false / dream

#𝑷𝑺𝑬𝑼𝑫𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑪 : independent mutuals-only canon multimuse rp blog. a study of love as sacrifice, happy endings ripped from fingertips, heads too cluttered to think, and the loneliness of shuttered hearts. currently featuring : lukas & guest mcsm muses  /   dreamed by pan ( adult, they/them ) since october 18, 2020. carrd & sideblog.

Dahlia and Iris: A look into sibling relationships, trust, & secrets.

Dahlia and Iris are some of the most infamous twins in video game history. They’re commented as “partners in crime,” while Iris blindly supports Dahlia in everything she does. They’re seen as polar opposites, or simply put, evil and nice. However, that is not the entire story.  

People seem to think Dahlia Hawthorne hated Iris. She’s portrayed as someone who simply uses her sister as a pawn in her game. She’s portrayed as despising her sister, treating her badly, and sending her off because she’s a nuisance. Yet, a simple play through of the third game can prove this as incorrect.

So why is Dahlia portrayed as hating her sister? Why is Iris constantly painted as jealous, and vengeful, not forgiving her sister? And what’s the truth behind their relationship?

This is a two part post, which will be exploring:

Dahlia’s Views. Dahlia never straightforward says how she feels about her sister, however, while she’s in disguise as Iris, she reveals more than she would as herself.

Iris’s Views. Iris straightforward admits how she feels about her sister. Why she helped commit the murder, how she felt about Dahlia as a person, and how she felt she could have helped.

A note: This is my second Dahlia meta, I explore Dahlia’s motive, reasoning, and life of abuse in a previous post, which can be found HERE.

I also understand that this is not everybody’s interpretation, however, I feel it is important to realize that Dahlia willingly admits how she feels about Iris, yet she’s still written off as negligent and selfish, not caring about her sister. I’m here to explore that. This is not a debate, but simply my interpretation of evidence found in the actual gameplay.

Part 1: Dahlia’s Point of View.

In order to understand what Dahlia says about Iris, it’s important to first understand the timeline of the game. During the second day of investigation, there is an earthquake and in Edgeworth’s short moment of weakness due to PTSD, Iris immediately goes to the inner temple to make sure it hasn’t collapsed and Phoenix shortly follows. Here he runs into, who the player and he both believe, Iris. However, later in the game it is revealed that during that time, Iris and Dahlia (inhabiting Maya’s body) have changed places- Dahlia is now speaking to Phoenix, while Iris is the one locked inside. Now that the timeline is established, we can now see Dahlia is the one who speaks to him about her and Iris’s relationship, not Iris.

Dahlia admits in court that she only ever cares about herself, and in the end died for herself as well. However, this contradicts what she says to Phoenix in the Inner temple that day.

Dahlia begins by explaining the fake kidnapping plot. She talks about how they established this plot as a way to get back at their father who doesn’t care about them. In fact, it’s stated plainly within the game, “Dahlia did not steal the gem for the money. She did it to get revenge on our father and the way he treated us.” Simply stated, Dahlia herself admits to the way she was abused and treated at home, and how Iris agreed to help her get back at both their father, and Terry Fawles, a pedophile. Dahlia then goes on to talk about how their mother didn’t care about them, and instead planned a plot for revenge for the main family. This is then repeated in court once she’s shown to be inhabiting Maya’s body.

She then goes onto explain how she felt betrayed. The quote from the game is, “[Iris’s] betrayal is the reason [Dahlia] started this life of crime, if [Iris] didn’t let her down then…” Don’t forget that Dahlia is pretending to be Iris here. This simple sentence reveals a lot. Dahlia herself admits to Iris being a cause of all the crimes she committed. She feels that Iris betrayed her, and that if they had communicated better, than she would have never began this life of crime. She also states during this time that, “My sister always does the right thing.” While Dahlia is upset that Iris betrayed her, she doesn’t have any ill will toward her. She knows what Iris did was right, and honestly believes that.

It’s possible to be mad at your sibling while still loving them, in fact, this isn’t unusual. While Dahlia feels like she was betrayed by Iris, and knows deep down that if the kidnapping at the bridge worked out correctly, or even didn’t happen in the first place, Dahlia would not have had this string of crimes.

Dahlia being dressed as Iris allows her to become vulnerable, and truthful. She knows Iris is very open and honest, unlike herself. She uses the opportunity in the Inner Temple as a way to explain to Phoenix, and almost pseudo apologize for what she’s done.  

Later on in the game, Dahlia also admits more telling things while she’s on the witness stand as herself. While yes, she is selfish, she’s proven to not actually only care about herself. While talking about her mother, Dahlia begins to talk about how she felt about Pearl, she states, “Morgan Fey heaped all of her broken hopes and dreams onto that poor child’s back.” If Dahlia truly had no morals and didn’t care about anybody but herself, she wouldn’t have felt sorry for Pearl Fey. While this doesn’t seem to have much relation to Iris, it’s important in showing that she cares for others, even if she won’t willingly admit it.

The most important aspect to consider when realizing the way Dahlia felt about Iris is to examine the way that Dahlia sent her away. When Mr. Hawthorne remarries and gains Valerie as a stepchild, Dahlia admits to sending Iris away because “she’s a nuisance” however, shortly thereafter she states, “My father had absolutely no interest in children in general.” Did Dahlia truly send Iris away because she was a nuisance? Or was there a truly deeper meaning? Later on Iris admits she’s not only thankful to Dahlia, but how she felt sorry for her and was glad to have Bikini in her life, otherwise she wasn’t sure if she would end up like Dahlia as well. I’ll explore this later when we talk about how Iris feels about Dahlia.

