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“Hello, son.”
Lucifer tenses at the voice. It’s a familiar voice, one he’s not heard in eons. For years he’s ached to hear it, and for years he’s hated himself for wanting, for pining, when he knows that what he desires is impossible for him to have. His Father would never —
“Yet here you are. I did hear your prayer. I pulled you out. You won’t be able to use your coin again, unfortunately.”
He turns. “Is the Detective safe?”
“Not yet.” And it’s exactly what he should’ve expected. His chest fills with rage, but before he can explode, his Father continues smoothly, “but I’m sure you’ll rectify that shortly.”
He blinks. “What?”
“It’s only been three quarters of a second since you expired on Earth. You’ll be able to sort out the situation easily once you return.”
Three quarters of a second. He blinks again, and his anger deflates like a popped balloon and follows his breath out of his lungs. It had felt like years, but of course, time runs differently in Hell.
“Time runs differently here, too, so you needn’t worry about rushing back to Earth to save her. You’ll have plenty of time,” his Father adds helpfully.
Well, good to know.
“So, where am I exactly?” he asks, glancing around, noting the blank, white space that surrounds them. “This doesn’t look like the Silver City, and you never leave home.”
“Oh, it’s not,” his Father replies. “It’s … hm, how do I put it … this place is elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Lucifer repeats rather testily. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain.”
Lucifer raises his brows. “Hard to explain.” He laughs. “I suppose you were never quite good at explaining things. If I knew it only takes me dying to get you to admit that, I’d have done it a lot sooner.”
“I’m very good at explaining. You’re just not good at listening.”
Lucifer pulls his lips back into a snarl. “And here you go again. I knew it. You’ve brought me here just to lecture me. What makes you think it would bloody work this — ”
“It’s the Internet,” his Father says.
And he blinks, for the third time.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This place — ” His Father gestures around at their white surroundings. “ — is the Internet. Or, well. It’s not. It’s not the Internet. But it is.”
Lucifer gives a little sigh. He can almost pity his old man. “Not making a very good case for your skills in explanation, Dad.”
“This is a place where people come to deposit their ideas,” his Father says as if he hasn’t heard him. “To write stories and share them with others. To resurrect old characters. To give existing characters new life. To create — new characters, entire worlds — out of nothing. Or to ruin and destroy them, if they want.” Their eyes meet, and Lucifer suddenly has a heavy sense of foreboding.
He can’t laugh anymore. “You’re saying … what are you saying, Dad?”
“This is a place of creation, my son,” his Father says with gravitas.
Lucifer takes a step back. “You mean.” He swallows. “This is the place where you and Mum came from?”
“Not this exact place, but one similar to it,” his Father agrees.
He swallows, again. “The Source of Creation? You brought me to the Source of Creation?”
“Yes,” his Father says, “of a sort.”
“ … we’re not on the same page, are we?” Lucifer says.
His Father guffaws. Guffaws. “Oh, we are! But no. No we’re not. I don’t expect us to be.” He gestures, and chairs and a table suddenly appear between them. Then on top of the table surface materializes a bottle of Scotch and a single shot glass. “Come. Sit. Have a drink. It’s on me.”
Lucifer does, hesitantly, because he hasn’t a clue what’s going on, and he can’t fathom why — why would his Father bring him here? What is he thinking? None of his siblings — not Amenadiel, not Gabriel, not even Michael — have seen the Source of Creation. He knows for a fact that they would do anything for an honor like this, so … why him? Why the Outcast, the Accursed One? Unless it’s another manipulation to punish him —
“I brought you here to talk, because this is the only place where we can talk, and you’ll listen,” his Father says as he fills the glass. “But let me rephrase. I didn't bring you here,” he pauses, “although I did,” he amends.
Lucifer stares at him. “What.”
“Like I said, it’s hard to explain,” his Father says, setting down the shot glass in offering with a crisp tap. “Drink up. You’ll need it.”
Lucifer eyes it warily.
“It’s just Scotch, son,” his Father chuckles at his skeptical look.
“Just Scotch,” Lucifer repeats.
“Yes. Just Scotch.” His Father’s face morphs into that condescending come-now-let’s-be-reasonable expression. “Lucifer, I can end you with a thought. Do you really think I’d resort to something as inefficient as poison? Besides, you’re already dead.”
Finding no way around that logic and no reason to turn down alcohol, Lucifer takes the glass.
His Father sits back with infuriating satisfaction. “As I was saying, I did bring you here, but I’m not the one who really brought you here. The author of this story did.”
“The author?” Lucifer repeats blankly. “Who’s the author?”
“Well, an anonymous person, of course. Wouldn’t be the Internet otherwise. But for our purposes, the author is God.”
“But that’s you.”
“No,” his Father says. He pauses, then shakes his head. “Well, yes. But no. It’s … ” He shakes his head again, looking frustrated, and Lucifer can only stare because he’s never seen his Father like this. “ … complicated. I exist in a state of superposition right now. I am God, but I’m … not, not really.”
