What the Hell…?
"Er, Spawn…?" he asked hesitantly. His heart was hammering in his chest, but whether the quick rhythm was the consequence of the sudden roof-collapse or the fact that he had just accidentally revealed himself to the child, he truly couldn't say. She slowly turned to gape at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. Uh-oh. So much for not traumatizing her.…
But then, out of the blue, an ear-splitting, toothy grin blossomed on her face. "So cool!"
Saying that he was taken aback was probably the understatement of the century. "W-what?"
"Your wings, Lucifer! Soooo. Cool!"
Had he broken her? He remained very, very still and briefly wondered if he should perhaps fold the bloody wings away; he finally decided not to, lest the sudden movement frighten her from her awe.
"You're – you're not, erm, scared?" he asked, curiously, but cautiously, closely monitoring her expressions. He didn't have much experience with children coming in contact with his identity (admittedly, he didn't have much experience with children, period) and he didn't know what he should expect. All he knew, actually, was that this was probably not the right reaction.
She giggled in response. "Don't be silly," she said. "You're an angel. What's there to be scared of?"
A dry, surprised laugh escaped his mouth at her confident claim. "I'm no angel, Urchin, trust me."
"Of course, you are! You're so nice, and you saved Mommy, you saved me and you have pretty white wings," the child objected, throwing him a look that clearly said he was being a bit dense. "And you're also stronger than Daddy. You have got to be an angel," she concluded with a shrug, clearly sure of having thoroughly and incontrovertibly proved her point.
Right.
Well, all the claims she had so confidently made were actually true (aside from the being-nice one, maybe) – but the conclusion she'd inferred was imprecise at best, if not outright wrong! He most certainly wasn't some random sanctimonious, blessing-spewing angel – he was the Devil!
"Do you have a second face, too?" she went on, before he could point that out – and the question almost made him choke.
"I have a…what?" he sputtered.
"Another face," she repeated, enunciating the words carefully, as if he had hearing problems. "Like Maze."
"You – you've seen Mazikeen's face? When?" he asked in a strangled, high-pitched tone.
"Last Halloween," she shrugged, indifferent. "We went trick-or-treating and she put on her face in, like, a second. Couldn't have been make-up – she was too quick, and didn't have a beauty case large enough with her. Or a mirror."
The absurdity of hearing Maze and beauty case in the same sentence was such that it took him a second to catch on. When he did, the question came naturally to his lips. "And you weren't afraid?"
"Of Maze?" Trixie asked, and the way she stressed the demon's name clearly broadcast she found the notion just short of absurd. "Of course not! It's Maze! She's not scary."
And there goes Maze's reputation as the most terrifying demon in Hell.
Lucifer blinked, internally bewildered. He was trying to wrap his head around this unexpected development in an unforeseen sticky situation. Of all people, this little urchin had figured out the truth of who he was, and what was more bizarre: She was totally fine with it. It was unbelievable. All this worrying about trying to tell Chloe, and worrying about how she would react - Lucifer had never considered the little child and her thoughts about his truth.
"You do realize," he finally ventured, "that your mother and father – well, they don't believe in any of this?" He gestured lightly towards himself, a vague and yet encompassing gesture meant to include everything devil-related – ranging from the appearance of his wings to his association with an actual demon from Hell.
"Pffft. Grownups," she replied, huffing a long-suffering sigh and waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. The overall effect was so comical that Lucifer found himself bursting into an explosive laugh.
It was cut short by a white-hot jolt of pain stabbing through his side that left him gasping for breath instead – definitely worse than it had been before. What the hell…?
He tentatively looked at his side, aided by the scant light provided by his glowing wings, and - uh-oh.
What he saw was not good – so very not good.
