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The sun sets on what has possibly been the worst day since he left.
She’s all too glad to have done with it and the plethora of unwelcome emotions that it’s dredged from the depths of her soul. All she wants to do now is drown her sorrows in a bottle of wine, a weak attempt to grasp at the slightest possibility of having one moment where she can forget.
Forget the pain and sorrow that has clouded her every waking moment since that day.
To forget him.
Not that she wants to forget him. She doesn’t. But right now, remembering hurts too much.
It’s been months, but the wounds of love do not simply heal overnight.
Sometimes they may never.
The thought terrifies her to her very core.
She throws herself down on the couch. Her cheap wine and a glass lay in wait on the coffee table in front of her, as they always do these days. Maybe acting like this is pathetic, but all her energy is spent focusing on her work and looking after Trixie. When it gets to this point in the day, she’s just tired. All she can think about is how much she misses him, and that hurts too much.
It’s better this way.
This way she can carry on.
Reaching out, she grabs the bottle and unscrews the top with practiced ease. The liquid sloshes as she hurriedly pours it; some even spills, covering the coffee table with splashes of clear liquid. She pays it no mind though; it’s just one more item added to her long list of things to do.
That’s what her life feels like now. One long checklist. There’s no joy in anything she does and no hope to be found at the end of it, because he isn’t coming back. It had taken her a long time to finally accept that and now… the thought of it makes her feel like bursting out in tears. So, she just tries her best not to think about it.
She ignores the pain, plays the part, and no one seems any the wiser. Or maybe they know, and they just don’t care. What does it even matter? She’s alone now, and that’s how it’s always going to be. No matter how many people surround her, she will always be alone inside.
Her eyes sting, filling with tears as she lifts her glass to her lips. The sharp, fruity scent of the softly bubbling drink tickles her nose as she sniffles before taking a long swig. With one shaking hand she wipes stray tears that spill over her cheeks away.
Why is this the life she gets? Why can’t she just be happy for once? Is she just doomed to be miserable forever?
No. She isn’t. She knows that deep down a part of her is still clinging onto hope. To that hope that he will somehow return, and everything will go back to normal again.
And she also knows that it’s not going to happen.
But she can’t let go.
Not yet.
She isn’t strong enough.
That’s why she still wears the necklace he’d given her for her birthday. The lump of lead that sits on her breastbone, a weight constantly reminding her of what is missing from her life.
Her fingers drift to it at the thought; a reaction that is almost automatic, reaching out to feel the grooves of the distorted chunk of metal. She squeezes her eyes closed as she’s bombarded by the memories that the piece of jewellery holds.
“I thought as I’ll likely never penetrate you, I’d commemorate the one time you penetrated me.”
At the time she’d laughed. But it’s not funny. Not anymore. The opposite, in fact. It makes her monumentally sad because he was right in his own crude sort of way. They’ll never get to do anything again.
No more playful banter. No more board game nights. No dates nor dinners. Nothing.
All that she gets now is memories and dreams of what could have been.
Tears spill over her cheeks more readily as her fist tightens around the bullet, the rough edges digging into the soft flesh of her palm. Maybe it’s time she let go. This— this miserable moping— isn’t getting her anywhere.
Everything hurts, and waiting for the pain to subside seems to be fruitless.
Maybe she just needs to stop waiting and do something.
It’s time to stop wallowing and move on.
Setting her glass back down on the coffee table, she reaches up behind her head, her shaking fingers fumbling for the little clasp of the chain.
Finally finding purchase, she’s just about to undo the clasp when a sudden crashing noise in the kitchen has her jumping to her feet. Panic rises within her, her heart pounding hard against her sternum as her hand automatically goes to the side where her gun would be, if she was in fact carrying, which she is not.
Her eyes strain as she stares into the darkness that has fallen over the apartment, searching for the intruder. In the moment, she doesn’t know what to do. Adrenaline courses through her veins; blood thrums loudly in her ears.
For a second, there is silence as she waits there with no way to defend herself. And then comes a shuffling noise, followed by a pained groan.
A part of her is confused, her grief addled brain can’t think straight, but her cop instincts scream ‘danger’, drowning out any and all other rational thoughts.
“I have a gun and I will shoot,” she blurts out, instantly cringing at the thought of the wobble in her voice betraying her bluff. “Show yourself slowly!” she says, trying to sound more confident this time. she tries again, more confident this time.
Another groan comes, followed by a strange ruffling noise that she can’t make out, and then what sounds like a palm slapping the counter. She narrows her eyes, straining to see the figure as her eyes begin to adjust to the low light.
All she can see though is that whoever this person is, they are tall and much larger than herself. That’s a problem. As soon as they see that she doesn’t have a weapon she will easily be overpowered.