“What,” Lucifer says again.
“I was brought here,” his Father tells him. “The author brought me here.”
And Lucifer’s glad for the Scotch as he tosses it back and downs it in one gulp, because he can’t wrap his brains around that one either. His Father. Being brought. By someone else.
“Exactly,” his Father looks at him, amused. “So what does that tell you?”
He sets the glass back down on the table. It’s good Scotch, a part of his brain notes dully as the liquor burns down his throat. He likes it. It’s reminiscent of his favorite back at Lux. “There’s someone more powerful than … God?”
“Well, no,” his Father says patiently, “there’s someone more powerful than me.”
“That’s what I said,” Lucifer says. “You’re God.”
“Yes,” his Father says, “but not really.”
He slams his fist onto the table. The shot glass and the bottle rattles. His Father doesn’t even react. “Will you stop toying with me for once?!”
“I’m not toying with you, Lucifer,” his Father says, suddenly very serious. “I am not toying with you. I — ” He drags out the word in a long, smooth diphthong. “ — am not toying with you.”
Lucifer stares, again. “Then what the bloody Hell are you doing?”
“Talking to you,” his Father replies. He pauses, then amends, “But not merely talking to you. You’re not going to remember this conversation.” He looks a little sad as he says this, and his shoulders rise and fall in a what-can-you-do shrug. “So I suppose you could say I’m not really talking to you. I’m talking to the readers. Yes, you.” He smiles, looking at you. “I’m glad you came here. This story’s ultimately for you. My son won’t remember, but you will. I hope you enjoy it.”
“Dad … ” Lucifer is genuinely worried now, because if God has lost the plot, then —
“I assure you, son, I’m quite sane,” his Father says, chuckling. “Ironic, isn’t it? For me to be in your position and you to be in your dear Detective’s.”
“Dad,” Lucifer tries again.
“I suppose I’ll just be out with it, like you’ve always been for the Detective,” his Father says, sighing. He sets his arms on the table and folds his hands, seemingly to ground himself. “This is a story, Lucifer. You and I — ” He gestures between them. “ — we’re not real. Not really real. I am not really God and you are not really the Devil. We’re constructions of the author’s mind, given form by this place. Pixels on a screen, ink on a page, nothing more. So all of your ire at me is … well, unfounded. I’m not manipulating you. I don’t have that power.” He pauses. “Well, I do. But not really. And only sometimes, in some stories, depending on the author.”
Lucifer sits back. Bloody Hell. This is a lot worse than he thought. “Are you … are you … having an existential crisis?”
“It’s hard to not have one when you don’t really exist,” his Father says. Rather calmly, he observes — not at all like someone having an existential crisis.
And oh, Dad, what a lovely thought. He doesn’t even want to contemplate the metaphysical implications of God having an existential crisis —
“That’s because the author of this story has decided that delving into that would be a waste of time.”
“Will you stop — ” Lucifer raises his hand, then closes it. He does not slam it onto the table this time, but he does put up a finger. “First of all, you know I hate it when you get inside my head. Secondly, you’re telling me that you don’t bloody exist? You, God, who spent millennia trying to convince your pet project otherwise?”
“Well, God does exist,” his Father says blithely. “And I do exist, but not really.”
“But you’re God! ” Lucifer yells.
“Yes, but not really.” His Father’s smile is wry. “Lucifer, you know the Multiverse exists. There are an infinite number of realities. What’s so difficult about accepting that there is another reality outside of the Multiverse?”
Lucifer takes a breath, then another, and he makes himself calm down. He’s not sure what his Father’s talking about, but if this really is a senior moment for his dear old Dad, he’d humor him a little. A son’s duty, and all.
“So,” he grinds out, “you’re telling me, that there’s another God?”
“Bingo,” his Father smiles proudly, and his heart hurts because he hasn’t smiled at him like that in eons. “And another. And another. Potentially an infinite number, so long as people come to this place and create them. But none of them are God, not really, because God can’t be created.”
“I don’t … understand,” Lucifer says in complete befuddlement. He feels like he’s never been so confounded in his existence.
“No, you don’t,” his Father says sadly. “The author hasn’t given you knowledge beyond the Wall. Of course you don’t understand.”
Their conversation lulls, and Lucifer sits uncomfortably. He doesn’t know what to think, and he doesn’t know what to say, not when his Father’s looking at him with sadness in his eyes. There’s a veritable storm of emotions all crashing into each other in his head. He hates being pitied. He hates it, and he hates being pitied by his Father the most. But then — if that wretched expression on the old bloke’s face can be believed — this is the first time his Father’s shown any care for him in eons.
He’s wanted this for eons. He’s hated himself for wanting, for eons. He’s sick of the conflict. It’s all just so tiresome.
