Chapter Text
They get directions to the ship’s cabins not soon after boarding, Lucifer and Charlie placed in room 103. He knows this because of the little golden plaque on the door.
It isn’t…the most extravagant of places. There are no deep velvet curtains or fuzzy red rugs, like in the palace. Instead, there are two thin beds, a circular window that gives view to the sea, and an adjoining room that Lucifer assumes to be the bath.
Lilith would deem it unfit for royalty.
Charlie immediately bounces toward the window, leaving Lucifer to unpack their bags. He debates whether to snap it all into the armoire with a bit of magic, and ultimately decides to do it by hand, in case someone comes by. Not that Lucifer expects anyone will, but with his luck, which has a notorious reputation for being shitty, better to be safe than sorry.
Not that he’s ever been safe or anything other than sorry a day in his life.
Lucifer, at Charlie’s behest, refrains from holing up in the room and instead drags himself to the dining hall, where he instantly regrets most of his life decisions.
Charlie — surprisingly powerful, for only one hundred years — pulls him to the little dessert counter near the salad bar, and Lucifer has to use a bit of divine strength to keep from falling over. That would be embarrassing.
Really, this had been a bad idea.
Then again, Lucifer’s only ‘good’ idea had backfired so tremendously that he’d woken up the next day with bloodied wings and burns all over his body. So maybe it’s better, that this is a bad one.
He’s fiddling with a chess board, Charlie off playing with another girl, when someone sits in the chair opposite of him, wondering if he’d like a little competition.
“You play?” Lucifer asks. He hasn’t played chess in years, sure, but there were few in the palace (or Hell, for that matter) that could outsmart him in game strategy.
Except for Lilith, of course.
“Yes. Rather excellently, might I add.”
Lucifer finally looks up, and — damn.
He’s tall, even when sitting. A pair of spectacles are perched on the bridge of his nose, eyes hooded and relaxed. Beautifully curly hair, and —
“It’s your turn.”
He turns his attention back to the board, and — sure enough — one of the man’s pieces had stepped forward.
Lucifer mulls it over for a moment, then responds in kind.
The man in the chair across from him grins.
They play like that for a while, in silence, focused on the game. After losing most of his pawns, Lucifer begrudgingly admits that maybe this mystery man was good. Not better, though.
“Checkmate.”
Lucifer gawks at the board, undignified.
“But….but I — how?”
“You let your guard down.”
“Oh, damn it. One more game? I promise that was just bad luck.”
“I’m afraid I must retire for the night.”
“But I — ugh. Can I get your name, at least? In case we play again.”
“Name?” the man blinks. “Oh! Silly me. Alastor, my good sir,” he says, “the name is Alastor.”