#pitt.cola

He hates not being more present, he really does. You say you're not all that bothered. You promise Lucifer when he takes your hand in his, that you're okay, that you understand he's busy, and that you're satisfied with these stolen moments of affection.

Lucifer notices the skin under your fingernails and thinks otherwise. He knows you think you're okay, but he also knows "okay" is relative. He knows you better. Okay is a low, low bar.

Lucifer has learned to watch you closely; you pick at the blemishes on your face, hangnails, paper cuts, scabs, until the small imperfections turn to bleeding gashes. You do it like an addict, picking until you bleed, looking for more to tear away. With every small wound, guilt swallows Lucifer, that he can't be there for you every hour of every day, soothing your stressors- but at least he can be there at night. At the end of the day, you both end up in the same bed in his room, that's your one solace.

What had been just Lucifer's room had been co-opted into both of your rooms, little touches from each of you here and there- getting you to decorate with your own things was like pulling teeth. It relieved you both to know that even if you were sleeping alone now eventually someone else would crawl in beside you. Usually, you'd be asleep by the time Lucifer got done with today's work, and you had gotten back to the room before him like always; but you just laid still in the king size bed, bathed in blue half darkness from the singular candle you'd left glowing with magic on the nightstand.

Tomorrow, the day after, the week after; planning, planning, planning and picking, picking, picking. Your fingertips smoothed over your cheek, searching for purchase in your skin, like footholds in a cliff side. They wandered down to your jaw, finding a blemish on the soft pouch between your neck and chin. Your fingernails moved on their own, hungry for the satisfaction of tearing, they pinched and scratched- it was a zit. You needed to wash your face more, It's been a while, you don't really know where to start with that, you should ask Asmodeus. Something wet and warm on your skin- you should clean the sheets, vacuum in here too, how long has it been? Maybe you could talk Lucifer into hiring staff, no he didn't need more on his plate and that would be expensive, talk to Barbatos to get help. Running down your fingers- you had dinner duty tomorrow, you haven't even thought about it yet, you'll have to come up with something on the fly-

"You're still awake." Lucifer's voice makes you sit up in bed, you realize he's right. You are still awake, when you'd sworn you'd gone to bed an hour ago.

Your fingers are wet and red, your jaw stings like a bite. "I just…" you don't really know, there's nothing to say that he can't see.

Relief, your hands look for it in the space around your nail beds, tearing the skin back to search for the feeling.

"Stop that." Lucifer scolds, harsh but not cruel. He pries your hands apart from each other, it's for himself as much as you, he hates watching you do that. "I'll clip your nails myself if I have to."

He thinks, briefly, about a fun fact Satan had told him when he was little, that when parrots are stressed they'll pluck out their own feathers and it reminds him of you. Then he thinks that he isn't much better, all that drinking and the late nights.

"What are you thinking about?" Lucifer doesn't bother with “what's wrong?” because you don't want to talk about what's wrong, you never do.

You want to draw your hand back to your chin, you feel the urge and Lucifer feels you try and pull your hands out of his for a moment. "It's not a big deal, I'm okay."

Lucifer squeezes your hands and swallows hard, he swears he can hear his jaw groaning as he clenches his teeth. “I'm okay” that phrase makes him want to bite things.

"Go sit in the bathroom." It sounds like he's choking on his frustration with how quiet the request comes out. As quick as you open your mouth to protest he interrupts. "Please."

The look on Lucifer's face makes you cave, there was something so tired and weak in his expression, perhaps the tilt of his brows or the slowly darkening rings beneath his eyes. You comply- if only to get him to stop making that awful face -and silently walk to the bathroom. The walk of shame, too irresponsible for your own fingernails, you think. You've scratched up too many valuable things, and now you're to be declawed.

You watch, from a room away, as Lucifer runs his fingers through his hair, he sighs and rubs his temples, then sheds his heavy overcoat. He keeps his gloves on, you think they make him feel safe. It's hardly a second before he's in the bathroom with you, bending down to open the cupboard beneath the sink while you stand there, barefoot on the cold tile.

Lucifer doesn't bother with words when he stands up again, only pulling your hand until it hovers over the sink. The first click of the nail clippers feels like a gunshot, it's loud and jarring, and you flinch.

