Chapter Text
He was a dad.
He liked being a dad.
Being back in the palace after so long at the hotel reminded him of just that.
Sure, the palace held memories of his depression-driven isolation, even of his less-than-successful marriage. But after months with Charlie and the bustle of the hotel, he found himself remembering happier days here instead.
Yet despite the years between then and now, the feeling returned the instant he saw him.
The hotel was infested, infested with something even his magic couldn't manage to snuff out. Niffty had stayed behind, a manic grin on her face, and the rest of them, well, he had more than enough vacant rooms in the palace.
Alastor had been the most reluctant to leave the hotel behind, fighting tooth and nail to stay with the little maid. But as Charlie announced her departure, Alastor had gone ramrod straight and followed obediently behind.
He'd rolled his eyes at the time, raised a questioning brow as Alastor shut himself in one of the rooms. It wasn't his business, after all.
Though this, this was something he couldn't ignore.
Alastor, the Radio Demon, creeping through the halls with wet pants and even wetter eyes.
He cleared his throat. Alastor jumped in surprise, and that was when he noticed the soiled linens gathered against the other's chest. His chest tightened in sympathy.
"Hey there, Bambi. You don't need to take those anywhere. I've got plenty of staff to tidy up."
He said it gently, and it felt uncharacteristic, especially as Alastor stared at him warily.
"Or I could help you instead," he offered softly, relieved when Alastor seemed to consider his words.
A short nod.
He smiled, stepping forward to take the linens before tossing them into a portal that led straight to the laundry room. Alastor's eyes sparkled at the golden magic, and he found it odd that, of all the feats Alastor could have been impressed by, a magical laundry chute was the one that captured his attention.
He thought he might have felt proud seeing the other so impressed, but instead concern twisted uneasily in his gut.
Something was wrong, or at the very least, Alastor was different.
"Let's get you back to bed," he instructed, and again, Alastor nodded and followed.
No lashing inky tentacles or bared teeth or even that twisting shadow of his, just... Alastor.
He toed open the guest room, somewhat glad the mattress seemed to have avoided the mess, and turned to the closet to grab the extra linens. Magically conjured items never felt quite right. He glanced back at Alastor appraisingly. He wouldn't want these sheets flooded too.
He pursed his lips, searching for a solution, only for some traitorous part of him to remind him that he already knew it.
But Alastor was a grown man.
He sighed. Alastor looked anything but, shuffling from side to side in wet pants as he watched Lucifer redress the bed.
He bit his lip. Based on the severity of the infestation at the hotel, this was only the first of many nights Alastor would likely spend under his roof, and he had it on good authority that a child who had wet their pants once would soon do it again, if not in the same night.
He'd rather the mattress not be ruined, even if it escaped any mess tonight, and oddly enough, the image of Alastor tossing and turning with tears in his eyes after a nighttime accident made him distinctly uncomfortable.
He turned to address Alastor. "Hey, buddy, bed's all ready for you," he started, and Alastor rubbed a fist over one of his eyes. It was quite late. He almost felt bad for what was sure to be an oncoming tantrum.
"Before you get all snuggled up in bed, there's rules in this house," he said seriously, and Alastor looked at him with wide, hesitant eyes.
"When someone has an accident, they're in pull-ups for the next three nights," he said softly, holding up three fingers to emphasize his point. "If you can keep dry, then we can forget about the extra protection, okay, Alastor?"
He braced himself for the shouting, for the cruel jabs Alastor always reached for when cornered.
Instead, Alastor only stared.
One tear rolled down his cheek.
Then another.
His trembling hand crept toward the damp fabric clinging to his legs.
"Oh, sweetheart, it's not a punishment, I swear," he said, rushing over to offer some physical comfort, surprised when Alastor leaned into it.
Though they both weren't operating in their usual roles, Alastor's situation was far more concerning than his own.
Something to think about later, he thought, shaking his head. There was a weepy child—and that was what Alastor seemed to be right now—standing in front of him in desperate need of comfort and a good night's sleep. That took priority.
