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Curled up into the fetal position, beach sand rubbing the skin on his face raw, Lucifer holds his breath and braces himself for his older brother’s continued kicks and punches. He could fight back, not that he would be any match for Amenadiel - wingless and diminished in power because of that, it would be foolish to think he could stand up to the might of an Archangel in his full power. But he doesn’t rise a single fist in his own defense, absorbing the blows and choking on bitter iron; his brain rattles in his skull with every hit Amenadiel lands on his head, his thoughts dazed and incoherent as his mind is dragged and swallowed into a black abyss of pain.
“You deserve this,” Amenadiel rages. “You’re making me do this to you, Lucifer! If you’d just accepted your wings back and gone back to Hell, I wouldn’t have to do this! This is all your fault!” His fist slams into Lucifer’s shoulder like a battering ram, wrenching the joint out of place and making the younger angel writhe in pain.
Maybe it is his fault. After all, he did goad Amenadiel into it. Not only are Lucifer’s ribs and collarbones definitely broken, his face hurting so much that there are definitely should fractures, but his back, where his wing scars are, feels like it's on fire. No doubt the entirety of his celestial make-up is vehemently protesting against the burning of his wings only a few meters away, pleading for them to be returned to him, for his full form to be assumed. But the sharp, acrid stench of feathers aflame stings his nose and makes his eyes water uncontrollably. It’s too late.
His wings will be ashes by the time the sun rises, and nothing agonizes and delights him more than knowing that the dismal angelic chapter of his hopeless life will finally be over.
And considering the beating Amenadiel is giving him, and the fact his older brother is now bellowing about how he’s going to drag Lucifer back down to Hell kicking and screaming if he must, maybe this chapter of his life on Earth will soon be over too.
He’s seen Amenadiel annoyed and angry before - every single time he flew down from Heaven to kick Lucifer back to Hell. His brother has injured him before, to try and deter him from escaping again… not that it’s ever worked. But Amenadiel is furious right now. He doesn’t seem to give a damn about the deal he and Lucifer made all those years ago to allow him to remain on Earth for as long as he pleases without Amenadiel forcefully returning him to Hell. He’s still hitting and kicking him viciously, and it doesn’t seem as if the older angel has any intention of stopping. Does he intend to beat Lucifer half to death before throwing him back into Hell, perhaps so he’s forever crippled, too weak to ever attempt a return to Earth?
Panic flits through him. If Amenadiel forces him down to Hell right now, what will Chloe think when he doesn’t turn up to work tomorrow? How long would it take for her to realize that he’s vanished, that something is wrong? Would she investigate his disappearance, or would she think that he’s bailed on her?
Nobody is more surprised than him about how fond he’s become of the detective over the past months; their partnership, their friendship, has brought him more happiness than he could ever fathom. He feels valued by her, he feels appreciated, and most of all, he feels cared for. And he cares for Chloe as well. He doesn’t want to lose her. He doesn’t want to be forced to leave her behind.
Lucifer is shocked out of his musings by Amenadiel’s foot crashing into his back between his shoulder blades. It’s a highly sensitive area, where all of his wing muscles are located. His spine arches, a choked howl tearing from his throat. Every single breath he takes is sheer agony now, obstructed by hot, metallic blood, which has filled his mouth. He has to struggle and spit it out on the sand to avoid it clogging his throat. He can barely move; his vision is full of black spots, and he can feel his consciousness gradually beginning to separate from his physical form.
If he passes out, he knows he’ll wake up in Hell. He refuses to beg for mercy. But he demands in a wheeze, “S-stop,” as he digs his hands into the coarse sand, trying to heave himself upright and away from Amenadiel’s wrath. A blow directly to Lucifer’s skull makes him collapse back down, his whole body shaking. His heart flutters in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. He is very, very close to falling into the darkness fringing his mind. “Stop -”
“I’ll stop when you pray for me to take you back to Hell,” Amenadiel thunders, his dark eyes ablaze. Bloodied fist raised, ready to strike down again.
Lucifer dry-heaves and once again spits a coagulated clot of blood out - directly onto Amenadiel’s shoe. He glares up at his older brother, bares his teeth with a fierce growl of defiance, and snarls, “Never gonna happen. You want me back in Hell - you’ll have to kill me.”
