A/N - I would say I was sorry for the amount of angst here, buuut-
I promise to make it up with some well-needed comfort in the next few chapters, but right now, I intend to drown you all in a sea of angst and hurt. Have fun, anyways;
"So let me just give up
So let me just let go
If this isn't good for me
Well, I don't wanna know"
- You Don't Know (Katelyn Tarver)
Lucifer's first, fleeting threads of consciousness are just that: fleeting. Needles of white, blinding pain that pierce the fabric of sleep. Sometimes it feels like he's hitting the ground after falling, the impact snatching the air from his lungs, and, as he's dragged beneath the surface again can imagine the air whistling past his ears.
Other times, it's like he's wrapped in cotton, his limbs immobile, unresponsive, and heavy. He resents the feeling of helplessness that it brings, unable to rely on his own senses. He fights to stay awake, stay conscious, to have some measure of control over a situation where he can't trust his own feelings and senses. To achieve at least a small victory. But it never works.
It feels like he's drowning.
It feels like the damn blade is still in him, twisting and turning.
...
Lucifer internally groans.
Fuck you, Azrael.
...
At one point, he faintly hears a steady beeping, but it sounds like it's a long way off. The darkness towers over him like the walls of a labyrinth. Every turn is a dead end. Just as he thinks he's found the exit, the darkness swallows him up again.
...
It feels like there's a chasm beneath him. Black and bottomless, and he's crawling out of it whilst being unable to look down and being desperate to keep his footing.
In the end, he always finds himself falling again.
...
...
Lucifer recognizes it when he finally- properly wakes up.
For one, his head is pounding. And not like it's wrapped in cotton, like before, but actually pounding, a repetitive thud digging at his senses. Secondly, he can see lights from behind his closed eyes. Glaring strips lights that hurt his eyelids. The room smells clean and sterile; he recognizes it and promptly feels a growl festering on his tongue.
He hates hospitals. Far too quiet and dull.
There's a twinge of pain coiling in his torso as he tests his capability for movement but it's quickly buried beneath the pounding of his head and the general achiness of his muscles. Fatigue comes quickly, but at least he's got some degree of control back. Even if his limbs feel like they're weighed down with heavy stones; Lucifer is just thankful that he feels like he's once again in charge of his body, and not just a spectator resigned to watching his own torment from the sidelines.
A fear of needles is something that the Devil would never admit to.
Nonetheless, he lets out a muffled sigh of relief a moment later after a quick shift in positions confirms that there's nothing sticking into him.
Next step. Cautiously, he lets his eyes blink open. One hand immediately goes to shield them from the abrupt glare of the lamps. The sudden movement saps his strength, and he collapses back against the thin cotton sheets with a string of obscenities bubbling in the back of his throat.
He stares up at the ceiling instead, defiance dancing in his eyes as they trace the shadows. The edge of his mind is fuzzy with the remnants of drugs and painkillers, and Lucifer feels a wild yearning for the emptiness they'd bring, but despite his desires he can feel their effects ebbing away with every second as time marches forward, a retreating tide of pleasure and contentment.
...
That's how the nurse finds him when she comes in a few minutes later. He hears her footsteps coming down the corridor outside but doesn't budge. He also hears the hiss of escaping air as the door swings open and the sharp intake of her breath as she sees his half-open eyes.
A humorless smile flickers across his face as he props himself up onto one elbow, so that he's at eye level with the one other person in the room. His body protests at the movement but he doesn't pay any attention to the signals running to and from his brain, and they yield beneath the strength of his willpower, quickly stopping after a few seconds of him resolutely ignoring them.
"Mr. Morningstar!" The nurse stops, as if frozen to the spot as she stumbles over her words. "I didn't realize- I didn't expect you to be awake just yet. Most people take a little longer to burn through the anesthesia, you see."
Lucifer tips his head.
He debates how to respond to that. His increased metabolism is good for many things, but right now, he silently wishes that he could control it. If he could he would order it to cling on those drugs a little longer if just to allow the rest of his body to catch up and to heal fully. Or rather, to only wake up when they were completely gone from his system rather than leaving him in this infuriating half-state, still drugged yet conscious enough to be aware of the weaknesses that they cause.
No control.
Screw it.
He gives the nurse a probing stare with the edges of his lips twitching.
"You probably didn't just give me enough. So-" He drawls out, "Why not amend that, and I'll wake up when I'm supposed to, and we'll both be happy."
"I'm not sure I'm supposed to." Her reply is hesitant.
"You're supposed to make me feel better, you're a bloody nurse, isn't that your job description, " Lucifer presses, forcing himself to remain patient as he tries, with moderate success, to conceal any evidence of irritation from his voice, "You'd just be fixing a mistake that someone else made, right. No one needs to know that I woke up now.
"I-"
He changes tactics.
"Fine." Lucifer's voice transforms into an easy, seductive drawl, "What do you really want then? What do you desire."
His stare intensifies.
He immediately notices that his mojo seems to be harder to maintain than usual.
Or, more precisely, he doesn't remember it normally requiring so much effort, particularly against someone with so little resistance.
He lingers on that realization for a half-second before tossing it aside and continuing to press forward. He watches as the nurse steps back, one hand steadying itself against the bleak white door of the room. Despite the mental drain it causes him it doesn't take long for him to get through and he feels the familiar glimmer of satisfaction as her expression unfolds in honesty.
...
"I just want time, " She eventually confesses, "To myself. It feels like I spend my life working, I'm always tired, I'm always drained and it feels like no-," Her voice cracks, "no- one appreciates that. I'm barely holding it together, and the work never stops, even when I get home, I just can't-" She breaks off, her face flushing in a way that exposes the thick bags under her eyes.
Lucifer exhales, hard.