You wish Lucifer would take his gloves off. You want him to close the millimeter thick gap, because warmth of his hands would be comforting now and you're craving the skinship; but you don't say anything, and Lucifer doesn't look up. You just watch as the overworked head of the household clips your goddamn fingernails for you after his long, hard day. Guilt fills your chest like lake water, you swear to God you're drowning in it, you can feel the burn in your lungs with every futile breath. The water rises from your lungs, to your throat, then before you know it you can feel it burning your eyes. You swear that you're not going to cry, no matter what it takes, you will not make this worse for him.

"Deep breaths." Lucifer warns- he heard you gasping for air, trying to swallow your tears. You nod, words are dangerous now, opening your mouth means opening the floodgates. For a moment, Lucifer pauses, and removes his gloves; you hadn't even noticed he'd finished clipping your nails. It's gentle when he grasps your finger between his own, carefully filling down any sharp edges. By the time he's filed all of your fingernails into smooth, blunt edges, you'd found your breath again, engrossed with watching the simple process.

He washes your hands for you, and you think that he doesn't have to do that, but maybe Lucifer just wants to. The water is pleasantly warm and the hand soap smells like Lucifer; it's not distinct to you, but has a vaguely masculine scent, maybe sandalwood?

When you finally look back at Lucifer, some of the creases in his face have loosened, maybe he can finally be at ease with knowledge you can't hurt yourself anymore.

Both of you stand in front of the bathroom mirror as he rubs ointment into the wound below your chin; Lucifer right behind you as he tilts your head this way and that, fussing over you like a mother hen.

"Maybe," Lucifer rumbles quietly, you can feel his chest move as he talks, pressed up against your back. "You should take a week off."

Your expression sours and he notices. "I can handle this."

"You don't need to convince me." The reply is quick and confident, like it rested on the tip of his tongue before you even spoke. "I know you're capable, it's one of your best qualities." He means “I love that about you” and you both know it. "But that doesn't mean you don't need a break."

You stifled a sarcastic snort- he had some nerve telling you to take a break, you couldn't recall the last time he had even a day to himself.

He places a bandaid over your injury and you study his expression in the mirror for a long while; it only takes a minute for him to meet your eyes through the perfectly polished glass.

"And…" His Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow, trying to work up the words he wanted. "I miss you. I'd like to spend time with you." The way Lucifer chokes out the words was rough, like he'd coughed up sand rather than a confession.

It's quiet for a long time, you're trying to outlast each other, but his subtle frown is wearing on you.

"Okay." He visibly relaxes when you agree, shoulders going lax and jaw loosening. "If you take a break with me."

The tension returns to his body immediately- a week-long break is a hard sell for Lucifer. Both of you are workaholics, maybe that's why you work, maybe that's why you struggle; who's to say?

When he clicks his tongue, you know it's in defeat. "Fine, if it's what you want."

For this first time in a long time, you break into a grin, smug and victorious. "It is."

Lucifer huffs a small laugh, and you know it's to try and cover his own grin, but he just distracts himself further by picking up and putting on his gloves. "Don't look so triumphant."

The lilt to his voice is joyful, teasing, you missed that. It dawns on both of you, how tired you've both been for so long, and how similar you both are.

"You should go to bed." The smiling is gone, and the teasing has been put away, but his tone is not unkind.

You couldn't help the scowl that crawled it's way onto your face. "Don't use your dad voice on me," he almost looks offended that you called it that,"you need to go to bed."

"Here's an idea," firm hands grasp beneath your armpits and lift you from the ground, "We could both go to bed."

Lucifer, the man who doesn't like cats, holding you like one as he walks you over to your bed. The way he drops you into the mattress is so unceremonious you can't help but laugh a little. He rounds to his side of the mattress and sits on the edge of the bed, turning back for a moment to check on you and give a small smile. You watch while he unlaces his shoes, unbuttons his shirt and slides off his dress pants, fighting the urge to sleep; you've made it this long, you're determined not to stumble in the home stretch.

At long last, Lucifer's done all he needs to do and crawls his way beneath the covers with you. You shuffled up next to him, tucked against Lucifer's side as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

Sleep was quickly approaching, already pulling your eyes closed. Your words sounded distant, like you were speaking through a mouthful of water, but at the very least Lucifer's response to you was clear.

"I love you too.”