Chapter Text
Lucifer Morningstar was never one for prayers, even before he fell. As an angel, he only ever heard from vapid, mindless narcissists who thought the stars were made for them. In hindsight, he could have found more patience for their grievances; frivolous whims compared to the profane depravities he would hear thereafter.
After his Hell-bound tumble, unleashed upon him were the bemoaned sins of society’s wayward souls, praying, as it were, to the Devil, Satan, Old Scratch-- to whatever name or serpent best suited their interests and desires. Prayers for social exaltation, prayers for avarice, prayers for countless unspeakable horrors to befall the world. For some time, he would answer them, answer their wicked tongues with delicious favors, making deals they could not resist. But it never did take long for them to learn that praying to the Devil always came with a price, payment he was more than happy to collect on.
As God’s little creatures grew from thousands to millions, to billions, their sins grew-- cacophonous. And the type of prayers Lucifer would receive grew in their malevolence. Prayers he refused to answer, prayers he knew were attached to souls he’d reserve rooms for in Hell. But hearing them became too much, voices yearning for evilness that wasn’t his to bestow. Yearning to find a reason for their pain, why the world grated on them so, why every movement and breath was filled with agonizing tar, violating their rotting souls.
Lucifer didn’t make humans that way. He didn’t make them at all. He knew he was not innocent in their fall, but the indomitable free will his Father granted them was their burden to bear. They chose the violence they forced on each other, the hate they harbored with such venom, the guilt they drowned in. They chose it all. And yet the world did not waver in its faith that he was to blame. And so, for the sinners he once listened to, listened to the ways they failed as he once did under his Father’s ineffable gaze, he turned away. Letting their prayers, their desires, go unanswered. Omnipotent over sin no longer, he left the Earth to its whims, just like his Father chose to when innocent teeth sunk into forbidden fruit. In some ways, Lucifer found a begrudging kinship there. No wonder He works in mysterious ways. He chose to stop listening, too, didn’t He?
There was no telling how much time passed after Lucifer turned away from the prayers, but he did know it was an inconceivable length. Silence, sweet as it once was, can become a lonely thing. And sitting atop a throne, so far removed from the suffering below, that loneliness rang loud. Lucifer sprawled across the stone armrests, head lolling back, letting Hell’s dust settle on his frame. And he tried to think about nothing at all, deciding even his thoughts were intolerable in their noise.
He didn’t want to hear anything. Be anything. Living eons, patterns become clear, existence becomes predictable. Searching for a morsel of wonder felt hollow, knowing that the effort would result in him returning to this very seat, stuck on the same broken record he’s spinning now. Though there is truth to the idea of earthly delights, many of which he helped create, Lucifer knew the scales did not tip favorably toward the light. For every crumb of joy was a chasm of agony and quite frankly, it was exhausting to try and believe otherwise.
It was easier to sit, detached and still, letting time shift forward as it always does and always will. He stares at the swirling mass of grey sky above him, rhythmic undulations moving through the clouds as gentle waves, the space between Hell and Earth not as distant as one would imagine. It’s an endless dance really, each reality pushing on the other. Sin bleeds through the veil, perdition shared across the boundary. There’s a reason there are stories of demons up there, just as there’s a reason the rooms in Hell look like Earth. In the end, for all involved, neither place is all that different. Both worlds are designed to breed suffering. It’s just a matter of longevity.
Lucifer sighs, lungs creaking with disuse. As much as he’d like for his mind to shut down entirely, to go dormant and quiet, he can’t help himself from the endless contemplations about the meaning of it all. As the displaced dust from his breath begins to settle again, Lucifer closes his eyes. Purpose. Did he have any at this point? Not a saint and tired of the sinners, what else was there to do? Perhaps if he sat here long enough, he’d become one with the stone. He’s never been a rock before.
It is only on the brink of the Devil going granite that the universe intervenes. Fate, an extension of choices made across time and space, stirs to life, for while Lucifer sulked in self-imposed isolation, a beat cop was sitting on life support as his daughter looked on, helpless to it all.
And though she had never prayed before, Chloe Decker found herself asking the universe for something, anything at all to stop the scene unfolding before her.
It was a thought without direction, no one she was asking in particular. Chloe merely felt too much of the world at once, too much for a single person to shoulder. And so, for a single moment, she turned to forces greater than she could have ever known, and prayed.
Please save him.
Not sent to Heaven or the angels above, her plea wandered, misplaced, wanting desperately to be heard. And while Lucifer had turned a deaf ear to the sinners, he never thought to turn away from the saints. After all, the good don’t pray to the Devil.