"How's this? We'll get a nice dry pull-up on and some jammies, and in the morning I'll make you extra special pancakes," he offered, leaning down just the slightest bit to meet the deer's eyes.
Despite his height, Alastor was curled in on himself. It didn't help the pitiful image he was making.
The room was quiet for a moment, filled only with the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
He almost expected another silent nod. It had been nothing but those all night, but Alastor spoke softly into the fabric of his nightshirt.
"Chocolate chips?"
He grinned. "Of course!"
Alastor hummed. "Okay."
He sighed in relief. This would be much easier with Alastor's cooperation.
He directed the boy to the bathroom, absently conjuring up a pull-up and pajamas.
Despite taking Alastor's size into consideration, and despite his dislike of conjured items, what he'd made was quite telling of where his head was at.
He'd only had Charlie, a daughter, a darling little girl.
The pull-up was pink, the same kind they'd bought for Charlie when she was young, covered in little woodland creatures, though he didn't remember them having quite so many deer.
He blushed. At least the pajamas were more appropriate: a fuzzy sweater. Although it wasn't something he'd ever imagined the Radio Demon wearing, it was far more fitting.
Alastor peeked out, eyes round and curious as he eyed the pull-up.
Lucifer came back to himself. It was only a few hours until the halls would be filled with the bustle of the others. Alastor would need all the sleep he could get.
"Here, sweetheart," he said, entering the bathroom and holding out the pull-up. Alastor stared at it before taking it with hesitant hands.
He passed over a pack of baby wipes next, and Alastor held both items, looking back at Lucifer helplessly.
He frowned. He had no issue helping diaper the kid, but he wasn't one for crossing boundaries. This night was pushing it as it was.
"Do you need help, buddy?" he asked.
Alastor nodded once.
Lucifer bit his lip as he considered using magic again. It really wasn't the same, and it wasn't particularly healthy to use magic of angelic origin on sinners frequently, but until they could talk, until Alastor was more himself, it would have to do.
Alastor blinked in surprise as he found himself dressed in the pull-up and sweater. He pointed at his bare legs with a questioning look.
"Ah... part of the protocol, I'm afraid. I need to know if you've wet, or you could get an icky rash," he explained.
It felt so strange that Alastor's response was a pout, not a grin of any sort. Just a small, wronged pout.
He chuckled. "You'll survive," he joked, offering a hand.
Alastor's hand slipped into his, and Lucifer led him to the bed, tucking him in before chuckling even harder as he immediately fell asleep.
The poor thing was exhausted, Lucifer mused. He more than deserved those pancakes.
He retreated from the room with one last glance back. He'd check on him first thing. They might have their issues, but Alastor was under his roof. He had some sort of responsibility in this, he reasoned, though the glimpse of his daughter's pink pull-up peeking out from beneath the covers made that line of thought feel less solid than it ought to have.
—
Lucifer entered the room with a quiet knock. Last night hadn't felt entirely real, and he wasn't certain where he'd stand with Alastor now that the night's events had died down.
But he'd promised pancakes.
His mouth fell open in surprise as Alastor continued to sleep, his pink pull-up damp. He grimaced at how that conversation might go, setting down the plate and already brainstorming how to broach the issue, when inky darkness seeped over Alastor's skin.
His eyes locked onto it. It was forming into something, stretching away from Alastor and separating into a far too familiar mass.
So that’s where it went.
His brows furrowed in confusion. He knew the shadow was a part of Alastor, but not like this. It seemed to be coming out of him.
Alastor's eyes snapped open. The sleepy softness vanished, replaced by the familiar razor edge Lucifer had come to expect from the Radio Demon.
Lucifer grimaced as a static hiss sounded through the room.
The shadow, whose face had begun to form into an eerie smile, melted away, and the whole mass snapped back into Alastor like a rubber band pulled taut and released.
Alastor's hand flew to his chest.
He stared, dumbfounded as the golden magic of his wards fizzled just above the pair.
His wards had stopped something—something to do with Alastor.
Lucifer flinched as scared wet eyes met his own.
Something was wrong with Alastor.