Chapter Text
AN OLD FEELING
1
There's no need to open his eyes to understand that he's not where he's supposed to be. Those sorts of things, those fine details, they feel differently. The sight... seeing is just a bonus, a confirmation of what's not supposed to be.
He isn't supposed to be here.
Lucifer feels it in a very special way.
It's an old feeling, so old he thought it was new. At first.
Well... the sensation has no beginning, no end; this is a continuity, a rhythm that has a strong hold on him, that turns from one point to another and starts over again. From the very last cell that composes him to the very last curl of hair. It turns and turns, over and over again.
A strong, haunting rhythm.
Each new passage warms his limbs up, makes him forget the pain, and the emptiness that followed it. He is not empty here; this place completes him. This sensation revives his breathing which has stopped, which he has forgotten in the freezing emptiness. He knows he has forgotten important things, he knows he must remember them in order to understand more.
He isn't supposed to be here; as much for what he's feeling as for what brought him to this place.
That's all Lucifer knows, all he wants to know.
The feeling is too much. It looks further, revives that connection, those billions of junctions between him and this place, everything that makes it up. He feels the heat spreading differently than the inferno that usually inhabits him - a different kind of 'usual' -, violent and dangerous fire for another place; this inferno could survive there, lighten the darkness and burn its way through. The present fire is identically fierce. Undoubtedly more fierce, 'no need to pretend otherwise. It is part of a whole, not just of himself, It's part of everything he created for building this place.
This place...
Can't be.
There's absolutely no need to open his eyes to see it.
Lucifer exhales slowly, closing his mind and feels to the sensation, as he feels his wings close around him.
That's not possible.
-xXx-
That's not possible.
He can't breathe, yet inhales breathable air - rather pathetically gasps for it. His chest feels like it's on fire, but inside… Bollocks, it feels like he's turning to bloody ice.
That's not possible.
"We've got a pulse!"
"Lucifer!"
He doesn't need to open his eyes to understand that something's wrong; he does open them for this voice, what it provokes, what it appeases within him. He opens them because it sounds terrified, because he can't stand the idea of her feeling this way.
The Detective's eyes are as wide open as his are two narrow cracks of pain and confusion. Her exaggeration for his minimum, this is quite possible… possible that he will shut them soon, possible that all these impossibles will prevail over his desire to keep their gaze as one.
She squeezes his hand in hers, close hold near her lips. She's shaking, perhaps because he is as well, because this place is as agitated as his thoughts and heart in his burning chest, locked in freezing jail inside. Her eyes wear red marks of tears, it harmonises with all that blood on their joined hands. Her tears harmonise well with the pain running right through him.
The Detective squeezes his hand harder. "Hold on!" she begs him, moist lips - from tears? Blood? Both? - on his skin.
That's not possible.
Tbc