The front and the side of his waistcoat were glistening with blood, and some of it had begun pooling on the floor around him, way more blood than before; a puddle that seemed to be growing larger at an alarming speed. And, cherry on top, the piece of metal didn't look very stable anymore. Quite contrary, it seemed to be shifting minutely every time his chest expanded and the sight of the metal moving in rhythm with his breathing made his stomach roll uncomfortably. The sudden movement he'd made must've somehow dislodged the piece of metal in his side; and if it had been staunching the blood flow before, perhaps preventing him from hemorrhaging, well, it clearly wasn't anymore.
"Lucifer?" the child asked in a hesitant, scared tone. "What's going on?"
The devil licked his dry lips. "It would seem," he answered after a second of hesitation, "that my body is far less resilient than I thought."
Her eyes widened as she took stock of the situation. In the dim glow of the wings, her eyes looked overly bright, as she softly asked, "But – you're an angel. You can heal yourself, can't you?"
Lucifer was amused at how ironic the question was. Your mother, she's the one holding me back from healing, he wanted to say, but even he had the sense to not tell the child this. Before he could answer though, in a moment of fear and worry, perhaps, the child blurted out. "You're not going to die, are you?"
Good question, he thought.
Could angels die? And, more to the point, could he? Angels normally didn't, nor could they really be hurt due to human-inflicted wounds, sure. But he was an exception, wasn't he? Previous instances had indeed proved he could be killed if the Detective was around – and several things apparently had the power to do the trick, ranging from bullet wounds to self-inflicted heart attacks. And who knew, perhaps treacherous metal bars, too.
True, in the afore-mentioned instances he hadn't actually stayed dead, so to speak, both times thanks to an outside intervention. But this time?
Yet, this was hardly the time or the place for such ruminations; the child was still waiting for an answer. "Angels usually don't die," he finally replied, a statement that was generic enough to be truthful. Too bad the rule didn't apply to him anymore – but there was no point in sharing this with the Detective's offspring, right?
Thankfully, she seemed satisfied enough with his answer, and settled back against his side, her fingertips brushing slightly against one of his wings before going back to cradle her arm.
Lucifer's eyes widened as the thought registered - Her injury! How could he have forgotten about it? He blamed it on the blood loss that he hadn't thought about this before.,But - he had his wings back, hadn't he? And she'd seen them. Therefore, nothing actually stopped him anymore from getting advantage of their healing power!
He reached out with a hand, careful not to jostle his midsection and plucked a feather, causing the wing to twitch out of reflex.
"Give me your arm," he instructed.
And if she found the instruction weird, Trixie didn't show: on the contrary, she immediately complied, implicitly trusting him, and very carefully extended her sore limb. Lucifer winced as he saw it. It was swollen from the wrist to the elbow and a huge, dark bruise marred the majority of her forearm. He felt hellfire licking at his eyes and he closed them for a second to hide the red flashing from view, making a conscious effort to keep his cool, only re-opening them when he was sure they were back to their usual human form.
A white, soft glow emanated from the feather as he placed it delicately over Trixie's arm, bathing the whole limb in divine light, and the girl gasped in surprise and awe.
But, much to Lucifer's dismay, the arm didn't heal. The ethereal glow lost intensity and then petered out.
It was perhaps marginally less swollen than before, but the ugly discoloration hadn't really changed much.
"What…?" he muttered under his breath, drawing the feather towards his eyes to examine it. It looked…lifeless. Dull.
He moved to pick another one – after all, he had hundreds of those pesky things – but the urchin's other hand came to rest over his extended arm, stopping him before he could yank it out.
"Don't," she said. "My arm is feeling better already."
"It should have healed completely," Lucifer argued. "I don't understand, it's –"
"It doesn't hurt anymore," the child cut him off. His tiny fingers wrapped around the fabric of his shirt cuff, holding his arm back. "Don't. Please."
He met her gaze and was surprised by the intensity of her stare: so serious, so solemn. Pleading, even. He didn't understand her reasons – why on Earth she would prioritize his bloody feathers over her own injury he really couldn't fathom – but relented anyway, unable to deny her request. It must be some sort of superpower running through the Decker bloodline, he supposed: if a Decker woman asked something, he felt obliged to comply.
