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comradekatara · 3 months

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Any fun Aang facts/ headcanons/ thoughts?

i don’t know if this is exactly fun but i think a lot about aang coping the first couple years after the end of the war. like i think on a spectrum of “the war is over and im so happy!!” to “suddenly thrust into a leadership position that is uniquely isolating and horrible,” aang perhaps isn’t struggling as much as the new firelord, but it’s a close thing.

i think katara would be the one who is happiest out of all of the gaang, since the war being over relieves this huge weight off her shoulders and she also gets to do the fulfilling work of rebuilding her tribe and finally being able to live up the potential she’s always imagined for herself, being able to preserve and pass on her heritage to a hopeful new generation. (that isn’t to say that she isn’t traveling the world with aang, trying to mitigate the damage caused by the war, but she would go back home as soon as possible. she needs to see gran gran!!!) there’s a sense of pride and satisfaction and joy to her role in this world that cannot be denied.

suki is in a similar position, where as the leader of the kyoshi warriors, her reunion with her sisters and their return to kyoshi island would be triumphant and joyous, and she gets to participate in the process of teaching a new generation of warriors, passing on her traditions and using her skillset to help people elsewhere. but then there’s also the lingering, nagging memory of being alone in a maximum security prison, and that trauma isn’t something one just gets over…

i see toph, more than anyone, spending the most time with zuko in the fire nation. she understands what it’s like to be alone, and she’d rather be with her family than her biological parents. i think she does visit them, but it doesn’t go well. toph may be incredibly sharp and mature for her age, but she is still just a kid, and the fact that her father will continue to reject her his entire life is a great wound, as much as she could flippantly deny it. but zuko understands what that’s like more than anyone, so being able to help him helps her through her own pain. even if zuko is a dick about it (although i think she stubbornly forces him to acknowledge her pain at some point instead of just outright dismissing her like he did on ember island), it’s a symbiotic relationship in its own way. i mean, he could definitely use a human lie detector.

sokka is like all over the place. i don’t know man he’s too complicated to sum up in one little paragraph. but yeah let’s just say the war ending doesn’t automatically Heal him and Solve his copious Issues. because it does solve some things but it also causes other problems. new problems even. but i already sort of talk about that here so let’s just move that for now.

and then of course zuko being crowned boy king of racist nation is like… not great. it works for thematic/symbolic/narrative reasons, of course, but realistically. it's a struggle! so, like i said, i think toph would stick by his side, and i think aang spends a lot of time in fire nation as well, and sokka as much as possible (NOT because he loves zuko, but because he thinks zuko is very stupid and he’s the world’s biggest control freak so if he doesn’t micromanage everything he’ll feel like it’s his fault if anything goes wrong). but iroh is…. not there. his best friend katara (i said what i said) is in the south pole or traveling the world or anywhere but Here. azula is. broken?? the world?? is broken?? and he (famously a fuck-up) is supposed to fix it???? poor kid.

anyway. this is all preamble to contextualize what can only be described as The Worst Puberty Anyone’s Ever Had. okay here’s a bonus fun headcanon: aang is born in october! i say this because he’s the most libra to ever do it (i don’t know shit about astrology but i do know that). so for the entire run of the show (from winter to summer) he is twelve years old. i don’t know if you’ve been around any twelve year old boys recently (not to brag, but i have), but they are Going Through It. and that’s the average twelve year old, not even including the shocking temporal displacement and being the sole survivor of a genocide and shouldering the burden of the whole fucking world and knowing that an entire country full of people want you dead.

the fact that aang maintains his childlike wonder and sweetness for the most part means that it’s going to hit him like a truck once the war ends and he finally has a chance to focus on himself. we see the early stages of puberty affecting him in terms of how he behaves around katara, the change between his book one kiddie crush and his book three confusion and intensity. but it’s more than just burgeoning sexuality. he wakes up, is informed that he’s been stuck in an iceberg for a century, that everyone he ever knew with the exception of appa and bumi are dead due to a genocide, and that it’s his responsibility to end the war. and the rest of the show is him trying to step into that duty and finally becoming the kind of person the world needs him to be. and now… it’s over.