Even as Iris is in Hazakura, Dahlia is shown to keep in contact with her. Iris, while on the witness stand, admits that the only time Dahlia had not contacted her with one of her plans about her crimes was when she met Phoenix in order to kill him. If Dahlia truly considered Iris a nuisance, and wanted to get rid of her, isn’t it strange that she would keep contact with her? Especially to talk about something that requires that much trust between the two of them? Dahlia knew Iris could have easily turned Dahlia in because of her confession, yet, she continued to keep in contact and talk about her plans with her, which obviously shows that Dahlia trusted her sister. Iris later admits that she was pretending to be Dahlia for eight months. In order to do something like that, they would have to remain in contact. If Dahlia truly didn’t care about Iris, she would have acted on her own, leaving out her “partner in crime.”

While Dahlia is not good at admitting her feelings, and is a cold, closed off person, a simple look at the dialogue within the game can show that she truly, deeply, cares about her sister.

Part 2: Iris’s Point of View.

Iris’s view on Dahlia is much easier to see. In fact, Iris admits very plainly and honestly, “I’ve always loved her.” Yet, she’s still painted as hating her sister and holding vengeance.

This is strange, because before that she even states, “I felt sorry for her. She was abandoned by our mother and never got any love from our father either.” Phoenix then goes onto ask her why that mattered, when she had the same situation, and her response is simply explaining that she had Sister Bikini, who always treated her like a mother – a true mother, one who spent her time supporting Iris. This is interesting, because like stated above, Dahlia is the one who sent Iris off to Hazakura to begin with. It could be argued that in doing this, Dahlia saved Iris from ending up as a revenge driven, bitter woman like Dahlia was.

Either way, Iris plainly admits to not only feeling sorry for Dahlia, but loving her.  She also says that “Dahlia was always so smart, so strong… She never complained about a thing.” She idolizes her sister, and looks up to her as strong. She seems to hate the environment Dahlia was raised in, lost and confused, or even abandoned in a sense. Iris is optimistic and kind to Dahlia, who’s trapped in her constant cycle of loneliness and maltreatment.

Iris also admits to always talking to Dahlia about their plans. The kidnapping on the bridge, poisoning Terry Fawles, poisoning Diego Armando. Iris herself states that the only time Dahlia hadn’t contacted her about one of her plans was the time that she was willing to kill Phoenix. She admits that Dahlia was ultimately trying to keep Iris safe in doing so, because if she knew Dahlia was planning on killing Phoenix, Iris would have stopped her and it’s “her life or mine.” Meaning, Iris and Dahlia knew each other well enough for Dahlia to pick up on not only the fact that Iris had grown to fall in love with Phoenix, but that she would hurt herself in the process of trying to protect him. So, she did a first, she carried out a plan on her own, without telling her sister, just to keep her from getting hurt.

It’s also strange that Iris, who “always does the right thing” never once turned Dahlia in when she came to her with her plans. If Iris truly didn’t like her sister, she very easily could have turned in Dahlia when she admitted all of her plans to Iris. Yet, Iris didn’t. She cared about Dahlia enough to listen, and to simply support Dahlia. Also important to note is that Bikini admits to Iris having a cell phone, even though the mountain doesn’t get great signal. Dahlia calls Iris on a cell phone, even though they’re quite a distance away. Iris and Dahlia keeping in contact after being separated is interesting, because it shows that not only did they want to stay in contact, but that they trusted each other enough to do so.

Even the simple fact that Dahlia allowed Iris to see Phoenix for eight months is enough proof that they cared about each other. Dahlia isn’t patient, she’s selfish, and vengeful. Yet, she allows Iris to see Phoenix for eight months. Especially since Iris states that she had things prepared for a while. If Dahlia could have killed Phoenix so quickly, and so effortlessly, why did she seem to wait for so long? She trusted Iris, she wanted to give her a chance to redeem herself, after she felt so betrayed from the fake kidnapping.

Iris is much more open with how she feels about Dahlia. She feels sorry for her situation, and cares about her sister. She even simply states that she loves her. Iris’s entire personality is kind and caring, even going so far as to treat Phoenix well for those eight months that he knew all along Dahlia and Iris were different people. So why are people so quick to write her off as hating Dahlia?

Closing, or, TL;DR:

While Dahlia isn’t a very open person, it’s obvious she cares about her sister.  

Iris is Dahlia’s support in a world that constantly seems to be out to get her. Yet, despite all this, Iris keeps her head high and does her best to remain optimistic and help be the light Dahlia needs. The two have a symbiotic relationship, while Dahlia is given support, Iris is given the comfort and safety that things could always be worse.

The two of them have an interesting dynamic that seems to be overlooked, even though Iris has a large part in Dahlia’s childhood. Dahlia sent Iris away, and as a result, Iris remained kind while Dahlia’s paranoia and lack of a support caused her to spiral deeper and deeper into crime.

not that she's asked, or that freckle's asked, or that their relationship is anything but a declaration and a kiss shared in a buggy before near-certain death. she still has nightmares about gushing blood and cousins scrabbling around like beetles on the ground. yeugh. but ivy pepper is stronger than that, just as strong and fearless as her godfather, and she will be helpful and taken seriously.

