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Not Huskerdust but Angel centric character study (feat. dad lucifer)

It's not a sharp pain. Not something that stabs and tears until you are nothing but pain and flesh and blood. No, it's constant. A low-grade ache in-between bone that gets worse when it rains. Always in the background, but easily ignorable if you can find something else to focus your attention on. If you can just not think about it. 

      Angel has perfected the art of Not Thinking About It.  

      His thighs are on fire, he doesn't even want to think about the mess that awaits his med-kit beneath his skirt, and still, he's more preoccupied with the weight in his chest than any of the vicious stinging going on literally everywhere else. Husk isn't at the bar when he tiptoes through the door, shame, he'd been hoping for a pick-me-up after today. They've been warming up to each other, he thinks, at least he's warmed to Husk and his- at first, rather off-putting- demeanor.  Husk remains as blithe and unreadable than ever. But he's stopped calling Angel out on it when he dons his 'fake' affect. 

      It's necessary, sometimes. The reality of his job is that it's exhausting. That it injures him about as bad as it might if he worked as a boxer, that he hates himself a little more after each shoot because he signed for this. He allowed this. Val never lets him forget.

      Sometimes, when the mood takes him, Val will want to 're-stake' his claim on Angel after he's been passed around a fair amount. Says, "It's to show the bitches what's mine" and Angel knows that includes him. It's never nice, never soft and overwhelming but only in the good ways, like it used to be. It just hurts. Val seems to take more pleasure in the humiliation of it than the act itself. He always moves faster when Angel cries, or bleeds, or- even better- both.

Angel's a professional, he cries when he needs to. When it means it'll be over faster, and he can crawl back into bed to try and sleep it off.

      He doesn't know if Val realizes that, if it would make a difference. If it’d make it worse.

      Point is, he needs to be fake sometimes, even still. Charlie, especially, wouldn't be able to handle it if he acted like he really felt all of the time. It helps him, too, focusing on maintaining appearances rather than the crushing realization that he is going to die, bloody and exposed. 

      Angel is so wrapped up in his- rapidly spiraling- thoughts that he doesn't clock the slumped form splayed across the couch, muttering to themselves, until they pop their head up at his late-night intrusion and lock eyes with him.

      Sans top-hat, and his usual cutting smile, Lucifer fucking Morningstar is staring back at him, jaw dropped as his gaze struggles to remain on his face. That's fair, Angel supposes, he hadn't bothered cleaning up before heading home, not wanting to spend another minute in the studio and thinking the majority of the hotel would be in bed. Keyword being majority. 

      Fruitlessly, angel crosses his lower arms in a way that attempts to preserve his modesty. 

      "What crawled up your ass and died?" Angel drawls. Perhaps not the proper way to be addressing the king of hell, but it's going to be light outside soon, and to be fair, he does look like shit. Huge bags gather beneath each eye, his cheeks gaunt with a unique kind of Victorian despair you only really read about in books. At Angel's words, though, he chuckles- it's small, but seems real-and pushes his disheveled hair back from his forehead. 

      "You're one to talk, hm?" Another chuckle, "Come here." He pats the space on the couch beside him and scooches over to give Angel ample room. As he moves away, Angel can see what he's been muttering over- a small round frame, holding a picture of what looks like himself, a much younger Charlie, and a woman Angel has never seen before. Ah. Well fuck. 

      Angel, unprepared to be dealing with this minefield of a conversation, shakes his head. 

      "It's late, your highness. I've gotta cleanup before today's 'morning bonding activities'." 

      Lucifer gives him a dubious kind of look.

      "You're going to do 'bonding activities' like that? You'll keel over. Come here, I think I can help." Angel isn't really sure how, considering angelic power hurts sinners and he doesn't see any med-kit around here, but he is vaguely afraid of rejecting the king of hell outright and incurring his wrath. They haven't had much time to get to know each other; considering Angel's track record with powerful demons, he's chosen to keep his distance. He's not sure how much Lucifer knows about his job either, or how much he knows about hell in general as it is now, considering he's been a recluse for decades. 