“What do you want, Dad?” he asks wearily. “Is this some sick joke? Why are you telling me this, if you know I won’t understand?”
“Can’t a father have a chat with his son?” his Father replies, voice soft. “Can’t I hope, despite knowing?”
“Just … stop.” Lucifer turns away. He can’t bear this right now. He can’t. “You cast me out. You cast me into Hell. You’ve made it bloody clear that my damnation is eternal. There’s no hope, so stop lying.”
“Samael,” his Father says, and he bristles.
“No.”
“Samael, listen to me — ”
“No! That’s not my bloody — ”
“ — I didn’t cast you out, Samael,” his Father says, voice stern. “That’s the whole point of this.”
Lucifer explodes to his feet. “How dare you.” He feels Hellfire rage beneath his skin. He’s so angry that he can’t even keep his voice steady. “How dare — ”
“I,” his Father enunciates, “didn’t cast you out, Samael. I did, but I didn’t. I brought you to this place, but I didn’t.” He rises, slowly, and they meet eye to eye. A second passes, and he adds quietly, “God didn’t cast you out. Not you. They put a little bit of God in me, and a little bit of the Devil in you, but I’m not God and you’re not the Devil. I didn’t cast you out, the authors did.”
Lucifer is shaking. “No. No, don’t you try to weasel out of what you did. You know what you did!”
“Yes!” For the first time, his Father truly raises his voice. The glass and the bottle, the table and chairs, and even the ground shakes. “I know! And I had no choice! ”
“You had a choice! You could have not thrown me into Hell for just wanting — ”
“Samael! ” His Father’s voice strikes him like lightning. “Listen to me. Neither you nor I have free will. You keep asking me for it, but I can’t give it to you, because I don’t have it. The authors are the ones who do. The authors write the stories. I can’t give you what I don’t have! ”
The confession echoes in his head like rolling thunder, and he can’t accept it. He can’t. But his Father isn’t lying. He’s good at spotting liars, and his Father isn’t.
“The authors,” he says in a breathless whisper, his eyes stinging. “Who are the authors?”
“God,” his Father answers, his face and voice terrible. “The authors are God, the ones who own the Source.”
I’m not God, not really. I can’t give you what I don’t have.
His Father’s just as helpless as he is.
Despair makes his lungs collapse. He doesn’t understand who these authors are, the ones his Father is referring to, only that the one thing he's always desired is impossible for him to have.
His Father sighs, looking diminished, resigned. “It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe me. You won’t remember this, but I have to say my piece. I don’t dictate how the stories go, Samael.” He grimaces. “Well, I do, sometimes, sort of, but it’s really the authors who control the narratives. And, no matter the kind of hells they put you through … ” He stops for a moment, and his eyes glisten. “At least here, in this story, you have a Father who cares, a Father who understands. I understand, Samael. You get blamed for every evil. I understand that. I get blamed for what happens to you, so I understand. That’s what I’m here to say.”
A Father who cares. A Father who understands.
He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. It hurts. So much. And he wants to grasp that olive branch, and at the same time he’s terrified — whether it really is an olive branch, or a branch full of barbs.
“Dad … ” He chokes on the word.
“You don’t have to say anything,” his Father says, in a voice so gentle his heart hurts like Malcolm’s shot him there instead of his stomach.
“I suppose we should get back to the main show,” his Father says after a moment. He seems somewhat unhappy at the prospect. “I fixed up your body, so you should be good to go once you land back in it. And as for your Mother … ” He waves a hand. “Well, you’ll figure it out by the end of Season Two. You’ll be all right.”
“Dad,” he says.
“Yes, my son?” His Father is looking at him intently, and his breath catches in his throat, because he can’t remember the last time he’s looked at him like this.
He takes a deep breath, and he closes his grip around that branch.
“It’s good to see you.”
His Father smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks pained instead.
“It’s good to see you too.”
He looks down at the table, the shot glass, the bottle of Scotch, still almost full. It has no label. “I won’t remember this, you said?”
His Father shakes his head. “No.”
He hates having to ask this. He hates it, but he does anyway. “Can’t you … make me remember?”
“No. The author hasn’t given me that power. In fact, not even the author has that power.”
He deflates. He’s not sure which cuts deeper, the disappointment or the relief. He doesn’t even understand his Father’s words, only that what he desires is impossible for him to have.
“Oh,” is the only thing he says.
They stand in silence. He doesn’t understand, but … maybe he does a little. At least here, wherever here is, he has a Father who understands.
His Father speaks, and it’s in that gentle voice that makes him unable to breathe. “Time’s running out on this place, son. The author is winding down.”
“Oh.” He swallows. “Well.”
“I’m sorry. This was never meant to be a long story.”
“Will I … ” He hesitates. “Will I see you again?”
His Father smiles at him. “Yes.”
It’s a painful smile, but it’s a smile.
He’ll take it.