"do you think me seeing you in your skivvies is like second base?" she queries, fixing the brassiere so that it hugs freckle's toned chest. steps back and assesses, frowning and offering up a contemplative, "you could almost call those breasts." she's sure that the dress will cover it all up in the end, anyway, as is the style, so she prances over to her closet and selects a few options. she'd seen freckle eyeing a blue one when the two of them had gone out shopping ( and ivy had so politely requested that her partner carry her bags ), so she's sure there's going to be at least a few clear favourites. "i'll do your makeup later, so ... which one do you like?"

(youtube essayist voice) atlas may is a character that is defined by death, so it's only natural to be curious about his thoughts on what he might leave behind. okay, but being real, and not a youtuber for a second, i am tremendously tickled by this ask!! and also by atlas may in general. there are a great many headcanons i have about atlas that i haven't yet shared on this blog, so i'm going to take a few moments to detail that context before i go into depth answering this particular ask.

first things first, atlas is a character that haunts the narrative. this is true in death, but it's also true in life. when we see atlas may alive and well, he's silent, dressed in muted colours, and even the backgrounds are desaturated. see example below from the lackadaisy teaser:

in addition, he dresses in various shades of grey, whereas all other cats with desaturated pelts ( ivy, ruby, mordecai, the savoys ) do have pops of colour in their design. ruby and ivy obviously wear colours, but mordecai, who wears darker colours ( though still wears pops of colour like his yellow glasses and his red tie ), has very striking bright green eyes. atlas, by contrast, keeps his eyes lidded and his eyes don't pop out as much nor do they appear as bright on his face. he's very, well ... faded! in comparison to the other characters.

for this reason, and just based on vibes, i don't think it's outside of the realm of possibility that atlas was depressed. i don't think he's depressed in the same way that zib is, or that wick is. rather, i think atlas experiences significant apathy and numbness as he goes through life. atlas has a very limited scope of emotiveness, and i believe that this flat affect comes from a lack of connection to his emotions. he's a pragmatist, logical and opportunistic, and this apathy and difficulty connecting to his emotive centre gives him a stronger ability to be ruthless in his pursuit of power. of course, i'm not saying that everyone who has depression is going to be, like, a ruthless gangster. i'm just saying that depression impacted the way that atlas went about life. i believe atlas has been depressed all his life and was always, well ... very serious and severe, as you can see from the below photo:

( oh baby atlas, my sweet summer child ... ) anyway! i think atlas has always had an issue with connecting to his sense of happiness. not that he's never been happy, but he always feels this dampened sense over his emotions. and being a gangster, i find it would be even easier to desensitize himself to horrific acts and sights because ... well, he's never felt his emotions extremely deeply. i think atlas' depression stems primarily from biological factors, so medication would have helped him greatly ... but alas! antidepressants wouldn't be invented for another twenty, thirty years after atlas' death.

people with depression often have trouble thinking long-term, and i do think atlas was the same. opportunists are very focused on present opportunities, and i think that, while atlas was a gangster, his choice to run a speakeasy wasn't reflective of any ideas of a long-term legacy. i'm sure he ( correctly ) assumed that the prohibition laws would be a short-term affair, and that once the ban on booze was lifted, the lackadaisy would be shut down. i find it interesting, with this assumption, how mordecai refers to the lackadaisy as "the remains of atlas' estate" in monomania:

everything atlas had, he left to mitzi. that much is evident. mitzi sold everything she had left to keep the lackadaisy, what she perceived to be atlas' legacy, going. atlas' previous pursuits ( perhaps he dealt in stealing cars before, or some other criminal endeavour ) are never highlighted. we don't ever hear stories about atlas before he entered the bootlegging business. everything that he did prior to 1920 is never really talked about. and sure, six years is a while ... but it's not that long, considering he was already 36 in 1920. it's also important to note that atlas never had a child, and while ivy was his goddaughter, he never made an effort to prepare her to take over his business. he just ... well, paid for her education and made sure she felt like a special little princess. for a character to be particular about the legacy they leave behind, they need to be preoccupied with preserving it. most people want to leave behind the legacy of their work or their family. however, atlas never had children nor did he seem preoccupied with that, and the one business he is remembered for ( the business that he has pictures of all around, whereas his previous pursuits are not photographed ) was given, almost without thought, to his wife, who had also not been adequately prepared to take it on. i'm sure atlas' intention was for mitzi to sell the little daisy cafe and the lackadaisy and to live in the big house by herself, or perhaps to sell the house and move elsewhere. as severe and serious as atlas was, he did have a soft spot for mitzi and cared genuinely for her happiness. he enjoyed that she was a free spirit and that she collected a variety of friends and allies. most gangsters, i think, wouldn't really ... let their wives separate from them, but atlas, despite clearly still loving mitzi, allowed her to do so for her comfort, asking only that they keep up appearances in public. this was, honestly, probably more to protect her reputation than his.

i'm going to be honest, i think atlas just wanted to live his life as efficiently and effectively as he could, and then he wanted to fade away. i don't think atlas cared about legacy in as much as he cared about the happiness of his loved ones. he never pushed ivy to take over the business, instead funding her so that she could live her life how she wanted. he took care of the grisly side of his work so that mitzi could revel in her expensive clothes and fancy jewellery, and when she was unhappy, he did what she asked and allowed her to live elsewhere from him without question or fuss. and at the end of it all, atlas left his separated wife everything he owned in all the world, despite her not loving him any longer, with the intention for her to sell it and live happily without him. all of this is to say, not only is atlas not concerned with leaving a legacy, all his actions actively reject that idea. like, maybe it is about mitski's my love mine all mine, at the end of things.

