The Waiting Game

When it finally happened, it wasn't like either of them had been expecting. Well, one of them had squandered a lot of time and energy in all sorts of early-on fantastical anticipations and the other had put equally as much effort into NOT. Anticipating, that was. And then there were other things added into the mix. Friendship things. Life things. Supernaturally bizarre things, which (insert sarcasm; a great invention) took a bit of getting used to; surprisingly requiring more from the one who actually was (supernatural, that is) as he adjusted to her adjusting. Which she did quite well, all things considered and that had thrown him for quite a loop seeing as she'd put an awful lot of effort into completely ignoring the obvious for quite some time. Seemed he needed to remember not to underestimate her. Again. So when it finally did happen, it caught them both by surprise ('with my mental knickers down; almost appropriate as it were', one of them remarked) in an unexpected oasis of 'we're so much more than this we forgot *this* can be part of more, too'.

Clear as mud?

Well.

To enlighten (one of them, the darker one, laughs at my choice of this word and the other swats him on the shoulder with a gentle backhand. 'shh…just listen to the story, you ass.' 'yes, darling', he flickers at her with a gleam in his eye, not cowed by her admonishment at all. they both laugh softly, and settle back in together.)

As I was saying…

When it happened, it wasn't expected. Or anticipated. Or particularly welcome, either…as many good things that life can bring initially arrive in inconvenient packaging. ('you've got that right', she says, wrinkling her nose at the gentle jab of reproach from his elbow). Anyway. They'd been sitting together on the couch in his penthouse, paperwork from the latest case spewed over the coffeetable in front of them. She'd done like she had for ever so long; interrupted his nightlife with his play day job. She'd arrived at Lux all tight ponytail and tightly wound fluster with arms wrapped around her laptop and case files. He had his arms wrapped around several attractive people. ('poor substitutes, love' he whispers to her. she flicks his chest dismissively, but both he and I see the happy glow his words bring to her face, and we're both pleased). After realizing she wasn't going to give up her insistent interruption of his fun (he always tried, and she never relented when it came to work –much as he did when it came to her), he finally allowed himself to be cajoled into the elevator, whining about it the whole way up. ('I don't whine', he retorted indignantly. 'yes, you do' she and I both said to him. he glowered, knowing we were right).

They'd entered the room, her heading right for the coffeetable to portion out her workflow and him right for the bar. It was a dance they both knew well, and they moved lockstep together within it. Bringing them both half-full tumblers, knowing he'd have many more and she would ignore hers until some sort of breakthrough was made. He settled beside her on the couch, listening as she laid out her thought processes as she did her papers. This is what she did; how she worked. His role was to winnow ideas within the blocks of information she provided. The mortar for her stones as it were, and without either the structure they were creating together would suffer. This is true for architecture of all kinds, physical and metaphysical, dear ones. Remember that.

The wee hours of the night pass into the dawn as they talked ('bickered, rather', he said. 'that's one of the best parts' she smiled) and he drank and she fussed. Finally, as the first real light of day washed against the sweeping glass of his walls they figured it out. Together. ('we always seem to'. he smiled at her words. 'eventually'. 'yes, you do. but I haven't made it easy, have I?' I ask them. 'no', she says, looking at me. 'but it was worth the wait.' she glances back at him and draws her fingertips along his jaw. 'you're worth the wait.' he gathers her hand in his and kisses it gently. 'every painful second of all of it, darling. truly so.' and I smile to see this, proud of him for being able to say so. proud of him for growing enough to mean it as deeply as he does. as I know he can).

She flopped back on the couch next to where he lay sprawled against it, one of his arms over the low topline of the leather cushions. Hands limp beside her legs, she purses her lip to the side and puffs ineffectively at a strand of loose hair, too exhausted to move her arms. He chuckles, watching her folly, and brings his own graceful fingers to tuck it behind her ear for her. Hands of a musician, carving the harmony of her. She smiles at him, he returns it….and surprisingly, that's all it takes. After all that time, just that last little bit of effort before exhaustion was what's needed. Remember that too, dear ones…you never know how close everything you've always wanted is. Keep trying.

