Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room tilted sideways.

Lucifer's knuckles went bone-white against the mahogany desk edge, fingernails digging crescents into the wood as his knees threatened to fold like wet paper. A cold sweat broke across his forehead, plastering blonde hair to his temples. His breath came shallow, rapid—the kind of breathing that preceded either vomiting or passing out, and he wasn't sure which would be worse.

Three days. Three days since Charlie's trembling hands had pulled him from that machine, since he'd felt Vox's technology release its vampiric hold on his essence. Three days, and his body still felt like a marionette with cut strings, jerking and convulsing to a puppeteer he couldn't control.

His left hand flew up without warning—a violent, involuntary snap that sent his elbow cracking against his own ribs. The impact forced air from his lungs in a sharp gasp. Before he could recover, his neck wrenched sideways, vertebrae popping as his head jerked at an unnatural angle, golden eyes rolling before snapping back forward.

"Just... need... time," he wheezed, each word a battle against his rebelling body.
He managed to straighten, somehow. Fingers smoothed down his rumpled vest with shaking movements, adjusted his hat to hide the way his hair stuck to his skin with fever-sweat. He pulled his lips into something approximating his usual confident smirk, even as his reflection in the window showed hollow cheeks and eyes ringed with purple-black exhaustion that no amount of smiling could hide.

The King of Hell couldn't afford weakness. Not with vultures circling.

His arm jerked again—a full-body convulsion this time that sent his cane spinning off the desk. It hit the floor with a crack that echoed like a gunshot.

"Fuck."

Alastor watched from the shadows bleeding between the grandfather clock and the lobby wall, perfectly still except for the subtle widening of his perpetual grin.

The King descended the hotel stairs like a man walking on ice—each step calculated, cautious, his pale fingers gripping the bannister so tightly they seemed to blur into the white-painted wood.

Gone was the casual floating, the effortless glide of divine authority. This was the careful, measured movement of someone who knew their body might betray them at any moment.

Exquisite.

Lucifer's left shoulder hitched upward in a sharp, graceless jerk mid-step. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly even from across the room as he forced himself to keep moving, pretending nothing had happened. A thin line of sweat traced down from his hairline, disappearing beneath his collar.

Alastor's pupils dilated, radio-dial eyes spinning lazily as he drank in every detail—the tremor in those usually steady hands. The way Lucifer's breathing came just slightly too fast, chest rising and falling beneath his vest like a rabbit's. The complete and utter absence of that golden shimmer that usually danced at his fingertips, that casual display of power worn like jewelry.

The Radio Demon's smile stretched wider, showing too many teeth. Static crackled softly in the air around him, the sound of pure, delighted anticipation.

He stepped from the shadows directly into Lucifer's path, materializing between one heartbeat and the next. "Your Majesty!" His voice dripped with false concern, each word wrapped in poisoned honey. "You're looking rather... peaked this morning. Not quite your usual resplendent self."

Up close, it was even better. Lucifer's pupils were pinpricks despite the dim lighting, his irises burning with exhausted fury. A muscle jumped beneath his left eye—another tic trying to form. His nostrils flared with each breath, and Alastor could see the barely perceptible sway in his stance, like a tree in the wind only he could feel.

Lucifer's jaw worked, teeth grinding. "I'm fine, Bambi. Move." His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling and uncurling spasmodically.

"Oh, I wasn't suggesting otherwise." Alastor tilted his head with mechanical precision, studying Lucifer the way a scientist might examine a pinned butterfly—with fascinated detachment. "Though I must say, you've been awfully quiet since your little ordeal. No dramatic displays, no parlor tricks. One might almost think—"

"I said move." Lucifer's eyes flashed crimson, the color bleeding through the gold like blood in water. His lips pulled back from his teeth.

Nothing happened.

No flames erupted. No divine light split the air. No reality-warping power bent the world to his will. Just a tired, angry man trying desperately to summon something that wouldn't come.

Alastor's expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. His smile lost its performative quality, becoming something genuine and infinitely more dangerous. His eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, pupils spinning slower now, savoring. He looked like a starving man presented with a feast, like a predator that had just realized the lion in its path had no teeth.

"As you wish, sire." He stepped aside with an exaggerated bow, but his gaze never wavered. It crawled over Lucifer like insects, cataloging every weakness, every vulnerability, every moment of barely suppressed trembling.
This changed everything.

By evening, the tics had evolved from inconvenient to excruciating.

Lucifer sat hunched on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in trembling hands. His shoulders drew up toward his ears involuntarily, held there for three agonizing seconds before releasing with a shudder that rippled down his spine. His wings—finally freed from their fabric prison—twitched and spasmed, feathers rustling arhythmically, some bending at wrong angles that made them ache.

A wave of vertigo crashed over him. The room spun like he'd been thrown into a carousel. Bile rose in his throat, hot and acidic. He swallowed it down, but the nausea lingered, coating his tongue with the taste of rot.

His arm moved without permission—elbow snapping inward, slamming into his ribs with enough force to punch the air from his lungs. He gasped, curling forward around the impact, eyes squeezing shut against the pain blooming across his side.

"This is fine," he wheezed to the empty room. "This is temporary. I just need—"

Knock knock knock.

Three precise raps that somehow sounded mocking.

"Not now!" His voice cracked, raw and desperate in a way that made shame burn hot in his chest.

The door opened anyway. The brass knob turned with agonizing slowness, hinges whispering as the door swung inward.
"I do hope I'm not intruding," Alastor crooned, stepping inside with the fluid grace of smoke given form. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound that made Lucifer's heart stutter. "But I thought we might have a little chat. Just between us."

Lucifer forced himself upright, pushing off the bed with hands that left damp prints on the sheets. He swayed immediately, the room tilting fifteen degrees to the left before grudgingly righting itself. "Get. Out."

"Come now, your Majesty. Is that any way to speak to one of your daughter's most trusted associates?"

Alastor began to circle—a slow, predatory orbit that kept him just outside arm's reach. His hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, but his eyes... his eyes were razor-sharp, tracking every micro-movement, every tremor, every sign of distress with the focus of a hawk watching a field mouse. His smile stretched impossibly wide, showing gums above his teeth.

"I simply wanted to check on your well-being. After all, it's not every day the King of Hell is used as a... what was it?" He paused, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "A battery?"

"I'm warning you—"

Lucifer's shoulder jerked violently upward, muscle spasming so hard his whole upper body twisted with it. His balance evaporated. He stumbled sideways, arms pinwheeling uselessly as his legs tangled, heading straight for the floor.

Alastor was there.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the Radio Demon closed the distance, catching Lucifer's forearm in a grip that looked gentle but felt like iron wrapped in velvet. Long fingers pressed against the inside of Lucifer's wrist, finding his racing pulse, feeling the way it fluttered beneath paper-thin skin.

"Careful now," Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, almost tender. "Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

This close, Lucifer could see the way Alastor's pupils had completely overtaken his irises, twin black voids with spinning radio dials in their centers. Could see the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed in, as if scenting weakness. Could see the minute relaxation of his shoulders, the looseness in his posture that came from knowing his prey couldn't run.
Lucifer tried to yank his arm back, but his muscles wouldn't cooperate. The touch made his skin crawl, made every nerve ending scream danger danger danger. "Don't touch me."

"Or what?" Alastor's voice dropped further, became something soft and dark like velvet over razorblades. His thumb pressed against Lucifer's pulse point, counting each rapid beat. His other hand came up, hovering near Lucifer's jaw—not touching, just there, a promise and a threat.

"Will you smite me? Blast me with divine fire? Turn me into a—oh, wait." His grin somehow widened further, splitting his face like a wound. His eyes reflected Lucifer's pale, trembling form at him. "You can't, can you?"

The silence stretched between them like taffy, sticky and suffocating. Lucifer's breath came in short gasps. A thin trickle of sweat ran down his spine. His left eye twitched, eyelid fluttering against a tic building beneath the surface.

"That's what I thought."

Alastor released him, but didn't step back. Didn't give him space to breathe. Instead, he loomed, using his extra inches of height to force Lucifer to crane his neck upward, to make him feel small in a way the King of Hell had never felt before.

"You're powerless. Vulnerable. Rather like a little duckling separated from its flock, wouldn't you say?"

Lucifer's mind raced, thoughts scattering like startled birds. Every option, every escape route led to dead ends painted in his own inadequacy. Without his magic, without his strength, without anything to defend himself, he was just—
He was just—

"What do you want?" The question came out barely above a whisper, and he hated himself for it. Hated the way his voice shook. Hated the defeat bleeding into every syllable.

Alastor's expression shifted—eyes half-lidded, head tilting, tongue flicking briefly across his teeth. He looked like someone sampling a fine wine, rolling it across their palate, savoring every note.

"Want? My dear King, I simply want to ensure we understand each other."
He leaned in closer, close enough that Lucifer could smell the copper-penny scent of blood magic and old radio tubes, could see the individual stitches holding his smile in place, could feel the unnatural heat radiating from him like a furnace.

"You see, I'm free now. No more chain, no more leash." His breath ghosted across Lucifer's cheek. "And you... You're in no position to stop me from doing anything I please."

Lucifer's head jerked violently to the right, neck cracking as vertebrae compressed and released. Pain lanced from the base of his skull down through his shoulders. A small, involuntary sound escaped his throat—something between a gasp and a whimper that he immediately tried to swallow back down.

Alastor's pupils dilated further at the sound, becoming endless black holes. His smile twitched, fighting to become something even wider, even hungrier. "But here's the interesting part," he continued, voice taking on a dreamy quality as he began to pace again, circling Lucifer like a shark in bloodied water.

"I don't actually want to hurt you. How dreadfully boring that would be. Any common demon could tear you apart in your current state. Where's the artistry in that? Where's the entertainment?"

He stopped directly behind Lucifer, close enough that his voice seemed to come from inside Lucifer's own head. "No, what I want is much simpler: I want you to remember this moment. Remember what it feels like to be prey. To be vulnerable. To be at someone else's mercy and find none."

"You son of a—"

"Ah ah ah." Alastor materialized in front of him again, finger raised in chiding. His nail tapped against Lucifer's sternum, right over his racing heart. "Let's keep this civil. After all, I could make things so much worse for you. One word to the right sinners about your... condition..."
His hand spread across Lucifer's chest, palm flat, feeling the erratic hammer of his heartbeat. "And you'd have every ambitious demon in Hell knocking at your door. Every overlord with delusions of grandeur would line up for their chance at the throne. But I won't do that."

His hand pressed harder, forcing Lucifer back a step. "Do you know why?"

Lucifer said nothing. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, fighting against another wave of nausea, against the tears of frustration and fear threatening to spill over.

Alastor leaned in until their faces were inches apart, until Lucifer could see nothing but those spinning radio-dial eyes, could feel nothing but that palm pressed over his stuttering heart.

"Because, your Majesty, I'm going to do something far more entertaining. I'm going to watch you squirm. Watch you pretend everything's fine while you can barely stand. Watch you try so desperately to maintain that image of power—for your daughter, for the sinners, for yourself—while we both know the truth. While we both know that if I wanted to, I could end you with a thought."

His voice dropped to barely a whisper, intimate and terrible. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

He pulled back suddenly, leaving Lucifer gasping like he'd been held underwater. Alastor straightened, adjusting his coat with quick, precise movements, brushing off invisible dust. His smile settled back into something more publicly acceptable, though his eyes still burned with satisfaction.

"Do get some rest, sire. You look absolutely dreadful." He turned toward the door, coat swirling behind him like wings. "I'll see myself out."

His hand was on the doorknob when Lucifer finally found his voice, raw and scraped clean of pride.

"Why are you doing this?"

Alastor paused. For a long moment, he stood perfectly still, head slightly bowed, shoulders rising and falling with an exaggerated breath. Then he glanced back over his shoulder, and for just one fleeting second, his smile seemed to soften into something genuine—something that looked almost fond—and that somehow made it infinitely worse than any threat could be.

"Because I can," he said simply, voice losing all its artificial cheerfulness, becoming something honest and cold. "And because watching the mighty fall is the finest entertainment Hell has to offer."

His eyes traced over Lucifer one final time—taking in the trembling hands, the sweat-soaked hair, the way he held himself like a man made of glass trying not to shatter.

"Sweet dreams, your Majesty."

The door clicked shut with the finality of a coffin closing.

Lucifer stood there, every muscle locked rigid, trembling from something that went deeper than the tics. His breathing came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from his chin, darkening the collar of his shirt. His hands slowly curled into fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

His legs gave out.

He collapsed back onto the bed, sprawling across the sheets in an ungraceful heap. His whole body shook with tremors that might have been tics or might have been fear or might have been rage, he couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't separate one from the other.

He was the King of Hell.

But now he was prey.

The worst part, the part that made his stomach twist and bile rise in his throat, was that Alastor was right.There wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Chapter Text

The stairs stretched below Lucifer like a mountain descent.

He stood at the top of the hotel's main staircase, one hand white-knuckled on the bannister, staring down at what should have been a simple trip to the lobby. Thirteen flights of stairs. Just thirteen. He'd flown across rings, teleported between dimensions, and reshaped reality with a thought.

Now thirteen stories looked insurmountable.

His eyes tracked the distance, trying to calculate each step, but the edges blurred and doubled. The burgundy carpet seemed to ripple like water, the stairs themselves tilting at impossible angles before snapping back to normal. His stomach lurched sideways even though he hadn't moved.

‘Just make a portal,’ his brain supplied unhelpfully. ‘Snap your fingers. Golden light. Done.’

He raised his hand, fingers poised to snap, and concentrated and reached for that well of power that had always been there, as natural as breathing.

Nothing.

Not even a spark. Not even a flicker. Just the hollow, echoing absence where his magic used to live.

His hand dropped, trembling.

Fuck. He looks around and sees the elevator nearby.

Of course! He can take the elevator!

He hurried over and pressed the button.

It didn’t light up.

He pressed it again… and again… and again.

Nothing.

“Seriously?! The one time I need it!” He kicked the doors, only to regret it immediately, stumbling backwards until he hit the wall, sliding down. Balance completely gone.

Fine. Stairs it was.

He stood up and stumbled back on his feet.

He took the first step down.

The world tilted violently to the left. His vision swam, the lobby below spinning like he'd been thrown into a centrifuge. The walls stretched and compressed, breathing in and out. His stomach heaved, bile scorching the back of his throat. He stumbled, his knee cracking against the edge of a step as he caught himself against the railing with both hands.

"Shit—" The word came out slurred, tongue thick in his mouth.

‘What the hell is wrong with me?’

Was each step a test of his arm strength? For it was the only thing really keeping him from falling face-first.

When he finally got down, in the main lobby, he nearly collapsed with relief.

"Careful there, your Majesty."

Lucifer's head snapped up—too fast, the movement sent the world spinning again—and there he was. Alastor. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands folded over his microphone cane, head tilted at that unsettling angle, watching. Always watching.

‘How long had he been there?’

"I'm fine," Lucifer bit out, forcing himself upright. His legs shook beneath him, knees threatening to buckle. The ringing in his ears grew louder, a high-pitched whine that made it hard to think.

"Of course you are." Alastor's smile widened fractionally, his eyes tracking the way Lucifer swayed, the white-knuckled grip on the bannister, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "You simply look like you're enjoying the view. Taking your time. Savoring the journey."

Lucifer's jaw clenched. He forced himself to take another step. Then another. Each one felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss, his sense of balance completely shot. The floor kept moving beneath him—or was he the one moving? He couldn't tell anymore. His left eye twitched, eyelid fluttering rapidly, vision blurring in and out of focus.

By the time he reached the bottom, he was breathing hard, shirt plastered to his back with sweat.

Alastor hadn't moved. Hadn't even pretended to look away. He just stood there, drinking in every moment of struggle like fine wine.

"Riveting performance," the Radio Demon murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only Lucifer could hear. "Though perhaps next time, we could sell tickets?"

Lucifer shoved past him—or tried to. His shoulder clipped Alastor's arm, the contact sending a jolt through his unstable body. He stumbled, catching himself against the wall, fingers splaying across the wallpaper.

Alastor's laughter followed him across the lobby—not his usual booming broadcast laugh, but something quieter, more intimate. More cruel.

The kitchen should have been safe.

Lucifer leaned against the counter, both hands braced on the marble surface, trying to force his stomach to settle. The nausea had been building all morning, a constant rolling sensation like being on a ship in a storm. Everything smelled too strong—the coffee brewing, the eggs someone had made for breakfast, even the faint scent of cleaning products. It all made his gorge rise.

He needed coffee. Black, bitter, strong enough to strip paint. Maybe that would help. Maybe—

The coffee mugs sat on the top shelf.

Of course they did.

Lucifer stared up at them, measuring the distance. Normally he'd just—reach with his magic, pull one down with a thought, or summon his own favorite mug from his room. Now?

Now he had to physically get it down like some common—

His vision doubled. The cabinet split into two overlapping images, edges bleeding together. The ringing in his ears crescendoed, loud enough to make him wince.

"Need some help?"

Lucifer spun toward the voice—mistake, huge mistake—the room whirled like a carousel, walls bleeding into floor bleeding into ceiling. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the counter edge, nails scraping across marble.

Alastor stood in the doorway, a newspaper tucked under one arm, looking for all the world like he'd just happened to wander by. But his eyes—those spinning radio-dial eyes—were locked on Lucifer with predatory focus.

"I don't need your help," Lucifer managed through gritted teeth. His tongue felt swollen, words coming out slightly off. ‘Difficulty swallowing or slurred speech,’ some distant part of his brain catalogued. Great. Add that to the list.

"No? You seem to be having quite the struggle." Alastor glided into the kitchen, movements fluid and graceful in a way that made Lucifer's current clumsiness feel even more pronounced. "Those cabinets are rather high. Dreadful design choice, really. Almost as if they were built for someone who could simply—"

He snapped his fingers.

A tendril of shadow reached up, plucked a mug from the top shelf, and deposited it gently on the counter beside Lucifer.

"—use magic," Alastor finished, his smile razor-sharp.

The casual display of power—power Lucifer had lost—made something hot and acidic curl in his chest. Rage. Humiliation. Fear. All of it tangled together until he couldn't breathe properly.

"Get out," he whispered, staring at the mug. His reflection stared back from its glossy black surface—pale, hollow-eyed, pathetic.

"But I just got here. I was hoping we could chat. Perhaps discuss your—" Alastor moved closer, circling to lean against the counter beside him, deliberately invading his space, "—adjustment period. Learning to navigate the world without your abilities must be so challenging."

Lucifer's hands curled into fists on the counter. His right arm jerked, elbow cracking against the marble hard enough to send pain lancing up to his shoulder. He bit back a gasp.

"Does it hurt?" Alastor asked, voice dropping to something almost gentle. Almost concerned. The mockery in it made it worse. "The tics, I mean. They look rather painful."

"What do you want?" Lucifer forced himself to meet Alastor's gaze, even though looking at those spinning eyes made his vertigo worse, made the floor tilt and sway beneath him.

"Want? I'm simply being neighborly. After all, we're both residents of this charming establishment." Alastor's head tilted, examining him like a particularly interesting specimen. "Though I must say, you look absolutely dreadful this morning. Dare I say, worse than yesterday?"

He reached out—slowly, deliberately—and Lucifer couldn't move fast enough to stop him. Long fingers pressed against his neck, right where his pulse hammered frantically beneath paper-thin skin.

"Rapid heartbeat," Alastor murmured, almost to himself. "Excessive sweating. Difficulty with balance." His thumb slid up to cup his cheek before moving to rest just below Lucifer's eye, feeling the rapid flutter of his eyelid. "Involuntary eye movements. My, my. You really are falling apart, aren't you?"

Lucifer jerked away—the movement too fast, too sudden. The kitchen spun. His vision went white at the edges, static crackling across his field of view. His stomach heaved. He barely made it to the sink before he was retching, bringing up nothing but bile because he hadn't been able to keep anything down since yesterday.

His body convulsed, hands gripping the sink edge so hard his knuckles cracked. Tears streamed down his face—automatic response to vomiting, nothing more, he told himself. Not fear. Not humiliation. Just biology.

When the spasms finally stopped, he stayed there, forehead pressed against the cool metal of the faucet, breathing hard, tasting acid.

"Oh, dear." Alastor's voice came from directly behind him, close enough that Lucifer could feel breath on the back of his neck. "That does look unpleasant. Should I fetch your daughter? I'm sure Charlie would be very concerned to see you like this."

"Don't," Lucifer croaked. "Don't you dare—"

"Relax." A hand landed on his shoulder—not rough, not violent, just there. A reminder. A claim.

"Your secret's safe with me. For now. Though I do wonder how long you can keep up this charade before everyone else notices."

The hand squeezed once, then withdrew. Footsteps retreated toward the door.

"Do try to drink some water, your Majesty. Dehydration will only make things worse."

Then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of blood magic and static, and Lucifer alone with his weakness.

By afternoon, Lucifer had given up on pretending today would be productive.

He'd attempted to read…the words swam on the page, doubling and blurring until they were incomprehensible. He'd tried to work on some sketches…his hand cramped and jerked, leaving erratic lines across the paper. He'd even considered just sleeping…but lying down made the vertigo worse, made the room spin even with his eyes closed, made his ears ring so loud he couldn't think.

So now he sat in the library, in a chair he'd dragged to face the door, because he needed to see Alastor coming. Needed to see if anyone was coming. His heart hammered at every sound—footsteps in the hall, voices from other rooms, the old hotel settling and creaking.

He was exhausted. So tired his bones ached. But his body wouldn't let him rest, wouldn't let him relax for even a moment.

The shelf across from him held a book he wanted. It was a reference on angelic physiology that might explain what was happening to him. Top shelf, of course. Because everything in this damned hotel was apparently designed to mock him.

He stared at it for a long moment. Calculated the distance. Weighed his options.

He could ask someone. Charlie would help in a heartbeat. But then she'd know. She'd see how bad it had gotten. She'd worry, hover, probably try to coddle him.

He could wait. Leave it. He didn't really need it.

But the thought of defeat—of letting his body's limitations win—made something stubborn flare in his chest.

Fine.

Lucifer pushed himself up from the chair, swaying slightly as the room tilted fifteen degrees before correcting. His vision swam, doubled, then cleared. He made his way to the shelf, each step careful, measured.

The rolling ladder attached to the bookshelf sat a few feet away. He could use that. Climb up. Simple.

He pulled it over—the wheels squealed, the sound making his ears ring worse—and positioned it. Stared up at the rungs. They seemed impossibly far apart suddenly.

‘This is a fucking ladder! Why is this so fucking difficult?!’

He grabbed the sides, placed his foot on the first rung. Pulled himself up.

The world tilted.

His vision went sideways, the floor and ceiling swapping places. His stomach dropped as he'd stepped off a cliff. The ringing in his ears became a roar.

His foot slipped.

For one weightless moment, he was falling. No magic to catch him, no wings to spread, nothing but gravity and his own failing body.

