#nolfic

But now that they’re here, his head on her lap as he curls up against her on the couch, humming contentedly as she cards her fingers through his hair, that she truly sees it. Sees the scars on his soul, wounds long since healed, but not without leaving a mark. An ache, a reminder of all that he lost. With every touch of her hand, she can almost feel the pain ebb away, but she knows in her heart that even she can never make it vanish completely.

No one can. That time, their time, is lost forever. There is only the future now, in this place she has yet to fully know.

“So, when do I get the grand tour?” she says lightly, not wanting to break this bubble they’ve created, but unable to hold off her curiosity any longer.

It’s been so long since she was last here, and even then, it’s a memory she tried her best to suppress. The thought of him here, alone… it was too much to bear. Her dreams of Hell were bad enough; letting it occupy her waking mind as well was out of the question. Not when she had two daughters to raise, two daughters to be strong for.

She couldn’t allow herself to break.

But hundreds of thousands, if not millions of years have passed since then. There must have been changes, changes that only a King of Hell could make. She wants to see it all, to know it all, to hear of the life Lucifer has created for himself without her. A life that she would now be part of, for eternity.

Lucifer chuckles against her stomach, a sound she’s sorely missed. “This is pretty much it, darling. Unless you’d like a spin up to the throne? I take it you haven’t developed a fear of heights over the years. It’s not for the faint of heart, that one. Just ask poor Rodrick in cell 1,831,020,143.”

Her breath catches in her throat. “What do you mean, this is it? Surely you have a home to go to, a palace, something?”

He slowly lifts his head, shifting onto his side until he’s propped up on one elbow to look at her. His forehead creases, the happiness in his eyes dimming a little as he searches her face for something unknown. “Why would I need any of that?” he asks slowly, as though this is a fact of life she should already understand. “It’s not as if I require sleep down here, and even if I do feel the urge, Linda had the foresight to purchase a rather comfortable sofa bed during our prior endeavours.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her, as if the reminder that he once traded sex for therapy is supposed to amuse her somehow. For a moment, he’s the Lucifer of old, a joke or a quip always at the tip of his tongue. But she knows him well enough to remember that more than often, he’s hiding something underneath. And when she looks at him again, this newfound knowledge under her belt, she can see it plain as day.

It’s in his smile, the one that doesn’t always reach his eyes unless he’s meeting her own, slipping just the tiniest bit whenever his attention is drawn away. It’s in the curl of his hair, that slight imperfection that he would never have allowed before, a minor dishelvement that speaks of a lack of time and care. And more than that, it’s in his face, in the exhaustion she can see lurking just below the surface.

He’s trying, pushing through, for her. For them. She can’t help the dread that rolls in her stomach as she wonders how he’s been living this way.

But she soon gets her answer.

“The work is here, love. I have to stay. There’s so many, and they never stop arriving. They needed me, and until now… I needed them. The work… it stopped me from thinking, from remembering. I know you understand that.”

She smiles up at him, taking in his once again youthful appearance. There’s no need to keep up the illusion now, not when she’s so very close to the end. Still, she’ll miss the grey. Despite his complaining, he rather suited it.

“I know,” he says as he takes her hand, folding himself into the chair beside her bed. “I just had to see you again.”

She chuckles, and immediately regrets it when it turns into a cough. Ever the worrier, he quickly picks up a nearby glass of water and starts to bring it to her lips. At the shake of her head though, he stops, concern creasing his forehead as he returns the glass to the table.

“Lucifer, you’ll see me in no time at all,” she reminds him, squeezing his hand as best she can. Her silly Devil. As if she would ever choose to be anywhere else other than by his side.

He regards her seriously, then gestures at her prone body. “I mean like this.”

She fights back the urge to laugh again. “What, old and decrepit?” she says jokingly, as though it hasn’t been a problem that’s lingered in the back of her mind for over twenty years.

But it’s never been a problem for him.

“No, my darling.” He rises from the chair, his free hand rising to brush a single strand of hair back from her face, a gesture so intimately familiar to them both that it feels like breathing. “I mean alive.”

She closes her eyes as he leans down over her bed, taking comfort in the warmth that emanates from him like a furnace. His scent envelopes her, and she falls into it, losing herself in the feel of having him near.

“Alive,” he continues softly, “and so very⁠—” His lips gently brush her forehead. “Very⁠—” He moves to the tip of her nose, the peck he places there so featherlight that it tickles. “Beautiful.”

He kisses her, and it’s the same as it ever was. For he is hers, and she is his.

He’s so caught up that he doesn’t even notice her enter the room.

“Dad?” she says, and he startles, eyes shifting rapidly between her and the image in his hands.

A beat passes before he shakily blurts out⁠, “Did you like it? You didn’t like it the first time I gave it to you.”

With a frown, she takes the picture from him, her breath catching as she looks at it.

It’s her. She remembers her mom taking this photo, the day she first rode a bike on her own.

She’s smiling, so happy and proud of herself.

But she’d forgotten the bike. The very same bike her dad gave her just a few weeks ago.

