Chapter Text
Heaven has something Hell doesn’t have.
Heaven has snow.
Vox discovered this on his third day in paradise, when he woke to find white flakes drifting past his window like ash, except they melted on contact instead of staining everything they touched. Emily had been delighted to explain—Heaven has weather patterns, seasonal changes, actual climate instead of Hell’s constant red-gold sky that reeks of ozone and sulfur. It was nearly Christmas, she'd explained—Sinsmas, without Lucifer.
Heaven has biomes. Forests that aren’t on fire. Oceans that aren’t boiling. Mountains that don’t constantly erupt. Biodiversity that extends beyond “things that want to kill you” and “things that want to kill you differently.”
Heaven also has a snake man and a man whose body is mostly machine, and these two work together in a converted outbuilding on the edge of one of Heaven’s residential districts, trying to create something that will allow the machine man to return to Hell.
Vox enters the workshop early in the morning—or what passes for morning in Heaven, where the light is always perfect but somehow still manages to simulate dawn—his vents fog in the cold air. Heaven’s winter is nothing like Hell’s eternal heat, and he’s had to adapt. Learn what “cold” feels like when you have a body that registers temperature but doesn’t strictly need warmth.
The Eggletts are already here—Goldie, Glitter, Gild, and Gleam, the golden-shelled creations Emily made for Pentious after the original Egg Bois were lost in the battle. There is still one on earth in the care of the woman Pentious loves, but Vox never remembers his name. These eggs are resting together in an oversized dog bed on the floor near a space heater, tiny bodies huddled for warmth. They have their own little Christmas tree by the bed with wrapped gifts, Emily insisted.
That means Pentious is in early to the warehouse, or he stayed late and never left. Again. He only lives upstairs; it shouldn't be that hard. Vox lives across town.
Vox pulls the scarf from around his neck—red and black striped, a gift from Emily who seemed to think he needed “winter accessories”—and drapes it over a chair. He pulls his wool coat off, shakes the snow from it, and hangs it beside the scarf. The coat is heavy, well-made, and too nice for a workshop. But Heaven provides, apparently, whether you want it to or not.
“Pen?” he calls out.
“In here!” The snake’s voice echoes from the communications room—the smaller space they’ve converted into their testing ground, walls lined with equipment that Pentious built and Vox has been modifying for weeks.
Vox walks through the main workshop. His footsteps echo on the concrete floor—one of the few things in Heaven that actually feels real, that has weight and texture and imperfection. The space is cluttered with tools, components, and half-finished projects. Drafting tables covered in schematics. Whiteboards are dense with equations—the organized chaos of two engineers obsessed with solving an impossible problem.
He enters the communications room. Pentious is coiled around his workstation, his attention focused on the holographic display. There are two heaters in here because snakes are cold-blooded, and he needs to stay warm. Baxter’s face fills the screen—the fish demon looking as cantankerous as ever, surrounded by the familiar clutter of his Hell-side lab. "I got the last bit of the hoses run, he's got a full tank of coolant, we just have to run the cyclers." He turns a page. "Kidneys are fine, everything else, heart, vents, all looking good."
“How’s the pump?” Vox asks, moving to stand beside Pentious. "The one you modified?"
“Working well, Good morning, Vox,” Baxter says without preamble. His voice crackles slightly through the connection—they’re still working on signal clarity. “We have most of the bodily damage repaired. Coolant lines are sealed, hydraulics are functional, and structural integrity is restored. We can hook him up to power to charge him, but—” He pauses, adjusting something off-screen. “—he’ll only have as much time as the charger will allow. He’ll have to go back on the charger before he disconnects. No mobility independence yet.”
Pentious’s hood flares slightly with concern. “No sssoul in the body, or isss there sssome other reassson?”
“When he got shot,” Baxter explains, gesturing with one fin, he taps at his own chest on the opposite side of where the heart is located. “The capacitors for prolonged charging via UV radiation were hit. Destroyed. And at the moment, I’m having trouble finding replacement parts for those. From what I can tell, they were custom components—not standard Voxtek manufacturing.”