And for good measure, he prays it as well, broadcasting it over the divine dimensional wavelengths all celestials use to communicate, specifically aiming it towards his father as well. Lucifer will accept death before returning to the Infernal Realm, and he wants his dad to choke on it.
Amenadiel clenches his fists in rage, but his voice is disturbingly flat and calm as he responds, “That can be arranged,” before launching another kick into Lucifer’s chest.
He feels, and hears, his sternum break. The sound that is ripped from his lungs is tormented, the sort of noise a cat or dog would release if its tail was run over. The pain is so blinding and overwhelming that all of the fight leaches out of him instantly, and he’s left a crumpled, pathetic, boneless mess of a damned angel, covered in the ash of his own burned wings and sprawled out on blood-soaked sand.
Lucifer has no strength to even try and defend himself now. All he can do is cringe and shudder, anticipating the next blow.
But the next blow never arrives.
His face is buried in the sand, so he hears, rather than sees, Amenadiel’s astonished gasp of, “Father?”
The fiery pain coursing through his veins is washed away as icy dread is injected into him. Father? Lucifer can barely focus on anything other than the throbbing of his head and searing agony overtaking his physical form, but he manages, for a mere second, to stretch his awareness to outside himself… and he instantly starts in alarm.
He feels it. The all-powerful, all-mighty presence of God, looming over him. So immense, so intense, that it feels like standing directly next to a thousand supernovas. And Lucifer knows what those feel like - he is the Lightbringer, after all, the ignition source of all stars.
His dad is here. Lucifer has not experienced such destabilizing terror like this since his Fall. He tries, frantically, to scramble to his knees and then feet to flee, but his body rejects it; the only thing he manages to do is twist himself onto his side, clawing at the sand. All he can do is shiver and keen in fright, like a woeful creature marked for death and being led to slaughter.
Amenadiel must be angered by his quiet, distressed whimpering, because he emits a sound of disgust. He plants his foot on Lucifer’s back and presses down, forcing him to collapse onto his front again, muttering ferociously about showing respect and reverence.
“Enough. That is enough,” God demands. Lucifer flinches, thinking it’s him being ordered, but then he commands, “Step back, immediately,” and realises in shock that his father’s vitriol is directed at Amenadiel, not him. A careful, yet solid hand turns him back over onto his side, into the recovery position. “Oh, Amenadiel, what’ve you done?”
Recoiling from both the couch and the horrified voice, Lucifer mewls faintly. His breathing is rapid, shallow, and irregular, sending bursts of pain through his chest as it aggravates his broken ribs and sternum. Gentle fingers brush bloodied sand from his face and away from his mouth.
When Lucifer’s eyes flutter open, he peers blearily up into his father’s rich, dark ones. He looks… worried. Devastated. But beneath that, there’s anger. Much to his surprise, God lowers himself to the ground, sitting in the ashy sand and very cautiously lifting Lucifer’s beaten, bruised body into his lap. He panics, squirming, and his father’s attempt to soothe him by running his fingers through his hair triggers him to tremble and cower.
“Shh. Calm yourself, little one, no more harm shall be done unto you today,” his father murmurs, cradling his broken form in his lap as if he’s not a billions-year-old Archangel-turned-Devil, and rather a young boy in need of comfort. “Not whilst I am here.”
Lucifer catches sight of Amenadiel shaking his head, looking afraid. Oh. Right. Because God’s anger isn’t aimed at Lucifer… it’s aimed at him. “He gave me no choice! I - I was only doing what I had to do to get him back to Hell, as per my duty! The duty you gave me, Father! I was justified!” he claims agitatedly.
“Nothing justifies this,” God responds, his voice chillingly monotone. “I asked you to watch over your brother, to keep an eye out for him. What part of that request stipulates you beating and dragging him down to Hell repeatedly?”
Amenadiel swallows visibly. “But he’s on Earth. His sentence was to rule over Hell, I was only doing my duty to -”
“I did not ban Samael from leaving Hell. I never, not once, stated that he was to rule over Hell and never leave,” God interrupts thunderously. The night’s sky above them, a cloudless, beautiful midnight blue, is set ablaze with a strike of brilliant lightning - the Almighty’s true emotions rearing their head. “The Infernal Realm feeds on his Light and Divinity. Your brother takes vacations to Earth to recuperate, because otherwise, he would be drained of his life essence and die.”