on one hand, there’s that overwhelming sense of relief. he did it. he successfully prevented yet another genocide, stopped the war, and did it all without compromising his values. his new friends (his new family) are all alive and safe and now can rebuild the world together. they can rest and have fun and be kids. and that’s what aang is celebrating in the finale when he looks at all of them and smiles, when he hugs katara in acknowledgement of how far they’ve come. aang is incredibly strong and resilient, and it’s a strength that comes from a place of genuine love and understanding. he was taught good values as a kid, values that have guided him through the most unimaginable of tragedies. but he’s not perfect. no one is.

no one can prevent the oncoming swirl of hormones and trauma and second-guessing that is about to hit aang once it finally occurs to him that the purpose he has been fighting for ever since his entire life changed is now over, basically, and he has to figure out what it means to be alive outside of one sole, defining goal. as anne carson said in red doc>, “to live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.” as jp sartre said in la nausée, “i outlive myself” (specifically, anny says it to roquentin). what is aang doing if not ouliving himself? had he lived a normal lifespan that hadn’t been disrupted by a spiritually imposed stasis, he probably would’ve been dead by now (long dead, if we can assume that his death in lok is by natural causes). and his myth, his grand destiny of stopping the war and once more carving out a space for his people in this brave new world? well, he did it. accomplished it with flying colors. now it’s over. now he is a perilous thing.

as i alluded to before, i think the only person who can really truly empathize with aang’s situation is sokka. sokka, too, has survived beyond any point he imagined. he has built his entire identity around being a shield, and now that the war is over, his ability to protect others from immediate threats and sacrifice himself for a cause has been ripped away from him. he now has to forge an identity beyond reducing himself to a soldier, in a fundamentally unfamiliar world. sokka was shaped by war, and yet he lived past it, past the end of his myth. aang’s world is now also unfamiliar, not solely because the war is over, but because the war is over and yet he is still alone. he did it, he saved the day, and yet what is his reward? he saved a lot of people, but none of his people. he can never go home again.

aang and sokka’s role as foils is something i want to write about more because i do find it truly fascinating, but in these terms i think we can also read their psychological states postwar as a sort of reciprocal dynamic. i’ve spoken in the past about how in a postwar reconstruction landscape, sokka would do a lot of the administrative work that aang cannot. not only because aang is literally twelve, but because aang cannot focus all his attention on this world when he is also its only real tether to the past. so sokka would make room for aang to focus on being the last airbender by sort of taking on the mantle of pseudo-avatar. solely in the most bureaucratic sense of the title, of course, but that would be the role that sustains and (somewhat) fulfills him after the war. and i think aang would be grateful for that, but he’d also be somewhat resentful?? not of sokka (aang is too emotionally mature for that, plus he respects sokka too much), but he’d definitely resent himself. think about how guilty and shameful he feels whenever he feels like he’s let the world down due to factors beyond his control. and so the fact that sokka is doing so much of what aang himself should be doing because he’s too busy being defined by his status as a genocide survivor… well, it might make him angry. he might lash out. and we’ve seen him frustrated, volatile, and emotionally confused. it’s not pretty.

i know that we all only want the best for aang and want him to be happy and thriving after the war because he’s such a perfect kid who deserves the world, but realistically, i do think there would be a period where he’s kind of hard to be around. not only because that’s just something that happens to all adorable baby boys once they turn thirteen (i, for one, learned this lesson extremely painfully), but because he’s dealing with a lot and the only person who even remotely understands what he’s going through is also the most emotionally repressed guy he knows.

throughout atla, he never allows himself a moment to just stop and feel, because the depth of his grief is actually scary and incredibly difficult to confront. but i think if he did ever allow himself to feel, he might never stop. he might, in fact, spend a month or so curled up in blankets in bed eating nothing but bean curd puffs and shutting out everyone but momo. i actually think that’s more realistic than him immediately entering a perfect relationship with katara and being highschool sweethearts and popping out three kids. and frankly, i think going through that kind of depression now that he no longer has any pressing responsibilities also happens to be something he’s earned. he’s been pushing down his grief, ignoring it, distracting himself from it, this whole time. it’s time he finally lets himself feel.

