my_own_advocate | Lucifer's Loft, Los Angeles, Saturday

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Lucifer's Loft, Los Angeles, Saturday

Yesterday had been a ~~still being played out~~ day full of musical numbers and Dad and a woman murdering her judgemental referee husband for entirely understandable reasons. Lucifer had gone to bed entirely wiped, tired, too exhausted to remember he shouldn't be naked with Duke and Octavia.

He was still in that bed, sleeping more comfortably than he had in a week.

Unaware of the man hovering by the edge of the bed with a large tray full of breakfast foods in his hands.

[[ for those two and once again taken from Lucifer 5x10! ]]

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What?

Lucifer sat up, sucking in a wet breath that was too-loud to his ears. "What does that mean?"

He couldn't resist being cryptic even now, could He?

"It means that I understand... that you're angry at me," God said, His own sadness in His eyes. "And I'm so very sorry about that."

Had Lucifer ever heard Him sound like that before? He could almost believe for just a second that Dad actually cared.

But the Devil was always in the details.

"So, You’re sorry for me, but You’re not sorry for what You’ve done," he concluded flatly.

"I didn't say that."

God sounded almost desperate.

"But I will say that I cannot fix you, Lucifer..."

Lucifer stared at Him through wet eyes. "But You're God."

He wasn't proud of how small and young he sounded. And he hated the silence that followed even worse. Eventually he took another sad, damp breath and wiped some of the snot and the tears from his face.

"Okay, fine," he said. Forced himself to his feet, to find some bloody dignity. "If You can't fix me, Dad, at least-- stop trying to control me."

The bar. A drink. Get yourself together.

There they went again. "How do I control you?" God asked, and yes, that was definite desperation there.

He really didn't see it, did He? Lucifer whirled back around to face Him. "You just made me sing! Again!" He just. He just. "I mean it has to stop, Dad!"

And he was crying. Again.

"Actually, I... I don't think that's possible," God said quietly.

Were those... tears sliding down Dad's cheek? No. Impossible.

"Right, well, if you’re not gonna try," he sighed, waving a hand as if to cast that thought aside. "I don't know why I should even bother."

No more of this.

Just. Drinks.

"It's not that I won't."

Now the crack was in God's voice, instead.

"It's that I don't think that I can," He sobbed, voice twisting.

What... what was He saying? For the first time, the feeling at Lucifer's core wasn't anger or hurt, it was... dread. Fear. He looked over his shoulder, searching Dad's bizarrely grief-stricken face, and said, "W-what does that mean?"

"My powers, son," God said. Helpless terror filled His face. "I, I, I think I'm losing control of them."

Time seemed to stop.

(Dad was... Dad. Dad was forever. Always there, always in control, always around...)

Impossible.

Couldn't be.

It was Dad.

What did that mean?

It couldn't mean what he thought it meant.

Why did he feel eight days old again?

Dad was forever.

"Dad?"

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Lucifer's Loft, Los Angeles, Saturday

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