The eldest angel pales quickly, lowering his head and averting his eyes, although his gaze skims over Lucifer briefly, filled with misery and regret. The Fist of God’s wings might be tucked away in their pocket dimension, but Lucifer can imagine them sagging, silvery-grey feathers bristling nervously.
“You misinterpreted my orders, Amenadiel,” God continues solemnly. “I asked you to watch over your brother to keep him safe and ensure his well-being. I thought you understood when you so eagerly agreed. I thought you did so out of concern and love for your brother. Now I see you agreed because you reveled in the opportunity to cause him more anguish and pain. I should not have trusted you with this. I should not have turned my gaze away, thinking you would care for your brother in my stead so he would not feel as if I were infringing upon his Free Will or controlling his life.”
Lucifer is reeling. He reckons he must have a major concussion, because he can barely concentrate on what his father and brother are saying, but he does catch little snippets, including that last sentence. Free Will? He has Free Will? And his father… respects that? He doesn’t want to control Lucifer’s life? It goes against everything Lucifer has ever thought he knew, sending his mind into a further tailspin.
Maybe spending so much time on Earth and around Lucifer has started to affect Amenadiel, because although he’s bowing his head, he still refuses to back down, countering, “But he - he needs to be in Hell to rule it, and he was refusing to go back! He defiled himself, Father, he cut off his wings!” He points over to what remains of them, still smoldering. “Look at what he just did - he burned them! Just to insult you, to spite you!”
“He severed his wings out of desperation!” God shouts, clearly having had enough of the older angel’s frantic attempts to excuse and defend himself. The sudden increase in volume of his father’s voice causes Lucifer to jolt, but then he immediately stills when his dad lays a comforting hand over the back of his neck. “Samael saw his wings as shackles, as a chain linking him, yes, to me, but also to you. I heard his prayers during the procedure; he was angry, and bitter, and resentful, but he was also terrified, and hurt. In his thoughts, he likened his self-mutilation to amputating a diseased limb, cutting out a wound that was poisoning and slowly destroying him. And no wonder he sees our family as toxic if this is how you’ve been treating him! He did not want to get rid of his wings. He burned them in a last, frenetic hope that he might get through to you, to get you to leave him alone. Instead, you’ve nearly killed him.”
“I… I wasn’t trying to kill him,” Amenadiel replies quietly, sounding significantly guiltier and more subdued than before. He shifts back and forth on his feet, shoulders slumped, like a child being chastised.
God sighs heavily. “You are lucky he prayed when he did, then, and lucky I heard and decided to intervene. One more strike to the head and his brain would have started hemorrhaging. He would have been lost to us.” Lucifer startles, because what? His prayer… actually got through? He was trying to rub it in his face that the only way to force him back to Hell would be to kill him… he didn’t think his dad would actually take offense to the him dying part.
“I was only doing what I thought you wanted,” Amenadiel whispers, defeated. “I’m sorry.”
“You thought wrong,” God says shortly. “And you should be apologizing to your little brother, not to me.” He turns his full attention back to Lucifer, which makes him stiffen uneasily. Bad things tend to happen when his father focuses too intently on him. “Go, Amenadiel. Wait for me in my Sanctum. We will discuss your punishment for your inexcusable brutality once I return.” His tone is dismissive, yet dripping with aching disappointment.
If possible, Amenadiel looks even more frightened. “Punishment?” he croaks.
“Go.”
The divine power that echoes through his father’s voice, along with the distant, intimidating rumble of thunder, is enough to make Amenadiel turn on his tail and fly away, vanishing from sight with a flash of stormy feathers. The sensation of the wind blowing over his face from the force of his older brother’s wingbeats triggers Lucifer to flinch, and he groans when it twinges his broken ribs.
