༝ ── Lucifer hadn't planned on cooking that morning.
After a night spent half trying to sleep and half battling nightmares when it finally came, all he wanted was a mug of something sinfully caffeinated and to retreat into his delightfully ducky-dominated domain before anyone could rope him into doing anything.
Unfortunately, Charlie had cornered him.
She’d done it with that look — the one that was all hopeful determination and just a hint of panic — explaining how the open house was meant to be welcoming, how food made sinners feel cared for, how she’d meant to ask Alastor but he’d apparently gone missing and time was running out and -
❝Whoakay, honey! Don't sweat it,❞ he'd replied quickly, hands up in surrender. He couldn't say no to that face. ❝Your old man's on it, don't you fret.❞
That did the trick. She’d looped her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek without hesitation, and chirped a cheerful, ❝Thanks, Dad. Love you!❞
He went soft on the spot watching her skip away, and, just as quickly, a stubborn determination bubbled up from somewhere deep within. He would not, could not, let her down.
He was whistling to himself, halfway through conjuring a perfectly balanced menu in his head — something charming, something comforting, something that would make Charlie beam like he’d personally hung the stars again — when the communal kitchen came into view and immediately crushed his optimism.
He found himself staring in muted horror at the state of the cookware. ❝…I built this place,❞ he muttered, lifting a pan that wobbled ominously. ❝How in the unholy Hell did it come to this?❞
Even as the rhetorical question left his mouth, the answer clicked into place: sinners. This was the sort of thing that happened when you invited random, sick people off the street into your home and handed them everything. He shook his head, tsking, and set the pan down.
He walked deeper in, and the smell of butter and oil assaulted his nostrils.
Lucifer turned to look for the source, and there stood Alastor, knife in hand, looking like he'd been personally assaulted by the potato like root vegetables he'd been peeling.
Lucifer’s mouth instantly curled into a wicked smirk, amusement blooming.
❝Well well well,❞ he drawled, stepping closer, eyes flicking over the sad knife, the pan, the potatoes, ❝so this is where you slunk off to.❞
He leaned both elbows on the counter and propped his chin in his hands, one boot hooked lazily over the other behind him, looking far too relaxed for someone intruding on the Radio Demon’s meal preparations.
❝Don’t worry,❞ he said, smugly. ❝You’re off the hook for the open house. Charlie sent me, aka someone capable, to handle the catering. So you’re free to get back to… whatever weird little things you do when no one’s watching.❞
Without waiting for a response, he pushed away from the counter and turned his back on him, snapping his fingers. A pan that was in noticeably better shape than the rest slipped from a nearby cupboard, settled neatly onto the stove, and flared to life with heat beneath it.
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