Why yes, I'll take your soul

Charlie was excited. And why wouldn’t she be? She had quite the event planned today. She was practically vibrating, positively bursting with energy, dizzy with anticipation. Giddy and anxious all at once.

So when Vaggie opened the door, Charlie didn’t wait. She didn’t give herself time to second guess. She just started unloading.

“Vaggie! Today’s activity is going to be absolutely amazeballs!” she beamed, words tumbling over each other as her hands flailed for emphasis. “I mean it. I think Alastor’s really going to like it. I—” Her smile tightened for half a beat. “I hope he likes it,” she added, putting extra force behind the words, trying to make it true through sheer willpower.

Vaggie frowned, arms folding. “Alastor, huh?” There was trepidation in her voice, and a little anger hidden beneath it. “You don’t owe him anything, Charlie. Not after what he did.”

Charlie’s smile dimmed. “He defended the hotel,” she said seriously. “He nearly died protecting me from Adam.”

Vaggie looked away, her shoulders dropping. Guilt pinched at the corners of her expression.

“It’s Hell,” Charlie continued, quieter now. “You can’t expect everyone to be an altruist. Sure, it was pricier than I’d like, but I don’t regret it,” Charlie said quietly. “He hasn’t even done anything with it.”

“Yet,” she added under her breath.

She knew Vaggie didn’t like Alastor. Not before, and certainly not now. But she wished her girlfriend wouldn’t come at him with teeth every time his name came up, because it always turned into a fight, and Charlie was so tired of fighting.

Was Alastor the best demon? Of course not. He was manipulative. He was cruel. He made her skin crawl sometimes when she caught a glimpse of what lived behind that smile.

But he was also a resident here. A sponsor. A pillar the hotel was leaning on whether Charlie liked it or not. And without him, the Exorcists would’ve slaughtered everyone. Yes, her father had shown up in time to end things, but it was Alastor who held the line. Who fought. 

And Charlie… Charlie had only gotten in the way.

And lately? He’d been doing so well. Not perfectly. Alastor was still rough around the edges, but he’d shown up to the last two group activities. He’d participated. He’d tried.

Vaggie exhaled slowly, and some of the fight left her shoulders with the breath. She stepped forward and pulled Charlie into a gentle hug.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into Charlie’s hair. “Tell me about today’s activity.”

This is why Charlie loved Vaggie so much.

They didn’t always see eye to eye. In fact, they disagreed often. On methods, on trust, especially when it came to sinners. But even in disagreement, Vaggie never wavered in her support. She was steady. Fierce. Reliable.

Charlie had always been the dreamer. The optimist. And Vaggie? Vaggie was her rock.

Sure, Vaggie had a harsher view of sinners. Probably always would. And maybe that came from her roots as an exorcist, but despite it, Vaggie had backed the hotel project with everything she had. Her time, her energy, her vigilance, her stubborn refusal to let Charlie get eaten alive by her own hope. 

Charlie sucked in a breath so deep her cheeks puffed out. 

“We’re going to have aaaaaa—” Charlie drawed out, pausing for effect as she performed a dramatic drumroll, “DANCE COMPETITION!” she finally shouted, punctuating the announcement with wildly enthusiastic jazz hands.

Charlie really does think Alastor will like today's event. He’s a natural showman. He lives to be the center of attention and needs to win. She wants to reward him for showing up these past two weeks, for putting in the effort, even when he clearly wasn’t at his best. And if today’s activity happens to lift his spirits, well… all the better. What could be more perfect than letting him take center stage and show off a little?

Charlie knocked twice on her fathers door.

Nothing.

She tried again, louder this time, and pressed her ear toward the wood as if that would help. Still nothing. Not even the faint shuffle of movement.

Okay.

She gave the door a tentative push. “Dad?”

It creaked open. Bright midday light slipped through the velvet curtains and pooled on the massive bed, where Lucifer Morningstar lay sprawled like a corpse. If corpses wore satin sleep-shirts. One arm was slung across his face, the other draped over the side of the bed, fingers grazing the floor. He let out a soft snore.

Charlie tiptoed in. “Dad?” she said again, softer now, unsure why she was whispering.

He groaned and shifted.

She poked his arm. “Rise and shine, Your Majesty.”

Lucifer cracked one eye open and squinted at her. “Is the kingdom under siege?” he rasped.

“Nope.”

“Is there a coup?”

“Nope.”

“Is there coffee?”

“Also no.”

He groaned again, louder, and rolled onto his side. His blanket bunched up around his waist.

Charlie folded her arms. “Dad. I need your help.”

That did it.

Both eyes creaked open, and he slowly turned his head to look at her, the expression on his face shifting to wary interest. “With what, exactly?” he croaked.

Charlie smiled, all sweetness and sunshine. “Setting up a stage.”

One of his brows twitched. “What kind of stage?” he asked, blinking slowly.

“A dance stage,” she said, then added quickly, “for a dance competition.” She threw in a little jazz hands for emphasis.