until she showed up.

short, curvy, with a thick down-south drawl. certainly doesn't seem educated, nor would she need to be if she's in the line of work she says she's in. when mr. sable said he had agreed to meet with someone for last-minute plans, she hadn't imagined it would have been ... taking a woman out on the lake, taking her to the cellar, letting her sit in his lap. all while she sat in his house, stewing in an anger she couldn't name and a humiliation to which she couldn't admit.

so this is mr. sable's type of woman. stout with pouty lips, smelling of bad habits. forward. her friends all quirked eyebrows when she complained — what? she'd shot back, she threatened me with dismemberment! who would like the kind of woman that does that? — but even her brief venting hadn't alleviated the hornet's nest buzzing in her head and chest. she has a strict no-losing-sleep-over-work policy that rarely works out for her in the physical sense, as mr. sable seems to think of her as a twenty-four hour service, but she's gotten remarkably good at not losing sleep in the mental sense. allowing herself to leave work at the office and have a few hours to herself before bed. yet, after seeing her — fluffy tail, large eyes, bare feet, sprawled in mr. sable's lap, especially after lacy knew she'd done something sneaky, rifling through her things — she's finding herself tossing and turning. haunted by the image of her. how could mr. sable ever trust one of those rum-runners? lacy herself doesn't touch illegal substances, doesn't even smoke! mr. sable wouldn't end up in any financial troubles if he only listened to her advice, and ...

lacy drags a paw down her face with a groan and tries to flip her pillow to the cold side. she doesn't know what compels her to nick one of the extra club pins from mr. sable's desk. what compels her to take a trip to the little daisy cafe. she stands outside of the building, unsure of herself. she can't possibly be thinking of entering one of these illegal businesses. and what would she even say? i know you were the one who stole from mr. sable! as if that trollop hasn't already spent it all out on her ridiculous ... dismembering ...

nose twitches as she registers the scent of cigarette smoke. it's coming from above her, and she makes the mistake of glancing up. and there she is, mitzi may, smoking at her window without a care in the world. she can't help but screw her face up in contempt and anger, boiling emotions clear as day on her face. but before lacy can do anything, those green eyes are on her.

she does the only thing she can think to: wrench her stare away and cover up her club pin with a paw clutching her lapel.

the tinny voice is all-too-familiar, and one that vox frankly used to think he’d never hear again. and it’s not that the sinner isn’t a fan of the doom and gloom — he’s in hell, after all, and doomposting is just newfangled slang for the eleven o’clock news. but nowhere did vox broadcast that alastor was dead. embarrassingly enough, it’s like he couldn’t even admit it to himself. it was almost a foregone conclusion — extermination? a bunch of overlords going poof? alastor being one of them? it doesn’t change the fact that vox has been keeping track of the years, wondering just how long it might take to recover from a blow to his pride, or — no chance he actually got hit by one of those things, is what vox keeps circling back to. no chance there’s a being in heaven or hell that could even land a hit on the guy. and maybe vox won’t give him that credit. maybe it’s just because that extermination had been the first one since that whole … proposal ordeal ( — you spend, what, fifty years with a guy, no biggie, and he’s still not ready for marriage? ) and vox just wishes it had gone differently. that maybe they could have … he doesn’t know, actually been friends when it all went down so that he’d be allowed to — mourn? or —

no no. scratch all that. he honestly thinks it would be less embarrassing to think alastor is invincible. doesn’t even want to entertain how horrific it would have been if he’d actually sprinkled in the i love you he’d entertained when drafting the whole thing. could even imagine alastor chiding him for not including it! “how hi-larious! you think after all this time, this would be our undoing?” yeah, well, look where we are … now. a thought that sours vox, makes him scowl, because his imagined version of alastor is right. there shouldn’t have been anything that could come between them. remembers how unshakeable their bond used to be. the casual touches between them, the things alastor would agree to. the way they would huddle in a darkened room, their bodies pressed together in ways that vox can’t describe as anything but intimate. memories all held close, closer than vox ever wants to admit. he’d give an arm and a leg and probably even more for things to just go back to the way things were. to just sink back under the covers and enter sleep mode, still running but barely so, paying attention only to alastor’s even breath rising and falling on his chest. tucked into a side that’s not alive, a punctuated mmm-mmm! when alastor feels particularly affectionate about snuggling into him. always so lanky, he used to chide him. don’t you ever eat? poor thing, you must be starved!

they’re memories that make vox sink into his computer chair because they’re disgustingly tender and were frankly all he lived for. fifty years of memories, flushed down the drain because vox couldn’t fathom the hit to his pride he’d received seven years ago and he’s been unable to stay his tongue since. welcome home, he’d said, the first thing as he sunk into his computer chair with unbridled glee. a manic need to just acknowledge alastor’s presence. he’s mad, he guesses. pretends it’s because he really wanted alastor to stay gone, pretends he was doing much better. and he was. he … was. it was nice to grow into a body instead of being a shell of another man. nice to get closer to valentino ( fucking pain in the ass valentino! ) and to meet velvette, whip-smart and just as punishing. in those seven years, vox could have almost pretended he was whole. but if he were, he wouldn’t have made that impulsive broadcast to begin with. wouldn’t have spit fire about how much he hates the radio demon and his pathetic excuse for an entertainment medium when the truth is alastor could ask vox to do anything and he’d gladly obey. hell, if alastor said, “use that slimy tongue of yours to worship every inch of my body,” he would say yes and amen, and that scares him. scares him that alastor is still right. things are never going to change with him. vox is going to be this devoted to him until the day he dies again, when holy arms claim him without a goodbye or an i love you.

