deckerstar concepts, angst edition:
the look on chloe’s face as she slides the balcony door shut, goosebumps on her arms from being out there for so long, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him in the night sky
lucifer, gripping the cold arms of his stone throne, tensing his jaw and trying not to think of her
(just one minute, he tells himself. you can do anything for a measly 60 seconds. you’re the lord of hell, for crying out loud. surely you can fill your mind with something other than her.)
(he can’t)
chloe chewing her lip, alone in the cruiser, trying to piece together a difficult case, wondering what he would do, if he were here.
chloe at a stoplight, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, wishing she’d stop thinking that every single day
(she can’t)
she dreams of him. she sees that slack-jawed look he gets when she tells him she cares for him, feels that quiet peace that filled her mind those precious few times she’s been in his arms.
when she wakes up, the sheets are tangled around her legs but she lies still, because she’s learned it’s futile to resist the reality that mornings bring, now
he dreams of her. well, daydreams, actually. he imagines slipping out of hell to visit her, just for a little while. he runs a hand down his face to hide the way he smiles when he imagines the moment she spots him, eyes bright with surprise
one day -- or night, rather, because it’s always night in hell -- daydreams just don’t cut it anymore. he slips out of hell, like a thief in the never-ending night
she’s in bed, because it’s night sometimes on earth, too. he’d almost forgotten, because in his memories, there's always sunshine on her face
he desperately wants to wake her, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. avoidance, linda would probably call it. and she’d probably be right.
chloe shifts in her sleep, bare foot sliding out from beneath the duvet. without thinking, he places a hand on her ankle. like monsters do in nightmares.
(you’re not a monster, he tells himself. you’re not.)
(not to her)
when he looks back at her, her eyes are open. he goes still like a statue.
but her eyes aren’t bright, like he imagined. her forehead creases with familiar pain. she looks at him warily; like her heart is breaking. or maybe that’s his
(it’s a dream, she tells herself. it isn’t real. wake up wake up wake up)
“detective,” he whispers, squeezing her ankle as gently as he can. “detective, it’s me.”
“...lucifer?”
“yes”
and then
“chloe”
he leans over her, going slowly, as if a sudden move might spook her. but he needn’t have worried because her arms are already winding around his neck, pulling him in until their foreheads meet.
“who’s guarding hell?” she whispers.
her breath is warm against his lips, and he’s never meant anything more in his life when he replies, “i don’t care.”
and then he kisses her, and she doesn’t care either, just for a little while