He hit the floor hard, shoulder cracking against wood, head bouncing with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through his skull, white-hot and blinding. The room spun so violently he couldn't tell which way was up.

Footsteps. Running.

"Dad!"

Charlie's voice, high and panicked. Then her hands on him, rolling him over, her face swimming into view—doubled, tripled, her features bleeding together.

"I'm fine," he tried to say, but it came out slurred, wrong. His tongue wouldn't cooperate.

"You're not fine! You're—oh fuck, you're bleeding—"

Was he? He couldn't tell. Everything hurt, everything spun, and the nausea was back with a vengeance.

More voices. More footsteps. The whole damn hotel was descending on him like vultures.

And there, at the back of the crowd, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed—

Alastor.

Their eyes met across the room. The Radio Demon's smile widened, showing too many teeth. He raised one hand in a small, mocking wave.

Then his lips moved, forming words meant only for Lucifer to see: ‘I told you so.’

Lucifer closed his eyes, surrendering to the spinning darkness, and tried not to cry.

Chapter Text

The couch in the lobby had become Lucifer's prison.

Charlie had all but carried him here after the fall, her hands trembling as she'd settled him against a mountain of pillows that did nothing to stop the world from spinning. Now she hovered, practically vibrating with anxiety, her phone clutched in both hands like a lifeline.

"I'm calling Auntie Bel," she announced for the third time in ten minutes, her voice pitched high and tight. "Dad, you fell off a ladder. You have a concussion,—or something worse, and you won't let anyone take you to a hospital, so—"

"Charlie." Lucifer tried to push himself more upright, but his arm spasmed mid-movement, elbow cracking against the armrest. He barely managed to turn the resulting grimace into something approximating a smile.

"Sweetheart, please. Belphegor is the Queen of Sloth. Do you have any idea how long it would take her to actually get here?"

"I don't care!" Charlie's eyes were too bright, tears threatening to spill over. "You're not getting better, you're getting worse, and I—I can't just watch you—" Her voice cracked. She pressed her palm against her mouth, trying to hold back a sob.

Guilt twisted in Lucifer's stomach, sharp enough to cut through the nausea. He reached for her with a shaking hand, managing to catch her fingers. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. I'm okay."

"You're not." The tears fell now, tracking down her cheeks in hot streaks. "You can't even stand up without falling. You can't eat. You look like you haven't slept in days. And you keep—" She gestured helplessly at his trembling hand. "—doing that. Your body keeps doing things you can't control and you won't tell me what's wrong."

"It's just... aftereffects. From the machine." Each word took effort, his tongue thick and clumsy. The ringing in his ears made it hard to hear his own voice. "My body needs time to recover, that's all. By the time Bel would drag herself here, I'll be back to a hundred percent. You'll see."

It was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. But Charlie wanted so desperately to believe him that she hesitated, phone still raised, thumb hovering over the screen.

"I really think—"

"If I may interject?"

Lucifer's entire body went rigid. His head jerked toward the voice, too fast, vision swimming violently, and there he was. Alastor stood just behind the couch, having materialized from the shadows without a sound. His smile was gentle, almost paternal, the picture of concerned helpfulness.

Every instinct Lucifer had screamed danger.

"I couldn't help but overhear your dilemma," Alastor continued, addressing Charlie with that perfectly modulated broadcaster's voice, warm and trustworthy. "And while I certainly understand your father's reluctance to involve the Queen of Sloth, she is indeed notoriously... leisurely in her responses. I do think he requires supervision. At least until he's more stable."

Charlie turned to him hopefully, like he was offering salvation instead of damnation. "Right? That's what I've been saying! He needs someone to watch him, make sure he doesn't—" She gestured at the ladder incident site, where Vaggie was still cleaning up scattered books.

"Precisely." Alastor moved around the couch, coming to stand beside Charlie, presenting a united front. His eyes flicked to Lucifer for just a moment, pupils dilating, smile twitching wider, before returning to Charlie's tear-stained face. "Which is why I'd like to volunteer my services."

No.

"I can ensure your father receives proper care and monitoring," Alastor said smoothly, before Lucifer could force words through his uncooperative mouth. "I'll make certain he eats, rests, and doesn't engage in any more... ambitious climbing endeavors. That way, you can focus on your duties with the hotel without constant worry. And if his condition does deteriorate further, I'll alert you immediately so you can make that call to your aunt."

It was perfectly reasonable. Completely logical. Exactly what a concerned friend would offer.

Charlie's face flooded with relief. "Oh, Alastor, would you? That would be—I mean, I want to help, but I have that meeting with the new arrivals this afternoon, and the trust exercises scheduled for tomorrow, and—" She looked guilty even saying it.

"Say no more, my dear. You have responsibilities. I have time." Alastor placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder, the gesture almost fatherly. "Your father will be in excellent hands."

No.

No no no no—

"Dad?" Charlie looked down at him hopefully, desperately wanting this to be okay, wanting to believe she wasn't abandoning him. "Is that alright? Just until you're feeling better?"

Lucifer stared up at them both—his daughter's pleading, exhausted face, and behind her, Alastor's too-wide smile and spinning radio-dial eyes. The Radio Demon tilted his head slightly, expression shifting into something expectant. Waiting.

Say no, and Charlie would insist on calling Belphegor. Would hover constantly, neglecting her work, drowning in worry. Would see him getting worse and worse, watch him fall apart piece by piece.

Say yes, and—

Alastor's smile sharpened. His fingers tapped against his microphone cane in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Like a countdown.

Lucifer's throat worked. His left eye twitched rapidly, vision blurring in and out. The words stuck, trapped behind teeth that wouldn't cooperate, behind a tongue that felt swollen and useless.

"I'll take that as acceptance!" Alastor said brightly, as if Lucifer's silence was enthusiastic agreement. "Wonderful. Now then, let's get you somewhere more comfortable than this lobby couch, shall we? Your room, I think. More private. More conducive to proper rest."

He moved with practiced efficiency, sliding one arm behind Lucifer's shoulders, the other hooking under his knees. Before Lucifer could protest, before he could do anything, Alastor lifted him with insulting ease, cradling him against his chest like he weighed nothing at all.

The sudden movement sent the world spinning violently. Lucifer's vision whited out, nausea surging. He made a choked sound, pressing his face against Alastor's shoulder instinctively, trying to find something stable in the carousel of sensations.

"There we are," Alastor murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Lucifer could hear beneath the static-edged cheerfulness. "Just relax, your Majesty. I've got you."

The words should have been comforting.

They were a threat.

"Thank you so much, Alastor," Charlie said, her voice thick with relieved tears. "Really,—I don't know what we'd do without you."

"Think nothing of it, dear girl. I’m happy to help."

Lucifer felt Alastor's chest rumble with the words, felt the steady, unhurried pace of his heartbeat—slow, calm, predatory. The scent of old blood and radio static filled his lungs, making his stomach heave.

Alastor carried him toward the stairs like he was something precious. Something fragile.

Or rather, something owned.

The door to Lucifer's room clicked shut with terrible finality.

Alastor deposited him on the bed with surprising gentleness, arranging pillows behind his back, smoothing the blankets across his lap with the practiced efficiency of a caretaker. The entire time, his smile never wavered, his movements never faltered.

Lucifer tried to push himself upright, but his arms shook, muscles refusing to cooperate. He slumped back against the pillows, breathing hard, watching as Alastor moved through his space with the confidence of someone who belonged there.

"Now then." Alastor pulled the desk chair over to the bedside, sitting down with his legs crossed, microphone cane resting across his lap. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, regarding Lucifer with the focused attention of a scientist observing an experiment.

"Let's establish some ground rules, shall we?"

"Just leave," Lucifer managed, though the words came out slurred, missing their venom.

"Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible. I volunteered, remember? Made a promise to your daughter. Breaking that promise would be terribly irresponsible." Alastor's head tilted, eyes tracking the rapid flutter of Lucifer's eyelid, the tremor in his hands, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths. "Besides, you need supervision. What if you fall again? Hit your head again? Choke on your own vomit while the vertigo incapacitates you?"

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "What if you die, your Majesty? All alone, too weak to even call for help? How tragic that would be."

"You'd... love that," Lucifer spat.

"On the contrary." Alastor's smile softened into something almost fond, which somehow made it infinitely worse. "Your death would be boring. Quick. Final. Where's the entertainment in that? No, I much prefer you like this: alive, aware, and completely at my mercy."

There was that phrase again: At my mercy.

"Here's what's going to happen," Alastor continued, his voice taking on a businesslike quality. "I'm going to take excellent care of you. Make sure you eat, even when your stomach rebels. Ensure you rest, even when the vertigo makes lying down agonizing. Monitor your symptoms with meticulous attention." His fingers tapped against his knee in that same rhythmic pattern. "And in return, you're going to let me."

"Fuck you," Lucifer breathed.

"You're going to cooperate because if you fight me, if you try to refuse care, if you make things difficult, I'll simply express my concerns to Charlie. Tell her you're deteriorating rapidly. That you need Belphegor after all. That your pride is preventing you from accepting proper medical attention."

Alastor's eyes gleamed. "And we both know what will happen then. Charlie will call her aunt. Belphegor will eventually arrive. And everyone—every single sinner, overlord, and demon in Hell—will know that the King of Hell is powerless. Broken. Weak."

The words landed like physical blows. Lucifer's hands clenched in the blankets, knuckles white.

"So you see, your Majesty, you don't really have a choice. You can accept my care graciously, maintain your dignity, keep your condition private..." Alastor spread his hands in a gesture of magnanimous generosity. "Or you can fight, and I'll make sure everyone knows exactly how far you've fallen."

Silence stretched between them. The only sounds were the ringing in Lucifer's ears, his own ragged breathing, and the subtle crackle of static that always surrounded Alastor.

"Why?" Lucifer finally asked, his voice breaking. "Why are you doing this?"

Alastor stood, smoothing down his coat with precise movements. He moved to the nightstand, examining the various items there—a half-empty water glass, discarded pills, a photo of Charlie. He picked up the photo, studying it with apparent interest.

"Because I can," he said simply, setting the frame back down. "Because for once, the mighty King of Hell is vulnerable. Human, almost. And I find I'm quite curious to see how you handle it."

He turned back to Lucifer, his expression shifting into something that might have been genuine curiosity if not for the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"How does it feel?" he asked softly. "To need help. To be dependent. To have your body betray you at every turn. To look up at a simple ladder and know you can't climb it. To reach for your magic and find nothing." He took a step closer. "Tell me, how does it feel to be prey?"

Lucifer's vision blurred—whether from tears or the vertigo, he couldn't tell. His body trembled, muscles twitching and jerking without permission. The room spun lazily, walls breathing in and out.

He wanted to rage. To scream. To tear Alastor apart with his bare hands.

Instead, he just stared at this demon who held all the power, and whispered: "I hate you."

"I know." Alastor's smile was almost gentle. "Now, let's get some food in you, shall we? You haven't eaten properly in days."

He moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Oh, and your Majesty? Don't even think about trying to leave this room without me. You can barely make it to the bathroom on your own. Trust me, I know exactly how bad it's gotten."

The door opened, then paused.

"I'll be back shortly with soup. Try not to fall off the bed while I'm gone. That would be embarrassing for both of us."

Then he was gone, leaving Lucifer alone with his weakness, his fear, and the terrible knowledge that Alastor was right about everything.

He couldn't fight.

He couldn't run.

He couldn't do anything but wait for his predator to return.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that some small, broken piece of him was almost grateful.

Because at least this way, no one else had to see him like this.

At least this way, Charlie didn't have to watch her father fall apart.

At least this way, the humiliation was private.

Even if it meant being completely, utterly, terrifyingly at Alastor's mercy.

Lucifer pressed his face into the pillow and tried very hard not to scream.

Chapter Text

The silence after Alastor left was suffocating.

Lucifer lay there for long minutes, staring at the ceiling as it lazily rotated above him, listening to the ringing in his ears crescendo and fade like tides. His body felt wrong—not just the tics, not just the vertigo, but something else. Something deeper. Like his bones had been rearranged while he wasn't paying attention.

He needed to see.

The thought came unbidden, urgent. He needed to look at himself, needed to understand what was happening to his body beyond the obvious symptoms. Maybe there was something visible, some sign that would explain why everything felt so fundamentally off.

Getting out of bed was an ordeal.

He pushed himself upright slowly, carefully, giving his screaming equilibrium time to adjust. The room tilted fifteen degrees left, then overcorrected right, before grudgingly settling into something approximating stable. Sweat broke across his forehead immediately, cold and clammy. His arms shook with the effort of just sitting up.

One leg over the side. Then the other. Feet on the floor.

The vertigo hit like a physical blow. The floor dropped away beneath him, then rushed back up. His stomach lurched, bile rising. He gripped the mattress edge with white-knuckled hands, breathing through his nose, trying not to vomit.

‘You can do this. It's just across the room. Ten feet. Maybe fifteen.’

He stood. His knees immediately tried to buckle. He caught himself against the bedpost, fingers digging into carved wood hard enough to make his joints ache. The world spun violently—floor becoming wall becoming ceiling in a nauseating carousel. His vision doubled, tripled, edges going fuzzy and dark.

‘Breathe. Just breathe.’

Step. Stumble. Catch himself against the wall. His shoulder jerked without warning, slamming him harder against the plaster. Pain bloomed across his upper arm, but at least the impact gave him something solid, something stable in the chaos.

Step. His foot caught on nothing, ankle rolling. He went down on one knee, palms slapping against hardwood. The impact sent shockwaves up his arms. The ringing in his ears became a roar.

‘Get up. Get up get up get up—‘

He crawled. Dragged himself across his own bedroom floor like a wounded animal, because pride was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore. Because he needed to see. Needed to understand what was happening to him.

The full-length mirror stood against the far wall, brass frame gleaming dully in the afternoon light filtering through curtains. It had been a gift from Charlie years ago—"So you can make sure your outfits are perfect, Dad!"—and he'd barely used it.

Now he pulled himself up using the frame's edge, leaving sweaty handprints on polished brass. Stood on trembling legs. Forced himself to look.

And froze.

The man—the thing—staring back at him was barely recognizable.

Hollow cheeks, skin stretched too tight over bone, with bruise-dark circles carved deep beneath eyes that burned too bright with fever. His hair, usually meticulously styled, hung limp and sweat-damp against his skull. His lips were cracked and bloodless. A thin trickle of dried blood traced from his hairline where he'd hit his head during the fall.

He looked like a corpse. Like something dying slowly.

But that wasn't what made his breath catch.

His hands went to his hips automatically, fingers spreading across the curve of them. He frowned, pressed harder, feeling for the bone beneath fabric and flesh.

Wider. His hips were... wider.

Not dramatically, not grotesquely, but enough that his pants sat differently, hung looser at the waist while pulling tighter across his thighs. Enough that when he looked at his silhouette in the mirror, the line from shoulder to hip had changed, had developed a curve that hadn't been there before.

"What the—"

His hands slid up to his waist, spanning the distance. Narrower. His waist was narrower, creating a more pronounced taper that looked wrong on his frame, looked feminine in a way that made something cold and uncomfortable twist in his gut.

Maybe it was the clothes. Maybe his vest was just tailored wrong, bunching weird because of weight loss.

He needed to see.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his coat, shaking so badly he could barely grip them. The red fabric slipped from his shoulders, pooling on the floor. His vest followed—gold buttons popping free one by one, the white fabric beneath soaked through with sweat at the collar and under the arms.

Just his white dress shirt now, untucked, hanging loose. He turned sideways, studying his profile.

‘There.’

Even through the shirt, even with the fabric hanging loose, he could see it. The way his spine curved slightly more at the small of his back. The way his hips flared just a fraction wider than they should. The way his ass—fuck—seemed more prominent, pressing against fabric that used to hang straight.

His hands returned to his hips, measuring, confirming. Bone structure didn't just change. Bodies didn't just shift like this. But his fingers traced curves that definitely hadn't been there a week ago, found bone where bone shouldn't protrude at this angle.

He turned back to face the mirror fully. Placed both hands on his waist, feeling how his fingers nearly met in the middle where before there'd been solid muscle. His shoulders looked broader by comparison now, creating an hourglass silhouette that made him look...

He couldn't finish the thought.

His left eye twitched rapidly, vision blurring. His head jerked to the side hard enough to make his neck crack. The movement made him sway, balance failing. He caught himself against the mirror frame, leaving another sweaty handprint.

‘This is wrong. This is all wrong. What did that machine do to me?’

Vox's device had drained his power, yes. Used him as a battery. But this, this physical transformation, this wasn't just energy depletion. This was something else. Something was actively changing his body, restructuring him from the inside out.

He pressed his hands flat against his stomach, feeling for any other changes. The muscle tone had decreased, yes, but beneath that... was his stomach softer? Was there a subtle roundness that hadn't existed before?

"No no no—" The words came out strangled. His breathing accelerated, coming in sharp gasps. Panic clawed up his throat.

He lifted his shirt with trembling hands, needing to see skin, needing to confirm or deny what his hands were telling him.

The fabric rose slowly, revealing pale flesh marked with faint bruises from various falls and impacts. His stomach was softer, less defined. But more than that—his waist definitely curved inward more than before, and his hips...

He was so focused on his reflection, so lost in horror and confusion, that he didn't hear the door open.

Didn't hear the soft footsteps crossing his floor.

Didn't realize he wasn't alone until a voice, smooth as poisoned honey, spoke directly behind him:

"Well well. What do we have here?"

Lucifer's entire body went rigid. His shirt fell from nerveless fingers, falling back into place. He spun around too fast—mistake, huge mistake—and the world tilted violently. His vision whited out. His knees buckled.

Alastor caught him before he hit the floor.

One arm hooked around his waist—right where the new curve was most prominent, fingers pressing into flesh that was somehow both too thin and too soft. The other hand splayed across his chest, steadying him, feeling the rapid-fire hammering of his heart through the sweat-soaked shirt.

"Careful now," Alastor murmured, voice pitched low and dangerous. "We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. Again."

Lucifer tried to push away, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His arms spasmed uselessly, head jerking to the side. The room spun around him in dizzying loops.

"I told you not to leave the bed," Alastor continued, and now there was something darker in his tone, something that might have been genuine anger beneath the perpetual amusement. "I was gone for fifteen minutes and I return to find you've crawled across the floor like some desperate creature, stripped half-naked, and nearly concussed yourself on a mirror."

He shifted his grip, and Lucifer realized with mounting horror that Alastor's hand on his waist had moved, thumb pressing against his hip bone, measuring, assessing. Feeling the same change Lucifer had just discovered.

"Interesting," Alastor said softly, almost to himself. His thumb traced the new curve slowly, deliberately. “Very interesting indeed."

"Don't—" Lucifer tried to form words, but his tongue was thick, uncooperative. "Don't touch—"

"Hush now." The hand on his chest moved up to cover his mouth, palm warm against Lucifer's cracked lips, fingers curling against his cheek. "You're in no position to make demands. Remember?"

Alastor turned them both to face the mirror, keeping Lucifer pinned against his chest, arms locked around him in an embrace that looked almost tender from an outside perspective. But Lucifer could feel the controlled strength in those arms, could feel how easily Alastor was supporting his entire weight.

Could see, in the mirror, how small he looked compared to the Radio Demon. How fragile.

"Look at yourself," Alastor commanded quietly, his chin resting on Lucifer's shoulder so they were cheek-to-cheek in the reflection. "Really look. Tell me what you see."

Lucifer's eyes met his own reflection—pale, sick, trembling. Then dropped to where Alastor's hands rested on his body. One spanning his waist, emphasizing its new narrowness. One pressed against his chest, feeling every rapid breath.

"I see..." His voice cracked. "I see something wrong."

"Mm. Wrong how?" Alastor's thumb continued its slow exploration of his hipbone, tracing the curve over and over with methodical precision. "Be specific."

"My body—it's—" The words stuck. Humiliation burned hot in his chest, mixing with fear into something toxic. "It's changing. I don't... I don't know why."

"Changing how?" Alastor pressed, relentless. His hand at Lucifer's waist squeezed gently, deliberately drawing attention to the altered shape. "Use your words."

Lucifer's jaw clenched. Tears of frustration prickled at his eyes. "My hips. My waist. They're... different."

"Different how?"

"Wider," he spat, the word tasting like poison. "Softer. Wrong. My body is doing things I can't control and I don't understand why and I—"

His voice broke completely. His head jerked violently to the side, nearly cracking against Alastor's jaw. The Radio Demon adjusted smoothly, compensating for the movement without releasing his grip.

"There there," Alastor murmured, and his voice had shifted into something that almost sounded like comfort. Almost. "No need for such distress. It's simply another symptom, isn't it? Another consequence of having your divine essence drained. Your body is... adapting. Reshaping itself in the absence of your power."

He turned Lucifer slightly, examining his profile in the mirror. His hand slid from Lucifer's waist down over his hip, feeling the full curve of it, then back up to span his narrowed waist.

Clinical.

Assessing.

Possessive.

"Rather fascinating, really," Alastor continued, his breath warm against Lucifer's ear. "The great King of Hell, quite literally being unmade. Your power stripped away, your body betraying you, your very form changing into something... softer. Weaker. More..." He paused, smile widening in the mirror's reflection. "Vulnerable."

Lucifer made a sound—something between a sob and a snarl. "Let me go."

"In a moment. First, I want to make absolutely certain you understand something." Alastor's grip tightened fractionally. "These changes—the tics, the vertigo, the nausea, and now this—they're all signs that your condition is progressing. Worsening. Which means you need care more than ever. Which means..." His eyes met Lucifer's in the mirror, radio dials spinning slowly. "You need me more than ever."

"I don't need you," Lucifer whispered, but even he could hear how hollow it sounded.

"No?" Alastor's hand returned to his chest, pressing over his racing heart. "You can't walk across a room without collapsing. Can't keep food down. Can't control your own body. Can't stop whatever's happening to you." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Tell me, your Majesty—who else is going to help you through this? Who else even knows how bad it's gotten? Who else will keep your secrets?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought." Alastor finally released him, but stayed close enough to catch him when—inevitably—Lucifer's legs gave out.

Which they did immediately.

Alastor caught him with practiced ease, lifting him like he weighed nothing—which, given the weight loss, might not be far from true. He carried him back toward the bed, depositing him on the mattress with unexpected gentleness.

"Now," Alastor said, straightening and brushing off his coat. "Let's get you back into your vest and jacket. We maintain some dignity, even in these circumstances. Then you're going to eat the soup I've prepared. Every. Last. Drop."

He collected the discarded clothing from the floor, shaking out the wrinkles with sharp, efficient movements.

"And in the future, when I tell you to stay in bed, you stay in bed. Is that understood?"

Lucifer stared up at him, exhausted, terrified, completely defeated. "And if I don't?"

Alastor's smile sharpened. "Then I'll simply have to take more... direct measures to ensure your compliance. Perhaps restraints? For your own safety, of course. Wouldn't want you wandering around and breaking something important. Like your neck." He held out the vest, waiting.