"Very well," he said and let his arm fall back at his side. He leant his head back to the wall and let his eyes slid shut.
A sudden thought crossed his mind and forced his eyes open. "You should text your mother – let her know we're still alive," he said. He should've done it sooner – how could he have forgot? Why was his brain so slow?
The child nodded and immediately set to comply; satisfied, Lucifer rested his head back against the wall as the bluish hue once again lit their frames. He realized that maybe he shouldn't have relinquished control of the phone and, subsequently, of the contact with the outside. He was, after all, supposed to be the responsible adult of the two (well, adult for sure – responsible, though, was perhaps a bit of a stretch). But in truth he was way too tired and in too much pain to do anything.
Now that the adrenaline burst of the sudden collapse had ebbed a bit, he was beginning to feel the effects of the wound in glorious detail – and unholy hellfire, did it hurt. His side throbbed with a vengeance, and a deep, burning sensation spread to his whole body with every breath.
The muscles in his abdomen felt tight with pain and he could feel rivulets of sweat running down his spine. Breathing was getting increasingly harder with the muscles clenched so hard, and yet he seemed utterly unable to relax them. A vicious cycle of misery that wouldn't be out of place in a poor sod's hell loop.
Mortality truly sucked.
His previous run-ins with mortal wounds hadn't been so bad, he absently considered. Well, getting shot by Malcolm had hurt – quite a lot, actually – but it had had the upside of being rather quick. And shocking himself to death? Even quicker.
But this? this was slow as hell, and torturous. He swallowed convulsively, desperately trying to force his upper body to relax and to ignore the stench of his own blood and the wetness of his clothes, slick with blood and sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his skin – being sick right now would be just the icing on the cake, wouldn't it?
A tiny, soft hand slipped around his and gave a gentle squeeze – and if he hadn't been so preoccupied not to be sick or pass out, he would've laughed at the irony: for once, he was the one with clammy, sticky hands, and not the child.
"Mommy sings to me when I'm sick, or scared," she said quietly. "Daddy, too."
Lucifer eyed her cautiously, not really sure what the point was. Perhaps she wanted him to sing her something…? Should he have offered to, maybe to console her? In truth, right now he really didn't feel much like singing – the mere act of breathing was already challenging enough .
The girl went on without waiting for a reply. "It always makes me feel better."
Well, that he doubted – unless her mother had healing powers that he wasn't aware of, but humans generally didn't. He thought it safer to keep such an objection for himself though – during his two-year-and-a-half acquaintance with the offspring he'd learned (mostly due to the Detective's odd glares and not-so-discreet elbow hits to his ribcage) that you're not always supposed to rectify children's claims, no matter how preposterous they were.
The child turned to look at him. "Do you want me to sing something to you?" she asked. "Maybe it'll work for you, too."
He doubted it would make any difference, and yet he found himself nodding, almost unwittingly – perhaps it would at least distract him a bit from the agony…
And so the urchin began singing softly to him, and a children's song, of all things! Never could he have imagined something like this could ever happen, for it was absurd. Ridiculous, even. The Devil being sung a lullaby by a human child? Ludicrous.
And yet, there they were, and much to his surprise, it did help. It didn't stop the pain, obviously, but he felt his chest muscles gradually relax, and his breathing slowly but surely evened out, until he wasn't gasping for air anymore.
The first song came to an end, but the child didn't stop; she began humming softly another tune, and then a song about the moon and the stars shining brightly in the sky, and Lucifer felt a smile tugging at his lips at the choice.
"Better?" she asked after a while.
"It is, indeed," he replied truthfully. "Thank you."
"Did your parents ever sing to you, when you were little?" she suddenly inquired.