      "Uh..." Angel hesitates, glancing for a moment up the stairs towards his room. Wishing, more than anything, to be in bed cuddling with Nug right now. 

      "I'll be quick. Just... please let me help. You're one of Charlie's people, and I couldn't live with myself if I just looked away while you..." He gestures to Angel's body, and the violence carved into it, and Angel gets it. With a sigh, he makes his way to the couch and settles as far away as he can from where Lucifer is sitting, drawing both of his stiff legs to his chest when sitting normally makes him feel too exposed. 

      Lucifer chuckles, again, and Angel can hear what he mutters to himself, this time.

      "Just like Char-Char, roly-poly-ing as soon as you get hurt." 

      Angel bristles. "I'm not your fuckin' kid, sicko. Do what you're gonna do and let me go, I've got a pig to feed."

      Lucifer meets the words with wide eyes that almost immediately soften into something gentler, almost baleful. "Sorry." He mutters, then cups his hands and closes his eyes. After a few seconds, golden light starts to pool in the makeshift basin he's created, building upon itself until it's about a half-inch deep. Looks angelic to Angel, and, despite his name, he knows that kind of shit will kill him if he gets too close. 

      "Sir, I dunno if-"

      "Shh..." Lucifer hushes, eyes still closed. There's a knit between his brows that wasn't there before. Angel wonders if getting in touch with his powers is painful at all, after what happened to send him here. He glances at the picture on the table, Charlie and her father look ecstatic, with matching face-splitting grins that they're exchanging with each other. The woman stands about an inch away, with primly folded hands, and a restrained smile on her lips. Angel isn't quite sure how to feel about her. 

      Before he can ponder any further on Lucifer's family and love life, the angel gasps, "Done!" 

      In his hands, the once-golden pool of light has turned a deep red, almost-like blood, just a shade lighter. It's a little close to Val's color, and Angel has to be thankful that it's liquid, not smoke. 

      "Now, can you set your legs down?"

      Angel doesn't tear his eyes from the liquid in Lucifer's hands. What if it's not a cure? What if it hurts? Worse, what if he likes it? maybe that's what Lucifer's banking on, him liking it. that's how Val got him, and the colors are almost exactly the same.  He can feel his chest constricting. He knew he should've just gone to bed.

      "Ooookay... Or we can chill for a little bit." Lucifer gingerly places his cupped hands in his lap and lets out a low, unassuming whistle. Angel hates that it helps him calm down. 

      They stay silent and frozen for another few minutes over which Angel's breathing- excruciatingly- slows and his shoulders drop.

      "Sorry..." It's his turn to mutter. Lucifer just smiles at him. 

      "That's alright. Can you get your legs now? Or do you need a minute?" He's so nice. Why is the king of hell so nice? Why does Charlie have such complicated daddy issues when her dad is so. Fucking. Nice? Angel throws his legs off the couch.

      "Do your worst." He almost tacks on a 'daddy' at the end there, but catches himself just in time. Force of habit. 

      Lucifer smiles to himself like he knows, but telegraphs his movements as he leans forward and presses the liquid to the middle of Angel's chest, right at his heart. Angel flinches a little at the initial warmth, but Lucifer kindly ignores it, stepping back as soon as all of the liquid has- somehow, likely magically- seeped into Angel. 

      It's pleasant. Doesn't hurt, even as Angel can feel all of the deep, bleeding wounds on his back and thighs closing up. All he can feel is a steady warmth, like sitting in front of a fire, as it works its way through his body. A satisfied hum remains thrumming through him, even as the liquid finishes its work. 

      After less than five minutes, Angel feels as good as new. He doesn't think he's felt this good in decades.  He can't help the grin that creeps onto his face at the well of feeling that bubbles in his chest.

      "Shit! Thank you, sir! I feel great."

      Lucifer is already looking at him when he whips his head around to thank him. He's got a wistful sort of look on his face that Angel couldn't even begin to decode. He returns Angel's grin, even looks a little better-for-wear himself. Got some color back, maybe.

      "Anytime, Angel. And I mean that, anytime at all, even if it's not dawn and we're not the only ones here. I know a thing or two about keeping up appearances. It won't be a big, embarrassing thing."

