They're all faceless to him. He doesn't care who they are. He cares about what they can do.
But he has a heart, no matter how much he denies it, and how much people don't believe its existence, and that has always been his hamartia. To have a heart meant that he was susceptible to emotions, and he once thought that he felt enough for his family. They weren't all he lived for -- no, his reason for loving life was because he courted death at every occasion -- but he loved (loves) them too much, too greatly. Even his grandfather, who'd all but convinced him that there is no other fate for him other than follow the fate of his namesake, held a special place in the deepest, darkest corners of that beat-up organ in his chest (or maybe it's just respect, but that's as rare as love, and he can never tell the difference). He loves far too much -- he always has. His heart is a dead city and he feels the closest he can get to guilt for anyone who decides to dwell in it.
And Elena...Elena's made a goddamn garden out of dead earth. So it's not his fear of death that leads him to them, to the people who've done that to his father.
He just feels like he owes it to the people who've chosen to believe that something as dead as Lucifer's soul is salvageable. He may be an asshole, but he knows how to give back when it's due.
Still -- "A week?"
"A week," they tell him again, placing the legal papers away -- ones that he'd just signed. He doesn't think they have any value, anyway; it's not like anyone knows what's going on around here, and it's not like anyone's actually going to take this whole place to court. That'd be crazier than going through the same treatment his father has gone through. The thought of anything being injected into him makes his blood run colder than the metal table he's sure to be strapped on. "We need to make sure that the results are conclusive. You will have to return after the procedure for regular check-ups."
(You're letting yourself be a guinea pig, Lucifer. Ha! How fucking pathetic.)
He grits his teeth and nods. "Tomorrow, then?"
Once he has confirmation he all but rushes out of that room, that place, that building, that mother fucking area. He doesn't take his pills because he's not allowed to. Complications may arise, they said. Now the voices are back -- louder, more insistent, and they're all telling him one thing:
Kill Elena.
And he's not going to deny that a cruel part of him that she's managed to help him bury wants to see her blood on his hands; he wants to taste her life, take her last breath with his mouth, and make sure the last name she utters will be his.
Now it's all a matter of resisting that urge and, really, he's not sure how he'll manage.