on a happier note, i like thinking about aang and suki getting closer after the war (or even being close offscreen during the show, like on ember island). i like to think that suki can act as a sort of cool big sister figure to aang, who has suffered just enough that she can empathize with his pain, but isn’t too close to the situation (like fellow genocide survivors katara and sokka, or genocide perperators’ direct descendants, like zuko) that she can still discuss it with him without bringing her own baggage into the fore. she’s very good at giving direct, no-bullshit advice in a nonetheless kind and compassionate way, and she’s also very good at joking around and knowing how to let loose and have fun in a way aang appreciates. she also really admires and highly values the role of the avatar in the world, and she also admires and cherishes aang as a person, so i think she could give him that kind of measured encouragement that aang really needs to hear.

obviously katara has done this for aang a lot in the past, and i’m not saying she wouldn’t also continue to be a shoulder for aang to lean on, because no matter how much he may try to push her away, she will always be there for him, but i think suki also sort of provides a necessary detachment where he isn’t bogged down by any romantic feelings for her and she isn’t bogged down by her own all too similar trauma the way katara is. suki has people to help her work through her own trauma (sokka, her sisters, etc.) so aang doesn’t need to reciprocate. she’s just happy to be there for her surrogate baby bro who needs her. she’ll serve the avatar in any way she can, whether by becoming a kyoshi warrior, by sacrificing herself to free his bison, or by just chilling with him in bed while he rants about his impossible situation and cries on her shoulder.

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zensations35 · 1 month

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Watch My Back (Haz/bin)

WELP I didn't think I'd be whumping the short king before my deer boi but HERE WE ARE. I blame @instarsandcrime for my newfound simping after this absolute disaster of a man 🥵🥵🥵 and this got INDULGENT LET ME TELL YOU. Now, enjoy this fic based on a prompt by my aforementioned friend, where Alastor plays bodyguard to Lucifer and finds out Mr. Silly has a holy wound (and then unFoRtuNatELy gets whumped by the author). ;)

“Must I?”

Charlie gazes dolefully up at the Radio Demon, hands clasped in what some people (not Alastor of course) would call prayer.

“Pleeeease, Alastor?” she begs. She doesn’t ask for a lot, but this request seems…well. Strange. Really? A bodyguard for her father? Fathomless.

He sighs, bandwidth crackling. “Very well, though I really don’t see the necessity for it. Your father is quite capable of taking care of himself, you know.”

Behind them, Lucifer picks up a glass trinket between two sharp fingers to examine it, his mouth crooked and casual. As if connected to it by a wire, Niffty’s crimson hair stands on end. She all but teleports to Lucifer, startling him so suddenly, he drops the trinket, shattering it so it’s shards fan across the hard floor.

“Noooo!” Niffty bursts into tears, her tiny arms scrabbling to scoop up the pieces. “My new boyfriend got me that!” she wails.

Alastor hums. “On second thought, perhaps he could no sooner care for himself than tie his own shoelaces.”

Charlie resists the urge to smack him. “Alastor, you have to be nice.”

“Mm~ I’ve already agreed to help you. Let’s not push the limits of my capabilities.”

Charlie hurries off to give the news to her father while Alastor swaggers toward an empty table propped flush against a wall. Niffty hadn’t finished decorating this one, but Alastor has quite the idea for it anyway. He was just fluffing the long white petals when the pouting visionary of Hell stomps over.

His gaze crawls over the perennial plant and he scowls harder. “What are these?”

“Lilies! Aren’t they swell? I thought you’d appreciate some charm during your stay, oh esteemed one,” Alastor’s voice is sticky with sarcasm.

Lucifer scowls at the sadistically named plant. He sucks on his lips and Alastor suppresses a chuckle.

“Are you displeased, sir?”

“Hm, what?” Lucifer blinks out of his wayward thought. “No, of course not,” he thumps his cane on the plush carpet. “Do whatever. I don’t c--hiih!”

Lucifer jerks away, eyes pinched. He dips down with a strange, “IkPFShw!” The jerk of his limbs strikes a bronze anteater figurine and, again, sends the trinket crashing to the floor to break into pieces.