Where on Earth did the urchin's fascination with his family come from, Lucifer truly couldn't understand. And yet, whenever she asked, he felt compelled to oblige her, his thoughts invariably taking a painful trip down memory lane…
And this time, too, wasn't any different – the memory came unbidden. Father's voice, deep and yet so soft and full of love, singing him and his twin Michael to sleep; how safe and cherished he had felt, back then…
And, before he could even realize what he was doing, the melody gently came from his mouth. He hadn't uttered a word in Enochian in millennia, and yet the sounds of his mother tongue rolled easily around his mouth, familiar and just right like no human idiom could ever feel.
He sang quietly, because he didn't have energy, or air, to spare; and when the melody came to an end, he looked at the child. She had her eyes closed, and a soft, contented smile painted her features, the soothing music having evidently managed to relax her.
In truth, it had soothed him just quite as much – not that he would ever admit it.
"It's beautiful," she commented. "What language is that?"
"It's Enochian – the language of Angels," he explained. He was surprised at how rough his voice sounded – and even more surprised at the instinctive knowledge that it wasn't pain or exhaustion the cause of his hoarseness, but the raw feeling his mother tongue had evoked.
She didn't answer immediately, and another quick glance in her direction revealed a frown on her forehead – she was evidently mulling over his words.
A minute went by before she spoke again. "Do you ever miss them?"
"Who?"
"The other angels," she clarified. "Your family. Your parents," she added with a shrug that carried all the innocence of childhood. She wasn't asking about God; she was asking about his Dad.
He almost bristled at the question; it was the most uncomfortable thing anyone could ask him. Of course, he didn't miss the lot of them – their Silver City, their clouds and airs and heaven. His brother and sisters – his siblings who hadn't been bothered to listen to him, to stand with him.
Nor did he miss his parents, the very notion was preposterous! Surely not Mother, always so authoritative and calculating; they were all better off with her relegated in her own universe, thank you very much!
And definitely not Father, oh no. Just thinking about Him made Lucifer's blood boil with resentment and disgust. He didn't wish to see Him anymore. Like, ever.
But when he opened his mouth to vehemently disabuse her of such a misguided belief, he found that he couldn't – because the Devil does not lie.
He might not desire to see them again, to interact with them ever again – but it wasn't what the urchin was asking, was it?
He licked his dry lips, hesitating. It should have been easy to answer, right? It should have been straightforward. And yet, for some reason, it wasn't – and he was realizing it now for the first time.
"I don't miss them," he finally replied. "But sometimes…sometimes I do miss the way things used to be."
The child nodded solemnly her understanding, her tiny hand giving his a gentle squeeze.
And how could the Urchin, a child, understand, when Lucifer himself struggled to get his head around his own feelings, was a mystery. Still, he got the distinct impression she did understand. She may not know the details; she couldn't possibly know the whole picture, nor could she grasp the implications his identity entailed. But, on a simple, instinctive level, she understood, and it was enough.
Lucifer had lost track of time.
He had long since fallen silent – the effort of doing anything more than staying awake being simply too much to endure. The child, too, had been quiet for a while, perhaps dozing against his shoulder.
Her phone had died a while ago, thus severing the already frail contact with the world outside. He knew though that the rescue operations, which had been going on for a while now at a slower, safer pace than before, must've gotten closer, at least judging by the noise.
There had been no further incidents, hopefully a sign that the rescuers were being a bit bloody more careful, but he'd let his wing unfurled over the urchin's head anyway. The damn appendage was trembling slightly with the strain of being forced in such an unnatural position, the muscles fatigued to the point of cramping, but he couldn't risk anything happening to the child. The Detective had entrusted him with her wellbeing, and he was hellbent on not breaking her trust.
Lucifer looked in her direction; in the semi-darkness it took him a couple of seconds to confirm she was actually dozing. And then it hit him – it was way darker than before. The glow of his wings had grown fainter in the last hour or so, the usually vibrant feathers bleak, almost lifeless.
Lifeless…?