In the silence he had grown too accustomed to, Chloe’s prayer cracked through with startling resonance. And it felt as nothing ever had before, desperate and sad, but also kind and imbued with a sense of selflessness he thought impossible. It blossomed in his mind, warmed his body in gentle tendrils, caressing his cold, unused limbs. It felt… divine.
But it was also short, leaving him bereft of warmth he didn’t know he had ever wanted, an echo in his mind, an emptiness filling his chest with alarming magnitude. It was an errant prayer, one he had no idea why he heard, but one that still drew his every atom toward the mortal realm. With wings unused, Lucifer ascended from his Godforsaken throne to answer the prayer of one human soul, dust trailing in his wake.
In the shadows between life and death, Lucifer steps into reality, concealing his presence, not wishing to startle away his target. He finds her at the side of a hospital bed, arm extended, hand wrapped around the wrist of a comatose man. In a cheap plastic chair, she’s made herself small, knees up to her chest, chin resting on them, eyes set on the man, sunken and sad. Lucifer looks at him, feels how weak he is, and feels the sorrow in her soul.
He’s dying.
And there’s nothing that can be done.
Lucifer turns his eyes away and back to the woman that inadvertently summoned the Devil. He takes his time evaluating her, circles her, analyzing any components that might stand out of place. By all accounts, she’s normal. He draws near, face close to hers, looking into eyes that see through him entirely, unaware of his gaze. He dives deeper, into the fibers of her spirit, and recants his prior statement. Lost in the essence of her swirling soul, he realizes she’s far from ordinary. Lucifer’s torn enough sinners apart to know a good human when he sees one. They are few and far between, but they do exist. And sitting before him now is perhaps the best of them.
This is a good person. Startlingly good.
And it vexes him.
Why would a saint among sinners pray to the Devil?
He thinks of her prayer, looking between her and the man in the hospital bed.
He’s going to die.
She knows this, but she still asked. Please save him.
Lucifer can see the thread of guilt wrapped around his soul, a thin black line tied back to her. It shouldn’t be enough to warrant a trip to Hell, but then again, humans are the ones who put themselves there in the first place.
He walks over to his bedside and reaches out, fingers sneaking under the thread, pulling at it ever so slightly. Holding it now, the source of guilt becomes clear. The woman in the chair is his daughter. And he’s not going to see her grow up. He’s leaving her behind, leaving her in pain, and there’s nothing he can do to change that.
Lucifer is a bit startled to find that there’s not one, but two good people in the room he’s in now. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a miracle.
He thinks of her prayer again, the words burned into his mind. Please save him.
As she sits there, worn and exhausted, he can still feel her kindness, her warmth. She wasn’t asking for herself, she was only asking for her father, knowing this was a destiny not of his own making. He deserved better, deserved more time.
The prayer hits him again, stealing his breath away. He looks down at the thread in his fingers, inky and lightweight.
It’s just one request, after all.
He pulls at it, sharp, and it snaps in twain, its presence dissolving and freeing her father’s heart of even the slightest shred of damning guilt. Lucifer cannot save his life, but he can save his soul.
Enjoy Heaven for me, would you?
He looks over at the human he came here for, hand grasped so firmly around her father’s, as if that’s enough to keep him tethered to this world, and freezes.
Oh.
A realization of something horribly nauseating hits Lucifer square in the chest.
He’s just answered a prayer. And he’s done it with no strings attached. No favors, no fine print. In this tiny hospital room, monitors beating out a slow, rhythmic tempo for a dying man, Lucifer saved a soul without a single condition.
He steps away from the bed and stumbles against a small table near the window, his fall enough to rattle the vase of flowers there. Chloe’s head snaps up, staring at the disturbance, and Lucifer swallows hard, heart racing. Her mouth opens, about to speak, and Lucifer drops out of the realm, careening back down to Hell. In his retreat, a burst of wind hits the hospital room, causing Chloe to stand to attention, senses on high alert. But nothing is there, room refilling with the white noise of heart monitors and the gentle buzz of the A/C unit working overhead.
Chloe sits, slow, dazed at how empty the room now felt. She shakes her head, pressing the palms of her hands against the back of her eyelids. She hasn’t slept for days and the only logical conclusion is that fatigue has finally set in and she’s started to lose her mind. Though it's a little strange she would hallucinate white feathers.
She leans back in the chair, plastic creaking, and resettles her attention on her father, unaware that her directionless prayer was fulfilled.
As she stares at an empty hospital bed a day later, she thinks about the cruelty of the universe. Never before had Chloe asked for the help of the powers that be, never before did she feel like someone might actually listen. But her father still died, quiet, without reason. It reaffirmed her faith that she was alone in this world. No one was listening, after all. But despite her vow to never reach out again, this would not be the last time she would pray. And it would not be the last time someone answered.