“NOOO!” Niffty screeches, flying to its rescue. “My other boyfriend made that for me!”

Lucifer’s fingers squeeze his moist cheeks and he sniffles thickly. “I…I do apologize, little one. I--”

She rears back and kicks him in the ankle. “You’re the wrong kind of bad boy!”

Lucifer grunts as she skitters away with the pieces tucked into the balloon of her apron.

Alastor smothers a snicker at his expense, antlers lengthening just a tick.

“Well,” Lucifer draws the word out, adjusting his crooked bowtie, ignoring the flush in his own cheeks. “I have errands to run--”

Charlie suddenly appears in the doorway as if the word ‘errands’ manifested her.

“You’re leaving?”

Lucifer’s lip forms a triangular frown. “I, uh,” his cheek feathers, “Sweetie, I have to make appearances now that I’m not…”

“Self isolating for years on end, with only negative self talk as your social activity, and trying to get through it by throwing yourself whole ass into repetitive passion projects that seem fulfilling at the time but end up not meeting your expectations just like your own self image?” Angel calls from the bar.

Everyone stares at the puffy porn star. Husk rolls up a newspaper and smacks him hard upside the head.

“Ow!”

Lucifer scratches his jaw anxiously. “Uh, yeah. That.”

Charlie masks her disappointment with a glimmering smile. “Well! I’m sure that will be a great bonding exercise for you and Alastor!”

The two men exchange wilted looks.

“Sshhhhhure sweetie!” Lucifer faux beams. He straightens his tophat and pats his thigh at Alastor as if coaxing a dog. “Come on attendant. Pip pip!”

Alastor’s teeth grind, smoke trailing as he follows behind the shorter King.

“Have fun!” Charlie waves her whole arm after them, fangs flashing in her winning smile. “Make good choices!!”

The bar Lucifer goes to is on the edge of the pentagram. The outside is brown brick partially crumbling but held together with thick, gristly magic. A scarred bouncer with gills and an oval mouth allows them in without a word.

Inside, the music is surprisingly tolerable. No thumps and booms, no bleats and drops like clubs Vox would have dragged Alastor to.

It’s…refreshing.

Lucifer makes a beeline for a corner clear of furniture but thick with an assortment of hellborn rulers and a few overlords. He must be making those appearances…

To Alastor’s right, a sinner catches his eye. A silver-haired demon with long rabbit ears and a plaited braid. Her features are guarded and soft with youth. She holds an empty glass, bone dry. A purple nail taps the rim, her eyes fixed on the bottom but not really seeing it.

Alastor pauses at the young woman, fingers curling tightly around his cane. The youth’s dull eyes flick to his and her soul bares for a fleeting moment.

Fear. Abuse. Mangled by hands more powerful and more able-bodied than she.

Alastor feels his blood ignite, his fangs sharpen with desire for vengeance.

The youth flinches, reacting to Alastor’s anger, not knowing the cause.

A faraway sound skirts the edge of his rage, strangely familiar, a twisting of lips and grating throat.

The sound snaps Alastor’s rage into shards and he blinks himself back into the noise around him. He circles toward the bar, moseying his way through the greasy crowd and leans in to hum statickly at the barkeep.

“Serve that young woman anything she wishes,” he gestures to the silver haired sinner.

The barkeep grunts, “She's gonna wait her turn.”

The Radio Demon growls, his height and timbre climbing several inches. “Apologies…I was not clear.” His claws cut jagged lines into the wooden counter. “I meant Ń̷̤̫̎̄̽͆̈̏͐͜O̶̭͂̃͑̚W̶̧̡͙͍̊́͆̾̚͠”

The barkeep swallows and nods. And moves to obey.

Now, where the fuck is his highness?

Lucifer has buried himself in the cloud of sinners and hellborn. Alastor doesn’t recognize some of them. He doesn’t move in those circles--not for lack of trying.

They’re chittering away like warbling fowls.

‘So and so! Good to see you!’

‘It’s been too long!’

‘How are things on your side of the pit?;

‘Still tormenting in the ancient methods?’