      With that, he winks and from thin air, his hat, coat, and staff appear, falling precisely where they usually sit. Once Angel recovers enough from the shock of that to look back at his face, his trademark pointy grin is firmly in place.

      "Good morning Charlie! Ready to seize the day, huh?" He calls to a disheveled looking Charlie; she must've just woken up. 

      "Mo-" A yawn interrupts her greeting. "Morning, dad... Angel?" Angel grins over at her and nods.

      "Just got back. Don't worry, I'll be up and at-em for our 'bonding activities' or whatever, m' just gonna go feed Nug."

      For a moment, she seems dubious, but before she can ask further, Lucifer swoops in. 

      "I was just telling him to go get a little power-nap in! Here, while he does that, how do we feel about pancakes?"

      Charlie gasps, sufficiently distracted, and follows him to the kitchen.

      "My favorite!"

         Angel chances one last glance at the two of them before heading upstairs. It’s a domestic scene, Lucifer has magicked an apron onto himself that says ‘Be Nice to the Cook’ and is whisking frantically while Charlie dozes on the island behind him. He’s still smiling, even when turned away from her, but Angel can see that it’s pasted on.

         The picture has disappeared, too, he notices, when he finally turns away.

         He’s not quite sure how he feels about any of this, right now. But nothing hurts.

         Not anymore.

More radioapple with ace Alastor (cont. of last 📻🍎 fic) sorry if its a little ooc im sappy

“No.”

Alastor’s voice comes out quick and staticky as he expertly dodges Lucifer’s hands trying to pet down his waistcoat. Lucifer immediately steps back, eyes wide.

“Sorry! Sorry, Al, was that not okay?” He asks, still keeping his distance. Alastor’s expression is inscrutable, nose wrinkled as he smiles at the ground.

It’s quiet for a moment before Alastor shakes his head.

“I need to be alone for a bit.” He grits, then, just as Lucifer goes to respond, his shadows envelop him and he melts from the room.

“That’s-“ Lucifer sighs, “fine.” Leave it to him to somehow fuck this up. “This” being the unspoken, ever so slightly romantic thing he and Alastor have had going on ever since that night in the bathroom.

It started with meals; after figuring out that Lucifer was bearing his wound, Alastor- for lack of a better term- threw himself into feeding him.

Lucifer thought it was sweet that he used his, surprisingly human, ways to care for him through recovery. The food probably didn’t do anything tangible in helping Lucifer’s body patch itself together, but it made him feel warm, loved. Better than he has in an age.

The food, of course, was delicious, but what Lucifer liked most about taking meals with Alastor was the quiet sense of simply being with another person, without expectation. Without an unspoken asking for something in return. Lucifer had already done his part, and the pulsing pain in his chest each night was infinitely worth each peaceful hour.

At first, Alastor didn’t touch him if he didn’t have to, but just him being there, acknowledging Lucifer’s presence and doing his best to care for him through the pain was enough. Lucifer thought it would be over when he was finally healed, that Alastor would consider his debt repaid and leave him to his own devices once the bleeding stopped.

It was almost too much to imagine.

Lucifer has a nasty habit of getting attached, which is really quite unfortunate given his circumstances. Still, he hasn’t been able to shake it quite yet, and in a shameful moment of spiraling weakness, he had torn through his stitches, hoping to elongate the healing window, even just slightly.

He left the three green X’s alone, tried to keep it secret, but somehow Alastor figured it out, like he always seems to.

Furious, he’d marched Lucifer right back to the bathroom and redid his stiches, this time entirely with the neon green thread he is able to manifest at will.  The thread was warm, a little biting against his skin, but Lucifer liked it. Liked that it meant Alastor would pay attention to him.

God, what a pathetic thing to do. He still cringes when he thinks back on it, but loneliness will make a wasteland out of you. And Lucifer was desperate enough to bleed for the company, his blood is a mere pittance, after all. He’ll never run dry.

The longer they spent together, the more comfortable Alastor was touching Lucifer; little brushes against his shoulder as he passed behind his usual seat at the kitchen island, a steadying hand on his side when he checked his stitches.