After a long, painful moment, Lucifer raised his trembling arms, allowing Alastor to dress him like a child. Each button fastened with meticulous care. Each piece of clothing arranged just so.

"There," Alastor said with satisfaction once Lucifer was properly clothed again. "Much better. Now, about that soup..."

He moved to the door where he'd apparently left a tray, bringing it back to the bedside.

The smell of chicken broth wafted up, and Lucifer's stomach immediately rolled with nausea. "I can't—"

"You can and you will." Alastor sat on the edge of the bed, spoon in hand, bowl balanced on his lap. "Open up. Say ‘Ahhh’~ "

And as Lucifer stared at the spoon being lifted toward his mouth, at Alastor's expectant expression, at his own reflection in the Radio Demon's spinning eyes, he realized with cold, absolute certainty:

This was only the beginning.

Whatever was happening to his body, whatever other changes were coming—Alastor would be there for all of it.

Watching. Cataloging. Enjoying every moment of his transformation.

And there wasn't a damn thing Lucifer could do to stop it.

He opened his mouth and let the predator feed him.

Chapter Text

The spoon touched Lucifer's lips for what felt like the hundredth time.

His stomach churned violently at the smell. Chicken broth that should have been comforting but instead made his throat close up, made bile rise hot and acidic. He'd managed maybe half the bowl, each swallow a battle against his rebelling body, each mouthful sitting heavy and wrong in his gut.

"Come now, just a few more," Alastor coaxed, voice maddeningly patient as he held the spoon steady. "You need your strength."

Lucifer turned his head away weakly, the movement sluggish. His eyelids suddenly felt heavy, weighted down with lead. "Can't," he mumbled, tongue thick in his mouth. "Gonna be sick."

It was true. His stomach roiled threateningly, the room spinning in lazy, nauseating loops. But there was something else too. Something was pulling at him, dragging him down into darkness like hands wrapped around his ankles.

‘So tired.’

When had he gotten so tired? The exhaustion had been building for days, yes, but this was different. This was his body shutting down, his mind going fuzzy at the edges, thoughts scattering like startled birds before he could catch them.

"Very well." Alastor set the bowl aside with a soft clink, his expression shifting into something that might have been disappointment. "I suppose half is better than nothing. Though I had hoped you'd manage more." He dabbed at Lucifer's mouth with a napkin, wiping away a trickle of broth with surprising gentleness. "Your body needs nutrients to heal, after all."

Lucifer tried to focus on Alastor's face, but it kept doubling, edges blurring and bleeding into one another. The Radio Demon's smile seemed to stretch and warp, pupils spinning slower now, almost hypnotic.

"You look positively exhausted, your Majesty," Alastor observed, tilting his head. "When's the last time you truly slept? And I don't mean those brief periods of unconsciousness when your body simply gave out. I mean real, restorative sleep."

"Don't... remember," Lucifer slurred. His head lolled to the side, too heavy to hold up anymore. "Days. Maybe."

The vertigo made sleeping impossible most of the time. Every time he'd close his eyes, the world would spin violently behind his eyelids, his stomach would heave, and he'd jerk back awake gasping and sick. Even when pure exhaustion finally dragged him under, the tics would wake him. His body convulsing, limbs jerking him back to consciousness over and over.

But now...

Now his eyelids were sliding shut despite his best efforts. His body was sinking into the mattress like it was quicksand, muscles going loose and heavy. The constant tension that had been holding him rigid for days was melting away, leaving him boneless and pliant.

"That's it," Alastor murmured, and his voice seemed to come from very far away, echoing strangely. "Just relax. Let yourself rest. You've been fighting so hard, haven't you? Trying to stay alert, stay in control. But you're safe now. You can let go."

Some distant, fading part of Lucifer's brain screamed that this wasn't right. That he wasn't safe at all, that letting his guard down around Alastor was possibly the most dangerous thing he could do. That this sudden, overwhelming exhaustion was wrong.

But the thought dissolved before he could hold onto it, melting like sugar in water.

His eyes slipped closed completely. The spinning sensation was still there, but muffled now, distant, almost soothing in its consistency. Like being rocked in a boat on gentle waves instead of drowning in a storm.

He felt Alastor's hand on his forehead, brushing sweat-damp hair back from his face. Felt the mattress shift as the Radio Demon stood, heard the soft rustle of fabric.

"Sleep well," Alastor's voice drifted down to him, warm and pleased. "We have so much work ahead of us. You'll need your rest."

Lucifer tried to respond, tried to ask what he meant, but his mouth wouldn't form words anymore. His tongue lay heavy and useless, his jaw slack. His breathing was slowing, deepening, each exhale longer than the last.

Somewhere in the darkness pulling him under, he heard Alastor moving around the room. Heard the clink of glass, the rustle of paper. Heard footsteps approaching the bed again, felt the mattress dip as weight settled beside him.

"You know," Alastor said conversationally, as if Lucifer were still awake and listening, which he was, barely, consciousness flickering like a dying candle. "I debated whether to tell you about the melatonin. There's a certain honesty in revealing one's methods. But then..."

A finger traced down Lucifer's cheek, along his jaw, coming to rest against his pulse point. Measuring his slowing heartbeat.

"I decided you'd simply worry. Fight the sleep your body so desperately needs. And we can't have that, can we? Not when you're already so very fragile."

The words should have triggered an alarm, should have sent adrenaline spiking through his system. Should have made him fight, struggle, wake up.

But he couldn't. Could barely process what Alastor was saying, the meaning sliding off his consciousness like water off glass. The melatonin. He'd been drugged. Alastor had put something in the soup.

"Hush now." That hand on his face moved to cover his mouth gently, as if sensing the weak flutter of panic trying to form. "It's perfectly harmless. Just a sleep aid. Something to give you a few hours of actual rest without the nightmares, without the tics waking you every few minutes. Consider it... a medical necessity."

Alastor's thumb stroked across Lucifer's cheekbone with something that might have been tenderness if not for the predatory satisfaction in his voice. "Though I must admit, there is something delightful about watching you finally surrender. Seeing all that stubborn pride, all that desperate control, just... melt away. Leaving you soft. Vulnerable. Completely at my mercy."

There was that phrase again. At my mercy. Why did he keep saying that? 

Lucifer wanted to move, to protest, to do anything. But his body was a distant thing now, no longer connected to his will. Even the tics had stopped, muscles finally relaxed into utter stillness for the first time in days.

He felt Alastor lean closer, felt breath warm against his ear.

"Sleep, little King," Alastor whispered, voice dropping into something dark and intimate and possessive. "I'll be right here when you wake. Watching over you. Taking such good care of you."

A pause. Then, softer still:

"After all, you're mine now. My responsibility. My patient. My..."

The sentence trailed off, unfinished, leaving the words hanging in the air like a promise and a threat.

Lucifer's last conscious thought, before the darkness finally swallowed him completely, was that he'd made a terrible mistake.

That whatever Alastor had planned, whatever game he was playing, it had only just begun.

And Lucifer had just handed him all the pieces.

Then even that thought scattered and dissolved, and there was nothing but black, dreamless sleep.

Alastor sat on the edge of the bed for a long while after Lucifer's breathing had evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of true unconsciousness.

He studied the devil’s face in repose. The tension finally gone from his features, the perpetual grimace of pain and nausea smoothed away. He looked younger like this. Smaller. Almost peaceful, if not for the hollow cheeks and dark circles that even sleep couldn't erase.

"Fascinating," Alastor murmured to himself, reaching out to trace the curve of Lucifer's jaw with one finger. The skin was fever-warm, paper-thin, delicate. "Absolutely fascinating."

He'd noticed it while dressing him earlier, of course. The changes in body structure were subtle but unmistakable to someone paying attention, and Alastor paid attention to everything. The wider hips, the narrower waist, the softer flesh over reshaping bone.

It was almost like watching a metamorphosis. A divine being stripped of power, reduced to base physicality, and now, apparently, being remade into something else entirely.

The question was: into what?

Alastor's smile widened. His pupils dilated with genuine curiosity, radio dials spinning thoughtfully.

This was better than he'd hoped. Better than he'd imagined when he'd first volunteered to play caretaker. He'd expected to enjoy Lucifer's helplessness, his dependence, his humiliation. Expected entertainment from watching the mighty struggle with basic human limitations.

But this? This was extraordinary. A mystery unfolding in real-time. A transformation he could observe from beginning to end, document every change, every new weakness, every moment of dawning horror as Lucifer realized what was happening to him.

And the best part?

Lucifer had no choice but to let him watch. Had no choice but to accept his "care" while his body betrayed him in increasingly intimate ways.

Alastor stood, smoothing down his coat with practiced precision. He moved to the desk, pulling out a notebook, one he'd brought specifically for this purpose. He opened it to a fresh page, dated it meticulously, and began to write in his neat, slanted script:

𝒟𝒶𝓎 𝟥 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝓉-𝐸𝓍𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

𝒮𝓊𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓊𝑒𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃. 𝒱𝑒𝓇𝓉𝒾𝑔𝑜 𝓈𝒾𝑔𝓃𝒾𝒻𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹. 𝒰𝓃𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝒶𝓋𝒾𝑔𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝒶𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒. 𝒩𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒𝒶 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉. 𝒯𝒾𝒸𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓃𝒸𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓎.

𝒩𝑒𝓌 𝑜𝒷𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃: 𝒫𝒽𝓎𝓈𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉. 𝐻𝒾𝓅 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓍𝒾𝓂𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝟤-𝟥 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈. 𝒲𝒶𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝒾𝓇𝒸𝓊𝓂𝒻𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎. 𝒪𝓋𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒾𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝒻𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈. 𝒮𝓊𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝓍𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝓉𝑜𝒹𝒶𝓎.

𝒜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝓅𝑜𝑜𝓇. 𝑀𝒶𝓃𝒶𝑔𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓁𝒻 𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓁. 𝒜𝒹𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝟣𝟢𝓂𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑜𝓃𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓊𝒸𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉. 𝒮𝓊𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁. 𝒞𝓊𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓍𝒾𝓂𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝟩𝟤 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈.

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒: 𝒮𝓊𝒷𝒿𝑒𝒸𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝓎 𝒹𝑒𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉. 𝐸𝓍𝒸𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈.

He set down the pen, rereading his notes with satisfaction. Then he pulled the chair closer to the bed, settling in with the patient comfort of someone prepared for a long vigil.

After all, he'd promised Charlie he'd watch over her father. And Alastor always kept his promises.

His eyes drifted back to Lucifer's sleeping form. The rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flutter of his eyelids, the way his hand twitched slightly even in sleep, residual tics playing out in unconsciousness.

"What are you becoming, I wonder?" Alastor mused quietly, head tilting. "And how much worse will it get before it's over?"

A thought occurred to him, delicious in its implications. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Lucifer's face with renewed interest.

"Or perhaps..." His smile sharpened. "Perhaps it will never be over. Perhaps this is permanent. Perhaps the great King of Hell will remain like this forever. Powerless, changing, dependent. Wouldn't that be something?"

The room was silent except for Lucifer's breathing and the soft tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantle.

Alastor settled back in his chair, content to wait, to watch, to document every fascinating moment of this delightful degradation.

After all, they had all the time in Hell.

And Lucifer wasn't going anywhere.

Chapter Text

The clock's rhythmic ticking measured the silence like a metronome.

Alastor sat motionless in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching the steady rise and fall of Lucifer's chest with the focused patience of a hunter in a blind. Two hours had passed since the King had slipped into unconsciousness. Two hours of uninterrupted observation, and Alastor found himself no less captivated than in the first moment.

Fascinating.

In life, he'd spent countless nights in his radio booth, voice smooth as silk as he spun tales and played jazz for the masses. And after those broadcasts, in the small hours before dawn, he'd indulged in his other passion. The knife, the blood, the exquisite machinery of the human body laid bare beneath his hands. He'd never cared for the carnal aspects, the sweaty desperation others seemed to crave. That had always disgusted him, seemed base and animalistic.

But the body itself? The elegant architecture of bone and sinew, the way muscle attached to tendon, the intricate web of veins carrying life through flesh? That had always held his attention with almost academic intensity.

He'd been good at what he did. Methodical. Precise. Each subject a study in anatomy, each kill a lesson in mortality.

And now, after decades in Hell, after countless demons had fallen beneath his power, here sat perhaps the most fascinating specimen of all.

The King of Hell. Divine being. Fallen angel.

Completely helpless.

Alastor's pupils dilated, radio dials spinning slowly as he leaned forward. His tongue flicked across his teeth. The melatonin had worked beautifully. Better than he'd hoped. Ten milligrams, ground into fine powder and dissolved in the broth. Tasteless. Odorless. And Lucifer, in his weakened state with his dulled senses, hadn't noticed a thing.

‘So trusting,’ Alastor thought with dark amusement. ‘Or perhaps just too desperate to question.’

He stood, movements fluid and silent as smoke. Approached the bed with the careful steps of someone approaching sleeping prey. His shadow stretched across Lucifer's prone form, cast long and dark by the afternoon light filtering through curtains.

This was an opportunity that would never come again.

A chance to examine, to catalog, to understand what was happening to a divine being stripped of divinity.  The transformation was unprecedented. Alastor had seen demons change form, had witnessed body horror beyond imagination in his years in Hell. But this? A gradual, involuntary metamorphosis of fundamental structure?

This was unique.

This was his to observe.

His fingers twitched with anticipation. In life, he'd always preferred his subjects unconscious or already dead, pliant and unresisting. The screaming had been tiresome, the begging tedious. This was so much cleaner. So much more conducive to proper study.

And if Lucifer woke? Well. The King could barely stand, could barely speak coherently. What could he possibly do?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Alastor's smile widened until his face ached with it.

He reached out, fingers hovering over the top button of Lucifer's vest. Hesitated for just a moment, savoring the anticipation. Then, with deliberate slowness, he began to unfasten it.

One button. Two... Three…

The vest fell open, revealing the white dress shirt beneath, already wrinkled and stained with sweat. Alastor made quick work of those buttons too, peeling the fabric back like unwrapping a gift.

Lucifer's chest rose and fell peacefully, completely unaware. His skin was pale, almost luminescent in the dim light. A thin sheen of sweat coated his torso. His ribs were more prominent than they should be, each one visible beneath skin that had lost its healthy tone, becoming almost translucent.

Alastor pulled the notebook from his coat pocket, flipping to a fresh page. He withdrew a pen, clicked it open.

"Let's see what we have here," he murmured to himself, voice barely above a whisper.

He placed his hand flat against Lucifer's sternum, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat. Still elevated, even in sleep. His palm spanned the width of Lucifer's chest easily. He pressed gently, feeling the give of flesh, the solid resistance of bone beneath.

Subject's chest cavity: ribcage prominent due to muscle deterioration and weight loss. Sternum shows no apparent structural changes.

Respiratory rate: elevated.

Heart rate: approximately 95 BPM, elevated for resting state.

His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across Lucifer's stomach. The muscle tone had definitely decreased. What had once been firm was now soft, almost yielding. Not fat, exactly, but a different kind of softness. Like the flesh itself had changed composition.

Abdominal region: significant loss of muscle definition. Tissue consistency altered—softer, more pliable. No apparent tenderness upon palpation.

Lower still. His fingers traced the sharp jut of Lucifer's hipbones, and here, here was where the changes became truly apparent. The bones themselves had widened, creating a flare that definitely hadn't existed before. He could feel it beneath his fingertips, the way the pelvis had restructured itself.

Alastor's breathing quickened slightly. Not arousal, never that, but excitement. The thrill of discovery, of witnessing something extraordinary.

He measured with his hands, spanning the distance across Lucifer's hips, then moving to measure his waist for comparison. The difference was pronounced. The classic masculine rectangle had shifted into something approaching an hourglass.

Hip structure: pelvic bone width increased 2-3 inches from baseline (estimated from clothing fit).

Iliac crest notably more pronounced. Waist circumference decreased proportionally, creating approximately 7-8 inch difference between waist and hip measurements.

Classic gynoid fat distribution pattern emerging.

His hands moved to Lucifer's sides, feeling along his ribs, down to where waist curved inward. The flesh here was softer too, as if fat was beginning to redistribute itself. His fingers pressed experimentally, noting the way the tissue yielded.

This wasn't just muscle loss. This was active transformation.

Alastor's head tilted, studying Lucifer's face. Even in sleep, there was tension there. A slight furrow between his brows, lips pressed thin. His body might be at rest, but some part of him was still fighting, still aware on some level that something was wrong.

"What are you becoming?" Alastor whispered, genuine curiosity threading through his voice. 

He reached up, brushing hair back from Lucifer's forehead. The fever hadn't broken. If anything, the King felt warmer than before. His skin practically radiated heat, like something was burning inside him, remaking him from within.

Alastor's fingers trailed down, tracing the curve of Lucifer's jaw, feeling where bone met flesh. He tilted Lucifer's head slightly, examining the line of his throat, the delicate architecture of his neck. So fragile. So easily broken.

But that wasn't what interested him.

He returned his attention to Lucifer's torso, to the documented changes. His hands moved with clinical precision now, examining, measuring, committing every detail to memory before recording it in his neat script.

The changes were accelerating. He could see it clearly now. What had been subtle this morning was becoming pronounced by evening. If this rate continued...

What would Lucifer look like in a week? A month?

Would the changes stop, or would they continue until he was completely transformed into something else entirely?

Alastor's smile took on a sharper edge. His pupils dilated further, radio dials spinning faster now with building anticipation. "So many questions," he murmured, his hand resting possessively over Lucifer's heart, feeling its frantic rhythm. "And I'll be here to witness every answer. Every change. Every moment of your metamorphosis."

He leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted across Lucifer's face. Close enough to see the rapid movement of his eyes beneath closed lids, dreaming or perhaps trapped in some medication-induced fog.

"You really are remarkable, your Majesty," Alastor breathed. "Broken. Changing. Mine to study."

A soft sound escaped Lucifer's lips. A whimper, barely audible. His head turned slightly, instinctively trying to move away from the predator looming over him even in sleep.

Alastor straightened, watching with detached interest as Lucifer's brow furrowed deeper, as his breathing hitched. Some animal part of his brain recognizing danger even when consciousness could not.

"Hush now," Alastor soothed, his hand moving to cup Lucifer's face almost gently. His thumb stroked across his cheekbone. "Sleep. I'm not done with my examination yet." The touch seemed to settle him. Lucifer's breathing evened out again, his expression smoothing into something akin to peace.

Good.

Alastor returned to his work, hands moving with practiced efficiency as he continued his cataloging. He noted the slight swelling in Lucifer's chest tissue, barely perceptible but definitely present. Noted the way his skin had taken on a different texture in certain areas. Noted everything, missing nothing.

This was what he'd always loved. The methodical documentation, the careful observation, the slow unraveling of mysteries written in flesh and bone.

In life, his subjects had been dead within hours. Here in Hell, he could take his time. Could watch the process unfold over days, weeks, months. Could study his prize at leisure.

His hand splayed possessively across Lucifer's stomach, feeling the warmth radiating through skin.

"Mine," Alastor whispered, the word carrying weight, carrying promise. "My patient. My responsibility. My perfect little specimen."

Chapter Text

The hotel kitchen was blissfully empty at this hour, most of the residents either out for the evening or occupied with Charlie's trust exercises in the parlor. Alastor hummed softly as he worked, an old jazz tune from his living days, fingers moving with practiced precision as he prepared another bowl of broth.

This batch would be lighter. Easier on Lucifer's rebellious stomach. Perhaps some crackers on the side, plain and unsalted. And of course, another careful measure of melatonin ground fine and stirred in. Just enough to keep the King pliant and resting. Just enough to ensure uninterrupted observation time.

His shadow stretched across the kitchen floor, darker than it should be in the lamplight, moving independently of its caster. It flickered and danced along the walls while Alastor worked, an extension of his awareness that reached far beyond his physical form.

He was just reaching for the pepper grinder when his shadow suddenly snapped taut, whipping toward the doorway along the floor like a hound catching a scent.

Alastor's head tilted, his hand freezing mid-motion. His smile never wavered, but his eyes narrowed fractionally, pupils contracting to pinpricks before expanding again with radio-dial precision.

Someone was in Lucifer's room.

His shadow confirmed it, rippling with agitation across the floor and up the wall, pointing insistently toward the upper floors. An unfamiliar presence. An intruder.

The wooden spoon in Alastor's hand cracked, splitting down the middle from the sudden pressure of his grip.

"How unfortunate," he murmured, his voice taking on a dangerous edge beneath its cheerful veneer. Static crackled through the air around him, making the lights flicker. "It seems someone hasn't learned the meaning of boundaries."

He set down the broken spoon with deliberate care, adjusted his coat, and smiled wider. His shadow peeled itself from the floor, racing ahead of him along walls and ceiling, a dark messenger of his fury.

"Let's go have a chat with our uninvited guest, shall we?"

He melted into shadow, traveling through the hotel's darkness with the speed of thought, his consciousness racing up through walls and floors, following the path his shadow had marked.

No one touched what was his.

No one.

Baxter had been planning this for days.

The fish-like demon adjusted his goggles nervously, clawed fingers trembling slightly as he eased Lucifer's door open another inch. He'd waited, watched, cataloged the patterns. Knew that Alastor left for approximately fifteen minutes each evening to prepare food. Knew that Lucifer had been unconscious for hours now, deep in medication-induced sleep.

This was a golden opportunity. Perhaps the only opportunity he'd ever have.

Angelic DNA.

Actual, genuine angelic genetic material.

The King of Hell's biological composition laid out for study. The scientific implications were staggering. He could publish papers, could unlock secrets of divine biology that had been theoretical for centuries. Could finally prove his theories about the fundamental differences between angelic and demonic cellular structure.

His reputation as a mad scientist would be cemented. No more mockery, no more dismissal from the scientific community. They'd have to take him seriously.

He just needed samples. Hair, saliva, blood if he could manage it. Quick in and out, Lucifer would never even know, and Baxter would have research material for years.

He slipped inside, closing the door with painstaking silence. His luminescent patches cast a faint blue-green glow in the darkened room, just enough to see by.

There, on the bed, lay the King of Hell himself.

Baxter's breath caught. He'd seen Lucifer around the hotel, of course, but always standing, always moving, always radiating that inherent power that made lesser demons instinctively keep their distance.

This was different.

Lucifer lay sprawled across the mattress in obvious unconsciousness, shirt hanging open, revealing pale skin and prominent ribs. His face was slack in sleep, hollow-cheeked and fever-flushed. He looked sick. Looked almost... mortal.

Perfect.

Baxter crept closer, his footfalls silent on carpet, finding purchase carefully. He pulled his collection kit from his coat, a small leather case containing sterilized vials, swabs, and a lancet for blood samples. His hands shook with excitement as he unfolded it.

Hair first. That was easiest, least invasive. Several strands from different locations to ensure genetic diversity in the samples.