His father places his hand over his chest, and instantly, the pain eases somewhat. “I know, Samael, you’re in terrible pain. You can sleep, little one.” Ha! As if that’s going to happen! Lucifer will never let down his guard around his father, ever again. He eyes him warily, despite the fuzziness of his vision, huffing defiantly. His father’s small, tentative smile transforms into a pensive frown. “You fear me. Understandable, considering the circumstances. I swear, I will not hurt you, nor will I force you back to Hell. I will take you back to your penthouse and you shall awaken healed. And don’t worry - there is no hidden catch, or cost. You’ve suffered enough. Amenadiel’s violence is only partially my fault, but I am entirely culpable for my ignorance of his ill conduct towards you. I seek only to make amends and perhaps lessen your distress.” He pauses and then asks softly, “Do you believe me?”
Lucifer turns away, closing his eyes in exhaustion. “No,” he mutters. Because how can he possibly believe that his father is apologetic, wants to take care of him, and wants to heal him, when he has literally billions of years of experience of being alone, abandoned to suffer in Hell, to prove otherwise?
His father is here for a reason. God would never descend from Heaven to save him from a beating from Amenadiel just because he cares. He must have ulterior motives.
His father’s expression falls, and he looks, for a brief moment, as if he wants to question why. But then appears to have second thoughts, and responds, “That’s fair, I suppose,” with a sad sigh. “But you need to be healed, and we cannot stay here out in the open lest the humans see.” Lucifer has to choke on a scream of pain when God scoops him into his arms as if he weighs nothing. Every tiny movement sets his body on fire. Black spots appear in his vision again, his mind fogging over. He pushes weakly at his father’s chest in protest, but he merely shakes his head. “Sleep, Samael.”
THAT’S NOT MY NAME, Lucifer wants to yell, but the blood in his throat makes it impossible.
But he sinks into the warm darkness, which wraps around him like a weighted blanket.
When he wakes, not much time has passed, because it’s still dark outside. He’s lying on his back in his bed in the penthouse, and has been changed into one of his pairs of luxury sweatpants; the idea of God stripping him and dressing him while he was unconscious is mortifying. His father kept his word - he’s been fully healed. No aches or pains plague him, and his chest no longer feels like its been half crushed. Despite that, Lucifer still feels drained and fatigued. A quick glance at a mirror reveals that he looks pasty and tired, as if he hasn’t slept for several days. Physically, he’s no longer injured, but mentally, he feels like he’s been dragged back and forth across broken glass.
He sits upright immediately and almost falls off the mattress when he hears the ping of the elevator, followed by voices. Frozen like a deer in the headlights, he tunes his hearing in, his breathing fast and panicked.
“Who are you? Where’s Lucifer?”
“Detective Decker. I’m afraid Lucifer is asleep, recovering from a myriad of injuries. I’m his father.”
“His father?” The disdain in Chloe’s voice would normally make him chuckle, but knowing she’s standing across from God himself, it only makes Lucifer’s stomach somersault in fear. “What the hell did you do to him?”
“Yes, his father. All I did was bring my son home and tend to his wounds. I did not lay a malicious finger on him, I assure you. His injures occurred at the hands of his brother, Amenadiel.”
Chloe’s voice turns demanding. “I want to see him. Stand aside.”
And in return, his father’s tone is polite, but stern, issuing a gentle warning. “He is resting, and I implore you not to disturb him.”
“Stand aside, sir. I’m a detective with the LAPD and will not hesitate to place you under arrest if you refuse to let me complete a welfare check on my partner. Everything Lucifer has ever told me about you in the past suggests you do not have his best interests and health at heart, and I have reason to believe you would harm him if given the chance.”
“I am well aware of how my son is likely to have described me to you, Detective, and I do not wish to invalidate his feelings. I have treated him poorly in the past. This time, however, I am truly just looking out for him, I promise you. Now if I were you, I would lower your weapon. You do not wish to make an enemy out of me and you will come to regret the action of shooting me.”
Chloe is aiming her gun at God? Lucifer’s alarm is swamped by a sudden, overwhelming urge to protect, must protect, protect the Detective, and before he even realizes what’s happening, or what his body is doing, he’s lurching off his bed, storming down the steps, and sweeping across his living room in just a few lengthy strides.