It was bliss.

There was a starving, gnawing part of him that basked in it; that took the offered touches like scraps from a table and still wanted more. Another part of him, cold and still burnt from the last time, told him not to get stupid, not to ask for more than he was worth.

Never to beg, because begging is unbecoming of a king.

They fell into a rhythm, small touches, loaded glances, oh so subtle forms of care. Lucifer was healed before he wanted to be, but Alastor didn’t stop. Didn’t leave, even when he checked his stitches one day and, grinning, snipped them away to reveal a shining pink scar.

Even healed, Alastor cooked for him. Even on days when he couldn’t force himself to leave his room, a covered plate would be left just outside his door, food incomprehensibly warm even hours after being made. The touches- maddening, lovely as they were- continued, chaste and addicting as ever.

Lucifer began to feel wild with it. Something inside of him- frayed at the edges, and torn in the middle- couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Why? He thought. Why, still? Why me? He never got the courage to ask, too afraid of Alastor realizing his mistake.

So, they continued like that. Alastor got more comfortable touching Lucifer who was more than happy to let him. It seemed like he didn’t get much practice with it. Touching.

The more Lucifer fell into the lull of security, the more he noticed the tentativeness of each touch, the careful laying of each finger against pale skin, as if Alastor were exploring touch for the first time. As if it fascinated him.

Lucifer never asked- always afraid of doing something stupid to make the final shoe drop faster- but he did notice. And he began coming up with a plan. Alastor is not the only person in hell who sees their relationships as transactional. Good deeds must be paid back. They must, or you’re indebted. Or, more frighteningly, at least to Lucifer, they will grow bored of you.

They will see that you are ungrateful, and they will leave.

Unwilling to let that happen, Lucifer devised a plot. Alastor has very obviously never been very intimate with anyone before, which is totally ok, if not confusing given his objectively handsome features. But he evidently, somehow, feels safe exploring intimacy with Lucifer, which is so incredibly heartening (it makes something hot burst in his chest every time he thinks about it). Lucifer can use this to pay Alastor back, slowly introduce him to different touches until he feels more comfortable with them.

It’s perfect. Or- he thought it was perfect. Until today. Until Alastor got that wide, panicked look in his eyes as he shouted “No!” before running off to recover. Father Above. How did Lucifer manage to fuck up this bad? There’s no way they recover from this.

He takes a second to mourn the relationship before squaring his shoulders and heading to his room to write about a hundred drafts of his apology letter. He can’t believe he so brazenly stepped over a boundary, not even realizing it was there!

He’s the king of hell for godssakes, he should know when one of his subjects is on edge, or uncomfortable. More than that, he’s spent enough time with Alastor that he should know his tells, as well.

Some king he’s turned out to be, huh? Fuck.

***

It takes Alastor two days to appear before Lucifer again, and not for lack of trying on his part. Lucifer had forced himself from his room each day, wandering the hotel’s grounds looking for him. Several times he would sit at the bar for hours on end, watching, waiting.

Not for nothing, though, he’s learned something quite interesting about the bartender, Husk, and Angel Dust, the porn star.

Over a series of poorly hushed conversations, and not-so-surreptitious glances, he’s learned that they’re dating. Have been for a good few weeks, and somehow no one’s noticed. They seem glad of that fact, though, so Lucifer resolves not to tell anyone.

More interesting, though, is that Husk has been urging his boyfriend to ‘go for what he wants, for once’ which Lucifer hadn’t really understood until he looked over and caught both of them hurriedly looking away. Super unsuspiciously. It was almost enough to make a grown man blush, the sudden knowledge that he was wanted. That despite what he tells himself in his worst moments, he is desirable.

Angel is an attractive man, Lucifer’s not too insecure in himself to admit that, but something curdles in his gut at the thought of pursuing anything with him while he and Alastor are still on the rocks. Which… Is new, and a little terrifying.