She hadn’t recognised it.

He’s watching her with wide eyes, waiting for her answer.

“I did,” she says softly, and something in her heart twists at the way he practically crumples in relief.

She doesn’t know what to say, and so, as always, she tries to lighten the mood, for both their sakes.

“Hey, maybe I can be the one to teach you instead!”

Immediately, she regrets it.

The anguish that flashes across his face is sharp and vicious, and so fast that she almost misses it.

How many times has she missed it before?

The boss, she thinks to herself. Lucifer isn’t his boss anymore. Lucifer isn’t Earth’s anything anymore.

“No,” she replies, but the word barely passes through her lips, a whisper on a breath that she barely has the strength to exhale. She swallows, gathering herself, and tries once more. “He’s not here.”

It’s the first time she has to say it. It won’t be the last.

“Oh.” Patrick stands there for a moment, clearly at a loss for what to do. “Can I…” His attempt to help trails off into silence, as he waits for her to give him some kind of guidance. There’s nothing he can do if she doesn’t tell him what she wants.

But she can’t. Because all she wants is to go down to Hell and drag Lucifer back where he belongs. With her, and with his family. The one thing nobody can give her.

She can’t have what she wants, but she knows what she needs.

“Can you call me an Uber, please?” she asks.”I have to go home.” She concentrates on forcing her hands to stop trembling, just enough as she can reach into her pocket and retrieve her phone. Despite her best efforts, she still nearly drops it as she hands it over to Patrick, whose concern only grows as he looks at her.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to call someone? The boss?”

She shakes her head. “I just need to get out of here.”

It’s the truth. As Patrick pulls up the app, leaving becomes her singular focus. She can’t face going back up to the penthouse to retrieve her things. Even here, Lucifer is everywhere she looks; returning to the place they were so happy together is too much to bear. Too much pain, for far too little time. It isn't fair. Years, years they waited for this, and for what? Just a few weeks together before it was all ripped away. She lost him, just like she feared.

The only piece of Lucifer she has left is inside her.

Right now, she isn’t sure that’s enough.

“10 minutes, Ms. Decker.” Patrick’s voice breaks through her thoughts before they can grow any darker, forcing her back to the here and now. She nods, and starts to rise from the piano seat. But her legs are stiff from sitting so long, and no sooner is she on her feet than she stumbles, her fingers grasping at the smooth lid of the piano for purchase. Patrick is there in an instant to steady her, but rather than making any further effort to move, she finds herself staring at her fingerprints on the glossy surface.

“Careful, Detective,” she hears him say in her head. “There are things I love just as much as you, you know.”

The barest hint of a smile tugs at her lips. If he were here, she would smirk at him, and remind him of the fact he’d hardly complained when he had her spread out on that same piano just two weeks before.

But he’s not here, and so the memory of him fades as quickly as it came, taking the ghost of her smile along with it. She lets Patrick guide her to the top of the stairs, where she takes one last longing look at the elevator. “Is there something you need? Patrick says, noticing her hesitation.

Yes, she thinks. I need him.

With a deep breath, she closes her eyes, and blinks the last of her tears away. “No,” she says, “but thank you.”

Patrick opens the door for her, and she steps out into the cool night air. There’s a line around the block already, what feels like half of Los Angeles waiting to get a piece of the Devil. But they can’t, and they never did. He only ever belonged to her, and tonight, she let him go.

No matter how hard he tries though, her prayer demands to be heard. The longer he denies it, the stronger it gets, until the pressure in his mind is almost unbearable. With a wave of his hand, he resets the loop he’s in for now, and leaves the soul to it. By the time he reaches the corridor, he’s swaying, and it quickly becomes obvious he isn’t going to make it back to the office before the prayer overwhelms him.

With a grunt, he smashes his fist into the rough stone column in front of him in an effort to stay upright. And then, he gives in.

The tidal wave of hate that washes over him is staggering in its intensity. He recoils, falling back against the wall and gasping as he clutches at his head. There are no words, just surge after surge of anger, loathing, and… pain.

So much pain.

It’s an agony that crawls across his skin, setting his nerves alight, until it focuses in just one place. A place that has his eyes widening in horror, as he recognises that pain for exactly what it is.

His wings burst forth unbidden, and then he’s flying, hurtling towards the Earth, all the while feeling as though his back is being torn in two. But the pain doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting to his daughter.

He lands outside of Chloe’s apartment in a frenzy, but before he can even think about getting inside, the front door opens and Amenadiel is standing there, blocking the way. “Lucifer, you can’t be here,” his brother says, casting a furtive glance back inside the apartment. “You know that.”

He shakes his head frantically before trying to barge past him and failing, Amenadial grabbing him by the shoulder and repelling him easily. He stumbles backwards, and when he looks up at this brother again, it’s with desperation. “You don’t understand. Rory, she’s⁠—”

“She’s fine. Luci, she’s fine. Chloe found her in time. The damage was… extensive, but she’s healing.”

