eyes briefly as the cool air washed over him.
“This,” he said quietly, “is the greatest technological advancement of the modern world.”
Alastor eased the car out of the parking space, sunlight flashing briefly across the windshield as they joined the steady line of vehicles leaving the airport.
“From a man whose profession requires a frozen surface,” he replied calmly, “that seems consistent.”
Lucifer laughed softly and leaned back in the seat.
The city receded gradually behind them as the road stretched outward into longer, quieter stretches of green. Buildings thinned, replaced by dense trees whose branches leaned lazily over the road, their leaves thick enough to filter the sunlight into shifting patterns across the asphalt.
Moss hung in pale strands from the higher limbs, swaying gently whenever the faintest breeze passed through.
Lucifer found himself watching the landscape with open fascination.
“This is… beautiful,” he said after a while.
“Different from Michigan?”
“Very.”
Water appeared intermittently between the trees now, dark and still, reflecting fragments of sky in narrow channels that disappeared again behind the greenery.
Lucifer shifted slightly in his seat, studying Alastor with renewed curiosity.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Lucifer smiled faintly.
“How does someone grow up somewhere like this,” he said, gesturing lightly toward the endless humid green beyond the window, “and end up as a figure skater?”
Alastor was quiet for a moment, considering.
“Well,” he said eventually, “initially it was a matter of temperature.”
Lucifer blinked.
“Temperature?”
“Summer here,” Alastor continued evenly, guiding the car along a gently curving stretch of road, “is not particularly forgiving. When I was a child, my mother signed me up for any activity that involved reliable air conditioning.”
Lucifer laughed softly.
“And the skating rink won.”
“It was the coldest building available.”
He paused, the faintest glimmer of amusement appearing in his expression.
“It was also, I should admit, not the sport my father would have chosen for me.”
Lucifer tilted his head slightly.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“So there was a little rebellion involved.”
“A measured amount.”
Lucifer watched the road ahead, smiling to himself.
“I like that.”
They turned onto a narrower road that wound deeper through the wetlands, the trees growing thicker as the landscape opened into quiet stretches of water edged with tall grass and cypress trunks rising out of the shallows.
The air outside the car seemed almost luminous with heat.
Lucifer rested one arm along the door and looked out across the slow-moving bayou.
“I still can’t quite picture it,” he admitted. “Olympic figure skater, raised in the Louisiana wetlands.”
Alastor’s gaze remained on the road, though the corner of his mouth lifted again.
“One adapts,” he said.
The road curved once more before opening onto a small clearing where a wooden house sat comfortably beneath the wide canopy of an enormous oak tree. Spanish moss trailed from the branches in long pale ribbons, stirring gently in the thick afternoon air.
A wide porch stretched across the front of the house, shaded and welcoming.
Alastor slowed the car as they pulled beneath the tree’s shadow.
“That would be home.”
Lucifer studied the house for a moment, the quiet of the place settling around them in a way that felt entirely different from the constant noise of arenas and travel.
The engine clicked softly as Alastor turned it off.
Lucifer remained seated for a moment longer, watching the slow sway of the moss above the porch.
Then he exhaled.
“You know,” he said, glancing over at him, “Playing the Olympic finals felt less intimidating than this.”
Alastor turned toward him, eyes warm with quiet amusement.
“You’ll survive,” he said.
Lucifer wasn’t entirely convinced.
But when Alastor leaned across the console and pressed a brief, reassuring kiss to his cheek, the nerves softened enough that he managed a small smile.
“Come,” Alastor murmured. “My mother has been looking forward to meeting you.”
The gravel beneath Lucifer’s shoes shifted softly as they stepped out of the car, the sound briefly cutting through the steady hum of cicadas that seemed to fill every inch of the humid afternoon air.
Up close, the house felt even larger than it had from the road.
The wide porch stretched along the entire front, its pale wooden boards shaded beneath the sweeping branches of the oak tree overhead. Hanging plants swayed gently from iron hooks along the porch beams, and long strands of Spanish moss drifted in the slow summer breeze like pale ribbons.
It felt old in the comfortable way that southern houses often did, not worn, but lived-in. Loved.
Lucifer paused at the bottom of the steps for a moment, taking it in.