Plus, he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to take charge, if you catch his drift, and while Lucifer is happy to play any role his partner wants, he doesn’t know if he’d be any good at it. Not anymore. He just can’t see himself as a figure of authority, not when he knows what it’s really like to be himself. Pathetic, and lonely. The thought of embarrassing himself like that while vulnerable is excruciating, so he pretends not to have noticed their intentions. Thankfully, Angel hasn’t approached him yet. He’s not sure what he would say, anyway.

Back to the most pressing matter, Alastor knocks on Lucifer’s door late at night, two days after the awkwardness of Lucifer’s unwanted touches. When Lucifer opens the door, he’s smiling calmly, and holding two covered plates, one in each hand.

“May I come in?” He asks. Lucifer nods, doggedly, then flushes when he remembers the state that his room is in, after several nights of wallowing. Being the king of hell does have its perks, though, so he snaps his fingers and the place rights itself.

Not before Alastor gets a good enough look to purse his lips disapprovingly, though.

Lucifer manifests a small table and two chairs, which Alastor makes immediate use of, placing a plate in front of each chair, and pulling one out for Lucifer to sit in.

“Please, take a seat. I think we need to talk.” Great. That’s always a good start to a conversation. Not like that’s ever gone wrong for Lucifer before. Nope.

With a sigh- internally steeling himself against the impending rejection- Lucifer sits. Alastor hums, and follows suit, snapping his fingers to disappear the lids to their food as soon as he’s seated.

It looks delicious, as it always does. Some sort of colored rice dish with meat and veggies mixed throughout. Lucifer smiles and thanks him, snapping to manifest some drinks- a champagne for himself, and a rich red wine for Alastor.

It’s quiet for a bit as they take their first few bites. Lucifer hums his appreciation, which Alastor’s smile ticks up at.

Finally, stomach knotting itself enough to disrupt his enjoyment of the food, Lucifer speaks.

“I’m so sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I did, and if there’s anything I can do- anything at all- to make up for it-“ before he can finish, Alastor cuts in, voice staticky.

“It wasn’t your fault, my dear. You didn’t know. I’m afraid I…” He trails off for a bit, mulling over his next words. Lucifer waits patiently, eyes wide.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that specific kind of touching. I don’t like it.” He’s not looking at Lucifer anymore, head turned to the side as he taps his claws against his wine glass. Lucifer tilts his head.  

“By ‘that kind of touching’, do you mean on your torso? I don’t want to mess it up again.” He asks. It’s a little presumptuous to imply that he’ll be able to touch Alastor, after this, but he’s too on edge to censor himself correctly. Alastor scoffs.

“You did not ‘mess anything up’. There was just a simple miscommunication. By that I mean sexual touches. Or anything meant to lead in that direction.” Ah, Lucifer’s hand had been quite close to his navel, and his intention was most definitely to take the touches further if Alastor was comfortable with it. He nods, apologizing once more.

“Got it. Sorry again, Al, I know you don’t think I need to say it, but I still feel bad. Thank you for telling me.” Lucifer- infinitely relieved and brimming with ill-advised hope- smiles up at him and rests his hand, palm up, in the middle of the table. Maybe he can salvage this. Maybe he doesn’t have to lose everything again.

Alastor’s grin softens at the edges as his eyes rove over Lucifer’s expression. He ‘tsk’s but places his own hand on top of Lucifer’s, gently intertwining their fingers and bringing them up to press a small kiss to Lucifer’s knuckles.

A giddy laugh bursts from Lucifer’s chest and he buries his face- or what he can manage to obscure of it- into the palm of his remaining hand. It’s okay. Alastor’s not angry with him, it’s okay.

A few tears gather on his lashline, but he blinks them away before they can fall. Alastor’s other hand leaves his wine glass to brush just underneath Lucifer’s eye.

“Oh, don’t cry, dearest. It’s alright.” He says, voice softer than Lucifer thinks he’s ever heard it. It occurs to him that this must have been hard for Alastor, too, so unused to being vulnerable, but still showing this part of himself to Lucifer, and for what? So that Lucifer feels better? To put his mind at ease?

It’s so stupid.

It’s so kind.

Lucifer shakes his head, “Happy tears, Al. Thanks for trusting me.”

Alastor’s thumb swipes against the apple of his cheek as he hums.

“As if I could do anything else.”