Prompt:

16. "Maybe you didn't love me after all." (post season 4)

omnipresent
/ɒmnɪˈprɛz(ə)nt/
adjective
1. present or having an effect everywhere at the same time.

Chapter 2: Omnipresent

4 months 21 days 12 hours 35 minutes since the last time she saw him.

Not that she counts. (Of course she does).

It's hard not to when she sees and hears him in everything.

In the morning lights when she wakes up. In her kitchen when she makes breakfast. On the passenger seat of her car when she drives to work. In the precinct on the edge of her desk. In Ella's lab when she updates them on a case. In the interrogation room when they question a suspect.

And everywhere in his penthouse when she feels herself in a particularly masochistic mode and goes to visit.

She misses him.

And he's gone.

Sometimes she thinks it's worse than him being dead. Because she knows he must be just as miserable in Hell as she is on Earth. But maybe it's the same if he was dead; he's still banned from Heaven after all. Or so he believes anyway.

She could see it in his eyes that evening - he didn't want to go, but there was really no other choice. Those stupid demons needed to be contained by their King, or else they would have literally unleashed Hell on Earth. It doesn't lessen the pain though, or the anger.

After two months of carrying out cases alone, she got assigned a new partner despite her protests, a young and overly enthusiastic newbie, Will. Not that she didn't manage to catch the bad guys, but the process was much slower than before with Lucifer on her side and the Lieutenant saw it best to give her a new partner.

It should have helped, really - because Will is nothing at all like Lucifer. But funnily enough, it makes her miss him even more.

When she looks up from her desk every morning she still expects to find a smug smile in a three-piece suit, but all she sees is a brown messenger bag and plaid shirt. Instead of a tall, non-fat almond milk latte with sugar-free caramel drizzle and lemon bars, it's black coffee and donuts. Her desk always looks the same when she returns from a 10-minute break - no new wallpaper of an almost naked Devil, no dying flowers from alcohol poisoning. There is no one admonishing her for eating out of a vending machine. When a witness says something with a double-meaning, her eyes are already conditioned to roll, but there are no dirty jokes to follow. When a possible suspect is very clearly lying, there's no one asking them what is it they desire and get them to the truth. When she's doing the necessary paperwork, there's no one distracting her with their whining of "How boring and dreadful this side of your work is, Detective. No wonder office workers are the most at risk of burnout. I just read it on Buzzfeed."

It's just plain, old, textbook police work.

But then one day, Amenadiel lights a spark of hope in her fragmented heart. He offers her to take a message down to Lucifer because apparently, he is the only one who can and is willing to fly down to Hell to visit his brother.

Talking to Amenadiel about him is a balm to her soul - he misses his brother almost as much as she does, and even though he tried to get Lucifer to go back to Hell countless times in the past, he came to realize that his brother doesn't belong there. But if him being there is the only solution for ensuring peace on Earth, then he at least shouldn't always be alone.

So she writes him a letter, just a few sentences of how much she misses him, how often Trixie asks about him, how Charlie is slowly growing, how boring her days are without his presence and silly texts. Of how much she loves him.

When Amenadiel comes to the precinct after a quick trip to Hell a few days later, she's out of her seat in a heartbeat and practically jogs to the angel, but before she reaches him, he looks at her wistfully and shakes his head "no, he didn't send her any message back".

Hurt. Anger.

They hit her all at once and before Amenadiel could see the traitorous tears welling up in her eyes, she stalks back to her desk, shuts off her computer and gathers up her things. She doesn't care about paperwork today, the only thing that kept her going for the last week was this miniscule hope of hearing from him again. Anything. Even a simple "Hello, Detective" would have sufficed.

But nothing?

No, that is unacceptable. After months of suffering from his absence, after declaring her love for him only for him to vanish into thin air - well, Hell - the least he could do was to say something back.

She marches to the elevator with angry steps, not even stopping to say goodbye to anyone, and before Amenadiel can open his mouth to say something, maybe explain, the doors shut before her. She doesn't even know if she wanted an explanation.

She arrives at Lux in a record of 30 minutes and is up at his penthouse in another 5.

She makes sure to send a quick text to Dan and say goodnight to Trixie before she attacks the biggest liquor shelf in L.A. Because, goddamnit she needs a drink. Or four.

All the sadness and melancholy over the months, it was bound to break her. All she needed was a little push to plunge into the next stage of grief. Anger. That blinding rage she needs to feel to not fall apart even further.

At her second glass of whiskey, she is finally starting to feel a pleasant buzz coursing through her body and she can practically hear his stupid voice with his stupid accent "Naughty, Detective. Drinking on a weekday? How unprofessional of you."

"Shut up," she mumbles to the empty penthouse as she forgoes the glass and drinks straight from his expensive and fancy bottle of whiskey instead. It probably cost more than her annual salary.

She stumbles to the balcony and fumbles with the handle for a bit before she manages to open the glass doors, the cool night breeze of the city hits her face in a soothing manner, but not enough to sober her up. She reaches out to steady herself on the railing with her free hand. She flexes her fingers, watches as they turn white and takes another gulp.

"You don't even care do you?" she accuses, half shouting, as she looks down on the streets, not even sure if her direction is in any way correct. "Not even a single word, huh?" she takes a swig. "You selfish bastard." Another swig.

She's not even sure when she started crying but she can't seem to control her tears as they cascade down her cheeks. "And I thought you never lied. That's the whole point, doesn't it?" she yells. "Your first love, my ass," she scoffs and wipes her eyes and cheeks with the back of hand furiously, no doubt smearing her mascara all over her face.

She thinks she should have more to say, more to yell into the night, more words to get out of her system. But at that moment, with the alcohol coursing through her veins and making her head spin with painful thoughts, she feels defeated. Truly and utterly. Because no matter what she says, no matter how she feels, it wouldn't make her heart any less broken.

It wouldn't bring him back. To her.

She tilts her head back, looks up to the black and starry sky - stars that he put there - and lets out a trembling sigh that resonates through her entire body. "Maybe you didn't love me after all."

She turns her back to the city, puts the bottle down and wobbles through the apartment until her knees hit his gigantic bed. She dives face first into the silk sheets and falls asleep with his scent surrounding her.

When she wakes up the next morning with a killer headache and regret in her mouth, the first thing she sees is a simple note propped against the lamp on the nightstand, and she immediately recognizes the handwriting even if it's only 3 letters.

I do.