Shards
A/N: Lucifer's loft post S1 finale after his conversation with Amenadiel regarding Mum. Our fierce Puck's an inconveniently deeper thinker, despite his preferences otherwise sometimes. Brief note at end so's not to spoil anything too early :-)
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"Mum."
The word spoken aloud still seemed to reverberate hollowly within his walls, more stridently now in his head than in the air where it had hung between him and his still-recovering brother. Slung on a thread between expressions of fear and horrific awe pulling them closer together with the ever-increasing weight of knowledge. Of change. The rapid and likely violent change coming. Lucifer sighed and cast his glance over at said brother now having gone back to sleep on one of the few areas in the loft not affected by their cataclysmic altercation. His couch. He looked around at the destruction, sparkles and winks of light everywhere.
It had seemed such a mess when it happened, but now a few shatters of glass and crystal were almost laughingly inconsequential.
He had his brother back. He had his demon back. He had the Detective and her daughter…sort of. Lucifer shook his head and drained the rest of his tumbler, hoping there weren't any tiny pieces of crystal from the broken bottle to make his throat ache worse than it did at that last thought.
And he was apparently going to have his mother back as well. Oh God.
Oh God, oh God…how DID that happen? Father…how could you?
He relaxed his long fingers and let the empty tumbler drop to the floor beside his chair…what was a little more mess in the face of this travesty, after all? He glanced over at Amenadiel, snoring lightly under the blanket he'd drawn over his younger brother's body. 'Great oaf', he thought, smile lines deepening slightly although he did not. Smile that was, not the deeper aspect. Deep he could do, though he kept that well-hidden. From himself as well, most times.
He sighed.
It was becoming almost taxing, hiding this way. Making things easier for others simply because he did not know any other way to get what he wanted. And what the bloody hell was that exactly? A little peace and pleasure. Some emptily sweet candies of fun. Treats. Treating himself to freedom from pain and his torturous role in Hell…the one that everyone else seemed quite happy to shove him back into as if he was simply a cog in a vast machine. Bollocks on that. Even Maze, loyal though she was would still likely leap at the chance to go back home.
Amenadiel let out a heavy sigh as he rolled over, wincing slightly in his sleep. Lucifer's eyes narrowed a bit, thinking. He'd asked Maze in the brewery how she'd planned to heal Mena. Not enough time for long discussion then, but clearly she'd gone and done….something effective. And wasn't here now to discuss it. His brows lowered further at that thought, then relaxed. Mazikeen and Amenadiel. His demon and his brother…perhaps she wouldn't jump so quickly for home after all knowing she'd be leaving this…tangle…of sharp blades and sharper feathers behind her.
He was aware of deliberately well-tabling the 'who' aspect his own snarls for the time, crises enough at the moment. His fingers twitched as they hung off the arm of the chair, wishing he could play. Wanting to soothe himself and quiet his mind, but reluctant to disturb Mena as sleep finished the job of healing. Selfish bugger, even unconscious he was a spoiler of fun.
But faintly he did hear music…light crystalline notes. From? Lucifer looked down at the floor beside the chair, watching the small swirl of shards eddying under the movement of his fingers. Why not? No narrow mortal minds to scare here and some cleaning up in good order anyway. He relaxed back into the supple leather, long legs extended and ankles crossed. Feeling the stiffness of dried blood on his shirt pulling at the skin of his stomach and curling his mouth in mild irritation. Banality of mortality: sloppy business indeed, that. He wondered if the change back was a permanent one and just as quickly dismissed the thought. No matter at the moment.
Lucifer brought both elbows up to the arms of the chair, forearms raised with wrists twisting gracefully and elegant fingers drawing silent notes in the air. Smiling a little now. This visionary music was soundless but striking nonetheless. The broken pieces from their battle lifted off the floor and countertops, following his design. Light sparking off all the raw edges in ever-changing chains and spiral: a beautiful tragedy. Just as he was.
