Hi, I'm just dropping by your fandom to poke it. Just a little. If you read this I ask that you please read the parts of God in Neil Gaiman's voice, he was the voice of God in the 3rd season finale.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I just like to play with things.
Disclaimer #2: If you're familiar with me, then you know I like to write about sexy fun times. There's no sexy fun times here, sorry.
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"A miracle is a gift," it had been so long since he'd last heard his voice that he almost didn't recognize it.
There were several bottles of varying sizes before him and the ashtray was filled with snubbed out butts. There was still a residue of line stretched in front of him. It took an awful lot of substances to knock him off kilter, but here he was brain a little-fried hearing the voice of his Father.
"What?" He looked away from the keys he had been toying with to see the man that birthed him standing in his living room.
He was in a similar state of dress that Amenadiel had favored while he had been on earth. The Father of all creation stood in an olive green sweater with a light blue button-down beneath it. His hair was a mess of shaggy curls that his own more styled version would likely mirror if he wasn't more concerned with his appearance. When the older man's dark-eyed gaze met his he didn't resist the urge to bristle in irritation.
It was just something Dad had brought out in him, merely with his presence. But then getting cast down to Hell can do that.
"I said," his lips quirked up like he could sense the anger flowing off his son. "A miracle is a gift."
"What are you getting at?" He didn't bother to stand, he did close the cover to the piano keys. "Why are you even here?"
"You assume the worse," his father spoke as if he wasn't going to acknowledge his son's fury. "With your detective. You think that I would put a miracle before you for something more than just what it is." He came easily to the piano to eye the litter on its surface. "A gift. Nothing more."
A myriad of emotions swirled through him, something in his chest knotted. He didn't want to talk about Chloe to his Father. He didn't want to pick at that growing wound that came from the sight of terror in her eyes, something he saw every time he closed his. It chased him in his dreams and he was almost to the point of getting his mitts on to have a strong word with the Dream Lord and his meddling.
"A gift you so cleverly put before me," he gritted his teeth as he spoke. "And for what other reason than to manipulate me."
"And what reason do I have to manipulate you, Samael?" His tone was reasonable, something he hadn't heard in eons.
"To get me to return to Hell," he hissed at the older man like it should've been obvious.
"Surely if that was what I wanted," his Father paused and picked up a bottle that still had a quarter of brown liquor in it. He sniffed it carefully before humming and pouring it in the tumbler that Lucifer had before him. "I would have you back in Hell once you failed to return your Mother to Hell." He plucked up the tumble and gave it a cautious sip, "That's quite good." He returned his full attention to him, "There was plenty of occasions where I could have forced you back on your throne. Whether it was when you murdered your Brother." His voice hardened momentarily, "Or you gave your Mother her own realm. Or when you put Cain on the path to removing his curse." He paused as if he were letting his words sink in, or perhaps reeling in his emotions, "But I didn't."
It was enough to quiet him. It didn't do anything quiet the ache in his chest, the reason he had been overindulging. "Why are you here?" He asked again, voice hoarse and emotion simmering on the surface as if it were ready to boil over.
An act that only a parent could provoke, even with the amount of animosity he felt towards his father.
"I feel your despair," his Father spoke lowly. "Your pain has always been a black hole within me that I felt from the moment you fell. There is nothing I can do to rectify it. Nor will I apologize for it," he said gently. "It was a punishment for rebelling and a punishment you deserved." He took a breath before he took a healthy sip from his borrowed tumbler, "I am here because, despite everything, you are my son. Despite everything I love you, even if you think I don't. So," he paused to put the glass back down on the top of the piano, turning it at a slight angle. "I wanted to remind you just what a miracle was."
"A gift," he scoffed.
"Indeed," his Father smiled slightly at him. "One that does have a shelf life to it. If you are to enjoy it, you need to stop wallowing in your despair and pain and go to her."
That broke the damn in him. He choked down a sob because even though he knew his Father would see it regardless as to where he was, he didn't want to break down in front of him. "She knows," his voice quaked as he admitted it. "She knows," he said again like it would change how it sounded.
"And you think her opinion will change? You think she will love you less?"
"You did this," it came out as an accusation.
"Ah, I put her here for you," he admitted as he stepped away from the piano. "But freewill prevents me from making her love you. If she loves you," he put a little emphasis on if. "Truly, then she will love you for who you are and not what you are. Now," his Father turned away to step through his living room to look out the floor to ceiling window. "I thought you smart enough to realize how people felt about you. I thought when you saved her from the poisoning that you realized she loved you and you ran because you too damaged to return her love." He made a noise as he peered out the window, "But that isn't it, is it?"
Lucifer stayed at the piano, watching his Father's back bewildered now.
"A miracle is a gift," he said again.
He jerked away with a snort, sitting up with an ache in his back. The closed cover of his piano greeted him. He'd fallen asleep at it, something he didn't recall doing. A cursory glance of his living room proved it to be empty, he was alone in his penthouse.
Had it been a dream? God wasn't one to be so direct. He looked down at the litter of empty bottles before him and spotted the glass he had been drinking from the night before. It sat with a sliver of liquor still in it, turned at an angle away from him.
A gift?
There was a noise that distracted him from that train of thought. His phone danced across the smooth surface of the piano as it vibrated. He picked it up to see who his caller was. Detective greeted him and he didn't push down the well of feelings that burned up his throat. He was too eager to hear her voice, he pressed the green phone icon and put the phone to his ear.
"Hello, Chloe."