because, of course, it would always be him that fell first, not alastor. never alastor. alastor was and is an untouchable beast, a creature vox always knew was special from the moment they ran into each other and he was struck with the full force of that uncanny smile. vox has never believed in love at first sight and he guesses he still doesn’t, but there’s something about that first conversation he had with the guy that makes him wonder. vox can’t remember ever hanging onto someone’s words like he did the radio demon’s, to the point he could suspect alastor of casting some sort of spell on him. but no magic’s this strong. decades later and seven years apart and vox still feels like bursting hearts out of his ass whenever he sees him.

it could be different, vox reasons. he could just come out and say it now. but it curdles in his gut like milk past its prime. he’s seven years too late to say it, seven years too late to make amends. and besides, alastor’s got a new flame. the oh-so-independent businessman has decided to personally sponsor hell’s craziest fucking idea to date — and just thinking about it makes vox glitch out, make him want to rip his monitor in two! the fucking nerve! and the worst part is, he’s under no pretence that this is even about him! not when it’s so clearly about princess morningstar, about being audacious and powerful enough to risk lucifer’s ire by shaking hands with his precious daughter. alastor’s got a new life now, and so does vox, and it should be fine but it’s abso-fucking-lutely not. burns and simmers when he thinks about how stupid he was to assume alastor even liked other men that way when he’s making eyes at — no, N̶̢̢̟̜͖̞̺̝̖̯̬̰͕̪͌́̒͝O̸̡̮̣͌̊̑̈́̋̆̒̒̊̚ … it’s just for the sake of the deal, because if vox has to sit there and look at him making eyes with lucifer’s daughter, he is going to kill himself.

venus, sera had answered, brows pulling down in confusion. the morning star. a planet just created, where lucifer had been out of earshot and unable to see what the others had been up to. and so he was divinely created lucifer, son of the morning star. the planet was, aptly, named because of the faintest outline of it could be seen at dawn, watching over the garden of eden from a distance, from the heavens. lucifer doesn't doubt that that's what he's supposed to do. yet, he still kicks his feet as he scrunches grass in his gloves, delighted at the stain that appears on pristine fabric. green! fantastic! he giggles boyishly; as much as he's seen grass, it never really gets old. nothing in heaven is ticklish or alive and few things up there make lucifer want to laugh. ( millennia afterward, lucifer would remember it differently, memory nostalgia-tinted and choked by regret. but it wasn't heaven that lucifer hated losing, it was earth, it was the sight of the humans, so full of wonder and curiosity. it was eve. how long he waited for her to show up on his doorstep! to welcome her and to tell her he's sorry she ended up here, but hey, it's not so bad! and if we work together, we can make something beautiful here too — ) the angel isn't sure how long he wandered the garden, imitating animals and scurrying up trees when he sensed the humans' approach, but a golden bleeding heart can't be smothered for too long. he would eventually shed his facade as an observer in favour of becoming the comforter, soothing lilith when she was … sad? angry? he's not entirely sure what it was, but he knew it was painful, could feel that much radiating from her. this garden, a repose and a respite from the hardships of heaven, is supposed to be paradise. lucifer couldn't possibly sit idly by and watch humanity struggle like that. he does recall that it was difficult, at first. despite observing humanity, he couldn't quite discern what they actually wanted. power and control, he figures, and listens carefully to lilith's complaints, reassures her of her own agency, her own strong will. i wish i were half as impressive as you, he remembers saying, remembers it clearly because her expression had changed once he'd said it, softened to something genuinely fond. and his heart ached for her, a strange feeling bubbling up at the base of his stomach. he'd noticed it when he saw them before and had dismissed it as a sort of curiosity. being forced to sit back and just watch from a distance, it didn't feel good. he wanted to go up to them, to imitate them like he had the snakes and the goats and the creatures of the sea. to learn more about them, to run his hands along them and see where they liked to be touched. dogs liked to be touched behind the ears and around their necks. most felines liked just the top of their head. some animals were more finicky than others, but none of them seemed to hate having an angelic hand on them. he'd learned lilith likes his tongue more than his hands, that there are certain places on her body she prefers he touch in some situations and not others. ever curious, lucifer wondered how adam's responses would differ. would he, too, like mouth more than hands? would he want lucifer to touch him elsewhere? lucifer surveyed his form openly, and adam never hid away. didn't know to, lucifer realized belatedly. the angels told the humans never to eat from the tree of knowledge. the fruit looked delicious, and time never rotted it, never soiled its perfect image. but lucifer didn't occupy himself thinking about free will. not until he saw heavenly light, the image of a rib burned behind his lids as a beautiful woman was birthed from it. not tall like lilith and adam. small, subservient. like him.