Vox steps closer to the screen. “Baxter! Hey—those were custom parts. I made those by hand. I can probably draw out a schematic for you. Give you exact specifications, material composition, and the whole design.” Vox grabs a notepad and pen, making a note for himself. "Might be tomorrow."
“Tomorrow is fine, and it would be appreciated, Vox,” Baxter says. His expression softens slightly—as much as a fish can soften. “The sooner we get those capacitors functional, the sooner we can test sustained power independent of the charging station.”
“How’s Lu?” Vox asks. The question comes out more carefully than he intends. Every call, every update, he asks. Every call, he braces for the answer.
Baxter’s expression shifts—something that might be sympathy crossing his features. “Not sleeping well,” he says quietly. “He’s back up with his rubber duck army again. Working through the night. I found him in the workshop at 3 AM yesterday, trying to perfect a duck that doubles as a nightlight. I sent him to bed.”
"Did he go?"
"Only when I threatened to call, Charlie." Baxter smiles. "He's alright."
Vox’s screen flickers. Lucifer’s coping mechanism—make ducks when the grief gets too heavy. Making ducks when sleeping means dreaming about things he’s lost. Make ducks until exhaustion forces rest. “Thanks, Baxter,” Vox says.
“We’ll get you back,” Baxter says firmly. “However long it takes. We’ll get you back.” The positivity is simply astounding.
The call ends. The screen goes dark.
Vox stands there for a moment, processing. Then he claps Pentious on the shoulder—the snake’s scales are warm under his hand, alive in a way Heaven’s perfection never quite manages—and walks out into the main workroom. "I'll be at the drafting table."
"Very well, I'll be going over the communicationssss array," Pentious says. One of the eggs, he thinks, is Glitter, which comes over to lay in the coil of Pentious' body. "Hello, my dear, ressst, daddy mussst work."
Vox walks back into the main room with all the other egglets. He sits at the pristine white drafting table positioned near the window. Snow falls outside in lazy spirals, accumulating on the sill. Beyond the snow, beyond Heaven’s impossible architecture, the red orb of Hell hangs low in the skyline like a wound in paradise.
“Only a few more weeks, sweetheart,” Vox murmurs to the distant orb. To Lucifer, who can’t hear him. “We’re so close.”
He pulls out fresh paper. Picks up a pencil—actual graphite on actual paper, because some things work better analog than digital. Begins sketching from memory. The UV capacitors. The charging array. Every measurement, every specification, every detail he built into his own body when he was alive and arrogant and thought he could make himself invincible.
The irony isn’t lost on him. He’s rebuilding the components that will let him return to the body he died in. Creating the parts that will bridge the gap between Heaven and Hell. Designing his own escape route from paradise.
Outside, snow continues to fall. Inside, Vox designs, in ways he hasn't done in years, and for the first time, in a long time, the forecast calls for optimism.
Vox doesn’t remember falling asleep at the drafting table. Still, he must have, because suddenly Pentious’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him gently, and his screen is flat against the table surface, the schematic still flat beneath him.
“Go home,” Pentious says quietly. "It'sss late and you're clearly not sssleeping well."
Vox lifts his head, processors sluggish with the digital equivalent of sleep deprivation. “That’s what I’m trying to do.” He gestures at the diagram—partially complete, lines precise but increasingly shaky toward the edges, where exhaustion started setting in. “This is going home.”
“I mean it.” Pentious pulls Vox’s coat from the chair, holds it out insistently. “Go resssst. You’re no good to anyone if you burn out your processsorsss.”
“I’m fine—”
“You fell asssleep on your work,” Pentious interrupts. His eyes are serious behind his goggles. “That’sss not fine. That’sss what I wasss doing before the battle. Before I—” He stops. Doesn’t need to finish. They both know how that ended.
Vox takes the coat. “Fine. But I’m taking this with me.” He carefully peels the schematic off the table, examines it for damage. Mostly intact. Good enough.