Chloe is standing near his grand piano and has indeed drawn her weapon, although she’s pointing it at the floor rather than at his father. Her eyes widen in shock and concern as Lucifer stalks towards her. She opens her mouth to speak, probably to ask him if he’s alright - he undoubtedly looks terrible - but ends up just squeaking when Lucifer yanks her behind him, using his body as a shield.
“Lucifer? Are you okay? What’s going on?” she questions in confusion. Lucifer glances back at her with a strained smile, something she reads right through, because she just looks more worried. Very aware of their audience, he fixes his suspicious gaze on his father, who is regarding them both shrewdly. “You look awful.”
“Just a little fisticuffs between brothers, Detective,” he forces out, his voice strained. “Amenadiel has a nasty temper. I’ve had worse. But I appreciate your concern. I’m better now.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve mostly recovered, son.” Lucifer growls when his father tries to take a step towards them. God halts and raises his hands slowly. “I’m not going to hurt you or her, Samael.”
“Samael?” Chloe echoes, sounding even more puzzled.
There are so many emotions swirling in his mind, like a hurricane of feelings, that Lucifer’s anxiety becomes overpowering. He’s so tired that he doesn’t know how to process what’s happening, acting purely on instinct. He trembles, and shakes, but stands his ground, because all of those instincts are ordering him to protect Chloe, to face his father and not back down, to not show weakness. He bristles like an enraged cat, releasing a rumbling snarl.
“Not my name,” Lucifer snaps. “Hasn’t been my name for a long, long time. Now, what do you want?”
His father crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this hostility truly necessary?” He sounds more resigned than annoyed.
It only gets Lucifer’s hackles to rise higher. “What. Do. You. Want?”
“Nothing,” God says calmly, “Except a conversation, if you’ll indulge me. I brought you home, as promised, and I healed you, also as promised. And I don’t expect anything in return. No price attached. Separate from that, I am asking for a chance for us to talk.”
He laughs, and it’s a wretched, hysterical sound. “Never going to happen. The last time you asked me if we could talk, you called me anathema, had me chained, beaten, and thrown down through several dimensions to crash land in a Lake of Fire, where I burned alive for a century.” Even though Chloe probably thinks he’s talking in metaphors, her breath still catches in her throat as she inhales sharply behind him. She rests her hand on his lower back as if to reassure him that she’s with him, she’s supporting him. “I spent hundreds of years after that begging to talk, and you ignored me. For millennia. I’m done with civil conversation, Dad,” he spits the title as if it’s an insult, and feels a sense of sour satisfaction when his father winces.
“I made a mistake.”
Lucifer stares at him. Silence falls. He blinks incredulously. “What?” he finally says.
“Your punishment was too harsh. I have recently acquired new information that has led me to believe that I was deceived into believing your rebellion was more dangerous than it actually was. Your siblings will be punished for that. And now, understanding what Amenadiel has put you through, I wish to discuss the events that occurred that resulted in your banishment. And I wish to understand what you suffered after, so I can make amends. For that, we will need to talk.”
Is he hallucinating? Lucifer doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. His father is admitting he was wrong? Confessing to being… manipulated by his siblings, into sending him to Hell? It all sounds utterly ridiculous. His father never admits fault, and would never, ever own up to making a mistake. He’s always claimed to be infallible. And he hasn’t even mentioned the word ‘sorry’ or ‘apology’, and Lucifer knows for absolute certain that the Universe will end before God apologizes to him, so… this must be just another manipulation. An attempt to maneuver Lucifer into a trap of some kind. He won’t fall for it. “You’re lying. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I’m not lying. And there’s truly nothing you wish for us to speak about?” his father asks, raising an eyebrow. “Not even… Detective Decker’s peculiar immunity to your powers? Your… intermittent bouts of vulnerability in her vicinity?”
Lucifer’s back straightens. His father is offering answers, but that doesn’t mean he believes he will actually provide them. It only makes him angrier, and it turns out, he’s not the only one.
“What kind of abusive asshole of a father has to manipulate and blackmail his son into talking to him?” Chloe sounds outraged behind him, and Lucifer stretches out his arm to hold her back when she attempts to step forward. “You won’t even apologize for the Hell you put him through, you bastard, and you think you deserve the chance to speak to him?”
