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‘Detective, I assure you, I’ll be fine,’ Lucifer tells her for the seventeenth time when the doors of the elevator open and they step into his penthouse. Or rather, she steps. Lucifer limps on one semi-good leg, his not broken arm swung over the Detective’s shoulder for support (because she insisted—certainly not because he needs it).
Somehow, she manages to almost half-carry him up the steps leading to his bedroom and lay him down, surprisingly gently, in bed. He feels like a child, and he would be embarrassed if half his body weren’t burning from serious abrasions and several broken bones.
‘I’m fine ,’ he insists again when she puts a pillow under his possibly fractured ankle. She glares at him from the foot of the bed and, with a look in her eyes as if she’s about to present the one piece of evidence that will put the murderer behind bars, crawls up along his body and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He smirks at her (as much as he can through the undeniable pain), but his salacious comment is caught in his throat and replaced with a winced ‘ Bloody hell! ’ as she presses her fingertips to his ribs.
‘You don’t seem fine.’ Her tone is somehow sharp and soft at the same time.
‘It’ll heal in no time,’ he reminds her, trying to ignore the excruciating throbbing for a second to appear more convincing. ‘Even faster if you weren’t here, of course.’
An emotion flashes across her face. ‘Right,’ she mumbles with a smile that doesn’t exactly convey happiness. She then gets up from where she’s sitting on the bed and turns to descend the stairs.
‘No, Detective, wait! Where are you going?’ he feebly shouts after her, panic rising in his throat.
She turns around slowly and looks at him with that half-confused, half-annoyed face he’s come to know so well he almost considers it her default expression. ‘I thought…’ she trails off, clearly puzzled. ‘You just said you’d heal sooner if I left.’
He’s sitting half-up in bed now, doing his best not to flinch as searing needles tear through his torso. ‘I will,’ he confirms.
She looks at him for a second, like she's reading something on his face. ‘But you want me to stay anyway?’
The entire right side of his body is stinging and blazing and pulsing, and her presence will only prolong his misery, but-
‘Yes,’ he sighs (whether it’s with pain or in defeat, he’s not sure). ‘If you don’t mind, of course.’
With a smile that almost heals him on the spot, she walks over to sit down beside him. ‘Not at all,’ she whispers, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. (He tries not to notice how it makes his heart beat faster behind his damaged ribs.)
With a quiet ‘I’ll get you something to drink’ she disappears in the direction of the bar. He calls out in objection, hoarsely and with a painful cough assuring her that water certainly won’t help. But before he can even finish his sentence, she returns with a knowing smirk and a very generous glass of whiskey.
‘Detective,’ he croaks gratefully and attempts at a heartfelt smile as she hands him the tumbler. With an only slightly shaky hand, he brings the drink to his bruised lips and takes a large gulp, relishing how the liquid slithers down his throat. A pleasant burn in a pit of scorching fire. She sits down on the bed again and lets her hand rest on his bare chest, right above his heart. The pressure is so light he almost doesn’t feel it.
‘Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?’ It’s not the first time she asks him that. Nor the second. The crease of worry in her forehead is still somewhat adorable, however.
‘Trust me, Detective, I have all the attention I need right here.’ With a slight smile, he places his (good) hand on top of hers. She nods and lets out a short, breathy chuckle.
Her gaze turns incredibly soft then. ‘Well, is there anything you need?’
He almost declines her offer immediately, but something stops him. A… desire. A longing . One he’s felt before but still isn’t quite familiar with. It’s a tickling itch, an ache in his chest, his arms, his hands. He wants to touch her, to feel her. But not (necessarily) in a way that involves nudity. As impossible as it sounds, it’s not sex he wants from her. (Not right now at least.) It’s… something else. Something close to sex? Yet entirely different.
Before he can put this strange need into words, she pushes off her shoes, lies down beside him, and then the entire length of her warm body is pressed up against him. Her hand still on his upper chest, she starts drawing feather-light patterns against his bare, unscathed skin as she breathes into the crook of his neck.
Once he’s overcome the shock, he closes his eyes and sighs, this time neither with pain nor in defeat.
They stay like that for a while: Her arm partially around him and her body nuzzled up to his side (the one less scraped and not as broken as the other). He thinks she might have fallen asleep when she suddenly takes in a deep breath and rolls away from him. He instantly mourns the loss of contact.
‘I should probably go.' Her voice is a little raspy, even as she clears her throat. ‘Give your body the chance to heal.’
He peers down at her, meets her gaze. ‘Please don’t,’ he begs, and it’s all sorts of pathetic, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
‘Lucifer, you’re hurting.’ Her eyes, full of worry, flicker over his wounded, broken body. And yes, it hurts. Like hell , as a matter of fact.
But what hurts more is the thought of being alone.
‘I am,’ he groans, and pretends not to be affected by the look of deep concern on her face. He tries to pull her close, wanting her back, and she gently nestles against his side again. He hums into her hair. ‘But you just feel so good .’ As her cheek rests where his shoulder meets his collarbone, her nose brushes against his neck, and the heat of her body rolls off her, deliciously encompassing his entire being, he quietly adds, ‘Soft and warm.’
She reaches up to run a hand through his chaotic hair and glances up at him with a teasing look in her (inarguably breath-taking) eyes. ‘Sounds like you’re the one who’s soft.’
He scoffs, deeply offended by her accusation. ‘Am not .’
But maybe he is. Because, as they lie there until the morning sun breaks through his curtains, bodies innocently pressed against each other, it’s the first time he regrets spending only one night in bed with someone.
Perhaps someday—preferably without having to injure himself first—he can have more nights with her. If he ever learns to endure her obnoxious snoring, that is.