Pentious turns toward the workshop. “Come, eggiesss!”
The Egglets chirp happily, flapping up out of their little bed and waddling after their keeper like golden ducklings.
“Sssee you tomorrow,” Pentious says. “Early. But not thisss early.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Vox pulls on his coat and wraps the scarf around his neck. The wool is soft against his screen—a sensation he’s still getting used to. “Go home yourself.”
“I live upssstairsss,” Pentious points out.
“Then go upstairs.”
They leave together, closing the workshop behind them: Pentious and his Egglets head toward the residential building attached to the workshop. Vox heads the opposite direction, toward the small apartment Heaven assigned him. Single occupancy. Perfectly appointed. Absolutely soulless. One bedroom, one living room, galley kitchen, bathroom. White, everywhere. White.
He’s running before he realizes it.
Not because he’s late—he hasn’t checked the time yet, doesn’t know if he should be worried. But because his processors just clicked something into place, and suddenly, urgency floods his systems.
Thursday.
It’s Thursday.
Date night.
Vox runs through Heaven’s streets. His perfect body moves effortlessly, no fatigue, no burning lungs, just smooth mechanical grace that carries him faster than any sinner could manage. Angels turn to stare as he passes. Some look offended—running implies emergency, and there are no emergencies in Heaven. Others look curious. A few look sympathetic, like they understand what it means to be desperate. He goes around people, slides between them, keeps going.
He reaches the residential halls—grand corridors lined with doors, each one leading to a perfectly appointed living space. He is near the end—the third door from the corner. There's an angel named Marcus who lives to his left and a doe-eyed cat angel who lives to his right, Adelle. He doesn’t slow down, hits the door at speed, and lets momentum carry him through.
No locks in Heaven. Everything is open. Everything is accessible. Everything is shared.
Vox hates it. One night, when he was actually getting sleep, he'd woken up to an angel just staring down at him like some fascination. He'd demanded a lock. Emily and Sera had said no.
He slams the door behind him—knowing it doesn’t lock, but at least it’s closed—and immediately goes to hang up his coat and scarf. Muscle memory. Routine. The small rituals that keep him sane.
His apartment is spare. Bed, he doesn’t sleep in often—he doesn’t need sleep, exactly, but his processors do require rest cycles. He works at the desk constantly—the kitchen he never uses. And in the corner, his personal computer and communications array—equipment he and Pentious built, connected to the main system but isolated enough for privacy.
He powers it on. Logs in. Starts the call.
The connection establishes almost immediately—Pentious’s system works beautifully, quantum entanglement maintaining perfect coherence across the impossible distance. The holographic display resolves.
Lucifer is already waiting with a glass of wine.
He looks better than last week. Still tired—there are shadows under his eyes that even Hell’s red light can’t hide—but he’s appropriately dressed, hair combed, holding his drink. He’s sitting in what Vox recognizes as the hotel’s study, surrounded by books and paperwork.
“You’re late,” Lucifer says. No accusation in it. Just observation. "Bad traffic on the promenade?"
“Yes, I'm late, sorry—I was busy.” Vox smiles, settles into his chair, and adjusts the camera angle so Lucifer can see him properly. “I was working on schematics that should help Baxter get that body more functional. The UV capacitors—I originally designed them myself, so I’m redrawing the specs from memory. Then, in probably a week or two, we’ll try a connection test.”
“And you think this will work?” Lucifer asks. There’s skepticism in his voice, but underneath it—hope. Fragile, carefully guarded, but there. “You think that it’ll allow you to download yourself back here?”
“Don’t you want to kiss me again?” Vox asks with a smile. "Go up to our room, and rediscover one another?"
Lucifer’s expression softens, and he turns red. He smiles back, nods slowly. “More than anything.”
“Me too, I have less than holy thoughts about you, if I'm being honest.” Vox’s screen brightens with warmth, but Lucifer is breathing heavy and looking away, so Vox decides to back down from that line of thought; it just frustrates them both. “I um, got the report emails from Ethan this morning. You’re doing well with the company. I sent back some suggestions, but they're just that, suggestions, you run the show, sweetheart.”