He reached out, fingers hovering over Lucifer's head. The blonde hair was sweat-damp, sticking to his forehead in places, but still maintained that otherworldly quality. Slightly luminous even in the dim light, each strand catching and reflecting illumination in ways that normal hair simply didn't.

Fascinating.

Baxter carefully plucked three strands from Lucifer's temple, sealing them immediately in a vial marked "Sample A - Hair." The strands seemed to glow faintly through the glass, pulsing with residual divine energy.

Extraordinary. Even depleted, the cellular structure maintains bioluminescent properties.

He tucked the vial carefully into his inner coat pocket, separate from the main case. Insurance, in case something went wrong. His most valuable sample secured against his chest.

Next, saliva. He withdrew a long cotton swab, leaning in close to Lucifer's face. The King's lips were parted slightly, breathing deep and even. This would be simple. Just a quick swab of the inner cheek, and...

Lucifer made a sound in his sleep. A soft whimper, barely audible. His jaw worked, teeth grinding together unconsciously. His head turned slightly away, some unconscious part of him recognizing intrusion.

Baxter froze, clawed hand extended, swab inches from Lucifer's mouth. He waited, counting his own rapid heartbeats, watching for any sign of waking.

Lucifer's lips parted further, and Baxter noticed something he hadn't before. A thin trickle of blood, dark and gleaming, seeping from the corner of his mouth. The King's jaw clenched again, teeth working, and Baxter realized with a scientist's detached fascination that Lucifer was chewing the inside of his cheek. Those sharp, pointed teeth, designed for tearing, were doing damage even in sleep.

Stress response. Unconscious self-harm due to psychological distress manifesting physically.

But more importantly...

Blood. Fresh blood mixed with saliva.

This was better than he'd hoped. A combined sample that would give him both genetic material and insight into current cellular composition. He could analyze the blood for divine markers, check for—

Carefully, delicately, Baxter inserted the swab between Lucifer's lips, catching the blood-tinged saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. The swab came away coated with fluid that gleamed oddly, crimson mixed with gold, creating an almost iridescent quality. He sealed it quickly in another vial.

Sample B - Blood/Saliva combination. Golden luminescence present even in blood. Potential trace amounts of divine essence remaining in bodily fluids. Must test for—

This vial, too, went into his inner pocket. His two most precious samples, secured against his body, hidden from casual observation.

He was just reaching for his lancet, thinking he might manage one more blood sample from a fingertip, when the temperature dropped.

"My my. What do we have here?"

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, smooth as poisoned silk, crackling with barely-contained static. The shadows on the walls deepened, stretched, began to move with predatory intent, writhing across every surface.

Baxter's blood turned to ice. His gills flared in panic, bioluminescent patches flashing bright blue-green in automatic distress response. He spun around, nearly dropping his sample case.

Alastor stood in the doorway, except he hadn't been in the doorway a second ago. He simply was there now, as if he'd materialized from the darkness itself. His smile was wide, too wide, showing too many teeth. His eyes burned with radio-dial malevolence, spinning faster than Baxter had ever seen.

The shadows behind him and around him writhed across walls and ceiling, forming shapes that suggested antlers, claws, things with too many teeth and not enough mercy.

"I... I was just..." Baxter stammered, backing up until he hit the nightstand. Empty vials rattled in his case.

"Just?" Alastor tilted his head at an unnatural angle, the movement too sharp, too quick, more predator than person. "Just sneaking into another resident's room uninvited? Just touching what doesn't belong to you? Just..."

His eyes flicked to the sample case in Baxter's trembling hands, to the empty slots where vials should be. His smile sharpened into something that would give nightmares to nightmares.

"Just stealing from the King of Hell while he sleeps helpless under my care?"

The static in the air intensified, making Baxter's gills ache, making his teeth hurt, making his bones vibrate uncomfortably. The shadows lunged forward along the floor and walls, wrapping around his ankles, crawling up his body in dark tendrils.

"N-no! Wait! I can explain!" Baxter's voice pitched higher, cracking with terror. "It's for science! Research! I wasn't going to hurt him, I just needed samples for—"

"For science," Alastor repeated, his voice dropping into something darker, something that rumbled with barely leashed violence. He crossed the room in three fluid steps, shadows rippling across every surface in his wake. "How noble. How selfless. Breaking into a vulnerable man's room, taking pieces of him without consent, all in the name of science."

He loomed over Baxter now, tall enough that the fish demon had to crane his neck back, had to stare up into those burning, spinning eyes. Alastor's hand shot out, gripping Baxter's wrist hard enough to make bones grind. The sample case dropped, remaining empty vials scattering across the floor with musical tinkling sounds.

"Let me make something abundantly clear," Alastor said softly, pleasantly, as if discussing the weather. "Lucifer is under my protection. He is my patient. Myresponsibility. Which means that anything anyone wishes to do to him, with him, or anywhere near him must go through me first."

His grip tightened. Baxter whimpered. "And I don't recall giving you permission to be here. Do you recall me giving you permission, Baxter?"

"N-no," Baxter gasped, his wrist bending at an alarming angle. "No, I'm sorry, I just thought—"

"You thought you'd take advantage of his weakness. You thought you'd sneak in like a parasite and steal what you wanted while he couldn't defend himself." Alastor's smile never wavered, but his voice dripped with contempt. "You thought no one would notice. No one would care."

The shadows tightened around Baxter's throat, spreading across his skin like living ink. Not enough to strangle, just enough to promise. Just enough to terrify.

"You thought wrong."

Behind them, Lucifer stirred in his sleep, making another soft sound of distress. His brow furrowed, head turning restlessly on the pillow. The commotion was beginning to penetrate even the melatonin haze.

Alastor's eyes flicked toward the bed, then back to Baxter. Something in his expression shifted, became almost thoughtful beneath the rage.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said, his voice returning to its usual cheerful broadcasting tone, which somehow made it worse. "You're going to gather up your little toys. You're going to leave this room. You're going to forget you ever had this brilliant scientific idea. And if you ever, ever come near him again without my explicit permission..."

He leaned in close, close enough that Baxter could smell sulfur and old blood and something that crackled like burning radio tubes.

"I'll make sure your next great scientific discovery is what your own internal organs look like spread across a laboratory table. Do we have an understanding?"

Baxter nodded frantically, his entire body shaking. "Y-yes. Yes. I understand. I'm sorry, I won't, I'll never—"

"Good." Alastor released him with a shove that sent the fish demon sprawling. The shadows receded slightly, though they continued to watch with hungry attention from every surface. "Now collect your mess and get out of my sight."

Baxter scrambled on the floor, grabbing at empty vials with shaking hands, shoving them back into his case with none of his earlier care. He was crying, he realized distantly, tears streaming down his face, bioluminescent patches flickering erratically with stress.

The two vials in his inner pocket pressed against his chest. Alastor hadn't searched him, hadn't thought to check for samples already secured. The hair and blood samples were still his, still safe, still viable for research.

A small victory in the midst of terror.

He made it to the door on trembling legs, case clutched to his chest like a shield.

"Oh, and Baxter?"

He froze, hand on the doorknob, too terrified to turn around. For one heart-stopping moment, he was certain Alastor had noticed the vials, had sensed them somehow.

Alastor's voice drifted across the room, pleasant and mild. "If I hear even a whisper about Lucifer's condition leaving this room, if I catch even a hint of gossip about his weakness being spread through the hotel... well. Let's just say I'll know exactly who to visit. And I won't be nearly as merciful a second time."

Baxter fled, the precious samples burning against his chest like stolen fire.

The door clicked shut, and silence reclaimed the room.

Alastor stood motionless for a long moment, his smile fixed in place, his breathing carefully controlled. Static still crackled around him, sparks of green light dancing between his fingertips. His shadow writhed across the walls and floor, unsatisfied, wanting blood, wanting violence, wanting to hurt the thing that had dared touch what was his.

His.

He forced himself to relax incrementally, to let the rage settle back down into its usual simmering background presence. Drew a long breath through his nose, held it, released it slowly.

Then he turned to the bed. Lucifer was still asleep, but restless now. His head turned from side to side, fingers twitching against the sheets. A thin whimper escaped his throat, face creased with distress even in unconsciousness. Blood still seeped slowly from the corner of his mouth where his teeth had torn the inside of his cheek.

Alastor moved to his side immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand found Lucifer's forehead, stroking gently, soothingly.

"Hush now," he murmured, his voice dropping to something softer, gentler. "It's alright. The intruder is gone. You're safe."

Safe with me. Mine to protect. Mine to study. Mine.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing carefully at the blood on Lucifer's mouth. The King's jaw was still clenched, still working unconsciously. Alastor pressed his thumb gently against Lucifer's chin, encouraging his mouth to relax, to release the abused flesh.

"Stop that," he whispered, almost tender. "You'll do more damage."

Lucifer's breathing gradually evened out under the touch, his expression smoothing. He turned his head slightly, unconsciously pressing into Alastor's palm like a cat seeking warmth. His jaw finally relaxed, teeth releasing their grip.

Alastor examined the handkerchief, noting the blood. Not much, but concerning nonetheless. Another symptom to document. Stress-induced self-harm, even in unconsciousness.

His smile softened fractionally. His thumb traced across Lucifer's cheekbone, his jaw, feeling the fever-heat radiating through skin.

"No one touches you without my permission," he whispered, more to himself than to the sleeping King. "No one studies you, examines you, takes pieces of you. That privilege belongs to me alone."

His eyes tracked across Lucifer's face, down to his exposed torso, cataloging every change, every vulnerability, every piece of this fascinating puzzle.

"You're mine to document. Mine to observe. Mine to care for as I see fit." His fingers trailed down Lucifer's throat, feeling his pulse. "And I protect what's mine."

He stood, retrieving his notebook from earlier, adding a new entry:

Day 3 Post-Extraction - Evening

Incident: Unauthorized intrusion by hotel resident Baxter. Individual attempted to collect biological samples without consent. Threat neutralized. Subject remained unconscious throughout. Situation contained.

New observation: Subject exhibiting unconscious self-harm behavior. Chewing inside of cheek during sleep, causing minor bleeding. Likely stress response. Must monitor for escalation.

Note: Security measures must be improved. Subject's vulnerability makes him target for opportunistic parties. Cannot allow further interruptions to observation period.

Additional note: Possessive response to intrusion was... unexpectedly intense. Curious. Must examine this reaction further.

He set down the pen, staring at that last line.

The rage he'd felt seeing Baxter touching Lucifer, taking pieces of him, had been visceral. Almost overwhelming. More than just annoyance at an interrupted experiment.

Something deeper. Something more primal.

Mine, his instincts had screamed. My prey. My patient. My prize.

Alastor's head tilted, considering this. In life, he'd never been possessive. His kills had been sport, entertainment, brief diversions before he moved to the next. He'd never felt ownership over them.

But this...

This was different.

Lucifer wasn't going to be a brief diversion. This transformation, this slow unmaking of a divine being, would take weeks. Maybe months.  Time enough to study every change, document every stage, unravel every mystery written in his reshaping flesh.

Time enough to develop... attachment? No. No, that wasn't quite right.

Investment, perhaps. Yes.

Investment in his specimen, in his experiment. Natural that he'd want to protect his work from interference.

That was all this was.

Scientific integrity.

Nothing more.

Alastor returned to the bedside, adjusting Lucifer's shirt, re-buttoning it with careful precision. Couldn't have him catching a chill. Couldn't have his condition worsening due to negligence. That would compromise the data.

His hand lingered over Lucifer's heart, feeling its steady rhythm.

"Sleep well, your Majesty," he murmured. "I'll keep watch. No one else will disturb you. I promise."

The clock ticked on.

And Alastor settled back into his chair, notebook open on his lap, eyes never leaving his prize.

His patient.

His responsibility.

His.

Chapter Text

Three hours had passed since Baxter's hasty departure.

Alastor sat motionless in his vigil chair, notebook balanced on one knee, pen poised but still. His eyes tracked across Lucifer's sleeping form with the focused intensity of a naturalist observing a rare specimen in its natural habitat. The only sounds were the steady tick of the mantle clock, the soft crackle of static that perpetually surrounded him, and Lucifer's breathing.

That breathing had changed.

Not worsened, exactly. But... different. Slightly more labored, with a faint wheeze at the end of each exhale that hadn't been there before. Alastor's head tilted, radio-dial eyes narrowing as he leaned forward incrementally.

Something was happening.

The first change he'd noticed was subtle. So subtle he'd almost dismissed it as a trick of the lamplight. But no. There it was again. The faint red circles on Lucifer's cheeks, usually pale and washed out from illness, were deepening. Color bleeding back into them like watercolor spreading across wet paper. Not the fever-flush of sickness, but actual healthy pigmentation returning.

Alastor stood, moving to the bedside with silent steps. His shadow rippled across the floor and walls, equally attentive, equally transfixed.

The dark hollows beneath Lucifer's eyes were receding. As Alastor watched, the bruise-like discoloration seemed to lighten incrementally, the skin smoothing, the sharp contrast between sickliness and bone structure softening. It was like watching a time-lapse of healing compressed into minutes instead of days.

"Well well," Alastor murmured, reaching out to trace beneath Lucifer's eye with one finger. The skin was warmer than before, but not feverish. Just... alive.

"What's this then?"

His hand moved to Lucifer's wrist, finding his pulse. Still elevated, but stronger. More regular. The thready, weak flutter from earlier had solidified into something approaching a normal cardiac rhythm.

Healing. The body was healing itself.

But from what? The energy depletion? The cellular damage from being used as a battery? Or was this something else entirely? Some kind of divine regeneration finally kicking in after the initial trauma had passed?

Alastor's smile widened. He retrieved his notebook, adding quick observations:

Hour 5 of deep sleep:

Subject exhibiting signs of rapid regeneration. Facial discoloration is receding. Skin tone improving. Pulse strengthening. Respiratory rate remains elevated but quality improved.

He set the notebook aside, returning his full attention to Lucifer. His fingers moved to the King's jaw, tilting his head slightly to examine from different angles. The hollowness in his cheeks was less pronounced. The paper-thin quality of his skin was thickening, becoming more substantial.

Even things Alastor hadn't consciously noted as damaged were repairing themselves. A faint scar on Lucifer's temple from where he'd hit his head during the ladder fall was fading to nothing. The slight asymmetry in his features from swelling and stress was evening out. Small cuts and abrasions scattered across his hands and arms from various stumbles and impacts were closing, leaving fresh pink skin behind.

"Remarkable," Alastor breathed, genuine scientific fascination overtaking his usual performative affect. "Absolutely remarkable."

This wasn't normal healing. This was accelerated, almost magical in its speed, except Lucifer didn't have magic anymore. His power was gone, drained, absent. So what was fueling this regeneration?

Alastor's gaze tracked down to Lucifer's chest, noting the way his shirt had been carefully buttoned earlier. He'd positioned Lucifer's hands himself, placing them across his abdomen in a formal rest position, one atop the other. A parody of a corpse prepared for viewing.

Except corpses didn't heal.

And Lucifer's hands hadn't moved. Not even a twitch. For someone who'd been experiencing constant tics for days, this absolute stillness was...

Wrong.

Alastor's smile faltered slightly. He reached for Lucifer's wrist again, this time trying to lift his arm.

Resistance.

Not the limpness of deep sleep, but actual rigidity. The muscles were locked, held in place with the tension of a clenched fist. Alastor applied more pressure, and Lucifer's entire arm moved as a single unit, like a mannequin's limb, completely stiff.

"Curious," Alastor murmured, releasing the arm. It stayed suspended in the air for a moment before slowly, slowly lowering back into place. Not the natural fall of relaxed muscle, but the controlled descent of something held rigid.

He tried the other arm. Same result. Stiff as wood, muscles locked, refusing to bend at the joints.

His fingers moved to Lucifer's jaw, pressing gently. It gave only fractionally, teeth still clenched behind closed lips despite the earlier relaxation. He tried to turn Lucifer's head. The neck muscles resisted, held firm, only moving when Alastor applied enough force to make him worry about causing damage.

Rigor mortis.

Except that was impossible. Lucifer was alive. His heart beat, his lungs worked, and his skin was warm with circulating blood. But his body exhibited the exact rigidity of a corpse in full rigor.

Alastor's radio-dial eyes spun faster, his scientific curiosity reaching a fever pitch.

"What are you doing?" he asked the unconscious King softly. "What is your body doing?"

He moved his examination lower, hands hovering over Lucifer's chest. The shirt would have to come off again. He needed to see what was happening beneath the fabric.

His fingers found the top button, worked it free. Then the next. And the next. The shirt fell open, revealing pale skin that was noticeably healthier than it had been hours ago. More color, more life, more substance.

But that wasn't what made Alastor pause.

It was Lucifer's chest itself.

The ribcage had changed. Not just the flesh over it, but the actual bone structure beneath. Alastor could see it clearly now, could map the alterations with his eyes before his hands even touched skin. The sternum had widened, creating more space between the ribs. The entire thoracic cage had expanded laterally, giving the chest a broader, more prominent appearance.

His hands splayed across Lucifer's sternum, fingers measuring, assessing. Definitely wider. Thicker too. He could feel the solidity of bone that hadn't been this substantial before. The overall shape of the ribcage had shifted from a narrow, angular structure to something more curved, more rounded.

More feminine.

Combined with the narrowed waist and widened hips, Lucifer's silhouette was transforming from an inverted triangle into a pronounced hourglass. The kind of shape that suggested softness, fertility, vulnerability.

Alastor's breathing quickened slightly. His hands pressed more firmly against Lucifer's chest, feeling the resistance of expanding bone, the warmth of flesh over it.

And there was something else.

Lucifer's breathing had become more labored in the past hour. Each inhale required visible effort, his chest rising with exaggerated movement. Each exhale came with that soft wheeze, like something was pressing down on his lungs from above.

Extra weight.

Alastor's hands moved higher, fingers spreading across the upper chest, feeling for changes in tissue density. There. Just beneath his palms, the flesh was slightly fuller, slightly more resistant to pressure. Not muscle. Something softer. Something that yielded differently under his touch.

Breast tissue.

Developing breast tissue.

It was minimal, barely perceptible, but unmistakable to someone who knew what to look for. The glandular structures were forming, causing localized swelling that would only increase as the transformation progressed.

"Oh, this is exquisite," Alastor whispered, his voice dropping into something almost reverent. His hands traced the subtle changes, mapping them with clinical precision. "You're not just changing. You're being remade."

The expanded ribcage made sense now. The body was preparing space for organs that would need it. The broader pelvis, the narrowed waist, and the developing breast tissue. All of it pointed to one inevitable conclusion.

Lucifer wasn't just being feminized in appearance.

His body was restructuring itself at a fundamental level. Bone, muscle, tissue, all of it reorganizing according to some blueprint that existed beyond conscious control.

The question was: why?

And more importantly: how far would it go?

Alastor's hands remained on Lucifer's chest, feeling each labored breath, each wheeze, each incremental expansion as the sternum continued its growth. The rigidity of the muscles made sense too, now. The body was locking everything in place while it underwent major structural changes. Preventing movement that might interfere with the delicate process of remaking bone and cartilage.

Except Lucifer was aware.

Somewhere beneath the medication-induced sleep, some part of him knew this was happening. Knew his body was betraying him in the most fundamental way possible.

Alastor's smile returned, sharper than before, edged with something dark and possessive.

"You're going to be magnificent when this is over," he murmured, his thumbs stroking across Lucifer's sternum almost absently.

"Something entirely new. Something that's never existed before. A fallen angel remade into..."

He paused, considering.

"Into what, I wonder?"

His hands moved lower again, tracing the curve of newly prominent ribs, the sharp inward taper of the narrowed waist, the flare of restructured hips. Every change was documented mentally before being recorded in his notebook.

The weight on Lucifer's chest was making breathing difficult. Not dangerously so, not yet, but enough to cause discomfort. Alastor frowned slightly, clinical concern overriding his fascination for a moment.

The prone position was bad for anyone with chest weight. Lucifer needed to be on his back, needed to give his lungs room to expand properly.

But moving him would be... challenging. The full-body rigidity meant he couldn't be positioned normally. Any attempt to bend his limbs might cause damage to muscles locked tight.

Alastor considered this for a long moment, hands still resting on Lucifer's chest, feeling each strained breath.

"Let's get you more comfortable, shall we?" he murmured.

He slid one arm beneath Lucifer's shoulders, the other under his knees, and lifted. The King came up in one solid piece, body maintaining its rigid posture like a statue being moved. Alastor turned him carefully, then lowered him back down onto his back.

Immediately, the wheezing eased. Lucifer's breathing deepened, chest rising more easily now that gravity wasn't pressing developing tissue against his lungs.

"There," Alastor said with satisfaction, arranging him properly. The rigid arms stayed where he placed them, now crossed over Lucifer's chest in a more natural resting position.

"Much better."

From this angle, the changes were even more apparent. The chest rose more prominently, the waist looked impossibly narrow, and the hips created noticeable curves beneath his pants. Even unconscious, even locked in rigor, Lucifer's body was continuing its transformation.

Healing old damage while simultaneously creating something entirely new.

Alastor returned to his chair, notebook in hand, and began writing with renewed intensity:

Hour 6 of deep sleep:

Accelerated healing observed. Previous injuries are repairing at a supernatural rate despite the absence of active magic. Subject's divine nature appears to retain some regenerative capability independent of conscious power use.

Major structural changes observed: Sternum expansion, approximately 2 inches wider and 1 inch thicker.

Ribcage restructuring to accommodate tissue development.

Early breast tissue formation detected—minimal but definitive.

Overall torso shape shifting from mesomorphic to gynoid proportions.

The subject exhibited full-body muscle rigidity consistent with rigor mortis, despite all vital signs indicating life.

Hypothesis: Body enters protective stasis during major structural modifications. Preventing voluntary or involuntary movement that might interfere with bone/tissue reformation.

Respiratory difficulty noted when prone. Repositioned to supine position—symptoms immediately improved. Additional weight on the chest from tissue development causes compression when gravity assists. Must monitor for respiratory distress as development continues.

Note: Transformation appears to be accelerating during the deep sleep state. Possibility that consciousness/awareness inhibits the process? Melatonin-induced unconsciousness may facilitate more rapid changes by removing psychological resistance.

He set down his pen, staring at that last observation.

If unconsciousness accelerated the transformation, then keeping Lucifer asleep as much as possible would yield the most dramatic results in the shortest time.

More data.

More changes to observe.

More opportunities to study this unprecedented metamorphosis from beginning to end.

Alastor's smile widened. "Sleep well, your Majesty," he murmured, eyes tracking across Lucifer's changing form with predatory satisfaction. "Take all the time you need. I'll be right here. Watching. Documenting. Ensuring no one disturbs your... recovery."

The clock ticked steadily onward.

Lucifer's chest rose and fell with labored but improving breaths.

And Alastor settled in for what promised to be a very, very interesting night.

Chapter Text

Baxter's laboratory was a testament to organized chaos.