he hid away from eve at first, not knowing what to do with her. told lilith that she'd been created as a new wife for adam. at first, the two of them spied together, observed the difference in relationship. lilith and adam argued. they couldn't agree, not because they had different ideas, but because neither of them wanted to admit they thought similarly. they dreamed for the sake of being the most original. they viewed the garden as theirs, divinely ordained and gifted to only the most deserving. eve was humble. she followed adam around like a duckling follows her mother. lucifer became enthralled by her. even when lilith's interest in the new couple waned, lucifer still observed. she at least thrown lucifer a bone in the form of appearing to adam and eve, making herself known to them, and by proxy, her relationship with lucifer. adam's grip had tightened on eve's waist. she'd looked utterly delighted. lucifer didn't know if he saw himself in her or if she was created to be bewitching. she haunted his thoughts. he watched, smitten, as she touched and admired every living thing in the garden, observed with eyes of wonderment lucifer hadn't seen on a single created being. he'd always felt ostracized for his awe. yet, here eve was, open amazement on her features, excitement bubbling in her tone as she showed off every bug, leaf, and dewdrop to her new husband. lucifer's teeth gnashed at adam's dismissive tone, his lack of understanding. but there was no opening. eve was always with him, as if she was still a part of his ribcage, just a piece of bone glued into place. lilith fisted a powerful hand into the fabric of his coat and led him away. he followed, lamb to the lion. she was right — adam and eve didn't, shouldn't, matter to them. she had nothing but venom to spew when it came to her former husband, and lucifer was inclined to agree, images of eve's smiling face smouldering in the depths of his heart. he and lilith roamed their garden, and lucifer showed off every bug, leaf, and dewdrop to his wife. and it's all ours, lilith had hummed. how nice it is to own such a beautiful thing. lucifer perfected shape-shifting, would take the shape of an animal with a sudden poof! and lilith would laugh, pinch his beastly cheek and kiss whatever snout he'd sprouted. eden should have been paradise. he had a love that was bursting with it.

yet he'd been strolling on his own one day and heard footsteps. one pair. slithered right up into a tree like a bolt of lightning. he still isn't sure why he did it. there could be only one other person walking through the garden alone: his wife. but he was right to disguise himself, to shroud a heavenly form in leaves and branches. for it was eve walking alone, and lucifer's angelic heart did something it had never done before. it had thumped so hard that he could feel it straining against his ribs, echoing into his throat like the footfall of some fearsome predator. every unit of light in his body suddenly felt hot, almost screaming, finally! as if lucifer was meant to do something. as if he had been created for just this opportunity, a moment alone with earth's newest human. it was dawn, adam had not yet risen, and the thin outline of the morning star smiled down on the garden. with a flash of explosive light, bombastic yet quiet and reverent, lucifer shifted into a more human-like form and appeared before her. "hey there!" he'd greeted her, to which she yelped. immediately, heat rose to lucifer's cheeks, colour suddenly infecting a pure, heavenly being. "sorry! i, uh, don't usually see you alone!" lucifer invented the bow then, stooping before her as if she ranked above him, taking her hand to adorn a kiss atop perfect knuckles. he'd asked her why she was wandering the garden alone. a part of him selfishly wished that adam had driven her, too, away from him. an unknown sensation crackles in his chest, a feeling he decides may be similar to the pain he sees from lilith sometimes, a bitterness and a wrath. but eve speaks in sweet tones and explains that she's seen the sliver of light in the sky, a sight only visible when the new morning dawns with her fresh eyes and beginnings, and lucifer's smile grows adoring and soft, widening on his features. that's what i was named for, he replied, pride clear as day on his face as he tapped the venus-shaped embellishment on his hat. that, my dear, is venus. the morning star that smiles upon the garden.

( he'd never learn that humans would later refer to venus as the planet of love, of desire. would never realize that it was eve who deemed it so. )

unlike lilith and adam, eve was soft-spoken and polite. the two of them chatted through the sunrise, and lucifer marvelled with her at how the light put the garden into an entirely different perspective. felt that wrench in his heart when he saw the awed look on her features, a vice grip in his chest that would only become more and more familiar to him as time stretched on, lazy and warm like a sea lion in the sun. his heart made itself painfully known to him whenever he saw her, when her eyes would light up and she'd tell him about a new delight she had discovered. always punctuating her sentences with, do you think adam will like it? lucifer's reply was always the same: it's beautiful, and it's you showing it to him. how could he not? he couldn't live without seeing that look on her face, and so lucifer began to create. new species of flowers, animals, fish. he placed constellations in the sky for her to marvel at. his heart grew when he was around her, so large it almost felt unbearable. but it was a burden he couldn't imagine himself without. he doesn't know it. doesn't recognize the slow creep of poison infecting a heavenly form. this might have been why the other angels never touched divine garments to the dirt of the earthen floor. lucifer didn't know angels could be corrupted. didn't know there was anything in this paradise that could harm him. but bitterness, his first love, had touched his heart. self-interest seized him. it hadn't overtaken him, but it had coloured blue eyes ever-so-slightly scarlet.