Lucifer laughs—genuine amusement breaking through the exhaustion. “Well, yes and no on the doing well part.” He takes a sip of his wine, calming down, clearly still flustered. "Asset production is slightly behind. Supply chain issues—turns out having your CEO die and then immediately transfer all assets, and then die again, creates some workflow confusion. But—” His smile widens. “—the tools you’ve given us to integrate Heavenly, maybe calling into the Hell phones? That’s going to be a real game-changer down here. Being able to communicate between Heaven and Hell—there are a lot of people who would want that.”
“I want that,” Vox says. His voice is softer now. More serious. “I want to be able to get all your terrible text messages with the little duck emojis.”
Lucifer laughs. “And I’ll send you back a little TV one with a crown.”
“That little duck with the crown,” Vox adds. "King duck."
“Exactly, my favorite king duck.”
They settle into conversation. The kind of easy back-and-forth they’ve developed over the past few weeks. Vox tells him about the workshop and Pentious’s latest breakthrough in signal coherence. Lucifer tells him about the company, about Charlie’s latest hotel project, about Angel Dust accidentally destroying a VoxTek prototype during a demonstration.
“He felt terrible about it,” Lucifer says. “Offered to pay for repairs. I told him not to worry—it was a stress test anyway.”
“Was it actually a stress test?”
“It is now,” Lucifer admits, taking a drink of his wine to hide the flush in his face.
Vox laughs. Real laughter, the kind that makes his cooling fans cycle faster, that makes the grief recede just slightly. "I mean, it could be worse, you could have burned a hole in the carpets too," Lucifer says nothing and then takes another drink of wine. "You didn't..." Vox blinks, "Charlie must have been angry."
"I'm not allowed to do product testing in the lobby anymore." A beat has them both laughing hard again. "I'll email you a picture of the burn spot. Vaggie tried to hide it by pulling a chair over it, but you can still kinda see it, and you can surely smell it."
They talk for nearly two hours. About work. About weather—Lucifer is fascinated by Heaven’s snow; it's been so long he doesn't remember, he asks Vox to describe it. They talk about nothing essential and everything that matters. He shows off his two latest ducks, Bill and Puffin, and a duck that has a little shark fin. "His name is Roy."
Vox beams, "Roy's my favorite." He nods, "Hands down."
But eventually, Lucifer starts to yawn. Tries to hide it behind his glass, but Vox’s visual processors catch it. “Go get to bed, my love,” Vox says gently.
“I don’t want to go.” Lucifer’s voice is small. Young, almost. Like admitting it costs him. "I want to stay here with you."
Vox leans his screen on his hand, the closest he can get to tender physical contact through a holographic display. “You’re exhausted, sweetheart. Go to bed. Know that I love you.”
“Love you too.” Lucifer smiles—sad, tired, but genuine. “I’ll email tomorrow. And see you next Thursday.”
“Talk soon. Night, honey.”
Lucifer’s hand reaches toward the screen—like he wants to touch it, wants to bridge the gap between them. His fingers hover there for a moment. Then he waves. “Night, Vin.”
The call ends. The holographic display dissolves.
Vox sits in his apartment in Heaven, staring at the space where Lucifer’s face had been. Outside, snow continues to fall. Inside, the silence is absolute. Vin is a new nickname; he'd never let anyone call him that when he was alive, but Lucifer, that's different. He knows when it's said, it's full of love and promise and hope.
He looks at the red orb of Hell through his window. Barely visible through the snow and darkness, but there. Always there.
“A week or two,” Vox says quietly. To himself. To Lucifer. To the universe that separated them. “Just hold on a little longer.”
His screen flickers with determination. Tomorrow, he’ll finish the schematics. Tomorrow, Baxter will start building the capacitors. Tomorrow, they’ll be one step closer to connection tests.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
They’ll find a way.
They have to.