And then it happens.
Out of the darkness comes an all too familiar, smoothly accented, yet strained sounding voice. “Somehow I don’t bloody doubt that.”
For the longest moment her brain refuses to believe her ears, and then he emerges from the shadows.
He’s here.
She stands there, frozen in shock, resisting the urge to pinch herself for what feels like the longest time.
He’s hunched over, leaning heavily with one hand on the breakfast bar and his wings out behind him. Not the divine white ones she’d been so briefly graced with in her darkest moment, but the red, leathery ones that she’d seen much more of. The ones she knows he has because he believes he is a monster.
Only they look different than they did before. They are torn and tattered, marred with jagged cuts both old and new. Now that she pays more attention, she sees that he’s in a similar state.
He’s covered in what looks like ash. It saturates his messy, jet black hair, smearing his face, suit and even his wings. It falls to the floor with his every movement, leaving a dusty grey trail in his wake.
His jacket is ripped, his shirt stained with crimson splashes. It’s far from the pristine condition that it had been in when he’d left so many months ago.
She can’t bear to think of what he’s been through in that time, what horrors he must have endured. Her problems seem lame in comparison now.
He’s been through Hell but he’s here.
He’s really here.
Taking a few hesitant steps towards him, still in a state of shock and not sure if she can believe her eyes, her hand goes to her mouth. Tears stream down her cheeks now, a ceaseless torrent that wets her fingers, making them slightly sticky.
“Lucifer…?” she breathes, her voice cracked and wrought with emotion, “you’re back?” She asks the question so quietly, as if she’s afraid of the answer. Afraid that she’s wrong. That he’s not really here, that she fell asleep on the couch and this is all just a dream.
But it’s not.
She’s standing a few feet away from him now. Close enough to hear his breaths as they fall heavily from his lips.
He’s really here.
He’s ragged and bloody, but he is really here.
Still leaning heavily on the counter, his wings twitch as his gaze drifts to the window. She briefly wonders what he’s looking for, but the thought is fleeting, dashed by the overwhelming mix of emotions that rage within her.
When he turns back to her, she moves closer to him, her hand reaching out, fingers hesitantly brushing against his stubbled cheek. To touch him. One more assurance that this is real.
As he stares at her with those dark eyes of his she sees the fierce storm of emotion that brews with the depths of his soul. There’s longing, relief, even love, but there’s also something more sinister.
Something insidious.
Pain, grief, hurt.
All the emotional trauma that he’s collected in his time in Hell slipping out from under his mask. She can tell he’s trying to hide it but the heavy circles under his eyes and the lines that creases his face betray him.
“Sorry I’m late, Detective,” he says, sadness saturating his every word.
Late?
Late for what?
“You wouldn’t believe the century I’ve had,” he adds with a half shrug, looking a little sheepish.
Her mind stumbles over his words. Already she feels more at ease than she has done in months, just from being near him, from knowing he’s okay.
Even if uncertainty already looms in the back of her mind, asking the questions that she doesn’t want to know the answers to.
Why is he here, and for how long?
All that matters now is that he is here.
He’s really here and he… he has flowers?
The image before her causes her train of thought to grind to a halt.
Here he is, looking like Hell has chewed him up and spat him out again, and in his hand he holds the most beautiful, most pristine bouquet of roses she has ever seen in her entire life. His hand trembles just slightly as he offers them to her, the delicate petals quivering as the tremors shake them.
The mixture of light and dark pink, bright red, and soft coral contrasts starkly with the darkness that hangs over him. He still leans against the counter, holding his weight up as if he’s hurt, and yet his hand still hovers, still holding out the flowers.
Her tired mind can’t piece together the puzzle, but her body automatically carries her towards him. Her hand reaches out to take the bouquet from him, her eyes looking at them for only a fraction of a second before flitting back up to meet his dark soulful eyes.
She opens her mouth, but words do not come.
He presses his lips together, a weak smile tugging at them.
“Happy Valentine’s day, Detective.”
“I…” Her heart flutters wildly in her chest. Tears sting her eyes. A smile grows on her face that she can’t keep away. “Oh, come here you idiot,” she says without a second thought, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she flings her arms around his neck and she kisses him.
All the longing, all the love and the desire just spills out of her—of both of them. His stubble scratches her face but that doesn’t matter because he’s here. All she wants to do is hold him and never let go.
This isn’t how she dreamed he would return— dirty and bloody in the dead of night— but it is perfect because he’s here and this is real and that’s all that matters.
She never wants to lose him again, and, if the single yellow rose nestled neatly in the middle of the pink ones is anything to go by, she never will.