Banks of bubbling beakers lined the walls, connected by a maze of copper tubing that hissed and steamed with various chemical reactions. Specimen jars crowded every available surface, their contents ranging from mundane (preserved organs) to distinctly unsettling (things that still moved despite being dead for decades). A massive chalkboard dominated one wall, covered in equations and molecular diagrams that overlapped and intertwined like the world's most complicated spiderweb.

And in the center of it all sat Baxter, hunched over his primary workstation, clawed fingers still trembling from his earlier encounter with the Radio Demon.

The two vials rested on a sterile white cloth before him, catching and reflecting the harsh laboratory lighting. Even through the glass, he could see the samples glowing faintly. The hair strand pulsed with soft golden light, like a captured firefly. The blood and saliva mixture shimmered with an iridescence that shouldn't exist in biological material.

He'd been staring at them for ten minutes, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to push past the terror of Alastor's threats to the scientific opportunity literally glowing in front of him.

This was worth it.

This had to be worth it.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, adjusting his goggles with shaking hands. "Let's see what we have."

He started with the blood sample. Hair could wait. Hair was primarily dead keratin, interesting for genetic analysis but less dynamic. Blood was alive, active, full of cellular activity that could provide immediate insight.

Using a sterile pipette, Baxter extracted a single drop of the blood-saliva mixture and placed it on a glass slide. Added a cover slip. Slid it under his microscope with the reverence of a priest handling holy relics.

Adjusted the focus.

And froze.

"Oh my God," he breathed, his gills flaring with sudden excitement. "Oh my nonexistent God."

The cells were moving.

Not the normal Brownian motion of particles in suspension, but actual, purposeful movement. Red blood cells that should have been dying, deprived of their host body, were instead thriving. More than thriving—they were multiplying.

As Baxter watched, transfixed, one cell divided cleanly in two. Then those two divided into four. The process was happening at an accelerated rate, far faster than any cellular reproduction he'd ever witnessed. Within minutes, the population on the slide had visibly increased.

But that wasn't what made his hands shake.

It was the color.

The cells glowed. Not the dull red of normal blood, but brilliant, radiant gold. Like liquid sunlight captured at a cellular level. Each cell was a tiny sun, pulsing with internal light that seemed to come from the nucleus itself.

"Angelic blood," Baxter whispered, his voice cracking with awe. "Actual angelic blood. The old texts were right. It's gold. It's actually gold."

He increased magnification, focusing on individual cells. The structure was similar to standard erythrocytes, but with key differences. The cell membrane appeared thicker, more resilient. The internal structures were more complex, with additional organelles he couldn't immediately identify.

And there was something else.

Damaged cells—ones that showed signs of stress or degradation—were being actively repaired. He watched as healthy cells migrated toward damaged ones, appeared to transfer material, and the damaged cells regenerated before his eyes. The golden glow intensified during the healing process, as if the light itself was the mechanism of repair.

Self-healing blood.

Blood that not only survived outside the body but actively worked to maintain and repair itself.

"This is impossible," Baxter muttered, even as he sketched frantic notes. "This violates every principle of cellular biology. Blood cells can't function like this without constant nutrient supply, without oxygen regulation, without—"

He stopped, staring at the slide.

Unless.

Unless angelic biology didn't operate on the same principles as demonic or human biology. Unless the "divine spark" everyone talked about was actually a quantifiable cellular phenomenon. A form of energy that sustained life independent of normal biochemical processes.

His mind raced with implications. If angelic cells could self-sustain, self-repair, multiply without normal regulatory mechanisms, then that meant...

"Immortality," he breathed. "True immortality at a cellular level. No wonder angels are so hard to kill."

But Lucifer wasn't immortal anymore. Was he? He'd lost his power, been drained, reduced to something mortal and fragile.

Alastor had called him vulnerable, helpless.

Yet his cells told a different story.

These cells were anything but powerless.

Baxter sat back, clawed fingers tapping against his workstation in agitation. Something didn't add up. If Lucifer's cellular structure was still this robust, still this active, then why was he so weak? Why the symptoms Baxter had observed—the trembling, the fever, the obvious illness?

Unless...

Unless the power was still there, but redirected. Focused internally instead of externally. All that divine energy that usually manifested as reality-warping magic was now turned inward, doing something else.

But Baxter needed more data.

He spent the next hour running cellular tests, documenting the extraordinary properties of angelic blood. Response to temperature (minimal—cells remained stable from near-freezing to boiling). Response to pH changes (adapted rapidly). Response to toxins (consumed and neutralized them within minutes).

Every test revealed the same truth: these cells were nearly indestructible, adaptive, and possessed capabilities that shouldn't exist.

Finally, Baxter moved on to blood chemistry analysis. Not just cellular structure, but the actual composition of the plasma.

Hormone levels, proteins, chemical markers.

He loaded a small sample into his analyzer, a machine he'd cobbled together from medical equipment salvaged from the living world and enhanced with demonic engineering. It whirred to life, beginning its systematic breakdown of the sample's chemical composition.

Results would take twenty minutes.

Baxter paced, too energized to sit still. His bioluminescent patches flickered erratically with nervous excitement. While he waited, he prepared the hair sample for genetic analysis, carefully extracting DNA from the root.

The blood analyzer beeped.

Results complete.

Baxter grabbed the printout, eyes scanning the columns of data. Standard markers, elevated stress hormones, some unusual proteins he'd need to investigate further, and—

He stopped.

Stared.

Read the line again.

"No," he whispered. "That's not... that can't be..."

HCG: 87,000 mIU/mL

Human chorionic gonadotropin. The pregnancy hormone.

At levels so elevated they would indicate approximately eight to ten weeks of gestation in a human female.

Except Lucifer wasn't female.

Or hadn't been.

And he'd only been out of Vox’s machine for three days.

Baxter's mind reeled. He ran the test again, using a different sample, different equipment, triple-checking for contamination or equipment error.

Same result.

HCG: 89,000 mIU/mL

The second test showed an even higher concentration. The hormone was actively increasing, being produced in real-time by... by what? Where was it coming from?

"Pregnant," Baxter breathed, his voice barely audible. "The King of Hell is pregnant."

But that was impossible. Males couldn't become pregnant. Didn't have the biological structures necessary. No uterus, no placenta, no way to sustain a developing fetus.

Unless.

Unless the body was creating those structures. Right now. As part of the transformation.

That would explain everything. The weakness, the nausea, the body's desperate consumption of divine energy. Lucifer wasn't just being drained by residual effects of the machine. He was being drained by a developing life inside him. A fetus that was consuming his divine essence to fuel its own growth.

Or perhaps the fetus was the drain. Perhaps something about the pregnancy itself was what had triggered the power loss, the vulnerability, the systematic transformation of his body.

The question was: how?

Baxter's hands shook as he loaded the genetic sample into his sequencer. This would tell him more. Would show him if there was foreign DNA present, if this was a viable pregnancy or some kind of parasitic growth or divine tumor.

The machine hummed to life, beginning its analysis.

While it worked, Baxter returned to his calculations, his mind racing through possibilities.

If Lucifer was truly pregnant—if this was a viable angelic fetus—then the implications were staggering. This would be genetic material from one of the most powerful beings in Hell. Pure angelic DNA, unmixed with demon or human contamination.

A near-identical clone of Lucifer himself.

The possibilities unfurled in Baxter's mind like a dark flower blooming.

He could extract cells. Lots of them. The rapidly multiplying nature of the blood sample proved that angelic tissue remained viable and active outside the body. If he could get samples of fetal tissue, he could culture them. Grow them. Create multiple clones, each one a perfect copy of divine genetic code.

An army of angels. Or at least, beings with angelic potential.

All under his control. Raised from birth, imprinted on him, loyal to him. With power like Lucifer's but without the baggage, without the fallen nature, without the millennia of emotional complications.

"Oh yes," Baxter whispered, his gills flaring with excitement. "Oh yes, this could work."

He'd need to tweak the genetic code slightly. Prevent the clones from being completely identical, which could cause developmental issues. Would need to introduce subtle variations, perhaps even find a way to incorporate a second genetic donor to provide genetic diversity.

But the base material was perfect. Divine DNA that could self-repair, self-replicate, that carried the blueprint for extraordinary power.

The sequencer beeped.

Baxter lunged for the results, tearing the printout free.

And stared in shock.

The genetic analysis showed two distinct DNA signatures in the blood sample.

The first was clearly Lucifer's. Unique markers, angelic chromosomal structure, the golden luminescence encoded at a genetic level.

But the second signature was present but fragmentary. Degraded. Like it was being actively overwritten, consumed by the stronger angelic DNA. He could see traces of it, ghost markers that suggested another genetic contributor, but they were being systematically erased.

"Parthenogenesis," Baxter breathed. "The body created a second genetic template from his own DNA, but it's being overridden. The fetus is developing as essentially a clone, using Lucifer's genetic code as the dominant blueprint."

It was brilliant.

Terrifying.

Extraordinary.

Lucifer's body, in response to catastrophic trauma and power depletion, had initiated a reproductive process. Created new life from its own tissue, a genetic fail-safe designed to ensure survival even in the face of total annihilation.

And that new life was consuming him from the inside out.

The pregnancy was draining his divine essence, using it to build a new body cell by cell. That's why Lucifer was so weak, so sick, so vulnerable. Every scrap of power he had was being channeled into growing this fetus.

His body was prioritizing the child over the parent.

Which meant if this continued, Lucifer might not survive it. The pregnancy could drain him completely, leave him a powerless husk, or kill him outright during delivery if his body couldn't handle the strain.

Baxter should have felt horror at that realization.

Instead, he felt excitement.

Because if Lucifer didn't survive, no one would question where the fetus went. No one would know it had existed at all. Baxter could extract it, culture it, use it for his research without interference.

And if Lucifer did survive...

Well. A weakened King of Hell was an opportunity in itself.

Baxter carefully sealed his samples, storing them in a specialized preservation chamber.

The glowing cells continued their multiplication, continued their extraordinary display of angelic vitality.

He had everything he needed now.

Genetic material. Cellular samples. Understanding of the mechanism behind Lucifer's transformation.

All he needed was patience.

And perhaps, eventually, access to more samples. Fetal tissue would be ideal. Blood from later in the pregnancy when the fetus was more developed. Maybe even the placenta after birth, if Lucifer survived that long.

Baxter's mind whirled with possibilities, with experimental protocols, with the scope of what he could achieve.

A child from the King of Hell's own genetic code. Raised in a laboratory. Molded. Controlled.

The power that would grant him was intoxicating.

"Does he know?" Baxter whispered to his glowing samples. "Does Lucifer understand what's happening to him? That he's carrying a child? That his body is killing itself to create new life?"

The cells offered no answer.

But somewhere above him, in a suite carefully guarded by the Radio Demon, Lucifer slept.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from the bottom of a deep, dark ocean.

Lucifer became aware of sensations in stages. First, the softness beneath him—sheets, pillows, something comfortable supporting his body. Then temperature—warm, almost too warm, but not unpleasantly so. Then sound—the tick-tick-tick of a clock, the faint static crackle of something nearby, breathing that wasn't his own.

His eyelids felt glued shut, weighted down with lead. It took three attempts before he managed to crack them open, and even then, the dim lamplight felt like staring into the sun. He squinted, vision blurry and unfocused, trying to make sense of shapes and shadows.

The ceiling came into focus first. His ceiling. His room.

‘How long had I been asleep?’

Lucifer tried to move and immediately regretted it. His body felt wrong—heavy and sluggish, like he'd been encased in concrete that was only now beginning to crack. His muscles screamed in protest at the mere thought of movement, locked stiff from disuse. Even turning his head sent sharp pains shooting down his neck.

"Ah. You're awake."

The voice came from his right, smooth and familiar and utterly unwelcome.

Lucifer's head rolled to the side—moving as one solid piece, neck refusing to bend properly. Alastor sat in a chair beside the bed, looking as fresh and composed as always.

‘How long had he been sitting there?’

His smile was fixed in place, but his eyes... those eyes were tracking across Lucifer's face with intense, focused attention.

"How..." Lucifer's voice came out as a croak, throat dry and raw. He swallowed, tried again. "How long?"

"Three days," Alastor said pleasantly, setting aside the notebook that had been resting on his lap. "Well, two days and twenty-one hours, to be precise. You've been sleeping quite soundly. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever wake up."

Three days.

Lucifer's mind struggled to process that. Three entire days unconscious. That wasn't sleep, that was practically a coma. His last clear memory was... the soup. Alastor feeding him soup that made him feel so tired...

"You drugged me," he rasped, the accusation lacking heat. He was too exhausted, too disoriented to muster proper rage.

"I gave you melatonin," Alastor corrected, standing with fluid grace and moving to the bedside table. He poured water from a pitcher into a glass. "A perfectly harmless sleep aid. Your body clearly needed the rest. And look." He gestured at Lucifer with one hand. "You're already looking so much better."

‘Better?’

Lucifer tried to assess himself, but his body felt like a foreign country he'd never visited. Everything was simultaneously numb and hypersensitive, sluggish and twitchy, familiar and completely alien.

"Here." Alastor slid one arm behind Lucifer's shoulders, lifting him slightly. "Drink. Slowly now."

The glass pressed against Lucifer's lips. Cool water touched his tongue, and his body responded with desperate thirst. He gulped greedily, water spilling down his chin, not caring about dignity or appearances, just needing to ease the desert in his throat.

"I said slowly," Alastor chided, but his grip remained steady, supporting Lucifer's weight with ease. "You'll make yourself sick."

When the glass was empty, Alastor lowered him back down with surprising gentleness. Lucifer's head sank into the pillow, and he realized with dim alarm that his body was already trembling from that minimal exertion. Just drinking water. Just sitting up for thirty seconds. And he was shaking like he'd run a marathon.

‘What the hell was wrong with me?’

"The vertigo," he managed, eyes sliding closed again. "Is it...?"

"Much improved," Alastor said, and Lucifer could hear the smile in his voice. "Your color is better too. The circles under your eyes have faded. Even your fever broke yesterday evening."

Lucifer forced his eyes open again, turning his head slightly to look at the Radio Demon. "You've been watching me. The whole time."

"Naturally. I promised your daughter I'd take care of you." Alastor settled back into his chair, crossing his legs. "And I'm nothing if not a demon of my word."

There was something in his tone, something that made Lucifer's skin crawl despite the improvement in his physical symptoms.

Something possessive. Proprietary.

He tried to push himself more upright and failed spectacularly. His arms refused to cooperate, muscles locked and unresponsive. His torso wouldn't bend. Even his legs felt rigid, like wooden planks instead of living limbs.

"Why can't I move?" Panic crept into his voice, thin and reedy. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing," Alastor said calmly. "Your body was in a state of extreme rigidity for most of your sleep. Protective stasis, I suspect. It's only just beginning to release." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Give it time. Feeling will return gradually."

Protective stasis. The words meant nothing to Lucifer, but the reality was terrifying. He couldn't move. Couldn't defend himself. Was completely at Alastor's mercy in every possible sense.

"I need..." He didn't even know what he needed. Help? Escape? His daughter? His power? Any of a thousand things he couldn't have. "I need to get up."

"Not yet, I'm afraid. You're still far too weak." Alastor's expression shifted into something that might have been concern if not for the gleam in his eyes. "Tell me, your Majesty, do you remember anything from the past three days? Any dreams? Any... sensations?"

Lucifer tried to think back, but there was nothing. Just darkness. An absence of consciousness so complete it might as well have been death.

"No," he whispered.

"Interesting." Alastor pulled his notebook back onto his lap, pen appearing in his hand. "And how do you feel now? Beyond the obvious stiffness."

‘How did I feel?’

Lucifer took inventory slowly, carefully. The vertigo was definitely better—the room stayed mostly stable when he moved his eyes, only tilting slightly instead of spinning violently. The constant nausea had faded to a dull queasiness. The ringing in his ears was quieter, more of a background hum than a roar.

But there was something else. Something wrong that he couldn't quite identify.

His chest felt... heavy. Tight. Like something was pressing down on him from the inside. His breathing took more effort than it should, each inhale requiring conscious work.

And lower, in his abdomen, there was a strange sensation. Not pain exactly, but a feeling of fullness. Of pressure. Like something had taken up residence in his body where there should have been empty space.

"I feel..." He hesitated, trying to find words for sensations that didn't make sense. "Different. Something's different."

"Mm." Alastor's pen scratched across paper. "Different how? Be specific."

"I don't know." Frustration leaked into his voice. "My chest feels weird. Heavy. And my stomach..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the strangeness.

"Your body underwent significant changes while you slept," Alastor said, his tone taking on a clinical quality. "Healing, primarily. But other things as well. Changes that were already in progress have... accelerated."

Changes.

The word sent ice through Lucifer's veins. He remembered standing in front of the mirror, seeing his hips, his waist, the wrongness of his own silhouette.

"What changes?" he demanded, trying again to move and managing only to twitch his fingers. "What happened to me?"

"Perhaps it would be easier to show you." Alastor stood, moving to the foot of the bed. "With your permission, of course, I'd like to help you sit up properly. Get you vertical so you can see for yourself."

Lucifer wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell Alastor to get the hell away from him, wanted to somehow drag himself out of this bed through sheer force of will.

But he couldn't move.

Couldn't do anything.

And the not knowing was worse than the fear of what he might see.

"Fine," he bit out.

Alastor moved with practiced efficiency, sliding one arm behind Lucifer's back, the other under his knees. He lifted, and Lucifer's entire body came up rigid, still locked in that protective stasis. Alastor maneuvered him carefully, propping him against the headboard with several pillows for support.

The change in position made Lucifer's head swim briefly, but it passed quickly. Better than before. Much better than the violent vertigo that had plagued him for days.

"There," Alastor said, stepping back. "Now look down."

Lucifer looked. And his breath caught in his throat.

His chest was... wrong. Definitely wrong. Even through his shirt, he could see the difference. His torso had a shape it hadn't possessed before, a curve that shouldn't exist. His shirt pulled tight across his chest in a way that made his stomach turn.

His waist looked impossibly narrow, creating a dramatic inward curve. And his hips...

His hips looked wider even beneath the blanket.

"No," Lucifer whispered. "No no no—"

"Your body has been restructuring itself," Alastor said, his voice taking on that clinical tone again. Almost like he was delivering a diagnosis. "The changes you noticed before have progressed significantly. Your skeletal structure has continued to shift. Your chest has developed—"

"Stop." Lucifer's voice cracked. "Just stop talking."

But Alastor didn't stop. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that Lucifer could smell sulfur and old blood.

"Your ribcage has expanded," Alastor continued relentlessly. "Your pelvis has widened. Tissue has developed in areas that were previously flat. Your entire body composition is transforming from male to female proportions. It's quite remarkable, really. I've been documenting—"

"You've been documenting this?" Horror and rage warred in Lucifer's chest. "You've been watching me—studying me like some kind of experiment while I was unconscious?"

"Someone needed to monitor your condition," Alastor said calmly. "And you were hardly in a position to object."

Lucifer tried to lunge at him, but his body still wouldn't cooperate. His arms jerked uselessly, hands twitching. A humiliating display of impotent fury.

Alastor watched with that same patient, clinical interest.

"Why?" Lucifer finally asked, voice breaking. "Why is this happening to me?"

"That," Alastor said slowly, "is an excellent question. I have theories, but nothing definitive. The machine that drained you clearly triggered something. Some kind of survival mechanism, perhaps. Your body adapting to the loss of power by restructuring itself into a form that can sustain life with less energy."

He paused, head tilting.

"Or perhaps it's something else entirely. Something more... purposeful."

There was weight to those words. Implication. Like Alastor knew something he wasn't saying.

Lucifer stared at him, at that too-wide smile and those spinning eyes, and felt fear coil tighter in his gut.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing you need to worry about right now." Alastor stood, smoothing down his coat. "What you need is food. Real food, not just broth. Your body is crying out for nutrients. And then we should try to get you mobile again. The stiffness will fade with movement and time."

He moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Lucifer? I wouldn't recommend trying to leave this room without me. Your balance is improved, yes, but you're still far too weak to navigate safely on your own. And it would be such a shame if you fell and injured yourself after making such excellent progress."

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Lucifer sat there, propped against pillows like a doll, staring down at his changed body with mounting horror.

Three days.

Three days unconscious and he'd become... this.

His hands finally started to move with some coordination. Shaking badly, but functional. He pressed them against his chest, feeling the fullness there, the weight, the wrongness of it.

Pressed them against his waist, finding bone where there shouldn't be bone, curves that didn't belong.

And lower, against his abdomen, where that strange pressure sensation had taken up residence.

Something was very, very wrong.

And Alastor knew exactly what it was.

Lucifer closed his eyes, fighting back tears of frustration and fear, and tried to ignore the growing certainty that whatever was happening to him...

It was only going to get worse.

Chapter Text

The announcement came two hours after Lucifer had finally regained enough mobility to feed himself.

"I've decided to lift the quarantine," Alastor declared, sweeping back into the room with a tray of actual solid food—toast, scrambled eggs, fruit. "Your condition has stabilized sufficiently that visitors pose no risk. I'm sure Charlie will be delighted to see you."

Lucifer's hand trembled as he reached for the toast, his coordination still shaky but functional. "Quarantine? You told her I was quarantined?"

"I told her you needed rest and isolation for optimal recovery." Alastor set the tray across Lucifer's lap with careful precision. "Which was entirely true. And now that you're awake and coherent, I see no reason to keep her away any longer."

There was something calculating in his expression. Something that suggested this wasn't generosity but another move in whatever game he was playing.

"Of course," Alastor continued, settling back into his observation chair, "I'll remain present during all visits. To ensure you don't overexert yourself. To monitor your condition. To assist if you experience any sudden symptoms."

Translation: to control the narrative. To ensure Lucifer couldn't reveal anything Alastor didn't want revealed.

Lucifer's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. What could he say? That he was being held captive by his daughter's trusted friend? That Alastor had been documenting his transformation like a science experiment? That something was happening to his body that he didn't understand and couldn't stop?

Charlie would never believe him. Not without proof. And with Alastor playing the concerned caretaker so perfectly...

"Eat," Alastor prompted gently. "You'll need your strength for visitors."

Charlie arrived at Lucifer's room thirty minutes later, bursting through the door with enough enthusiasm to make the hinges squeak in protest.

"Dad!" She rushed to his bedside, her eyes scanning him with obvious worry and relief. "Oh my gosh, you're awake! Alastor said you were feeling better but I didn't want to get my hopes up but you really do look better! Well, you still look kind of pale and tired but so much better than before when you couldn't even stand and—"

"Charlie," Lucifer interrupted gently, managing a weak smile. "Breathe, sweetheart."

She laughed, slightly hysterical, and grabbed his hand. Her touch was warm, solid, real. The first genuine physical contact with another person he'd had in days that wasn't clinical or calculating.

"I was so worried," she said softly, her eyes beginning to water. "When you fell, and you wouldn't wake up properly, and Alastor said you needed complete rest and I couldn't see you and I didn't know if you were getting better or worse or—"

"I'm okay," Lucifer lied, squeezing her hand as hard as his diminished strength would allow. "Just needed some sleep. I'm sorry I scared you."