“You grew up here,” he said quietly.
“For the most part,” Alastor replied.
There was something different in his voice now, softer around the edges in a way Lucifer didn’t hear often.
Before Lucifer could say anything else, the front door swung open.
A woman stepped out onto the porch.
She was tall and elegant in the same effortless way Alastor was, her dark skin glowing warmly in the afternoon light. Her hair, silver at the temples and gathered neatly at the back of her head, framed a face that carried the same sharp intelligence Lucifer had come to associate with her son—though hers was softened by a smile that arrived quickly and without reservation.
“Well now,” she said, her voice rich with the easy lilt of Louisiana. “That must be him.”
Lucifer barely had time to process the words before she descended the porch steps with surprising speed.
“Oh honey, come here.”
And then she was hugging him.
Not politely. Not cautiously.
Just… hugging him.
Lucifer froze for half a second before instinct finally caught up and he returned it, laughing softly in surprise as her arms wrapped around his shoulders.
“You must be Lucifer,” she said warmly as she pulled back just enough to look at him properly. “My goodness, you’re even more charming in person.”
Lucifer blinked.
“Hi, ma’am—”
“Oh, we’re not doing that,” she said immediately, waving the formality away with a gentle flick of her hand. “You can call me Odette.”
Lucifer glanced instinctively at Alastor, who was watching the interaction with unmistakable amusement.
“Lucifer,” Odette repeated approvingly. “I’ve seen you skate. Beautiful work.”
Lucifer stared at her for a moment.
“You have?”
“Of course I have,” she said, as though the answer were obvious. “You boys were on television for weeks.”
Lucifer felt himself smiling despite the lingering nerves.
“Well… thank you.”
Odette stepped back then, her gaze flicking briefly between the two of them with quiet satisfaction before she gestured toward the house.
“Now come inside before you both melt,” she said. “This heat isn’t kind to visitors.”
Lucifer needed very little encouragement.
The moment he stepped through the front door the temperature dropped noticeably, cool air flowing gently through the large open rooms. Ceiling fans turned slowly overhead, their steady rotation stirring the faint scent of lemon polish and old wood.
The interior of the house felt just as expansive as the exterior suggested.
Tall windows stretched almost to the ceiling, their shutters thrown open to let in filtered light that danced across polished hardwood floors. Antique furniture—dark wood, carefully kept—filled the space without making it feel crowded, and along the far wall a set of wide French doors stood open onto a shaded veranda overlooking the water beyond.
Lucifer caught a glimpse of the bayou through the trees, the surface dark and still beneath the afternoon sun.
“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.
Odette hummed softly in agreement as she closed the door behind them.
“It’s been in the family a long time,” she said. “Though Alastor’s been making improvements lately.”
Lucifer glanced toward him.
“Skating money,” Alastor said lightly.
Odette gave him a look that suggested she was entirely unconvinced by the understatement.
Lucifer’s gaze drifted briefly along the wall of framed photographs near the staircase—competitions, childhood pictures, what looked like early skating events. Alastor appeared in most of them, younger but unmistakably the same.
There were no pictures of his father.
Lucifer noticed it without commenting.
Odette followed his gaze for half a moment before gently redirecting the conversation.
“Well,” she said, clapping her hands together softly, “you must be exhausted from traveling.”
Lucifer shook his head quickly.
“Actually, I’m—”
“Hungry,” she said, finishing the sentence for him with quiet authority.
Lucifer hesitated.
“…a little.”
Alastor laughed under his breath.
“I warned you,” he said. “She does this.”
Odette waved him off.
“Don’t listen to him,” she said warmly. “I’ve had a year to look forward to this visit.”
Lucifer blinked.
“A year?”
Odette only smiled, the expression gentle and entirely unsurprised.
“Almost,” she said. “I’ve been waiting quite some time to meet you.”
For the first time since stepping into the house, Lucifer saw something close to genuine embarrassment flicker across Alastor’s face.
And that, more than anything else so far, made him feel unexpectedly at home.
Somewhere just ahead of him, Alastor was still pretending that he had not spent the better part of a year talking about him.
Lucifer decided, quietly and with growing delight, that this was going to be a very interesting visit.