‘Have you seen the big guy in charge?’

‘Oh he’s still jacking off to his thunderbolts AH HAH HAAA’

Dreadfully boring.

One of the more vibrant hellborn cracks a joke and Lucifer tosses his head back in laughter. It sounds fake as fuck.

Something slips under Alastor’s foot, giving him pause. It’s the scent--something venerated and familiar...

He looks down and sees a spatter of gold dotting the grimy tile, with a larger puddle at the tip of his shoe.

Curious, Alastor taps his cane to the floor, leveraging himself so he can kneel. He bends low enough to dip a claw over the silken, rippling surface.

As soon as his skin warms with the liquid, his nerves purr. The buzz tingles up his body and he shivers violently.

His throat crackles, “Hvv٨ﮩSH٨ـﮩZh!”

Smoke mists from him and he wrenches away from the puddle, wiping his hand on the end of his coat. Hmph. A strange enigma…

His ears twitch, picking up another trill of laughter from the gaggle surrounding Lucifer. How long is he going to put up this farce?

Alastor watches the king of Hell intently and recognizes uneasiness in his firelit eyes. Definitely a veneer, batting away personal inquiries and distracting with jokes or redirecting by asking after the speaker.

Oh, clever bitch he thinks he is. Alastor sees right through him. The Radio Demon hones in on the audio, intent now on eavesdropping.

“...majesty,” a thatchy demon gurgles, boisterously laughing along with a large forked claw grasping his square belly. “How’s the wife?”

Lucifer’s smile slips, brief, and the gleam in his eyes dim. “Oh, fine, fine. Beautiful as ever, of course. And how is your partner? Are you still dating the Y2K virus?”

The square demon barks a laugh. “Oh, no no no. We broke up ages ago. Toxic as fuck. Noooo, I’m dating Vine now. You wouldn’t believe the cosplay sex--”

Lucifer slaps his chest and gasps. “Vine died??”

Alastor groans. What the fuck are they talking about?

Lucifer suddenly makes a jerking motion, mirrored by a violent squeak. Alastor’s heart races when he sees the King wince and bend in what looks to be a pained twist.

Fuck! Is he actually being attacked? Alastor vanishes in a cloud of spindly shadow, reappearing next to Lucifer and spurring shocked gasps from a few of the rulers in the group.

“Your highness,” the Radio Demon titters, with as much respect as he can fucking muster.

“H-hgxPST!” Lucifer’s raspy sneeze bursts into a squeezed fist, startling Alastor, who hesitates his next sentence.

Was he wrong? Did he overreact and now he came to Lucifer’s rescue over…a fucking sneeze? Rrrgh. Shame sharpens his claws around his microphone and anger shortly follows. How does this asshole even sneeze without a nose??

Lucifer scrubs his face with his palm and lets out a ridiculous whoop.

“Hooo! Sorry about that! Didn’t mean to scare ya, buddy,” he jabs Alastor with his elbow as if they were best friends. Alastor’s teeth powder with the effort of restraint.

“No worries your hig̵͐h̶̘̕n̴̡̕e̴s̵͛٨ـs.” his smile climbs nearly into his eyes. “I am here to serve.” He hooks his arm under Lucifer’s, linking elbows so the King cannot escape and dragging him away, ignoring the startled protests of the shorter man.

Alastor stops when he arrives at the golden droplets and releases Lucifer before tapping his cane on the floor. “Have you seen this?” he asks, cracking his neck to the side inquisitively.

Lucifer rubs his finger over his chin and hrms.

“Ah, well,” he shrugs, barely looking at Alastor, “Someone must have spilled ambrosia I suppose.”

Alastor’s brows shoot up. “Ambrosia? What, may I ask, is that?”

He didn’t think it was possible for someone so ceramically pale to whiten further, but Lucifer seems to do just that. “Ahhhmmm, nevermind…” Lucifer’s fingers brush the hem of his suit and his face crimps. He clears his throat and slithers away.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?”