His father’s dark eyes flicker to Chloe with a visible flash of frustration. “Our first meeting, Detective, and you are already using petty insults? Your father always describes you as quite a rational and diplomatic woman. I expected a certain level of professionalism.”
“My… father?” Chloe whispers, the blood draining from her face. “What the hell are you talking about? My dad is dead.”
“Don’t talk to her,” Lucifer snarls, cutting his father off when he tries to speak. “Don’t look at her, don’t even think about her. The Detective is under my protection. If I agree to your… conversation, will you leave?”
“Lucifer, don’t. A conversation with an abuser is never just a conversation,” Chloe protests. “He’s manipulating you.”
His father’s jaw clenches, at being labeled an abuser. “One conversation,” he proposes. “And the opportunity to negotiate for more, if there is more we need to discuss than a single talk can cover.”
So it’s not a single conversation he wants. Lucifer grinds his molars together in aggravation. If there’s room to negotiate those extra talks, though, he can cope. He is excellent at negotiating. “Deal,” he nods. “Now leave.”
God looks conflicted. “May I check your injuries are fully healed first?”
“LEAVE!” Lucifer yells, and his fury is so vast that it spills out of him - in the form of a sea of gleaming white feathers, manifesting out of thin air and flaring to full span.
Chloe’s gun clatters to the floor behind him. “Oh my god,” she wheezes.
Lucifer stares at his restored wings in wide-eyed horror. His feathers twitch, shining just as bright with starlight and divinity as they did before he severed him. “What have you done to me?” he rasps, staggering sideways, wings flapping and trying to balance him. But he’s so unused to their weight, so lacking in control, that they knock over everything in their path. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”
“I told you, I healed you,” God says quietly, his expression impassive and unreadable. “That means I healed all of you.” His lips quirk up into a small smile. “I’ll see you again soon, little one.”
Lucifer blinks, his eyes wet with tears of disbelief and rage and heartbroken sorrow, and his father is gone. He howls furiously, grabbing the nearest empty scotch glass to hurl at the floor where God once stood. His father spoke of these wings being his shackles, as if he understood the pain they’ve brought him. And now, God has forced them onto him again. Without any care for what Lucifer wants. He grabs a fistful of snowy feathers and rips, crying out as it sends searing fire lancing up the limb and down his spine. He will tear these wings that have been tacked onto him apart, handful by handful, piece by piece, if that is what’s required to get rid of them.
He wheels around when he hears a tiny gasp of unsettled shock behind him. Chloe’s eyes are as round as plates as she stares at him in utter disbelief and amazement.
“The wings at the auction,” she breathes. “You - you weren’t kidding. You really did cut them off and - they really were yours.”
They weren’t. They were fakes, but he managed to find the real ones, mounted by a demented, obsessed man in a glass display cabinet like a sick trophy. But he burned them. He burned them to ashes. And here they are, attached to his back again, against his will. A blatant violation. Something he doesn’t want, something his father knows he doesn’t want.
He’s going to throw up.
“You’re an angel,” Chloe croaks, having to grab the grand piano to steady herself. “Jesus, fuck, you’re - you’re the Devil. It’s all true, it’s always been true.” She doesn’t look disturbed, or terrified, just… astonished. Awed. Because she’s seeing proof of the divine in the form of the wings his father pinned onto him without so much as a by-your-leave.
No more harm shall be done unto you today, his father claimed.
Before he, himself, tore Lucifer’s entire world apart at the seams. Stating that it was a healing. God claimed that there was no cost to saving him from Amenadiel and healing him. When in reality, the cost was the one thing Lucifer was willing to die for: his Free Will.
He falls to his knees, fists full of bloodied feathers, his wings flopping onto the floor lifelessly. He wishes, for a moment, that Amenadiel’s beating had finished him off.
Cold, clammy hands cup his cheeks. “Lucifer?” His eyes flicker up, to meet Chloe’s, and he doesn’t know what to say. Her face is ashen, and her own eyes are filled with tears too, as she witnesses his pain. Her whole belief system has been turned on a dime, her life has been flipped upside down, and yet, she’s more worried about him than anything else. “You didn’t want this, did you?” Chloe whispers, kneeling in front of him.
Lucifer’s head falls onto her shoulder, and as her arms wrap around him, he weeps.