Castaway

Broken Drums

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for the feedback - the response to the last chapter bowled me over :) Chapter title credit goes to Anica.

Police term reference:

A&B = Assault & Battery 

B&E = Breaking & Entering

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They land a bit like a pair of trash bags being thrown into the bins. Gracelessly. Heavily. With a thump that almost knocks the wind out of her. A miserable moan beside her brings her back to the real. A sound like bones cracking follows, and he cries out again.

"Lucifer?" she says, blinking groggily, her ears still ringing faintly.

When he doesn't reply, she looks up in time to see the last bladed feather fade out of reality. Wings. He really does have wings. Her partner, Lucifer the Morning Star, has big beautiful angel wings, and he just flew her to safety. Because he's an archangel, and...

Holy shit.

It's one thing to believe. It's another thing to know. It's another thing entirely beyond that to see, even just a passing glimpse.

But that thought is fleeting, because he's panting, sweating, looking sick and glassy-eyed. His cheek is pressed against the brick wall like the wall is the only thing holding him upright. His whole body is a tense, trembling line of strain.

"Lucifer?" she repeats. "What just...?" She swallows. "Are you...?" 

"I'll be... fine," he rasps, sounding anything but fine.

The dots connect, forming an ominous picture. "Did you get shot?"

He doesn't answer. Which probably means, in Lucifer speak, Bloody hell, woman, of course, I bloody well got shot. Do keep up.

She stumbles to her feet, but the world goes topsy-turvy, and she has to stop and blink and breathe to let her rioting stomach settle and her spinning head come to rest. She just flew. With an angel. An angel just flew with her. There's bound to be some wonky re-entry turbulence. Right?

When the nausea subsides, she steps toward him. Into his space. She jams her hands underneath his suit jacket, rubbing up and down his torso, searching for the bullet wound she knows she's going to find. Her fingertips scream across the sleek fabric of his shirt. His body sways.

"Where did you get hit?" she says. She can't find any wounds. Why can't she find any wounds? When he doesn't immediately answer, she adds a strident, "Lucifer, where? Talk to me."

But he doesn't talk. He slumps against her, his nose pressing into her hair, and he takes a ragged breath like breathing hurts. "Your... cream rinse... smells nice," he says, sounding drunk.

"Lucifer, focus," she snaps, almost a hiss, but she's too afraid to give him the merciless shake she wants to give him. "Tell me where you got shot."

A cold wind blows. Her front is wrapped in the furnace of flesh that is a sweating Lucifer. But her back is only covered by her shirt. The breeze makes her shiver. Palm leaves rustle in the quiet, intermingling with Lucifer's labored panting.