Blood.
There's too much blood. He can't stop it; the wound in her stomach is too big and it's creeping out from under where his palms are glued to her flesh. It's not enough — he's not enough — he's grasping at her side, pawing at her to keep the blood in but it's coming too quickly and he's all too human, even as the forgotten blade in Michael's hand flickers with fire at the sound of his cries.
"It's not your fault," she's saying, choking on a labored breath. There's blood on the hands she uses to grasp at his shirt, at his face, tugging him close and begging him wordlessly to stay. It's staining her teeth now, and her lips, leaking down her shirt and mixing with the pool of red already on her chest. He's only got two hands and she's bleeding too much and he can't hold her in his arms and apply pressure, too, and —
Her fingers are grasping for his, drawing his hands away from her chest and pulling them up to her face, where blue eyes search him clear and untainted with red.
The "I love you" is still on her lips when her eyes close and she folds into his chest. Even the words are stained black with blood, dark and thick and oozing into heavy silence.
Lucifer wakes with a scream on his lips. His throat is ragged and the cry that escapes is torn. His chest is slick with sweat, damp under black silk sheets and heaving in the darkness as his eyes adjust to the low light. He's back in the penthouse — the soft, incessant glow of the liquor wall behind the bar is a dead giveaway even to his groggy mind and red-rimmed eyes. There's a brief moment of confusion as he glances around in the dark; he's wrapped in his bedsheets, but he's laying in the center of his living room, draped across the firm leather of his couch. He props himself up on his elbows and glances around — Maze is snoring softly in the chair beside him, illuminated by the glittering lights of the city. She's still dressed in her armor, and her crimson hood is pulled slightly over her eyes. The doors behind her are open, allowing a welcome breeze to float through the penthouse.
His heart is still pounding; the dream licks in front of his eyes like an eager flame and clouds his head with smoke. The cry lingers on his lips, choked on a half-sob. And then he remembers. Slowly, foggily at first, and then all at once. Heaven. Michael. The flaming sword. Chloe.
I choose you, Chloe. I love you.
He lingers on Maze for a moment, wondering faintly where Eve is as the sob dies in his throat and he struggles to push from his mind the vivid scene of his nightmare. He stands gently, careful not to wake Maze, whose hand is still wrapped possessively around the curved blade at her side.
He forgoes the daunting wall of Scotch and the lonely glass on top of his piano as he pads wordlessly up the steps to his bedroom. The cry that had strangled his throat on the couch settles into the faint silhouette of a smile on his lips as he pauses on the threshold, feeling his heart settle into a more comfortable rhythm.
She's there.
Chloe is nestled in his sheets and curled against his pillow. Her breathing is slow, if not a little unsteady, and one of her hands is resting gently atop her stomach. The metallic smell of blood — her blood — floods his nose and crowds his throat as he remembers, and her last words — It's not your fault — shred his heart and beat at his chest as he melts onto the mattress beside her.
She's still healing. The strength that had possessed her when she accosted Michael — courtesy of Amenadiel's necklace and sheer anger alone — had abandoned her almost as readily as it had come. Celestial as he may be, Lucifer hadn't been able to heal completely the wound his brother had inflicted: Lilith's ring had stopped the bleeding, and he had brought her back, but still a jagged and tattered scar scored her chest and stomach.
She had stood by his side while he took up the flaming sword — no doubt in pain, Lucifer thought with a sudden pang of desperate affection — yet as his siblings had begun to disperse she had crumpled to her knees. It was returning to him now; what had been masked by the fog of his nightmarish vision. He had flown her here — back to Lux, back to the penthouse — though he hadn't heard Maze come in after him. Chloe hadn't stirred since he'd scooped her in his arms; she had remained in a sleep so deep that not even her telltale truck-driver snores disturbed her rest.
He's careful not to get too close. He wants to, to gather her in his arms, to wake her, to tell her — here, on Earth, in this bed, that he loves her. But he lets her sleep instead, running a tentative finger through her hair and across a dirt-streaked cheek. He bites back the words as they bubble up. He doesn't want to tell her again until she can hear him; until she can know that he means it.
He'll wait until she wakes.