"I understand, "He replies, softly. "I understand how you feel. Maybe we can help each other in more ways than one, if that's the case."
She eyes him dubiously.
"How?"
The pieces fall into place easily, and a wave of relaxation washes over him despite the circumstances when Lucifer realizes that, although some of his strings might be a little frayed at the edges, none of them appear to have snapped. For example, despite the haziness fogging his mind, his attention to detail hasn't left him. He's careful to make sure that his gaze isn't intrusive or makes her uncomfortable, but, during the pause between her question and his response, he reads the nurse's body language as easily as he would read a book.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, dark and heavy. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, with strands falling out that she makes no effort to push out of her face. And her stance is weak and exhausted. She's telling the truth; it's obvious that she's practically dead on her feet. Lucifer feels a flash of sympathy for her but it's brief, and he quickly readjusts his position, squaring his shoulders.
"I'll have a talk with your boss." He murmurs to her, passing a hand through his own hair as he does so. It's messy. Dark curls spring up beneath his fingertips, and refuse to be flattened by his hands alone. He reminds himself to remember to tend to it as soon as he gets home. The thin fabric of the hospital attire chafes against his skin, and he misses his shirt and trousers as well.
"I'm sure she'll understand if I- ahh- explain to her that some time off for you would be to everyone's benefit. A bit of paid personal leave, I think. You'll find that I can be quite convincing."
"I- oh my God, if you could, then that would be- you don't understand how much that would help." Her eyes widen.
"-And. One more condition, Don't you dare give God credit for my deals, alright?"
"Anything."
She's barely listening to him as another pulse of pain shoots through his stomach. Lucifer's legs drive up onto the bed to cover it, and his jaw tightens with the effort. His hands curl around his knees, pressing down until his knuckles burn as he waits for the wave to pass over him. He's aware of how stupid and weak he must look.
But hey, guess what.
He doesn't care.
...As long as no one who actually knows him sees him like this. Then it's a completely different, far more humiliating story.
His throat tightens.
"Just- fulfill your end of the deal." Lucifer grits his teeth, "Please, for hell's sake."
"On it."
The nurse practically sails out of the room.
Lucifer's gaze drops to stare down at his lower half the moment that he's sure that no one is watching him. It's stupid. He half-expects to see Azrael's blade sticking out of him. He can feel it, anyways. Twisting. Like a section of live wire pulled tight, buzzing with streaks of burning electricity that sets his nerves in that particular area on fire. It feels pathetic to admit to such a delusion. He's hallucinating. He knows that the blade isn't really there anymore. But it's fine. Fine. The wound will be gone, both physically and mentally as well, when he wakes up next.
Maybe, if he tells himself that enough times, he'll start to believe it.
"You're going to have to lie down for this."
The nurse's return goes unnoticed by him, Lucifer eyes her, blearily, when he hears her voice. His limbs automatically obey and he doesn't question it.
His head is flopped tiredly against the pillow which means that he isn't watching as the needle breaks the pale pallor of his skin, nor does he feel the liquid as the Nurse presses the plunger down and inserts it in his bloodstream.
The emptiness inside his own mind gives way to the embrace of sleep soon after.
...
Lucifer can't tell how much time has passed when he wakes up again. Regardless, it's easier to concentrate as he casts his eyes across the empty hospital room whilst sitting up, hanging his legs off the end of the bed. Either it's just his imagination, or the lights have dimmed slightly; the unfiltered strip lights across the ceiling feel a little less obtrusive. Probably night, then, he decides.
He's used to seeing in the dark, his eyes have spent centuries adapting to the permanent murkiness that permanently hangs over Hell like a dark cloud and the permanent ash rain spilling thickly from above. So much so, that the dusky hues of dawn and dusk have always called to him much more than the times in between.
He tests his bare feet against the cold, unyielding floor, before bracing his arms and pushing himself off the bed. The world lurches above him, but Lucifer's stubbornness sets in, and he waits for the wave of stomach-churning nausea to pass. He stumbles forward a few steps before one hand finds itself against one of the walls and he leans against it, staring at the ground with deep, ragged breaths.
He's a mess.
Anger at himself simmers beneath his skin, a silent command ordering himself to pull-himself-together, he's the millennia-old Lord of Hell for Hell's sake, yet they refuse to listen. His usual effortless confidence feels faint and thready, like it could implode at any second. And he knows the cause, even if he won't admit it.
Even though the wound in his stomach is all stitched up and, based on the signals provided to him by his nerves, almost fully healed, it still feels like it's draining him, drop by drop.
Twisting.
The Lord of Hell's eyes narrow.
He doesn't move from that position for a long time, slumped against the wall in a silent, raging conflict with his own feelings.
...
The next few hours pass in a blur.
Someone comes in, and voices, one of which sounds like his, echo around him like fireworks. Something about discharge and how they need to run tests, or something. He remembers flat-out refusing blood tests, because, you know, he's not human and he doubts their tiny little human brains would be able to comprehend the results if they did so.
He hears his own mojo, drenching his voice. He recalls concessions, and nervous voices tittering around him, and the door hissing shut behind him as he finds the hospital corridor stretching out in front of him.
His stomach twinges, painfully.
Lucifer digs his nails into the palm of his hand, stopping just before he breaks through the skin. Nonetheless, as the cold air of the outside world greets him as he steps through the doors, biting at his skin, the bright neon lights of LA dancing overhead, he catches a glimpse of a graveyard of crescent-shaped indents now scattered across his palm.
He calls for a taxi, and he barely - barely registers the wind as it whips across his face.
And his voice, calling out to the driver.
...
"Lux, please."
A/N - I know I promised some character reunions last chapter, but I felt like this chapter was necessary first, so that'll all be coming next chapter instead. As always, comments and kudos are really appreciated, and I hope you're enjoying this so far ~