Lucifer sat up with a groan that turned into a delighted wheeze. “A dance competition?” His hair was still sticking up on one side, but he suddenly looked ten years younger. “Why didn’t you lead with that!?”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself upright, cracking his back with a wince. “Alright, give me a minute. My joints are older than this hotel,” he grumbled, reaching for his apple staff. With a flick of magic, his hair snapped into place.

“How big are we talking?” Lucifer asked, gesturing vaguely as though the room itself might become the stage. “Red velvet? Gold trim? Do we want moving platforms?”

“Uh—red velvet sounds good,” she said, then lifted a hand quickly. “And no. No moving platforms.”

Lucifer frowned for a moment, clearly disappointed. Then he brightened again.

“Alright,” he said brightly. “I’m sure we’ve got an extra glitter cannon in the basement.”

Charlie followed him out, giggling despite herself. “Exciting.”

This was going to be fun.

Even if she had to wrestle him for control of the glitter cannon.

Everything was going fine. Great, even.

The stage was set. The lights were up. The snacks were prepped in neat little rows. The music was cued and sitting there, ready to go at the push of a button. Charlie had checked it twice. Then a third time, because she couldn’t help herself. Everything was perfect.

Except—Charlie stopped pacing to check the time again—except Alastor was twenty minutes late.

Twenty minutes late to the competition.

The one she’d designed specifically with him in mind. The one he’d looked her in the eye and promised, promised, he’d be there for.

Everyone else made it on time.

But could he? No! Of course not!

Charlie clenched and unclenched her hands, forcing herself not to fidget with her sleeves. 

Angel was lounging near the edge of the stage, doing languid stretches, tossing flirtatious barbs at Husk. Husk was all dressed up and actually going to participate for once, which should’ve been enough to make Charlie happy on its own. It just made the empty space where Alastor should’ve been feel even louder.

Niffty was a manic blur, currently scaling Sir Pentious like a sugar-fueled lemur. She got halfway up him, squealed, slid down his coat, and immediately tried again. He stood stiffly, looking more nervous by the second. To be fair, he was at a bit of a disadvantage. Dancing without legs.

Her dad was nervously nursing his third appletini. Vaggie was—oh shit! She was talking to her!

“—just start now. If the fucker does show up, he can just go last, or not at all.”

Charlie was pretty sure she got the gist of that. And... maybe Vaggie was right.

She’s bent over backwards this week to accommodate him.

She handled all the paperwork herself, when he was clearly out of it. She barely commented when she caught him creeping out in the dead of night with an angelic spear, and that was suspicious as fuck for so many reasons. She’s kept people, namely Vaggie, off his back when he’d been downright hostile all week.

She didn’t owe him that. 

They weren’t friends. A fact he’d made abundantly clear the day he bargained for her soul.

If he couldn’t be bothered to show up for the event she planned just for him. An event he promised to be at… Then screw it. Fuck him.

“I… think you’re right,” Charlie started, the words coming out stiff. “If he’s—”

You know what? No. She planned this for him. He promised to show up. And he’s going to. Even if she has to drag his old-timey ass down here.

“Actually, fuck that,” she said, fire in her voice. “He said he’d be here. I’m going to make sure he is.”

Vaggie gave her a proud little smile. “Let’s go.”

Charlie hesitated. “Oh, um—actually, I was hoping you could stay here and handle things. Make sure my dad doesn’t do anything too crazy”

Guilt bloomed in her gut. She knew Vaggie wanted to back her up. But she also really, really didn’t want to leave her dad alone with access to the glitter cannon.

Vaggie’s gaze followed, took in the appletini, took in Lucifer’s grin, and she sighed through her nose like she understood immediately. “Yeah. Okay. Go.”

She stormed off towards Alastor’s radio tower. She pulled herself up the ladder with more force than strictly necessary, and banged on the trapdoor.

She considered just barging in. But at the end of the day, she had manners.

“Alastor!” she called. “We’re all waiting for you! You were supposed to be down here half an hour ago!”

No response.

Charlie frowned, jaw setting. She knocked again, louder this time, and held her breath for the faintest movement. Anything. A footstep. A chair creak. One of his stupid little chuckles.

Nothing.

Oh, come on. There’s no way he didn’t hear that. He heard everything. He always heard everything.

Manners be damned.

She threw the trapdoor open and hauled herself up, ready to deliver a full-force verbal lashing.

Her mouth was open. The words were right there. Then the sight that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs.

She expected to find Alastor sitting in his chair, listening to music. Maybe reading a book or sipping whisky while looking smug.

She was right about one thing.

He was in his chair.

Limp. Eyes shut. Mouth slightly ajar.

His jacket hung open. His shirt was unbuttoned, loose and rumpled. And underneath, sprawled across his chest, was a weeping wound. Raw, gaping, and wet. Angry veins of molten gold exploded out from the gash, stretching over his chest, up his neck, curling across one cheek, and creeping disturbingly close to his eye.

Charlie’s stomach dropped so hard she felt it in her knees.

Golden blood had dried at the corner of his mouth. More dripped slowly from his slack jaw and marked his shirt.

He looked dead.

No. Paler than dead. There was no color left in him at all.

Only the faintest rise and fall of his chest assured her he was alive.

‘For now.’