Alastor scoffs. Even if he might have been wrong about the sneeze, there’s a chance he isn’t. And his gut is telling him something’s amiss. He’s not about to let this asshole swan off alone. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I was charged with your care, your grace. I have a duty, you see~”

Lucifer’s eyebrow twitches, annoyance painting his face with a flush. “I assure you, I can use the fucking restroom by myself,” he gives a fangy smirk.

“In a dump like this?”

“Alastor, leave me the fuck. Alone.”

Before Alastor can press further, Lucifer does indeed swan off. The door to the restroom clips shut, separating him from the King.

What a dramatic wretch. Well, a door won’t stop a demon. A clattering rap with the back of Alastor’s hand causes a thump from within followed by a vexed, “Occupied!”

“Obviously. Yet I am entering regardless.” Alastor grips the warm knob. It rattles, hinges reisting as Lucifer’s protests grow increasingly less convincing.

“I’m--hhh! I’m fi--Ihh! Hii! XSH! Ehk’SHHh-HieWW!”

Yeah fucking right. Alastor better fucking get in there or Charlie will have a field day with rainbow sprinkles.

A flurry of sound, thudding and grunts of…is he in pain? God dammit! Miserablefuckingcocksuckingpieceof--

Finally the door wrenches open. Alastor wades inside and a wash of humid air hits his skin, making him cringe. Lucifer is bent over the white marble sink, heaps of tan paper towels littering the counter, some having fluttered around his feet dark and anointed with a glittering substance.

His face is currently wrapped in the crook of his elbow and his shoulders shudder with heaving breaths, “IX’SHWW! HF’pSHW!” His sleeve absorbs most of the sound but it still sounds truly dreadful, “Nghh…”

Alastor grumbles disapprovingly, “I am starting to suspect you’re lying, sir.”

Lucifer’s hat lies to the side, top down and limp, as well as his cane. A clawed hand grips the sawed edge of the counter, the King holding himself steady as he shakes with the effort of his labored breaths.

“I told you,” his voice is low and serious now, no hint of his playful kinder. “To stay. Out.” Something drips on the tile next to him. The same liquid Alastor saw before--raw, angelic blood.

“So you did take a blade.”

Lucifer growls, moving his hand to cover the wound, but all he ends up doing is smearing his clothes slick with the gleaming fluid.

Alastor tuts, “You should have told me, you know.” He sets his cane against the wall and moves closer to Lucifer, stretching his arm out toward the injured side.

Lucifer lashes out, grasping his wrist with his free hand, “Don’t.”

The Radio Demon pauses, staring into his haunted eyes.

“The blood will…affect you.”

“A-hah! You think I care?”

“I think you put yourself first. I think you’d love to see me wither here if it keeps your pompous ass safe.”

Alastor grimaces and yanks away from his weak grasp. In an electric snap, Lucifer’s shirt is bunched in his fist and he is pulling the King in close. He speaks in static, voice measured and quicksilver cruel.

“Your assumption that I have an agenda would be correct, m̴y̶ ̷͋K̸i̴ng̶̈͗. And it does not involve you dying.”

Lucifer’s chest inflates but he doesn’t retaliate.

Alastor releases Lucifer, features retracting with his mood. “Now, let’s see this wound.”

“There’s nothing you can do for it,” Lucifer mutters as he painfully shirks his jacket.

“Your capacity for being misguided is astounding,” Alastor drums his fingers on the counter, claws clacking. “Show me.”

The jacket falls to the floor and the wound is fully revealed: twin slashes crisscrossing his side, a glossy expanse of wounds just below his left rib.

“And these wounds cause you to…?”

Lucifer massages the circle of his cheek with a sigh, “I’m just…not handling it well.”

“You’re pushing yourself.”

“Not…not so much--I--” his face falls and air corckscrews through his teeth, “Ng-Eh’KPSH!! EiiSHH-iieuww!”

His wound flares bright with the gilded liquid and Alastor seals his lids against the blinding light.

“Alright,” Alastor moves closer, positioning himself to spread his hands above the slit of seeping light. Lucifer watches with interest as the Radio Demon’s eyes gleam black like the shells of tiny beetles. Runes pop and fizzle over the glowing shreds.