Alastor stood near the door, hands folded over his microphone cane, watching the reunion with that fixed smile. His eyes tracked every movement, every word, every expression. Making sure Lucifer stayed on script.

Charlie settled into the chair beside the bed—Alastor's chair, Lucifer realized with a jolt. The chair he'd been occupying constantly for three days. She held his hand in both of hers, and for a moment, Lucifer could almost pretend things were normal.

Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room.

The changed silhouette. The subtle curves. The wrongness.

Did Charlie notice? Could she tell?

"You look different," she said suddenly, and Lucifer's heart stopped. "Not bad! Just... I don't know. Something about your face? You look less exhausted. Your color's better. Even your eyes look clearer."

Relief flooded through him. She was seeing the healing, not the transformation. The improved health, not the fundamental restructuring.

"Alastor's been taking good care of me," Lucifer said, the words tasting like ash. But he forced a smile, played his part. "Making sure I eat, rest, don't overdo it."

"He's been amazing," Charlie agreed, beaming at the Radio Demon. "I don't know what we would have done without you."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Alastor demurred. "Your father's recovery has been my absolute pleasure."

There was weight to that word. Pleasure. The way he said it made Lucifer's skin crawl.

They talked for twenty minutes. Charlie updating him on hotel activities, on the trust exercises, on some new sinners who'd checked in hoping for redemption. Normal things. Comforting things.

But all the while, Alastor watched.

And Lucifer felt the weight of his changed body beneath the blankets, the strangeness in his chest, the pressure in his abdomen.

And said nothing.

After Charlie left, promising to visit again tomorrow, the other residents filtered through in ones and twos.

Vaggie came, suspicious and tense, her eye constantly flicking to Alastor as if expecting him to do something threatening. She asked pointed questions about Lucifer's symptoms, his treatment, whether he felt safe.

Alastor answered before Lucifer could, his responses perfectly calibrated to deflect concern while appearing transparent.

Husk appeared reluctantly, clearly pushed into it by someone. He asked gruffly if Lucifer needed anything, received a negative response, and left within two minutes.

And then, as afternoon light began to fade to evening, came Niffty.

She burst in with her cleaning cart, all manic energy and rapid-fire movement.

"Time to clean!" she announced cheerfully. "The room needs dusting and sanitizing and the sheets should probably be changed because even though you've been sleeping you've still been sweating and—"

"Niffty," Alastor interrupted smoothly. "Perhaps save the deep cleaning for tomorrow. His Majesty has had quite enough activity for one day."

"But the germs!" Niffty protested, her single eye wide. "The bacteria! The—fine, fine. Just a quick dust and surface clean."

She zipped around the room with her characteristic speed, duster attacking every surface, leaving a lemony-fresh scent in her wake. She moved to the bedside, fluffing pillows, straightening sheets.

Lucifer barely noticed. He was exhausted from the visitors, from maintaining the facade of being okay, from pretending his body wasn't betraying him with every passing hour.

His eyes slipped closed.

He didn't see Niffty's hand move to his hair, didn't feel the subtle tug as she plucked several strands and tucked them into her apron.

Didn't notice when she pulled the angelic needle from her pocket, holding it with practiced ease.

"Mr. Bad Boy," she chirped. "You've got a little something on your arm. Let me just—"

She pressed the needle into the soft flesh of his inner elbow with surprising precision. It slid through skin and into vein with barely any resistance, angelic steel parting angelic flesh like butter.

Lucifer's eyes snapped open. "Ow! What—"

"Just a loose thread!" Niffty said brightly, already withdrawing the needle. The tiny vial attached to it was half-full of glowing golden blood. "All gone now! You're welcome!"

She stuffed it back into her apron in one smooth motion, resuming her manic cleaning as if nothing had happened.

Lucifer stared at his arm, at the tiny pinprick of blood welling up. What the hell was that? Did she just—

But Alastor was talking, drawing his attention away.

"Thank you, Niffty. Very thorough as always."

"Yep yep yep! Clean clean clean!" She grabbed her cart and wheeled it toward the door. "I'll be back tomorrow for the deep clean! Sleep tight! Don't let the bed bugs bite! Although if there are bed bugs I need to know immediately because that's unacceptable and—"

The door closed behind her, cutting off her rambling.

Alastor's eyes narrowed fractionally, gaze tracking to where Niffty had just been standing. Had he noticed something? Suspected something?

But then his expression smoothed, smile returning to its usual proportion.

"Well," he said, moving to close the curtains. "I think that's quite enough excitement for one day. Time for rest."

Lucifer touched his arm where the needle had pierced, feeling the tiny bump, the faint sting.

Something was wrong.

Something beyond the transformation, beyond Alastor's obsessive observation, beyond everything else.

But he was so tired.

So incredibly tired.

His eyes slipped closed again, and this time, he let the exhaustion take him.

An hour before….

In the laboratory below the hotel, Baxter was having a crisis of conscience.

Or rather, he was having a crisis of supply.

The samples he'd collected were extraordinarily valuable, yes. But they were limited. The blood was multiplying nicely in culture, providing him with cellular material for study. But fetal cells would be better. Tissue samples from later in the pregnancy. More blood to track hormonal changes and genetic expression over time.

He needed more samples.

But getting them himself was impossible. Alastor had made that abundantly clear. The Radio Demon would tear him apart if he caught him anywhere near Lucifer again.

Which meant he needed a proxy. Someone who could access Lucifer without raising suspicion. Someone small, unassuming, who wouldn't be seen as a threat.

Someone like Niffty.

The tiny cyclops demon was perfect. She cleaned everyone's rooms, had access to the entire hotel, and most importantly—Alastor liked her. Trusted her, as much as the Radio Demon trusted anyone.

Baxter found her in the second-floor hallway, attacking a stubborn stain on the carpet with the focused intensity of someone at war.

"Niffty," he called softly, approaching with his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. "Might I have a word?"

She looked up, her single eye narrowing suspiciously. "Baxter. What do you want? I'm busy. This stain is mocking me."

"I need your help with something. A small favor. I'll make it worth your while."

Her eye narrowed further. "What kind of favor?"

"I need samples from the King. Hair and blood. Just small amounts. Nothing that would hurt him or be noticed missing."

Niffty's expression shifted from suspicious to alarmed. "Oh no. No no no. Alastor is super duper interested in Lucifer right now. Like, scary interested. He spent three whole days just sitting in that room watching him sleep. Didn't even come out for meals!"

"Exactly," Baxter said quickly. "Which is why you're perfect for this. Alastor trusts you. You clean his room anyway. He won't think twice about you being there."

"But he'll know." Niffty wrung her small hands. "He always knows. He has that creepy shadow thing that sees everything and—"

"What if I gave you something in exchange?" Baxter interrupted. "Something you've wanted for a very long time."

Niffty's eye gleamed with sudden interest. "I'm listening..."

"Rats," Baxter said, watching her reaction carefully. "Genetically altered rats. Like the roaches I modified for you, but better. Controllable. Trainable. An entire colony that would obey your every command."

Niffty's mouth fell open. "An army of rats? That I could control? That would clean where I tell them to clean?"

"Exactly. Think of the efficiency. The reach. You could clean areas you can't physically access. Could send them into walls, under floors, into every crack and crevice in this hotel." Baxter leaned closer. "All yours. An entire battalion of cleaning rats. In exchange for two tiny samples that Lucifer won't even notice missing."

He could see her weighing it. Temptation warring with fear of Alastor's wrath.

"How tiny?" she finally asked.

"A few strands of hair. A single vial of blood. That's all. Quick in and out. You can collect them during your normal cleaning routine. No one will suspect anything."

Niffty bit her lip, her eye darting around as if checking for Alastor's shadow. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Okay. But they have to be good rats. Smart rats. Clean rats. Not diseased or dirty or—"

"The finest specimens," Baxter promised. "Modified with the same neural implants as your roaches but more sophisticated. They'll be ready for you within the week."

"And the blood..." Niffty hesitated. "How am I supposed to get blood? I can't just stab him."

"Actually..." Baxter reached into his coat, withdrawing a small cloth bundle. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a needle that gleamed with a faint golden light. "You can. With this."

Niffty gasped, reaching for it with reverent hands. "Is that...?"

"The angelic steel needle you used on Adam. I... found it amongst your belongings.” A lie, but a convincing one. He'd actually found it discarded in the rubble, still coated in dried angelic blood. "It can pierce angelic flesh. One quick stick, fill a vial, and you're done."

Niffty held the needle up to the light, her expression shifting into something almost worshipful. "I killed the first man with this. Stabbed him right in the back." She giggled, the sound slightly unhinged. "It was so satisfying. He went down like a sack of potatoes."

"And it will pierce Lucifer's skin just as easily. Quick, clean, minimal pain. He might not even feel it if you're careful." Baxter produced a small vial from another pocket. "Fill this about halfway. That's all I need."

Niffty stared at the needle and vial for a long moment. Then her eye snapped up to meet Baxter's.

"The rats better be really good."

"They will be. I promise."

"Fine!" She snatched the vial and tucked it into her apron alongside the needle. "But if Alastor catches me and turns me into shadow paste, I'm haunting you forever."

"He won't catch you," Baxter assured her, though he had no such certainty. "You're too clever for that."

Niffty preened slightly at the compliment, then scurried off down the hallway, already muttering to herself about cleaning schedules and optimal sample collection times.

Baxter watched her go, his gills flaring with satisfaction.

…

…

…

Back to Baxter’s basement, Niffty handed over her prizes to Baxter with a manic grin.

"There! Hair and blood! Now where are my rats?"

And in his laboratory, surrounded by glowing samples and genetic sequencers, Baxter held up the vial of fresh angelic blood to the light.

Watched it pulse with golden luminescence.

Smiled.

"Perfect."

Chapter Text

Lucifer woke to gnawing hunger.

Not the mild discomfort of missing a meal or the vague emptiness of appetite. This was a yawning void in his stomach that felt like it was trying to consume him from the inside out. His abdomen cramped painfully, and his mouth flooded with saliva at the mere thought of food.

He'd never felt hunger like this. Not in millennia of existence. Angels didn't need food the way mortals did—eating was optional, pleasurable, but never necessary for survival.

This felt necessary.

This felt desperate.

"Alastor," he called out, his voice rough with sleep and need. "I need food."

The Radio Demon materialized from the shadows in the corner where he'd apparently been standing vigil. His expression shifted from passive observation to something approaching surprise.

"You ate dinner only four hours ago," Alastor pointed out, moving closer. "Quite a substantial meal, if I recall. You finished everything on your plate and asked for seconds."

"I don't care." Lucifer pushed himself more upright, his body finally cooperating better after a full day of regaining mobility. "I'm starving. I need to eat. Now."

Alastor's head tilted, radio-dial eyes spinning with interest. "Fascinating. Your appetite has been practically nonexistent for days. You could barely keep down broth. And now..."

"Now I feel like I haven't eaten in years," Lucifer snapped. His stomach cramped again, hard enough to make him wince and wrap an arm around his midsection. "Please. Just... something. Anything."

For a moment, Alastor simply stared, clearly cataloging this new development with that clinical detachment that made Lucifer's skin crawl. Then he smiled, wider than before, and snapped his fingers.

A plate appeared on the bedside table. Sandwiches, thick and overstuffed with meat and cheese. A bowl of fruit. Crackers. Cheese. Some cold cuts arranged on a smaller plate.

Lucifer lunged for it.

His hands shook as he grabbed the first sandwich, barely managing to get it to his mouth before taking an enormous bite. The explosion of flavors on his tongue—savory meat, sharp cheese, the tang of mustard—was almost overwhelming. He chewed quickly, swallowed, immediately took another bite.

The first sandwich disappeared in less than a minute.

He reached for the second without pause.

Alastor watched in fascinated silence as Lucifer tore through the food with single-minded intensity. No grace, no dignity, just pure animalistic need. The second sandwich vanished. Then he grabbed a handful of crackers, stuffing them in his mouth, reaching for cheese with his other hand.

"My word," Alastor murmured, pulling out his ever-present notebook. "You're eating like a starved animal."

Lucifer couldn't even muster the energy to be offended. The hunger was all-consuming, driving every other thought from his mind. His body screamed for more, more, more, like it was trying to fill a bottomless pit.

He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, bit into it, juice running down his chin. Barely finished chewing before reaching for grapes, shoving them into his mouth by the handful.

The cold cuts disappeared. Then the remaining crackers. Then the cheese.

Within ten minutes, every scrap of food was gone.

And Lucifer was still hungry.

"More," he gasped, looking up at Alastor with wild eyes. "I need more."

Alastor's smile had transformed into something between amusement and genuine astonishment. "That was enough food for three meals, your Majesty. Surely—"

"More," Lucifer repeated, his voice taking on a desperate edge. His stomach felt slightly less empty but nowhere near satisfied. The cramps had eased but hadn't disappeared. "Please. I can't... I don't understand why but I'm so hungry."

"Alright," Alastor said slowly, snapping his fingers again. "Let's see if we can satisfy this sudden appetite."

More food appeared.

A bowl of pasta drowning in rich sauce.

Bread rolls still warm.

A whole roasted chicken.

Vegetables in butter.

A chocolate cake.

Lucifer attacked it with the same ferocity.

The pasta disappeared first, Lucifer eating directly from the bowl, not bothering with utensils. Then he tore into the chicken with his hands, pulling meat from bone, grease coating his fingers and chin. The bread rolls were gone in minutes. The vegetables lasted slightly longer only because he was so focused on the protein.

Alastor had abandoned all pretense of casual observation. He stood beside the bed, notebook in hand, pen moving rapidly as he documented this extraordinary display.

"Subject exhibiting extreme hyperphagia," he murmured, more to himself than to Lucifer. "Consuming approximately five to six times normal caloric intake without satiation. Metabolism must be incredibly elevated. But why? The healing can't possibly require this much energy. Unless..."

He trailed off, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Lucifer barely heard him. He'd moved on to the cake, eating it with his hands, chocolate coating his fingers and face. He looked like a feral creature, all dignity abandoned in favor of satisfying this overwhelming need.

Finally, finally, as the last of the cake disappeared, the gnawing hunger began to ease.

Lucifer slumped back against the pillows, breathing hard, his stomach distended and uncomfortable but no longer screaming for sustenance. His hands were covered in food debris. His shirt was stained with various sauces and crumbs.

He looked like he'd lost a fight with a buffet.

"Well," Alastor said, setting down his pen with an expression of genuine bewilderment. "That was quite the display."

Shame flooded through Lucifer as the fog of hunger cleared. He looked down at himself—at the mess, the destruction, the evidence of his complete loss of control.

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered, voice breaking. "I don't... I've never... Why am I so hungry?"

"Your body is healing," Alastor said, but there was uncertainty in his voice that hadn't been there before. "Healing requires energy. Calories. Nutrients. It's possible your accelerated recovery is demanding more resources than normal."

"That much?" Lucifer gestured at the empty plates, the demolished food. "I ate enough for a week in twenty minutes."

"Yes." Alastor moved closer, his clinical interest overriding everything else. "May I?" He gestured toward Lucifer's distended stomach.

Lucifer wanted to refuse. Wanted to maintain some shred of dignity. But he was too exhausted, too confused, too overwhelmed to fight.

He nodded.

Alastor's hand pressed gently against his abdomen, fingers splaying across the taut, swollen flesh. He prodded carefully, assessing.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Your digestive system is processing at an extraordinary rate. I can feel... movement. Rapid peristalsis. Your body is breaking down the food almost immediately, extracting nutrients at supernatural speed."

His hand moved lower, pressing more firmly.

Lucifer winced as pain shot through his lower abdomen. "Careful—"

"Apologies." Alastor's fingers gentled but didn't withdraw.

"There's something here. A focal point of activity. Right..." He pressed again, more precisely. "Here."

The pressure sent a strange sensation through Lucifer's body. Not quite pain, but intense awareness. Like Alastor was pressing on something vital, something that demanded protection.

Lucifer's hand shot out, grabbing Alastor's wrist. "Stop."

Their eyes met. Alastor's radio-dials spun rapidly, processing, analyzing. Then slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his hand.

"Your metabolism has increased exponentially," he said, returning to his clinical tone. "Whatever your body is doing, it requires massive amounts of energy. More than simple healing should demand."

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to Lucifer. "Clean yourself up. You look like you've been through a war."

Lucifer took it with trembling hands, wiping at his face, his fingers. The food had satisfied the immediate need, but he could already feel the hunger beginning to build again in the background. Not as desperate yet, but growing. A constant low-level demand for more fuel.

"How often?" he asked quietly. "How often am I going to need to eat like that?"

Alastor considered. "Based on the rate your body processed that food? I'd estimate every four to six hours. Possibly more frequently as whatever is happening progresses."

Every four to six hours. Consuming enough food for an entire day in one sitting, multiple times per day.

"That's not normal," Lucifer said, stating the obvious. "That's not even close to normal."

"No," Alastor agreed, his expression unreadable. "It's not."

He moved back to his chair, notebook once again in hand. "Tell me, your Majesty. The hunger—does it focus on anything specific? Proteins? Fats? Carbohydrates? Or is it indiscriminate?"

Lucifer thought back, trying to analyze through the fog of desperation. "Protein," he said slowly. "I wanted the meat more than anything else. The chicken, the cold cuts. Even the cheese. The rest was just... filling space."

"Mm." More notes. "Protein is essential for tissue growth and repair. If your body is building new structures, restructuring existing ones, it would need massive amounts of amino acids."

Building new structures.

The words hung in the air between them.

Lucifer's hand moved unconsciously to his abdomen, to that strange focal point where Alastor had pressed, where something felt different, present in a way it shouldn't be.

"What's happening to me?" he asked again, softer this time. Almost pleading.

Alastor met his gaze, and for just a moment, something flickered in his expression. Knowledge. Certainty. Something he wasn't saying.

Then it was gone, replaced by his usual pleasant smile.

"Your body is adapting," he said simply. "Healing. Changing. Becoming something new. The hunger is simply part of that process."

It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the whole truth either. Lucifer could feel the omission, the careful selection of words designed to inform without revealing.

"You know something," Lucifer accused. "Something you're not telling me."

"I have theories," Alastor allowed. "But nothing confirmed. Nothing I'm willing to share until I'm certain." He stood, straightening his coat. "For now, focus on listening to your body. Eat when you're hungry. Rest when you're tired. Let the transformation run its course."

"And if I don't want this transformation?" Lucifer's voice hardened. "If I want it to stop?"

Alastor's smile never wavered. "I'm afraid that's not up to you anymore, your Majesty. Your body has already decided. You're simply along for the ride."

He moved toward the door, then paused.

"I'll have food brought up every few hours. Pre-prepared meals that you can access when the hunger strikes. Can't have you wasting away after making such progress, can we?"

The door closed behind him.

Lucifer sat in the mess of empty plates and food debris, his stomach uncomfortably full but already beginning to demand more, his body changing in ways he couldn't understand or control.

And deep inside him, in that focal point Alastor had pressed on, something small and vital continued to grow.

Demanding nutrients.

Demanding energy.

Demanding everything Lucifer had to give. 

The tics started twenty minutes after Alastor left.

Lucifer was attempting to clean himself up properly, having made his way to the bathroom with slow, careful steps. His legs still felt weak, unsteady, but functional enough. He'd managed to wash his face and hands, was staring at his reflection in the mirror—noting the continued changes in his features, the softness that hadn't been there before—when his shoulder jerked violently upward.

The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that he nearly lost his balance. His shoulder blade cracked against itself, the joint hyperextending for a brief, painful moment before releasing.

"No," he breathed, gripping the sink edge. "No, not again."

But his body had other ideas.

His neck snapped to the left, vertebrae popping audibly. Then to the right. Then back, his head tilting at an unnatural angle before jerking forward. Each movement was sharp, involuntary, completely outside his control.

"Shit—" The word cut off as his jaw clenched suddenly, teeth grinding together with enough force to make his temples ache.

He'd thought the tics were gone. The three-day sleep, the healing, the improvement in all his other symptoms—he'd thought maybe, just maybe, his body had finally stopped betraying him in that particular way.

He'd been wrong.

His left arm spasmed, elbow cracking against the sink. Pain bloomed bright and immediate, but the tic didn't stop. His shoulder jerked again, pulling upward toward his ear, held there for three agonizing seconds before releasing with a snap.

Lucifer stumbled back from the sink, trying to get away from hard surfaces, trying to find somewhere safe where his flailing limbs wouldn't cause damage. He made it two steps before his neck wrenched sideways again, so hard this time that something in his spine popped.

A sound escaped his throat—half gasp, half whimper. This was worse than before. The tics had been bad, yes, but not this violent. Not this aggressive.

His right shoulder jerked, then his left, creating a rolling motion that made him look like he was trying to shrug off an invisible coat. The movement repeated, over and over, each jerk sending sharp pains through his upper back.

And beneath it all, a new sensation was building. A pressure in his spine, an overwhelming need to stretch. His back felt compressed, like someone had shortened it while he wasn't paying attention, and now his body was screaming to elongate, to arch, to release the tension building there.

But when he tried to arch his back deliberately, another tic seized him—his neck snapping forward, his shoulders hunching, forcing him into a curve in the opposite direction.

"Alastor," he tried to call, but his jaw twitched mid-word, turning it into an incomprehensible sound. He tried again. "Alas—tor—"

His head jerked back so hard he bit his tongue. Blood filled his mouth, copper-sharp and warm. He spat it into the sink, hands gripping the porcelain as another shoulder spasm nearly sent him to the floor.

The need to arch his back was becoming unbearable. Like an itch he couldn't scratch, a stretch he couldn't complete, his spine begging for release that the tics wouldn't allow.

Lucifer managed to stagger back into the bedroom, bracing himself against the wall. His reflection in the full-length mirror showed a figure that looked possessed—head jerking erratically, shoulders rolling and snapping, entire upper body seized by movements he couldn't control.

He tried to breathe through it, tried to relax, tried all the techniques that hadn't worked before.

Nothing helped.

His shoulder blade cracked against the wall as another violent spasm threw him sideways. He gasped, sliding down to sit on the floor, and finally—finally—his back began to arch.

The movement was involuntary, like everything else, but it satisfied that screaming need in his spine. His back curved, shoulders pulling back, chest pressing forward, vertebrae separating with a series of soft pops that felt both relieving and alarming.

But the position held.

And held.

And held.

His back stayed locked in that deep arch, muscles rigid, unable to release. The relief he'd felt turned to panic as seconds stretched into a minute, then two. His spine felt like it was trying to bend him in half backwards, every vertebra straining, muscles screaming.

"Can't—move—" he gasped, stuck in the position, shoulders jerking intermittently but his torso locked solid.

The door burst open.

Alastor swept into the room, his expression shifting from mild concern to sharp attention when he spotted Lucifer on the floor, back arched painfully, body trembling with the effort of holding the position.