Sweeps of his hands collected 'notes' large and small, profound and superficial. Swirling fire of his own innovation. Galaxies in minutia. Even the tiniest specks, mere dust really, reflected the same winking light…he wondered idly if this is what his father felt like, watching all the pieces of creation dance to his whim with the glow he'd provided. Suddenly angry, he clenched his fists and the broken pieces all coalesced in the center of the room. Dance of visual music gone, replace by a soddenly dull glare from flat facets. Rising swiftly, he strode out onto the balcony into the dark watches of the night, skies clouded like his mind was. He swept one arm behind and then pulled in a strong arc towards the murky heavens. The glass, unwieldy and clumsy now followed the motion and Lucifer opened his outstretched hands violently. Explosion, then a rain of his own stars falling. Just as he had. Beautiful destruction catching the light again.
He breathed deeply, nostrils flared. Looking up. Not expecting an answer to questions he could not ask. Not expecting direction. Getting exactly what he did expect, which was nothing at all. He stood for a time longer, hands clenched on the rim of the clear balcony wall, looking over the artificial lights below him. These poor substitutes for the stars these creatures had created for themselves…all they had since their own pollution obscured the brilliant power beyond the smog. Being satisfied with hollow imitation, not realizing the true wonders all around them.
What this what he was doing? Obscuring himself?
He sighed again, suddenly tired, plucking at the shirt adhered to his skin, disgusted. In a final flare of pique he stripped completely and flashed combustive irritation over the soiled clothes. The quick flare lit his body and he ran a hand over his perfect skin in the waning illumination.
'Small favors. Thanks for that I suppose, Father….'
He walked to his pool, sinking down and immersing himself. Wishing he could simply stay under…so quiet here. The coolness easing his fire enough for now, though not to the limits of his preferences. Rising clean, and waving an idle hand to clear the tainted water. Standing bare and proud at the wall again, soft wind drying him as he looked over the city's nightscape. Artificial or not, limited as they were, these lights were going to be his only illumination aside from his own to sort the trouble coming.
And she so was…of this he had no doubt.
He padded back inside, relieved to not worry about broken glass under his bare feet. Minor mundane miracles were still appreciated. Casting a mildly plaintive sigh at the empty expanse of wall behind his brother's sleeping form Lucifer entered his bedroom. Unwilling to suffer more artificial light tonight, he fumbled in his closet for something to wear, not wanting to be caught out if the proverbial excrement hit the fan blades sooner rather than later. Wounded brother and misplaced demon were handicaps enough on this fraught night.
As he pulled a black silk dressing gown whispering from a padded hanger, his eye caught the faint glow from the back of the closet. No artificial light there, oh no. No, indeed. He wondered, briefly what exactly it would take to wake the Detective…Chloe…to a more complete reality behind the artificially sere one she and so many others inhabited. If he could reveal himself as words seemed to be of little avail as yet. And show her what, exactly? Crimson or white? Baneful beast or avenging archangel? He could not be both…could he? God only knew, and he was silent as he'd ever been….
He cracked the hidden compartment door, not opening wholly, just wanting the brief comfort. He closed his eyes, lost in the sensual pleasure of them under his hand. So soft, so very beautiful and pure….and the splendor of light intrinsic within them made all other sources pale in comparison. His own light. Bestowed as his birthright. His to wield or refuse, but not to abandon again ….and as of yet, this secret not shared with anyone though he'd been ready to divulge it to save Mena had Maze not been so convincing earlier. Wondering again how she'd accomplished that.
Closing all the doors, secret and otherwise he opened his eyes and wandered over to the bed, burrowing under the soft covers. Alone. Not his usual preference, but after the fullness of tonight he relished the empty space.
Willing himself not to think and being glad he did not dream, the MorningStar drew a long arm around his pillows and waited for sleep to take him.
Hoping nothing else would, but at the moment too exhausted to care.
Elsewhere, someone cared very much. One human. One…most certainly, most assuredly NOT.
Follow-up A/N: I happen to think it's possible Lucifer's real wings weren't the ones set ablaze on the beach, but rather the ones from the auction. Because 1)Amenadiel didn't get a close look before they were torched, so wouldn't have been able to tell 2)Maze saying she 'cleaned up his mess on the beach' AND episodes later her showing Amenadiel the feather before she healed him saying, "I took this from Lucifer…" had NO direct correlation to each other, and no timeline specificity. 3)When asked on their page, the Lucifer writers are *awfully quick* to shoot down any idea of the wings still intact (sort of a 'doth protest too much', thing) and most importantly to my little soul 4)Lucifer with those wings is just too freaking pretty to consider.