he runs into eve near the end of the day, the evening star of venus visible in the sky once more. the garden is dusky, cloaked in shadow. the fading light clings to eve's form, painting her in a different light. still beautiful, though. oh, always beautiful. the sticky thing of it all is that lucifer knows now what he wants from her. he's caught himself focused on her lips, her breasts, her hips. he's learned from lilith, and lilith from him, what these lingering stares mean. the clench in his chest that he's grown so accustomed to, though … oh, that tells him it's not just her body he desires. he desires her passion, her love for life, her vivacity. she is everything he loves about creation, everything he loves about humanity, in one fantastic package. and lucifer knows he shouldn't. knows he shouldn't and yet he always has. he shouldn't have ever come down to the garden, but he did. shouldn't have interacted with the humans, but he did. shouldn't have watched eve's creation, but he had. shouldn't have hid in a tree, pupils shaking with consuming jealousy, and watched eve bathe herself and adam in the lake, but he did. and he definitely shouldn't be seeking eve out, prowling around in the hopes of running into her, desperately craving another one of their inspiring conversations, another hit of that connection they share. "the garden looks so different at twilight." his voice is just as soft as that fading sunlight, briefly painting the world in gold before the warmth of the day goes to sleep, gives into the shadowy night. "the day — wow, i mean, the day's beautiful, but the night's just … " he can't find the words, doesn't think there is one to describe how full his heart feels, seeing eve bathed in the moonlight. "all those things you thought you knew, you see them with fresh new eyes." an idea strikes him then, and the smile that forms across his face betrays his careful planning. gone are excitable flights of whimsy. lucifer practically glows with want. "and! there are certain creatures you'll only see after dark. owls, foxes, aardvarks … " lilith had named those, adam fast asleep as she perused and claimed them her own. "come to think of it, sweetheart … have you ever seen a moonflower?" lucifer's smile only grows wider, pride blossoming in his twitching, tainted soul. "they're beautiful, sweet-smelling, and they only bloom at night. i could fly you there, if you want." six wings sprout from his back, white and blue and heavenly. and before she can protest, he adds, "maybe you could bring one back for adam." name in sing-song, tempting, lyrical. extends a hand, heart burst and gushing in his ribcage. "what do you say?"

peace and freedom. two ideas that are so utterly foreign to the fallen one. lucifer hasn’t known either in ten thousand years. maybe not even in his life. alastor’s eyes are like radio dials, ticking on and on, head tilted to the side like a curious puppy ( though lucifer’s memories of puppies are faded now, just one example of something beautiful that he’s not allowed to see anymore ). they both sound like wonderful things. a thought he almost voices aloud, but stays his tongue at the last moment. briefly, he wonders what alastor would want, and determines pretty easily that it would be freedom. the radio demon’s never been the kind of guy that likes to keep the waters calm and still. not many of the people lucifer surrounds himself with are overly concerned with keeping the status quo. a thought that brings a smile to lucifer’s face, wistful and sentimental. he figures he’s in the category of boat-rockers himself, with his wild and crazy dreams. i heard your stories and i was enthralled, charlie said. lucifer never saw himself as particularly inspiring, has seen himself as nothing more than the man behind his wife, the supporter of dreams, not the dreamer himself. though to everyone else, that’s not the case, is it? to think lucifer, the big boss, would value peace over freedom is laughable. but alastor sees through his little facade. he has to, or he wouldn’t have asked. for all of his show business and radio static, alastor doesn't mince words, doesn't speak or ask without there being an agenda behind it. ( well, except for when he does, when his more genuine feelings slip out, but that's not exactly common and definitely not what this is. )

lucifer's long given up on trying to suss out the sinner's hidden agendas. too much work, and besides, he's not scared of alastor or his whimsical plans and plots. there isn't a thing he could do that would pose a real threat to the king of hell — nor would he try at this point of things. at least, lucifer doesn't think so. the state of affairs between the two of them is ... up in the air, for lack of a better term. charlie had held her dad's hands and begged him to try and get along with alastor, and it's not as big an ask as asking him for a meeting with heaven or to put her in harm's way. he remembers like he's being speared with angelic weapons how charlie had failed to mention to him that heaven was taking their extermination directly to his little girl’s hotel. if she'd just said something, he could have raised hell. that wasn't the deal he'd made and that alone is enough of a declaration of war for him to have stepped in earlier. would have killed adam without a second thought if he knew what the first man had been threatening. calling his daughter — his daughter! — a cunt? the thought makes lucifer boil with rage. but he can't ignore that it's his own actions, his own negligence, that made charlie want to hide this from him. he can't keep saying no to her, so ... he's tried. participates in an activity or two of hers and tries not to condescend. but mostly, he sticks to the sidelines, watching with the radio demon. and they've forged something. he can't say it's a bond. it's more like an understanding. two muzzled beasts in the same enclosure, creeping around each other, sniffing. he thinks he might understand alastor. he thinks alastor might understand him.

( and sure, he thinks sometimes alastor's smiles look more like a snarl, but that might just be his way of showing affection. maybe he's just afraid, maybe he's still recovering from that wound he got in battle, maybe, maybe — )

it makes lucifer wonder if he does value the fragile peace he's created with his daughter more than the nebulous idea of freedom. he'd shackle himself to anything, he thinks, if it would keep his daughter safe. but is that really peace? or is it just scraps, fed to a ravenous dog trying to make the best of a bad situation? what would peace even look like? it's certainly not this. lucifer isn't sure there ever could be something so merciful in a place like this one. freedom, on the other hand ... the sensation of finally having your wings unclipped, to soar as high as you can, no repercussions, no rules — that sounds like a dream. the sort of dreams lucifer wishes he still held. the sort of dreams he's unintentionally passed down to his brilliant daughter. and if that dreaming makes him out to be exactly what heaven said? a rebel, a troublemaker, a warmonger? he’ll take the label and all that comes with it. freedom’s made lucifer strong — he’s the strongest being in creation because he was the only one who dared to think freely. and now he rules over his own dominion, can easily fell an angel army. can do more than any individual one of those exterminators. all he had to do was to think for himself.