The kiss they both lean in for is mutual and unhurried. Together they taste of smoke and coffee, bite of hard liquor and harder miscommunication. He drops his arm from the back of the couch to pull her in gradually and as she's never before, she lets him. Oh, she lets him and he could sing for the feeling it gives.

For all their talk and banter, there's none of that now. Just calm. And quiet. And peaceful joy. He's a creature of passion and longing…I should know. She's one of practical magic – I know this, too. And yet what follows isn't borne from any sort of high drama, although from knowing them together for a long time you can be forgiven for imagining it to be so. And that's part of them, too, but not here. Not now. Now is acceptance, relief, gentle questions and soft answers.

And he doesn't care that she's not pristine and plastique and perfect. He's had that, often. It's her; and that's all that matters. And she doesn't care that his past is far different – FAR different than anyone she's ever known (and she does know dear ones, although it took her so very long, understandable though that might be). ('although things are going to change, aren't they?' she asks this of him with only the brittle shell of her words belying this last qualm. 'my dear, things have already changed…so much I cannot even say myself, and it's all you'. she relaxes back into him at this, and he cannot imagine ever jeopardizing the joy he's finally found as he holds her tighter).

This now, this together. That's what matters to me.

And the fact that they got here. Together.

People, well some of you, say it's the journey. Some others say it's where you find yourselves at the end that matters. And I laugh to myself, knowing both and (even more than you are capable of imagining) are true. Don't feel badly; you should see what some others come up with.

And theirs isn't over. Their journey. Not by a long shot. And you may think that what I'm about to do is cruel now, but only because you can't see what I see and know what I know.

But someday you will.

Chloe startled herself awake, disorientated for the moment. Lucifer, out cold beside her jolted as she spoke in a gravelly, slumber-drenched voice, "What the hell…god, Lucifer wake up! We've fallen asleep on your couch!"

"Dear me, Detective, it's a little late for all the noise, don't you think?" He peered blearily out at the breaking dawn. "Or early, I should say. Any road, why all the fuss? Offspring's with her father and Maze certainly needs no babysitter."

"Because! We cracked this case and I need to fax over some of this documentation and…"

He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands as he felt her extricate herself from the deep cushions beside him. Already missing her warmth there, although he was rather glad she wasn't hollering in his ear any longer. He felt a little strange, like he'd had a dream….but he didn't. Dream that was. Opening one eye and cocking his head at where she was clumsily scooping together all the papers and photos she'd spread out he asked her a question.

Still stumbling all the way out of sleep herself, she had to ask him to repeat it.

"I asked, Detective, 'how did you sleep'?"

"Fine, I guess, other than having a stiff neck. And shut up." This last remark was directed at the raunchy grin blooming on his face.

"Really?"

"Really. Well, actually…" Chloe paused in her stacking and sorting, looking a little bemused as she swiped an errant lock out her eyes. Lucifer smiled at the unconscious little gesture, not knowing why it warmed him so.

"Actually what?"

"I think I had a weird dream. Really weird."

His brows knotted a little. "Do you remember it?"

"Not really…one of those dreams where you remember the feeling more than the events, I guess. You know."

"I don't, really."

She creased her forehead in apology – of all the things that made him unique, and he so was, not ever dreaming was one of them. "Sorry."

"No offense intended or taken, my dear." He was quick to calm her. He'd never, after all they'd been through – all she'd tried so hard to learn to accept and understand – make her feel badly for 'forgetting' what he was sometimes. He rather liked it, actually. It meant he was more 'who' than 'what' to her. Her best friend. And that…oh just that so precious, was enough, though he hoped one day for much more.

And that hope kept him in the game. Her too, though he didn't know it.

But I do.

As for who I am? Well…if you're asking that question, dear one…mightn't you ask yourself some others? And please do; I've been waiting such a long time…you've no idea how, really.