This story is based on a lot of the meta thoughts I had throughout series 3 of Lucifer. I started this story when it still looked like there wouldn't be a S4. So this is entirely incompatible with any spoilers we've received about that. Loose sequel to In the Light of a Promise but it should be able to stand on its own.
Huge thanks to ariaadagio for her thorough beta of a story that is about three times as long as I usually write. It wouldn't be as good without her.
Traffic in LA is Hell.
Driving is especially taxing tonight. As if the regular grind of work wasn't enough to make me want to cry, some of the idiots in charge tried to push through their own vision of how things should work. It took the entire staff threatening revolt to get them dismissed. I was almost happy when I could get back to my daily grind after that. Of course, that also means I get to brave the peak-hour congestion at the end of the day. The combination of the sun in my eyes, exhaust fumes and either aggressive or incompetent drivers is its own special version of Hell. Especially since the air conditioner decided to break today.
Somehow, I make it home. As I climb the stairs to my crappy little apartment – hey, at least it has parking even if the elevator works maybe one day in ten – my phone buzzes.
I don't recognize the number, but I answer it anyway.
~.~
The doors to the morgue loom in front of me. Approaching them feels like walking through molasses. The people around me don't seem to have trouble getting to and from the parking lot to the building. But I need to fight for every step forward, while it feels like my soul is sinking deeper and deeper.
I'm trying to hold on to hope. Maybe the LAPD made a mistake. It could happen. But deep down, I know better. It feels like I've been here before a thousand times. And what I'm dreading is true.
A female officer approaches me, asks for my name. She's pretty, despite the bulky uniform. She looks a little familiar, like I've seen her before somewhere. I can't place her though. But who she is doesn't matter. This is all about the formal identification I'm about to make.
I don't see anything of the corridors leading to the morgue itself. I only see the table with the body on it. The policewoman says something kind and it sounds like she means it. But then the sheet is pulled back, and that, too, is irrelevant.
I'm looking at the body of my mother. It's not a pretty sight. She's been dead for a few days, the policewoman tells me now. The neighbors called the police because of the smell. She'd died of a stroke, alone and abandoned.
I abandoned her. Years ago, I was the one who walked out, the one who never came back. And I could have. I could have made time while studying, or taken a day off from my job. Or even just driven by one weekend, one evening. Picked up a phone. Something. I've done nothing. And now there were no more chances. No more opportunities to just walk in, to talk, to make amends. This was the end. I don't know if I'm crying because of her, or because of me.
I find myself outside the morgue again. Did I go through all the motions? I can barely remember. I find my car and get in. As I turn onto the highway, the air conditioning stops working again. I take one hand off the wheel to bash the dashboard.
I've also taken my eyes off the road. So has the guy changing lanes beside me.
Traffic in LA is Hell.