but that freedom couldn’t last. the carefree eden days came to a sickening end, leaving lucifer to wonder for the next ten thousand years whether or not that freedom was ever real. millennia spent in shame and regret makes one tired, and lucifer would be lying if he said he didn’t occasionally wish for the peace that might come with death. or at least for the peace of a brief reprieve from the destitution of his new kingdom. but that’s just a band-aid solution. what he wishes for, truly longs for, is for the shackles to drop off his wrists. to be able to pick up his daughter and fly her anywhere. to be human, or something close to it, and to decide for himself what kind of human he would be. an immortal stomach twists with misplaced jealousy. wishing for the kind of life sinners once had. a time where they could live without being punished. decades of free will, decades that they could hold onto and protect fiercely.

weight shifts, apple-topped cane leaning slightly to one side as lucifer presses both palms into it. he doesn’t initially look at alastor, though he can feel his eyes on him. again, the gaze feels scornful, yet lucifer morningstar forges onward with the intent to be as kind as possible. glances sidelong at alastor before turning his stare to the floor, fidgeting with his cane. “you know, you sinners — you make deals and trade your souls for ‘em.” he sighs, tone unusually serious, eyes half-lidded. “you probably think someone like me couldn’t get that. but i make deals, too.” regret them. “at least your deals can’t be broken.”

he knows what it’s like to be backed into a corner, to feel there’s no other way out. to want something so very badly that he’d trade anything for it. and ever since he’d made the deal with heaven — no, even before that — freedom’s just not an option for the king of hell. and after the stunt they pulled, threatening charlie? neither is peace.

this road’s been a long one, though long isn’t really in lucifer’s vocabulary like it is for the other sinners. it’s the can’t-be-killed of it all, the dreary droning on and on like radio static, though even that grating sound brings affection to the bottom lids of weary depression-dark eyes. almost feels like it did in the early days, idyllic and beautiful, when he was still a dreamer and thought he could change things. ( ah. huh. technically he’s dreaming again, on second thoughts, considering he’s helping out with charlie’s fantasy-gone-game-plan, but it doesn’t feel the same — guess your hands and heart never work the same once they’ve been burned the first time. ) depression is a word lucifer’s picked up from sinners. a word coined at some point since his fall, which, technically, are all the words. but besides the technicalities and all the fluff, the point is lucifer doesn’t know depression on earth or much of anything about earth. but he hoped, stupidly, that maybe one day he’d sprout his wings and fly past the reaches of those grotesque shadowy hands of depression. feel heavenly light back on his face and see beauty in everything, leaving behind all this exhaustion and horror and grief.

not so! alastor would say with his perpetually-grinning face. a mental image that leaves the king of hell with butterflies in his stomach. the thing about the morningstars is that they find the beauty in everything — they never stop doing it! the apple really didn’t fall far there, marvels lucifer briefly. a face once ugly to the fallen seraphim becoming a doorway to finding the beauty in all manner of grotesque things. thinks about how he’d let alastor tear a chunk off his bottom lip and chew on it like he was sampling meat at the deli and grimaces. yup, even the weird shit and he’s only mildly annoyed about it. could barely muster up the energy to care beyond a dismissive, eh, it’ll grow back. he’s largely gotten over the mortification of wanting to fuck a sinner ( that smells like rotting deer meat, no less ) by this point. which makes sense, considering the radio demon now owns his soul. marriage and all, lilith never had that. a thought that leaves lucifer thinking as he fiddles with rubber and squeaking air. wonders if this relationship he adores more than anything is a better one than he had before. well, lilith never chomped off my fucking lip like a sociopath, grumbles lucifer, and maybe he’s a little more than miffed about that when he removes it from what happened afterwards, a pointed compliment, an, mmm! delicious! in a dated affect, scarlet eyes twitching ravenous in a way lucifer can only interpret as desire. leaving him to lament just how fucked up he’s really become.

really — selling his soul to a sinner. it doesn’t get worse than that. alastor said it best: sinners expect to have their souls sold. the head honcho, though? head honcho usually keeps his. hence why alastor’s so pleased about being owned, considering he got the better end of this whole deal. not that lucifer can complain, being the one that brought it up and all. thought ( still thinks ) of it as sickeningly romantic, a trust he doesn’t think he has for anyone but alastor. a trust he thought he had for lilith, before everything went sideways. but this thing he has with alastor … marriage, he figures, though the thought of it makes him want to kick his feet embarrassingly in delight — this thing they have is good. charlie likes it and thinks it’s sweet, vaggie is … less enthused, but hasn’t said anything ( and can’t, he thinks vindictively, a hellfire stoked in him at the mere thought that someone might dare to come between him and his queen ). it’s been a long, weird road, but it’s forged from mistakes made over and over, not just the one, not just the fall of humanity and the creation of hell, but small cataclysms carving their path into the natural one forward. a gravitational pull that tethers humans to earth and lucifer to alastor. so yeah, he brought up a deal that benefits him way less than alastor, all so he could be the one to hold a blood-soaked soul and call it his own. something that belongs to lucifer alone, that can’t be shared. you can’t trade your soul to more than one person at a time, and maybe it was eve’s before, but she didn’t do anything great with it, so lucifer’s gonna do better. gonna make him feel like there’s a slice of heaven reserved just for him, even in a place as horrid as this one. rests his head on a puffed-out chest every night and feels a tentative weight, almost a claw of a hand, on his back. love, in its purest form. going against all the rules of how things are supposed to be. letting go of pride and falling into compromise. and who wouldn’t sell their soul for that?