Hi everyone. This is a story that grew from an idea I'd had since Season 2. It was meant to be a one-shot of about 2,000 words that ended up being 30k, because I've never been good at writing short ;) I wanted to post something on the rather auspicious date of June 6, at somewhere near 6pm, while I was waiting for news on Season 5. I was thrilled to hear about the show renewal, just wish the news hadn't come with quite such a sting. %)
This is my first Lucifer fanfic, and takes place immediately after the Season 4 conclusion.
I'll be dragging you to Hell and back with this story, so I hope you'll stay for the ride ;)
Lucifer and all the characters within (even Olga) are owned by Warner Brothers and Netflix.
Thanks for reading, let me know if I've stuffed anything up, and please comment when you can :D
God created the world in six days, and on the seventh he rested.
Or at least that's what he liked to tell his kids.
In truth, the universe had been a bit of an accident, his kids happily so, and his favorite realm (the Earth) a disastrous mistake. He'd fashioned a multitude of realms with precise order and grand purpose, but the Earth and its many denizens had gotten away from him - a haphazard spill of gravity, chemistry and a dash of soul stuff that he never got around to cleaning up and which swiftly took on a wild life all its own.
Over millennia.
He had a terrible attention span, really.
There was a beauty and a richness to the life that grew there though, tempered by tragedies just as deep, that none of his perfected worlds could match. Those other worlds proceeded predictably, as he knew they would, and while it was in his nature to see what lay behind and ahead all at once, the little sphere of Earth never failed to surprise him.
It was messy, and broken and hurting, but from the struggles and the pain came bright waves of light - souls rising to such heights of creativity and dazzling displays of love that it took his breath away.
Not that he actually needed to breathe, but it was a very handy communication tool, particularly in emoting his growing frustration with his co-creator.
The wife.
He sighed.
"This is more important to you than me," she'd said.
"No," he'd said right back.
"Yes."
And then she flooded it, as he knew she would. Thankfully he'd had a fail safe, so not all was lost, but things soured from there, as he knew they would, and he found himself interceding much more frequently as her wrath grew, before his focus seemed to be on the Earth alone.
His kids kept messing with it too, possibly goaded on by their mother. Samael's prodding alone had caused no end of trouble from the very beginning. Literally playing around with the first made, filling them with desire for things he'd not intended them to have.
His reaction, ultimately, had been harsh, for a great deal of suffering seemed to stem from these desires.
He'd kicked his son out, when no amount of reasoning brought him back to his father's sense of sense.
There'd been a war. Brief and greatly enjoyed by Michael, who was always looking for an excuse to hit something.
Samael was sent to Hell. To Lord over the lost souls whose desires had taken them too far in their flickering lives on Earth. And while it had felt fitting at the time, and strangely more fitting when he'd sent his crazed wife down too, he'd not spoken to Samael since.
Not once.
He felt regret, which only grew over the centuries. No distraction seemed to help, not even a too-brief foray into flesh on his treasured Earth. An earnest desire to guide his little creations to live lives of hope and love that went very poorly indeed.
He felt his son's restlessness, and sought some way to reach his boy, but could not pierce the wall of rage Samael had built about himself.
An idea formed though, for he knew what Samael planned to do. An idea on how to reach his son in another way, to be close without being blatantly himself, which seemed to be what irked his son the most.
He'd done it before, after all. He could do it again.
Perhaps with less facial hair this time.