Lucifer’s eyes widen as he watches the runes morph and vellicate. “What magic--”

“Quiet.”

“But, those runes. I know--”

“I said silence٨ـ.”

“No, Alastor. Where the fuck--”

Alastor wrenches back, magic dissipating, but his eyes remain inky with rage. His fist slams against the wall, cracking a line in the frail plaster. “You and I both know your idiot act is just that! An act. You know exactly what I can do, so stay still and quit prattling.”

The lilies.

Lucifer’s lips guppy open and closed. “Your deal. It was…”

Alastor grunts, frustration rippling the bandwidth of his voice. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you don’t want to be healed.”

He pushes his own sleeves up to the bend of his elbows, anchoring them to his forearms. Then, he pinches the hem of his pinstripe coat and tears it in a full around strip. His pupils float toward the King’s body, hesitant. Static clings to the air as he nears the wound.

Lucifer flinches instinctively. “I’m warning you, it will--”

“Affect me, yes yes. I’ve touched angel blood before.”

“I’m an archangel, Alastor.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. Will he just shut the fuck up already?

The Radio Demon presses the cloth against the holy wound, adhering it instantly. Lucifer’s skin is hot like a freshly lit fire. Alastor feels the effect of the pale poison straightaway. He clamps his jaw, brow creasing as his skin beads with sweat.

Lucifer winces, claws carving slits into the counter. As Alastor works the strip around his midsection, his teeth grind against the shudders of breath battling in his throat.

“Your hands are shaking.”

“Shut ũ̷̼͆̇͑̈̄́́̏̉̚̕͝͝ͅp̴̰̪͎̲̲̗͎͝. Alastor’s voice crackles.

Lucifer's lip wobbles. “Hvvv-nn!” a hiss of indrawn air.

“Don’t do that now.”

“It’s not my hhhih choice!”

“Can’t you just--”

“He-eih KSHHieeψ!” The filaments buzz within the light bulbs, flickering them into darkness and then back into squinting light. As Lucifer wracks forward, it jostles Alastor’s hands and breaches his careful conservation, smearing his wrists with gold.

He dips back, chin tilting as his throat buzzes with a snap of energy. “Hhh--ehhh-HH!”

“Dammit, Alastor--”

“Too late--hhh-for tha-HH٨ـZZT٨ـY!” He pushed his fist to his nose, using pressure against the damp rim of his nostrils to chase away the itch. Not to any measure of success. “HK! ﮩ٨ـﮩZZ!” A wail grates in Lucifer’s ear and he recoils.

“You’re making it worse,” Lucifer twists with a grunt, grabbing some of the towels to clean Alastor’s cheek.

“I don’t--hih-nn eed…”

“Heaven alive can we both stop with this cocky bullshit. Truce, okay? Or would you rather spend all day in here sneezing with me?”

R̷͕̪̤̈́̓r̸̳̻̕͠rg̵̡̞͊̔͝ẖ̷͉͋̐jh̵̜͇̦͐̉ Alastor saws at his face, each motion crackling with energy. “Very well, get it over hhhhﮩ٨ـﮩ-! With.”

Lucifer works with the towels to wipe away the smears while Alastor finishes knotting the makeshift bandage. Once they’re done they both pull back with twin sniffles and a bucket of awkwardness in the empty air.

Alastor shunts his gaze, ignoring the gnawing in his chest. Lucifer cleans up the scattered flaxen towels and starts burning them until their ashes film the ground. The scent of honey and seeded mulch fills the room, like no bonfire Alastor had ever attended.

Four papers remaining, Lucifer finally speaks.

“How do the humans handle it?”

Alastor knits his brow. “Handle what?”

“Losing. Over and over.”

Alastor’s lips press firm. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Lucifer finally looks at him then, his mouth a small circle. He doesn’t pursue. He flicks the last of the ash off his fingers and sucks in a breath.

“Well,” his orange eyes meet the Radio Demon’s, “shall we head back? Tell Charlie we had a…bonding exercise?”

Alastor laughs. It’s more real than he’d laughed in…ages. “Details aside?”

Lucifer offers a genuine, if modest smile. “Agreed.”

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