Realization abruptly dawned: he was dying. Again.
It was ironic, really – for a supposedly immortal being, he had quite a number of experiences with death.
And who knows; maybe, third time's the charm.
He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He rationally knew something like this could happen, due to his weird mortality glitch; he had known from the beginning of his partnership with the Detective, and blithely decided that it was worth the risk – that she was worth the risk. Hell, he'd actually died twice already.
But this time? Well, he'd sort of thought the rescuers would do their bloody job and just rescue them quickly enough. Then, it would've been child's play, right? Go far away enough from the Detective, get a good night's rest, drink a bottle or two, heal up and then, done, all sorted. Child's play, really.
Too bad things were going so painstakingly slowly, definitely putting a bloody spoke in his wheels – quite literally – and now even the simple, menial act of breathing was apparently becoming more strenuous with every second that went by.
Inhale, exhale.
He didn't even know what would happen to him if he died now. Hell, probably – but whether he would be able to come back, in some form or another, was yet to be seen. It wasn't like there were many precedents of resurrections – well, aside from his own two previous incidents, so to speak – but unfortunately , circumstances had been so different from his current predicament that those outcomes probably didn't qualify as a good basis for comparison.
Back to Hell, then – for good, perhaps? He got the feeling that the sudden goosebumps on his arms had nothing to do with shock and blood loss, and everything to do instead with the dread he felt at the fate awaiting him.
Inhale, exhale.
The child shifted slightly, scooting even closer to him. Dying right now would mean leaving her alone in this mess – alone with an angel's dead body, unprotected, possibly traumatized. Would this break her? She was quite a strong child, mind you, the past few hours had thoroughly proven it, but this would probably be too much even for her. A shame, really – she was, after all, a rather tolerable child.
And the Detective…?
Dying would also mean leaving the Detective; and not just that, but leaving her in Cain's grasps, completely unaware of the man's true identity... The mere idea was enough to cause his chest to constrict painfully. Why hadn't he acted any sooner? Why had he let her tangle herself with that scum? He swallowed again, trying to shut out the thought – all of these thoughts, actually.
All he had to do was hang on another while, right? Stay awake – stay alive. Keep breathing.
Inhale, exhale.
His right wing had flopped down slightly, the tip now resting slumped on the child's head – not offering much of a protection anymore – and he struggled to uncurl it again, teeth gritting at the pain the movement caused, both in his side and the wing itself.
He could do it. He was the Devil, wasn't he? He'd ruled frigging Hell for eons – he sure could bloody well stay alive for a bit more if he wanted to!
Inhale. Exhale.
He vaguely wondered what would happen if they found them like this – angel wings out in full display, the child all but curled up on him. An easier sight than his face, sure, but it would probably cause quite a ruckus. And shock a few people into madness. Hopefully not the Detective…
Better stay awake and fold the bloody things away when the moment came, right?
His eyes tried to slide close of their own accord and he forced them open. Stay awake.
Inhale.
He could do it. He had to do it.
Stay awake. Protect the child. Fold the wings. The list repeated in his brain over and over, like a mantra.
Exhale.
Inhale.
His eyelids closed again; the pull of gravity too hard to resist. He tried to open them, but they just wouldn't budge. They felt heavy as lead – actually, everything felt so damn heavy.
Exhale.
Inhale.
And why was it so cold? It was freaking L.A., damn it – it was supposed to be warm all year long! And yet, his hands were freezing, fingertips almost numb, and his clothes uncomfortably damp, shirt and waistcoat and the left leg of his trousers soaked through with blood, cool and sticky against his skin.
He shivered once, but in truth it wasn't much more than a weak, exhausted shudder – his body unable to manage anything more than that.
Pathetic…! How could the devil be so hopeless he couldn't even properly shiver!
Exhale.
Inhale.
Pain. A lot of pain. And he was so, so tired…
Exhale.
And then, his chest stilled and he breathed no more.