For the third time, he finds himself in that sacred place.

He takes a moment with his eyes closed against the blinding white of the transition, just welcoming the other impressions of the space he knows is forming – the soft breeze rustling against a set of curtains, the sun-warmed floorboards, the earthy scent of a perfect roast.

He never knew which of them first shaped this place, whether it was his own desire for comfort or Lucifer's attempt to make him comfortable, but now it feels as if it might have been both of them, longing so for a place of quiet normalcy, a precious haven unmoored from time where they could safely meet, and simply be.

He keeps his eyes closed a little longer, welcoming the swell of joyful anticipation in his chest and fighting down the parts of it that are too childish, too presumptuous, like the hope to be greeted with a pair of open arms, and the desire to rush forward, to be enfolded in their gentle strength and crowd close, closer, to murmur his regrets because it's been so very, very long—

~Welcome home.~

I'm home.

With a steadying breath, he opens his eyes, taking in the cozy parlor, the little table set with a pair of delicate, gold-rimmed cups, the steam of a fresh pot of coffee floating lazily upwards, and—

"Lucifer-sama?"

He frowns, takes a cautious step forward to peer into the little garden eternally in bloom, hoping to catch a glimpse of that beloved figure.

It's strange, almost impossible to believe that Lucifer would not have noticed his arrival, would not be here to greet him the instant he crossed the threshold, unless—

He's helpless against the wave of dread crashing over him, a myriad ancient fears resurfacing – that Lucifer is displeased with him, or disappointed, that he's decided to stop waiting, that Sandalphon came at the wrong moment, that he came at all—

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—

The sting of nails biting into his palms brings a measure of clarity, enough to summon a flash of anger and face off against that familiar litany.

No. No more of that. He said– he /said/, and I /believe/.

Releasing a deep, shuddering gasp, he gathers his resolve to walk the other rooms, spinning a handful of better half-truths and trying to ignore how fast they're unraveling before him – that Lucifer might be asleep, or absorbed in a book somewhere, if not in the little library, then perhaps on the first floor, in the bedroom, or outside, on the little balcony, perhaps in the pantry to look for something sweet to go with their coffee, perhaps he left for a walk and they only just missed each other—

Lucifer-sama?

I'm home…

I'm right home, so please, won't you say—

Won't you welcome me home?

*.*.*.*.*

He wakes to searing pain.

Every nerve in his body is trembling from the force of it, fire and ice coursing through his veins, senses winking in and out of use–

A sense of lying on something hard, then soft, then piercing his body with rusty nails, sight flickering from burning white to deepest black, with flashes of shapes moving over him.

Crying, someone is crying, and—

"It's not working! Why isn't it working?!"

"You have to keep trying, please!"

"Lyria where did you—?!"

"I brought help! They'll know what to do!"

"By the Skies, that's—"

"Please, please, you know, don't you?!"

His senses tilt, invert, shutting out the storm outside to focus on the storm within — fissures cracking open, power rushing for the gaps, tearing, splintering —

It hurts, it hurts so much, and he wants so badly for his voice to work, to tell the storm outside to quiet down and back away, to run, leave, anywhere—

He knows what's happening, knows what this is, has seen primals in the lab lose core cohesion from the torture, and there's no shields here, no barriers, not even a flimsy paper screen—

Hands, hands on his brow, his shoulder, one soothing, the others shaking, sending further jolts of pain running through him, though that's hardly important now.

You idiots. You absolute idiots, you– leave, toss me overboard, gun the engines, you can't fix this, you can't—!

He knows what's coming next, that final crack, the one fissure that will run deep enough to send all the latent potential of his core out of control, make this ship with all its fools go up in a brilliant supernova.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I—

All of you—

Lucifer-sama—

The fissure stills. The creaking quiets.

The pain dulls enough for panic to turn to confusion, then irritation– if the end must come, if he must truly be destined to destroy everything he touches, then let it be over quickly—

—before giving way to an uncomprehending, weightless shock at the thing taking place within him, a formless warmth seeping into him from inside him, a fierce yet gentle balm spreading out to fill the cracks in his being.

A memory surfaces, from so long ago it might not even be his own, of that same formless warmth compelling parts of him into being, slowly coaxing them to coalesce, to join, to become whole—

~Your name…~

~I will have to think of a name…~

~It's strange, how my own core will not be still…~

~I suppose this is what mortals mean when they say… I cannot wait to see you.~

*.*.*.*

TBC

Author's Notes: Did I just gloss over an entire epic battle for the fate of the Skydom? Yup. Because that's just the catalyst for the real drama. Strap in, folks. XD