"The tics have returned," Alastor observed, moving quickly to Lucifer's side. It wasn't a question.

Lucifer couldn't respond. His jaw was clenched too tight, teeth grinding, neck muscles standing out in sharp relief as his head jerked to the side again.

"And worse than before, I see." Alastor knelt beside him, hands hovering uncertainly. "May I?"

Lucifer managed the tiniest nod, though it turned into another violent head jerk mid-motion.

Alastor's hands found his shoulders, pressing down gently but firmly. "You need to release the arch. Relax your spine. Let the muscles—"

"Can't," Lucifer forced out between clenched teeth. "Stuck. Can't—move—"

"Ah." Alastor's expression grew more serious. "Your muscles have locked. The spasm is too intense to release voluntarily."

His hands moved to Lucifer's upper back, pressing against the rigid muscles there. "This is going to be uncomfortable. But I need to manually release the tension or you'll do serious damage to your spine."

Before Lucifer could process that warning, Alastor's fingers found a point between his shoulder blades and pressed hard.

The muscle released with an audible snap. Lucifer's back straightened involuntarily, the sudden change in position sending shockwaves of pain through his entire torso. He gasped, would have screamed if his jaw had been cooperating.

But the relief was immediate and overwhelming. His spine settled back into something approaching normal, the agonizing arch finally released.

Then his shoulder jerked again, and the cycle threatened to repeat.

Alastor's hands stayed firm on his back, preventing the arch from reforming. "Breathe," he commanded quietly. "Long, slow breaths. Focus on relaxing the muscles."

"I'm trying," Lucifer bit out, his neck snapping to the side mid-sentence. "Can't—control—"

"I know." Alastor's voice had lost its usual performative quality, becoming something more genuine. Almost concerned. "Your body is fighting itself. The changes are causing neurological disruption. The tics are your nervous system trying to process signals it doesn't understand."

His hands moved in slow, firm strokes along Lucifer's spine, applying pressure to points where muscles had bunched and knotted. "The need to arch your back—that's your skeletal structure trying to accommodate the changes in your ribcage and pelvis. Your spine is literally reshaping, and the surrounding muscles are struggling to adapt."

Another shoulder spasm. Alastor's hand caught it, pressed down, forced the muscle to release before it could lock up again.

"How long?" Lucifer managed, his voice shaking. "How long will this last?"

"I don't know," Alastor admitted. There was something in his tone—uncertainty that he clearly didn't like admitting to. "The previous bout of tics lasted days. But those were before the accelerated changes began. Before your body started..." He paused. "Before things progressed this far."

His hands continued their work, systematically finding and releasing each muscle spasm before it could become a full tic. It was methodical, clinical, but undeniably helpful. Lucifer found himself leaning into the touch despite his mistrust, desperate for any relief from the constant involuntary movements.

"Your nervous system is being rewritten along with everything else," Alastor continued, his voice taking on that lecturing quality. "New neural pathways forming, old ones being disrupted. The tics are a symptom of that process. As are the muscle spasms, the compulsive stretching, all of it."

Lucifer's jaw finally unclenched enough to speak more clearly. "Make it stop. Please. There has to be something—"

"Muscle relaxants might help," Alastor mused. "But they could also interfere with the transformation process. Suppress the symptoms but prolong the underlying changes." His hands found a particularly stubborn knot in Lucifer's shoulder, pressing until it released. "Better to let it run its course. Provide support and pain management where possible, but allow the body to do what it needs to do."

"Easy for you to say," Lucifer spat, another spasm jerking his head back. "You're not the one being torn apart from the inside."

"No," Alastor agreed calmly. "I'm not. But I am the one keeping you from seriously injuring yourself. So perhaps a little gratitude wouldn't be amiss."

Before Lucifer could formulate a response—something cutting and furious—his back began to arch again. That same overwhelming compulsion, muscles pulling, spine curving.

Alastor's hands pressed firmly against his back, preventing the full extension. "Not again. You'll dislocate something."

"Need to—" Lucifer gasped, fighting against the pressure. "Have to—stretch—"

"Then we'll do it properly. Controlled." Alastor shifted position, moving behind Lucifer. "Lean back against me. Slowly. Let me support your weight."

Every instinct Lucifer had screamed to refuse. To push away, to maintain distance, to not give this predator any more power over him.

But the need to arch was unbearable. And Alastor was right—if he let it happen uncontrolled, he'd hurt himself.

Slowly, reluctantly, Lucifer leaned back.

Alastor's chest became a solid support behind him, one arm wrapping around Lucifer's ribs to hold him steady. With the other hand, he pressed against Lucifer's sternum, gradually increasing the arch in a controlled manner.

"There," Alastor murmured near his ear. "Gentle extension. Feel how your spine lengthens? That's what your body was demanding. Just less violently."

Lucifer's vertebrae separated incrementally, the stretch providing exactly the relief his nervous system had been screaming for. Alastor held him there for several seconds, then slowly guided him back to neutral.

The compulsion eased.

Not gone, but satisfied for the moment.

Lucifer slumped in Alastor's hold, exhausted. The tics continued—shoulder jerks, neck snaps, jaw clenches—but the violent full-body spasms had calmed somewhat.

"Better?" Alastor asked.

"Barely," Lucifer admitted, hating how weak his voice sounded. "I can't... I can't keep doing this. Can't keep being..."

"Helpless?" Alastor supplied. "Dependent? At my mercy?"

Lucifer's jaw clenched—partially from a tic, partially from rage. "Fuck you."

"Mm." Alastor sounded almost amused. "For what it's worth, I do understand this is difficult. Watching your body betray you, losing control of basic functions, needing assistance for tasks that should be simple." His grip tightened slightly. "But you are surviving it. You're adapting. That's more than many could manage."

"I don't want to adapt," Lucifer said through gritted teeth. "I want it to stop."

"I know." Alastor's hand moved to Lucifer's neck, fingers pressing against twitching muscles. "But it won't. Not until the transformation is complete. Not until your body finishes whatever it's trying to become."

His fingers found a pressure point, pressed, and some of the tension in Lucifer's neck released.

"So for now," Alastor continued, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, "you endure. You let me help manage the symptoms. You eat when you're hungry, stretch when you need to, and try not to hurt yourself when the tics become too violent."

"And you watch," Lucifer added bitterly. "Document everything. Study me like I'm some fascinating experiment."

"Yes," Alastor agreed without shame. "I do. Because you are fascinating. You're undergoing something unprecedented. Something remarkable. And I'm fortunate enough to witness it."

His hand traced down Lucifer's spine, feeling each vertebra, each point of tension.

"But I'm also keeping you alive," he added quietly. "Preventing you from harming yourself. Ensuring you eat enough to sustain whatever's happening inside you. So perhaps," his fingers pressed against another muscle spasm, forcing it to release, "we're both getting something out of this arrangement."

Lucifer wanted to argue. Wanted to rage against the truth in those words.

But his shoulder jerked again, and Alastor's hand was there immediately, catching it, guiding it through the motion without letting it lock up.

And Lucifer, exhausted and hurting and so completely out of options, let him.

Chapter Text

Lucifer woke to a day of silence.

No jerking limbs. No snapping neck. No involuntary muscle spasms pulling his body into positions it shouldn't hold. Just... stillness.

For one beautiful, disorienting moment, he thought maybe it was over. Maybe his body had finally finished whatever violent restructuring it was doing and he could start to piece together some semblance of normalcy.

Then he tried to move.

Pain lanced through his pelvis—a deep, bone-level ache that felt like someone had taken a crowbar to his hips and pried them apart. The sensation spread across his entire pelvic girdle, a throbbing awareness of bone that had shifted, widened, settled into a new configuration overnight.

His chest felt compressed, like someone had placed weights on his ribcage while he slept. Each breath took conscious effort, his lungs working against pressure that came from inside rather than out. The flesh there felt heavy, tender, swollen with continued development.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely, staring at the ceiling. Even his voice sounded different—slightly higher, softer somehow.

"Good morning, Lucifer."

Lucifer's head turned—slowly, carefully, testing whether the tics had truly subsided. Alastor sat in his usual chair, looking impossibly fresh despite having spent another night as a vigilant observer. His notebook rested on his lap, already open, pen poised.

"The tics have stopped," Alastor observed. "How fortuitous. Though I imagine you're experiencing other discomforts now?"

Lucifer wanted to lie. To say he felt fine, that nothing was wrong, that he didn't need Alastor's clinical observations or barely-concealed fascination.

But his face must have betrayed him because Alastor's smile widened slightly.

"Your pelvis," the Radio Demon said, not bothering to phrase it as a question. "The pain is centered there, yes? A deep ache, like the bones themselves are bruised?"

"How do you—" Lucifer stopped, jaw clenching. Of course he knew. He'd probably been watching, documenting, measuring every change while Lucifer slept. "Yes. It hurts."

"Mm. The pelvic restructuring has accelerated overnight. I could see the changes in your positioning, the way your body naturally settled into accommodating the new width." Alastor stood, moving closer. "May I examine?"

"No." The word came out sharper than intended.

"Very well." Alastor didn't seem offended, merely made a note in his book. "And your chest? The pressure there?"

Lucifer's hand moved unconsciously to press against his sternum, feeling the weight, the fullness that shouldn't exist. "It's hard to breathe."

"The breast tissue development is progressing rapidly. Combined with the expanded ribcage, your body is adjusting to carrying additional weight in that area. The discomfort should ease as the supporting musculature adapts." More notes, pen scratching across paper. "I'll have a support garment brought up. Something to help distribute the weight more comfortably."

"A what?" Lucifer's voice pitched higher with alarm.

"A brassiere," Alastor said calmly, as if he were discussing the weather. "Or a compression garment if you prefer. Either way, you'll need something. The pain will only worsen as development continues."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Breast tissue. Brassieres. Development.

This was really happening. This was real. Not something he could deny or ignore or pretend was temporary.

"I'm hungry," Lucifer said abruptly, desperately changing the subject. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach provided a convenient distraction from the horror of his situation.

"Of course you are." Alastor snapped his fingers, and food appeared—a breakfast spread that would have fed four people. Eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit, toast, hash browns. "Eat. Your body is demanding it."

Lucifer didn't need to be told twice. He pushed himself upright, wincing at the ache in his pelvis, the weight on his chest, and reached for the plate.

The pattern established itself over the following days.

Lucifer would wake, consume enough food for a small army, experience a few hours of relative normalcy, then suddenly crash. The crashes were unpredictable and total—color draining from his face, his eyes going hollow and sunken, his cheeks becoming gaunt. He'd look like a corpse reanimated, skin stretched too tight over bone, every sign of health evaporating in minutes.

Then he'd eat again, and color would flood back. His face would fill out, the deathly pallor would fade, and for a brief window he'd look almost healthy.

Before the cycle repeated.

Alastor documented everything with meticulous detail. The timing of the crashes, what Lucifer had eaten before them, how long it took for recovery. He recorded measurements—weight fluctuations that didn't make physical sense, body temperature variations, pulse and respiration rates.

But he offered no explanations.

And Lucifer was too exhausted to demand them.

On the third day of the cycle, the vomiting started.

Lucifer had just finished breakfast—his second breakfast, actually, having woken in one of his corpse-like states and needed immediate food. He'd felt fine, relatively speaking, color returned, stomach satisfied.

Then nausea hit him like a physical blow.

He barely made it to the bathroom before his stomach emptied violently. Everything he'd just eaten came back up, his body convulsing with the force of it, stomach muscles clenching painfully.

When it finally stopped, he slumped against the toilet, gasping, tasting acid and bile.

"That's new," Alastor observed from the doorway, his tone clinical even as Lucifer suffered.

"Get out," Lucifer rasped.

"Your color is already draining again. The vomiting triggered another crash." Alastor moved closer despite the dismissal, kneeling beside him. "This is concerning. Your body needs those nutrients. If you can't keep food down—"

Another wave of nausea. Lucifer heaved again, bringing up mostly liquid now, his stomach having already expelled the solid food.

Alastor's hand found his forehead, feeling the cold sweat there. "You're burning up. Fever of at least 103, I'd estimate."

"Don't... touch..." Lucifer tried to push him away, but his hands had no strength.

The vomiting continued for twenty minutes. By the end, Lucifer was bringing up nothing but bile, his body wracked with dry heaves that felt like they were tearing him apart from the inside.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror showed a creature that was barely recognizable. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, skin with an almost gray cast. He looked like he was dying.

"Food," Alastor said firmly, helping Lucifer back to bed despite his weak protests. "Now. Before you get worse."

"I'll just throw it up again," Lucifer whispered, but his stomach was already cramping with hunger despite having just violently emptied itself.

"Perhaps. But we have to try."

The pattern revealed itself over the next few days. Lucifer would eat, keep food down for a few hours, then vomit violently. The crashes became more frequent, the healthy periods shorter. He'd swing from looking almost normal to corpse-like and back again multiple times a day.

His abdomen began to change in ways that went beyond the widened hips and narrowed waist.

A curve developed along his lower stomach. Subtle at first, easy to dismiss as bloating or weight fluctuation. But it persisted, grew more pronounced. His stomach, which had been flat or even slightly concave, now pressed outward in a gentle dome that started just below his navel.

Lucifer noticed it on the fifth day, when he was changing, from one set of duck pajamas to another, and caught sight of himself in the mirror.

The curve was unmistakable. His hand moved to it automatically, pressing against the firmness there. Not soft like fat. Solid. Unyielding. Something beneath the flesh that hadn't been there before.

"What is this?" he whispered, staring at his reflection in horror.

Three floors below, Baxter was having revelations.

The fresh blood samples from Niffty had provided extraordinary data. The HCG levels had increased dramatically—now measuring over 150,000 mIU/mL. The rate of increase mapped perfectly to a rapidly developing pregnancy, approximately five to six weeks now based on hormone concentration.

But more than that, Baxter had managed to isolate fetal cells from the blood sample.

Actual, distinct fetal genetic material circulating in Lucifer's bloodstream. Not just the hormones produced by pregnancy, but cells from the developing fetus itself. It was a phenomenon seen in human pregnancy—fetal cells crossing the placental barrier—but these were angelic cells. Glowing. Powerful. Extraordinary.

And they were multiplying in his cultures with frightening speed.

Baxter stared at his microscope, watching the cells divide and divide and divide, creating a growing population of pure angelic genetic material.

This was better than he'd hoped. Better than he'd dreamed.

He didn't need to wait for the pregnancy to conclude. He didn't need to extract the fetus. He had living, viable cells right here, right now, that he could culture indefinitely.

Clones. He could create clones from these cells. Grow them in artificial wombs he'd been developing for years. Raise a generation of angels under his complete control.

The implications were staggering.

But there was a problem.

Lucifer was deteriorating.

Baxter's calculations, based on the hormone levels and metabolic markers, suggested the pregnancy was consuming divine essence at an unsustainable rate. The crashes, the vomiting, the violent swings between health and illness—those were signs of a body cannibalizing itself to sustain the developing life inside it.

At this rate, Lucifer would be lucky to survive another month.

Maybe less.

The fetus was quite literally draining him to death.

Baxter should feel concerned about that. Should perhaps consider warning someone, offering assistance, doing something to help the King of Hell survive this ordeal.

But the truth was...

Lucifer's death would be convenient.

No one would question where the fetus went. No one would know it existed. Baxter could extract it at the moment of death, culture the tissue, create his clones without any interference.

And Alastor...

Alastor was clearly aware something was happening. The meticulous care, the constant observation, the documentation. But did he know about the pregnancy specifically? Did he understand what he was watching?

If he did, would he let Lucifer die?

Or would the Radio Demon intervene?

Baxter made notes, calculated timelines, prepared protocols.

And waited.

On the seventh day since he first woke up, Charlie visited again.

She took one look at her father—pale, gaunt, eyes sunken, the barely-visible curve of his lower abdomen beneath loose clothing—and her face crumpled.

"Dad, you look worse," she said, her voice breaking. "I thought you were getting better. Alastor said you were healing, but you look..."

"I'm fine," Lucifer lied automatically, even as his stomach cramped with nausea. "Just having a bad day. It comes and goes."

"Maybe we should call Auntie Bel," Charlie pressed, moving closer. Her hand found his, and Lucifer realized with a jolt how cold his own skin felt. "This isn't normal. You shouldn't still be this sick after all this time."

"No," Lucifer said quickly. Too quickly. "No, I'm managing. Alastor's taking care of everything. Right?" He looked desperately at the Radio Demon.

Alastor's smile never wavered. "Your father is experiencing some complications in his recovery, but nothing that requires emergency intervention. His condition fluctuates, yes, but he's maintaining overall stability."

It was technically true. And a complete lie at the same time.

Charlie looked between them uncertainly. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure," Lucifer said, squeezing her hand even though the effort made him dizzy. "Promise. Just need more time."

After she left, after the door closed and they were alone again, Alastor's expression shifted into something more serious.

"You're getting worse," he said flatly. "Not better. The cycles are accelerating. Whatever your body is doing, it's becoming more demanding, not less."

"I know," Lucifer whispered.

"Do you?" Alastor moved closer, his eyes intense. "Do you understand that if this continues, you might not survive it?"

Lucifer's hand moved unconsciously to his lower abdomen, to the curve that grew more prominent each day.

"Something's inside me," he said softly, voicing the fear he'd been carrying for days. "Isn't there? Something's growing. That's what all this is."

Alastor's silence was answer enough.

"What is it?" Lucifer's voice cracked. "What's happening to me?"

The Radio Demon regarded him for a long moment, spinning radio-dial eyes measuring, calculating how much to reveal.

"I have suspicions," he finally said. "But I need more time to be certain. More data. More—"

"Tell me," Lucifer demanded, fear making him bold. "I have a right to know what's happening to my own body."

Alastor's smile sharpened. "Do you? I wonder. After all, your body isn't consulting you about these changes, is it? It's simply doing what it needs to do, with or without your consent."

He leaned closer, close enough that Lucifer could smell sulfur and old radio tubes.

"But if I'm right about what I suspect," Alastor murmured, "then what's happening to you is more extraordinary than you can possibly imagine."

"And more dangerous," Lucifer added quietly.

"Yes." Alastor straightened, his expression unreadable. "Much more dangerous. For you, at least."

He turned toward the door.

"Eat. Rest. Try to keep something down. I'll be back with more food in three hours."

Then he was gone.

The flutter came without warning.

Lucifer was sitting on the edge of his bed, forcing down another meal despite the constant low-grade nausea, when he felt it. A sensation deep in his abdomen, just below where the curve had formed. Light, delicate, almost ticklish.

Like something moving.

His fork clattered to the plate. His hand flew to his stomach, pressing against the firm dome, waiting to see if he'd imagined it.

There. Again. A soft flutter, like butterfly wings against the inside of his abdominal wall.

"No," he whispered. "No no no—"

It happened again. Stronger this time. Undeniable. Something was moving inside him. Something alive.

Panic hit like ice water in his veins.

This wasn't just transformation. This wasn't just his body changing shape or structure. There was something in him. Something foreign. Something that moved and grew and fed on him like a—

"Parasite," he breathed, horror crystallizing into terrible certainty. "It's a parasite."

From Vox. It had to be from Vox. Something the overlord had implanted in him while he was trapped in that machine, some kind of demonic creature growing inside him, using him as an incubator, draining his power and his life to fuel its own development.

That explained everything. The hunger, the sickness, the crashes, the vomiting. His body trying desperately to fight off the invasion while the thing inside him consumed him from within.

The flutter came again, and Lucifer's breath caught in his throat.

It was killing him. This thing was killing him. And if he didn't get it out—if he didn't cut it out now—

He stood abruptly, the room tilting briefly before stabilizing. His eyes scanned frantically, looking for something, anything sharp enough to—

The kitchenette.

Alastor had been preparing food there earlier. There would be knives.

Lucifer stumbled toward it, his weakened legs barely supporting him. His hand clutched his abdomen where the movement was centered, as if he could somehow hold the thing still, keep it from spreading further.

His fingers found a paring knife in the drawer. Small, but sharp. The blade gleamed under the lamplight. Sharp enough. It would have to be enough.

He pulled up his shirt with shaking hands, exposing the pale curve of his lower abdomen. The skin there looked normal—no visible signs of the horror growing beneath. But he could feel it. Could feel that alien presence moving, living inside his body.

"Get out," he whispered to it, to the parasite, to whatever Vox had done to him. "Get out get out get out—"

The knife pressed against his skin, just below his navel. Right where the movement was strongest. One cut. Deep enough to reach it. He could pull it out, destroy it, be free of this nightmare.

His hand trembled. The sharp blade dimpled his skin, a thin line of white pressure.

Just one quick motion. Just—

"Dad?"

Lucifer's head snapped up. Charlie stood in the doorway, Vaggie just behind her. They must have come to visit. They'd knocked, he hadn't answered, they'd let themselves in and now—

Now they were staring at him with expressions of absolute horror.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Charlie's voice was small, scared, like she was trying not to spook a wild animal.

"There's something inside me," Lucifer said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. Too high, too desperate. "I have to get it out."

"Lucifer, put the knife down," Vaggie said sharply, her hand moving to her spear out of instinct. "Whatever you think is happening—"

"I'm not thinking anything!" The knife pressed harder. A bead of blood welled up where the point broke through. "There's something in my body! I can feel it moving! It's been killing me for weeks and I have to—I have to cut it out before—"

"DAD, NO!" Charlie lunged forward.

Lucifer jerked back, the knife still pressed against his skin, ready to cut deeper. "Stay back! You don't understand! There's a parasite—from the machine—Vox must have put something in me and it's growing and moving and I can feel it—"

"There's nothing inside you," Charlie said, but her voice shook. She took another careful step closer, hands raised placatingly. "You're sick, you're confused—"

"I'M NOT CONFUSED!" The scream tore from his throat, raw and desperate. "It MOVES, Charlie! Right here!" He pressed his free hand against the curve. "Something is alive inside my body and nobody believes me and it's killing me and I just want it OUT—"

His voice broke completely. Tears streamed down his face, hot and humiliating. The knife shook violently in his grip. "I felt it move," he sobbed. "Just now. I was eating and it moved inside me. Like something fluttering. And I know—I know—that's not normal. That shouldn't happen. My body shouldn't do that but it did and I'm so scared—"

"Okay," Charlie said softly, tears in her own eyes now. "Okay, Dad. I believe you felt something. But we need to figure out what it is before you hurt yourself. Please. Please put the knife down."

"Can't." Lucifer's grip tightened. "If I put it down, if I wait, it'll get stronger. It's already so much stronger than it was. Every day I get weaker and it gets stronger and soon there won't be anything left of me—"

"ALASTOR!" Vaggie's voice rang out. "Get in here NOW!"

Footsteps pounded in the hallway. The door banged open.

Alastor appeared, his perpetual smile dropping into something sharp and focused as he took in the scene. Lucifer against the wall, knife pressed to his abdomen, blood trickling down his skin. His eyes met Lucifer's, and for a moment something flickered in them. Recognition. Understanding. Confirmation of something he'd suspected.