His words don’t calm him the way they should. The prayer is over, but the phantom of her pain remains, a long forgotten ache that settles between his shoulder blades. “She won’t lose her wings?” he asks, a question he knows his brother has already answered, and yet he finds himself needing the reassurance. It’s bad enough that his daughter has to suffer the same torment of being abandoned that he did; he can’t let her do this to herself as well. He just can’t.

It’s a day like every other in Hell; he’s at his desk in the office as usual, preparing for his first session that morning. Strictly speaking, there’s no actual ‘mornings’ or ‘days’ here, but even a Devil needs to sleep sometimes, and so he measures his time accordingly. He works, he eats, and he sleeps. The days are long, and the work taxing, but it's worth it. As shown by the fact he's able to cross another name from his list today, a triumphant smile on his face as he does so. Delilah ascended just yesterday, and he couldn’t be happier about it. He celebrates each and every soul that leaves this place, of course, but the ones he knew personally… well, those are always dear to his heart in a way the others could never be.

He’s just about to summon the first soul when a prayer tickles at the edge of his consciousness, causing him to sigh. If it’s one thing he hates, it’s being interrupted during a session, and although technically he hasn’t started yet, he could really do without Amenadiel or one of his other siblings hijacking his day. Their prayers never seem to be about anything important, and honestly, if he gets just one more complaint about how one of the ‘delinquents’ he’s freed is eating everything in the cotton candy room…

With a shake of his head, he puts down his notepad and leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other as he closes his eyes and opens up his mind up to the prayer. In the next instant, however, he’s sitting bolt upright, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair so hard that the plastic starts splintering under his fingertips. But he barely even notices, the wave of sadness accompanying the prayer almost knocking him to the floor.

They’re spending the day at Linda’s during one of Amenadiel’s visits, and his son has yet to grow out of the word. Perhaps she should have expected it; babies mimic what they hear, and they spend enough time with Charlie that, logically, she might pick up on it. And yet when it happens, it hits her like a blow to the chest, stealing the air from inside her lungs and leaving her stunned. All she can see in her mind is Lucifer’s smug face as he wins the war over whether “Mama” would be first, followed by him inevitably comforting her that, soon, darling, it would be her turn.

There is no comfort here. No warm arms to hold her as they look down together at Rory with pride. She feels something wild and raw rip free of her soul at the thought, her hand flying to her mouth as she covers the scream rising in her throat. Linda barely manages to say, “Chloe,” before she’s running, fleeing to the bathroom where she can lock herself inside and try desperately to pretend she lives in a world where he’s here, where he saw, where he heard. She can picture it, so clearly, the delight in his eyes as their baby girl calls for him.

No one had ever asked him that before. Not Maze, not when this was the face he wore when they first met, and certainly not the rest of her kind. Demons, they wore their scars with pride, the proof of a victory well earned. For a time, he tried to see himself the same way, the monster that stared back at him in his reflection a reminder that while he may have lost the war, he had succeeded in winning his freedom.

But then he would feel the ash upon his skin, and the illusion that this kingdom was any kind of prize would shatter, leaving behind the inescapable truth that this was no conquest, only banishment, to a prison of his own making.

A prison he was so often returned to by his brother, who could care less about his fallen sibling and any suffering he may have felt. Pain was retribution, and there was none more worthy of that than the creature once known as Samael. When Amenadiel saw what had become of him, his reaction shuttered quickly from shock, to disgust, and then inevitably, to judgement. He saw his Father’s work, and deemed it good.

It was the first and last time he would ever show him his face.

Anyone else, well, they were only human. Visions of the fire and brimstone that awaited them down below far outweighed any thoughts of what might have caused the devastation standing before them. Not even the Doctor had considered it, too caught up in exploring the connection between his subconscious and his appearance to ever wonder how deep the physical aspect of it went. He suspected she considered it a mirage, something that if disturbed would dissolve into nothingness, revealing a reality of smooth, unblemished skin.

He had no intention of informing her otherwise.

The Detective though… 

Hearing those three words fall from her lips forced him to face a truth he had buried for millennia. If Hell taught him anything, it was that unchanging torture could become bearable after a time. He wore his punishment like a second suit, the agony of what lurked underneath forever teetering on the edge of too much. Pleasure proved to be an all too fleeting sweet relief, and so he drowned himself in it as often as he could. A smile became his shield, and he swore to himself to never let anyone see what lay underneath it.

But he couldn’t lie to her. 

And so as she traced her fingertips across his ruined flesh, for the first time since leaving Hell, he allowed himself to sink into it. His body trembled underneath her touch, the sensation of skin against skin burning through his nerves, drawing a sharp gasp from his wretched throat. He recoiled at the same time she pulled her hand away, and shame washed over him instantly at the sight of such sorrow in her eyes.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she said softly, reaching for him again, but this time, taking care not to make contact. Instead, she merely rested her hand next to his on the bed, close enough as he could still feel her warmth. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the sight, from this precious human who would care about the Devil’s pain.

The only human to ever do so.

And the only human to whom he would ever make his confession.