Then his expression hardened into cold efficiency.

"Husker!" Alastor called over his shoulder. "I need you!"

"Now Lucifer," Alastor said, his voice dropping into something low and commanding. "Put down the knife."

"No." Lucifer's voice was barely above a whisper. "I have to get it out. There's something inside me. You've been watching me—you've seen the changes—you knowsomething's wrong—"

"I know you're going to seriously harm yourself if you don't put that knife down this instant." Alastor took a step closer. "Whatever you think you felt—"

"I didn't think anything! I FELT IT!" Lucifer's hand jerked, the knife pressing deeper. More blood. "It moved! Inside my body! Something that shouldn't be there, shouldn't be alive, shouldn't—"

He couldn't finish. Sobs wracked his body, making his hands shake, making the knife dance dangerously against his skin.

Husk appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with wide eyes. "What the fuck—"

"Restrain him," Alastor commanded. "Carefully. He's already cut himself."

They moved in tandem. Alastor lunged for Lucifer's knife hand while Husk grabbed his other arm. Lucifer tried to twist away, tried to pull free, tried to complete the cut that would end this nightmare.

"NO!" He thrashed wildly, all strength born of pure desperation. "Let me go! I have to—please—it's killing me—I can feel it killing me—"

Alastor's fingers closed around his wrist with bruising force, prying the knife away. Lucifer fought him, fought both of them, but he was so weak. His body had no strength left to give. Within seconds, Husk had him pinned against the wall while Alastor extracted the knife from his grip and tossed it across the room.

"No no no—" Lucifer sagged in their hold, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had come. "You don't understand. Something's wrong. Something's inside me. I felt it move. It shouldn't move. Nothing should move inside me but it did and—"

His words dissolved into incoherent sobs. His body shook with the force of them, years of terror and confusion and sickness pouring out all at once.

Charlie had her phone out, fingers shaking so badly she could barely dial. "I'm calling Auntie Bel. Right now. I don't care how long it takes her to get here, I don't care about anything except—"

"Charlie, no—" Lucifer tried weakly.

"Dad, you just tried to cut yourself open!" Charlie's voice cracked, thick with tears. "You think there's something inside you—you're talking about parasites and dying and you're so sick and I don't know what to do anymore—"

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Hello?" A slow, drowsy voice answered. "Charlie? Do you know what time it is in Sloth? I was sleeping and—"

"Auntie Bel!" Charlie's voice pitched high with panic. "I need you to come to the hotel. Right now. It's an absolute emergency. Dad trying to hurt himself—he has a knife and he’s going to…” he paused to caught her breath. “…he thinks there's something inside him and he's not making sense and he looks so sick and I'm so scared—"

The voice on the other end lost all its sleepiness immediately. "Is he in immediate danger right now?"

"Alastor and Husk are restraining him but he's fighting them and there's blood and—"

"Keep him restrained. Don't let him near any sharp objects. I'm leaving now. I'll be there in twenty minutes." The sound of rustling, rapid movement. "If he starts convulsing, loses consciousness, or the bleeding gets worse, call me back immediately. Otherwise, just keep him calm and contained until I arrive."

The call ended.

Charlie lowered the phone with shaking hands. "She's coming, Dad. Auntie Bel is coming. She'll figure out what's wrong. She'll help."

"There's something inside me," Lucifer whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. "I'm not crazy. I'm not imagining it. I felt it move. Right here." He tried to gesture to his abdomen but his arms were still pinned. "Please. You have to believe me."

"We believe you felt something," Vaggie said carefully, grabbing a towel and pressing it against the shallow cuts on Lucifer's stomach. "But that doesn't mean it's a parasite. Could be gas, could be muscle spasms, could be—"

"It's not gas." Lucifer's eyes were wild, desperate. "It's alive. I know the difference between gas and something alive moving inside my body."

Another flutter. Right there, unmistakable.

Lucifer's entire body jerked. "There! Did you feel that? It moved again! It's—"

"That was a muscle spasm," Alastor said firmly, though his eyes were locked on Lucifer's abdomen with laser focus. "Your abdominal muscles contracting involuntarily from stress."

"You're lying." Lucifer's voice dropped to something hollow, defeated. "You know something. You've been watching me for days, taking notes, measuring things. You know what this is and you're not telling me."

Alastor's expression remained impassive. "What I know is that you're in no state to perform amateur surgery on yourself. Belphegor will examine you properly. With actual medical equipment. And then we'll have answers."

"I don't want answers," Lucifer sobbed. "I want it OUT. Whatever it is, I want it out of my body. I want to feel normal again. I want to stop being sick and scared and hungry all the time. I want—"

His voice broke completely.

"I just want this to be over."

Charlie moved closer, taking his hand even though he was still pinned. "It will be. Auntie Bel will help. She'll make it better."

"Let's get him to the bed," Alastor said quietly to Husk. "Keep him restrained but comfortable. We'll need to watch him until Belphegor arrives."

They maneuvered Lucifer carefully away from the wall, supporting most of his weight as his legs threatened to give out entirely. Charlie hovered anxiously, one hand keeping pressure on the towel against his abdomen.

The cuts were shallow. Barely more than scratches. He hadn't had time to go deep.

But the fact that a normal steel blade was able to break Lucifer’s skin spoke volumes to his deteriorating health.

They positioned him on the bed, propped against pillows. Alastor kept one hand on his shoulder, Husk maintained his grip on Lucifer's wrist. Not painful, but firm. Unyielding.

"I'm not crazy," Lucifer whispered, staring at nothing. "I know what I felt."

"No one thinks you're crazy," Charlie said, but her voice shook with doubt she couldn't quite hide.

Lucifer's free hand moved to his abdomen again, pressing gently against the curve. Waiting for that flutter. Waiting for proof that he wasn't losing his mind.

There.

So subtle. So delicate.

But undeniably real.

"It's there," he breathed. "It's still there. Still moving."

Alastor's eyes narrowed fractionally. His hand on Lucifer's shoulder tightened just slightly.

And in that moment, Lucifer knew with absolute certainty:

Alastor knew exactly what was inside him.

Had probably known for days.

And had chosen to say nothing.

"You bastard," Lucifer whispered, meeting those radio-dial eyes. "You know. You've known all along."

Alastor's smile never wavered.

But he didn't deny it.

They sat in tense silence, waiting for Belphegor to arrive.

And deep in Lucifer's abdomen, something small and alive continued its delicate dance.

Growing stronger with every passing moment.

Chapter Text

The hour that passed felt like an eternity.

Lucifer fought them at first, tried to pull free from Husk's grip, tried to reach the knife that Vaggie had wisely kicked across the room and out of sight. But he had no strength. His body was already pushed far beyond its limits, running on nothing but panic and desperation.

"I need to get it out," he kept repeating, the words slurring together. "Need to—have to—please—"

Alastor moved toward Lucifer with practiced steadiness, but beneath his smile, tension crackled faintly in the air, warning of how tightly he was holding himself together. Lucifer was curled on the floor like a wounded animal, shaking violently, wings now out and seizing and smacking against the wall with ragged, uncontrolled spasms. His breaths were shallow, panicked, scraping out of him like something sharp.

Charlie hovered behind Alastor, wringing her hands so tightly they were white.
“Please,” she whispered. “He’s going to keep hurting himself! Just—just help him!”

Alastor didn’t bother reassuring her. The soft click of the pill bottle was enough.

He approached Lucifer carefully, lowering himself to one knee. Lucifer flinched the instant he sensed someone close, his entire body jerking like he expected a blow. Sweat slicked his temples; his teeth were clenched so hard the muscles of his jaw trembled with the effort.

“Lucifer,” Alastor said quietly, extending the pills in an open palm. “These will help.”

Lucifer turned his head away sharply, pressing his lips shut, refusing even the sight of them. A soft, broken sound escaped his throat—half whimper, half warning. His wings shuddered painfully, feathers twitching as each nerve ending screamed.

Charlie’s voice cracked behind them.
“Make him take them! Please!”

Alastor didn’t hesitate after that.

He leaned forward and slid a hand behind Lucifer’s head—not harsh, but firm enough to prevent him from recoiling. Lucifer tried anyway, heels scraping against the floor, breath hitching in panicked, uneven gasps.

“Don’t,” Lucifer rasped, barely audible. “Don’t touch me!”

Alastor ignored the plea. His fingers curled into Lucifer’s hair, steadying his head as he brought the pills to his lips.

Lucifer jerked, twisting, lips still sealed tight. He refused with everything he had left, even as fresh tears broke at the corners of his eyes from the intensity of his panic.

Alastor’s patience didn’t falter, but his tone did change—soft still, but edged with quiet command.
“Open your mouth.”

Lucifer refused again, shaking his head frantically.

So Alastor forced compliance. His hand, the one that had been holding his hair, was now at his jaw line, prying his teeth away by pushing his clawed finger tips into his cheeks, forcing his lower jaw to part.

Lucifer resisted as much as he could, even trying to summon any form of magic to his fingertips, but nothing was happening.

Alastor seized the opportunity to use his own magic, one of his shadow tendrils, to wrap around Lucifer’s head and pull him back.

His mouth now completely open.

In a quick moment, Alastor forced his fist into the king’s mouth, releasing the small but powerful pills deep down in his throat.

Lucifer gagged, choking, but Alastor pulled his hand back out and clamped the jaw shut with one hand. He lifted his chin with the other, holding it in the exact angle he needed. His grip was steady, immovable, indifferent to the way Lucifer trembled beneath it.

Lucifer’s throat convulsed once. Then again. He swallowed because he had no choice.

Only then did Alastor release his hold, though he kept his fingers pressed to Lucifer’s jaw. He brought the water glass to his lips, tipping it carefully.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Lucifer obeyed this time, water spilling from the corners of his mouth as he swallowed shakily. When Alastor drew the glass away, Lucifer sagged forward, trembling so violently that his wings quivered like they might collapse in on themselves.

“I didn’t…” he whispered, voice cracking painfully. “I didn’t want you to…”

Alastor’s smile returned—muted, thin, and worn around the edges. Uncharacteristically the deer pulled Lucifer close, making the smaller man lean against him, “But you needed the medicine,” he murmured.

The sedative was already beginning to take hold. Lucifer’s tension melted slowly, unwillingly, muscles giving way one by one until his body lost its fight. He listed sideways, and Alastor caught him before he could hit the ground completely.

Lucifer didn’t protest. He couldn’t. He simply slumped into Alastor’s arms, breath stuttering, glassy-eyed, and exhausted.

The effect was gradual. His thrashing slowed, then stopped. His breathing evened out. His eyes remained open but unfocused, the wild panic fading into something glassy and distant.

"Dad?" Charlie leaned closer, touching his face. "Can you hear me?"

"'s inside me," he mumbled, words thick and clumsy. "Felt it... moving..."

"I know, Dad. I know. Auntie Bel is coming. She'll figure it out."

Charlie kept her hand on his, and after a moment, she shifted position, her other hand moving hesitantly to rest on the curve of his lower abdomen. Just checking. Just trying to understand what he'd been so desperately trying to tell them.

She pressed gently, feeling the firmness there. Definitely not just bloating. Something solid beneath the skin. Her brow furrowed, and she was about to pull her hand away when—

Flutter.

Charlie gasped, her hand jerking back. "Oh my God."

"What?" Vaggie moved closer immediately. "What is it?"

"I felt—" Charlie's voice shook. "There was something. Like a twitch. Like..." She placed her hand back on Lucifer's abdomen, pressing more firmly, waiting.

There. Again. That delicate flutter against her palm.

"Something moved," Charlie whispered, her face going pale. "Dad was right. Something moved inside him."

Alastor's eyes locked onto her hand, his expression unreadable. "Muscle spasms are common with—"

"That wasn't a muscle spasm." Charlie's voice had an edge now, fear mixing with certainty. "I've felt muscle spasms. This was... different. Gentler. Like..." She couldn't find the words.

Vaggie placed her own hand on Lucifer's stomach, feeling for what Charlie had felt. They waited in tense silence.

The flutter came again, unmistakable now that they were paying attention.

"Jesus Christ," Vaggie breathed. "He was telling the truth."

"Where the hell is Belphegor?" Charlie pulled out her phone, ready to call again.

As if summoned, there was a knock at the door.

Belphegor looked exactly as one might expect the Queen of Sloth to look after being woken from sleep and forced to travel quickly: deeply annoyed.

She was taller than Lucifer, with a thin, build. Her hair was a messy tangle of light purple curls, and she wore what appeared to be pajamas under a hastily thrown-on medical coat. Dark circles under her eyes suggested this was her natural state. A large medical bag hung from one shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late," she said in a slow drawl that suggested she wasn't sorry at all. "Sloth Ring to Pride Ring isn't exactly a quick trip, and I had to grab my equipment." Her eyes scanned the room, landing on Lucifer sedated on the bed. "So. What's the emergency?"

"He tried to cut himself open," Charlie said, the words tumbling out rapidly. "He said there was something inside him—a parasite—and he had a knife and we had to restrain him and give him sedatives and Auntie Bel, I felt something. Inside him. Something moved."

Belphegor's expression shifted from annoyed to professionally attentive in an instant. "Something moved?"

"Like a flutter. Or a twitch. But not a muscle spasm. Something else." Charlie gestured helplessly. "I don't know how to describe it, but it felt wrong. Or not wrong but... unexpected."

"Alright." Belphegor set her bag down and began pulling out equipment. "Everyone except Charlie needs to leave. I need space to examine him."

"I'm staying," Alastor said immediately.

Belphegor fixed him with a flat stare. "You're not family. You're not medical personnel. You leave."

"I've been monitoring his condition for over the weeks. I have detailed notes on his symptoms, his progression, his—"

"Then you can give me those notes and go outside." Belphegor's voice remained slow and even, but there was steel beneath it. "Patient privacy. Medical ethics. Out."

For a moment, Alastor looked like he might argue. His smile strained, his eyes spinning faster. Then he smoothed his expression, nodded once, and pulled out his journal with all of his notes. “Please return this to me when you’re done, I rather like the texture of the paper inside of it,” he said and moved toward the door. "We'll be right outside," Alastor added, though it was unclear if he was speaking to Belphegor, Charlie, or the semi-conscious Lucifer.

Husk and Vaggie followed, though Vaggie cast one last concerned look at Charlie before the door closed.

Belphegor immediately moved to the bed, her hands gentle as she examined Lucifer. "Hey, Luci. Can you hear me?"

"Bel?" Lucifer's eyes struggled to focus. "When'd you get here?"

"Just now. Charlie called me. Said you were trying to perform surgery on yourself. Is that true?"

"Something inside," Lucifer mumbled. "Felt it. Moving. Need it out."

"We'll figure out what it is. First, let me look at these cuts." She peeled back the towel Charlie had been holding in place. The wounds were shallow but needed attention. "I'm going to stitch these up, okay? You'll feel some pressure but the muscle relaxants should keep the pain minimal."

She worked with practiced efficiency, cleaning the wounds, numbing the area, and placing precise sutures. Her hands moved slowly but with absolute competence—the kind of slow that came from being thorough rather than lazy.

As she worked, her hand rested on Lucifer's abdomen for leverage.

And then she paused.

Her eyes narrowed. She shifted her hand slightly, pressing more deliberately.

"Huh," she said softly.

"What?" Charlie leaned closer. "What is it?"

"There's definitely something here." Belphegor's hand moved in slow, methodical patterns across Lucifer's lower abdomen. "Firmness. Mass. And—" She pressed more specifically. "Definite movement. Not peristalsis. Not muscle spasms. Something else."

She finished the last stitch, then sat back. "I'm going to do an ultrasound. I brought my portable unit just in case. Charlie, help me set it up."

They worked quickly, pulling out the machine from Belphegor's oversized bag. It was small, compact, and designed for field work. She plugged it in, powered it up, and squeezed conducting gel onto Lucifer's exposed abdomen.

"This might feel cold," she warned, though Lucifer seemed barely aware of his surroundings.

The ultrasound wand pressed against his skin, and Belphegor's eyes fixed on the small screen. She moved it slowly, methodically, searching.

Charlie watched the screen anxiously, seeing nothing but gray shapes and shadows that meant nothing to her untrained eye.

Belphegor's hand stilled.

"Oh," she breathed.

"What?" Charlie grabbed her arm. "What do you see?"

Belphegor didn't answer immediately. She adjusted the wand, changed the angle, and zoomed in on something. Her expression cycled through surprise, confusion, and then settled into a professional assessment.

"Charlie," she said slowly. "I need you to listen very carefully and not panic."

"What is it? Is it a tumor? Is it something bad? Can you remove it?"

"It's not a tumor." Belphegor turned the screen so Charlie could see better. She pointed to a specific spot, a small shape in the center of the gray. "See that? That flickering?"

Charlie squinted. There was definitely something there. A rhythmic movement. Pulsing. "What is that?"

"A heartbeat." Belphegor's voice was carefully neutral. "Fetal heartbeat. Approximately 140 beats per minute. Based on the size and development, I'd estimate around ten to twelve weeks."

The words didn't compute at first. Charlie stared at the screen, at the flickering shape, trying to make sense of what she was being told.

"Fetal," she repeated slowly. "As in... a baby?"

"Yes."

"But that's—" Charlie looked from the screen to her father's sedated form. "That's impossible. He's male. Men can't—he can't be—"

"And yet." Belphegor gestured to the screen. "That is definitely a fetus. With a strong, healthy heartbeat. Growing in what appears to be a functional uterine environment."

Charlie's legs gave out. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, staring at her father with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Dad's pregnant," she whispered.

"Your dad is pregnant," Belphegor confirmed.

On the bed, Lucifer stirred slightly, his sedated mind catching fragments of the conversation. "Not parasite?" he mumbled.

"No, Luci. Not a parasite." Belphegor moved the wand again, getting different angles. "It's a baby. Your baby."

"Can't be." His voice was thick, confused. "Can't have... 'm not... body doesn't..."

"Your body apparently does now." Belphegor saved several images from the ultrasound, her movements were methodical. "Your internal structure has changed significantly. I'm seeing what looks like a fully formed uterus, placenta, and amniotic sac. Everything needed to sustain a pregnancy."

She turned to Charlie, her expression serious. "This explains everything. The hunger, the nausea, the vomiting, the body changes, the weakness. He's going through a pregnancy. An extremely accelerated, physically traumatic pregnancy, but a pregnancy nonetheless."

"How?" Charlie's voice cracked. "How is this even possible?"

"I don't know." Belphegor continued her examination, checking other areas with the ultrasound. "Angelic biology is tricky. Divine beings can do things that shouldn't be possible. But I've never seen or heard of anything like this. Spontaneous development of reproductive structures." She shook her head slowly and took a look through Alastor’s notes. She was impressed by how organized it was and how neat his handwriting was compared to the scribbles she’d used to reading in Sloth. "This is unprecedented."

"Is he going to be okay?" Charlie grabbed her aunt's arm. "Can he survive this?"

Belphegor was quiet for a long moment, studying the ultrasound images. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "His body is under immense strain. According to these notes and even just a cursory look at your father, the pregnancy is demanding more resources than he can sustainably provide. The fetus is draining his divine essence faster than he can regenerate it."

She zoomed in on the fetus, measuring, assessing. "The baby appears healthy. Strong heartbeat, good development. But Lucifer..." She gestured to his gaunt form. "He's being consumed by this. If it continues at this rate, I'm not sure he'll make it to full term."

"Then we have to stop it," Charlie said immediately. "Remove it. Surgically. Whatever we have to do to—"

"That might kill him too." Belphegor's voice was gentle but firm. "His body has restructured around this pregnancy. The placenta is connected to major blood vessels. The uterus is integrated with his existing organs. Attempting removal at this stage could cause catastrophic hemorrhaging or organ failure."

"So we just let him die?" Charlie's voice rose, panic edging in.

"I didn't say that." Belphegor powered down the ultrasound. "But we need to be very careful. Support him as best we can, try to get him to a full term or at least a viable extraction point. Keep him fed, hydrated, and monitored. And figure out how the hell this happened so maybe we can understand how to manage it better."

She turned back to Lucifer, who was watching them with glassy, unfocused eyes.

"Luci, did you hear what I said? You're pregnant. A baby is growing inside you. That's what you felt moving. Not a parasite. A child."

Lucifer blinked slowly, processing through the sedative fog. His hand moved weakly to his abdomen, pressing against the curve.

"Baby?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Mine?"

"Appears to be. The DNA will be half yours, of course as the biological mother, though we'll need to run tests to be certain."

Lucifer's eyes drifted closed. A single tear tracked down his temple. "Not dying?"

"The baby's not dying. Perfectly healthy." Belphegor's expression softened. "But you need to stop trying to cut it out. You need to rest, eat, let your body do what it's trying to do."

"Trying to kill me," Lucifer mumbled.

"Trying to create life," Belphegor corrected gently. "Sometimes those things feel the same."

Charlie moved closer, taking her father's hand. "Dad, you're going to have a baby. I'm going to have a... a sibling."

"Shouldn't be possible." His words were slurring more as the sedative dragged him deeper. "Male. Can't..."

"You're not entirely male anymore," Belphegor said matter-of-factly. "Your body has changed significantly. Developed the structures necessary for pregnancy. I don't know how or why, but it has."

Lucifer's eyes opened one more time, finding Belphegor's face. "Going to die?"

She was quiet for a moment, weighing honesty against comfort. "Not if I can help it. But Luci, you need to fight. You need to eat, rest, and let us help you. Can you do that?"

"Tired," he whispered. "So tired."

"I know. Sleep now. We'll figure the rest out."

His eyes slipped closed, and within moments, his breathing deepened into actual sleep.

Belphegor turned to Charlie, her expression grave. "We need to tell him everything when he's more coherent. He needs to understand what's happening, make informed decisions about how to proceed."

"And we need to tell everyone else," Charlie said quietly. "Alastor's been watching him constantly. He might already know."

"Then we need to make sure he well informed on the situation so he can help when I’m not here. ." Belphegor began packing up her equipment. "This is delicate. Dangerous. And absolutely unprecedented. Your father needs protection, medical care, and support."

She fixed Charlie with a serious look. "Can you make sure he gets that?"

Charlie nodded, her jaw set with determination. "I'll make sure."

Outside the door, pressed against the wall just beyond where they could see, Alastor listened to every word.

His smile widened slowly.

A baby.

Not a parasite.

Not a tumor.

Not a transformation complication.

A baby.

Growing inside the King of Hell.

This was far, far more interesting than he'd imagined.

And infinitely more valuable.

His shadow rippled across the hallway floor, stretching toward the door, eager and hungry.

“Mine,” it seemed to whisper. “Mine to watch. Mine to document. Mine to control.”

And deep in a laboratory three floors below, Baxter stared at his cultures, at his data, at his calculations.

And smiled.

Because now he had confirmation.

Now he had proof.

And now, he just had to wait.