Castaway

Way Down We Go

Chapter Notes

Chapter title credit goes to Kaleo. Thank you so much once again for the feedback — you guys are incredible!

Serious question for everybody. My original plan was to not post chapters on October 31 for Halloween, and November 21 & 25 for Thanksgiving. This actually works out fairly well with the story itself — the gaps actually mean that the worst cliffhanger will fall after my November break. That being said, I'm willing to try and get a chapter out on November 1 to make up for the absence on October 31. The catch? That will make the worst cliffhanger in the story fall just before the November break, rather than after it, meaning you'll be waiting 1.5 weeks to read the resolution instead of a few days. So... which would you prefer? Do you want me to try and get a chapter out on November 1 (i.e. no Halloween break, but a BAD cliffhanger in November), or just leave things as I'd originally planned (i.e. Halloween break, but a less bad stopping point in November)? Up to you all! Please let me know if you have a strong preference.

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She doesn't realize how much she took for granted the ability to pull down her window shades in the morning until she can't do it anymore. The sun lashing like a whip through the tree canopy is hot and bright and intrusive, and no amount of tossing or turning or eye-squinting will make it go away. Worse still are the cadre of steroidal birds who won't stop shouting, "YAY! IT'S MORNING! ISN'T THAT FANTASTIC? IT'S SUPER FANTASTIC IF WE SAY SO OURSELVES, AND WE DO," over and over again from the branches overhead. With an unhappy sigh, she gives up on slumber and cracks open her eyelids, wiping away a spot of drool with the back of her hand.

The forest looks different by day. A verdant sprawl above. A golden mat of dead pine needles below. A white butterfly flits past on the breeze, darting from shaft of light to shaft of light. Playful squirrels chitter in the bushes beyond. If this were a less dire circumstance, she'd be excited to explore. But it isn't.

With a wince, she sits up.

Her body is a floral arrangement of pain. Red-hot poker stabs in the soles of her feet. A diffuse ache in her lower back and hips. A raspy itch at the back of her throat. Throbbing pa-pain pa-pain pa-pain in her head. And, of course, her stomach is whining, "Feed me, Seymour," in a piteous-but- demanding crescendo.

She grabs one of their waters and cracks it open, taking a sip.

Her stomach rumbles like a waking beast within seconds of her first swallow, and she can't stop her mind from wandering to coffee. A hot, steaming mugful resting on the counter in her kitchen, just waiting for her. Irish Creme, maybe. With real cream. And real sugar. And one of Lucifer's omelettes on the side. She might trade her life for an omelette right now. Or a chicken. Forget eggs. She'll take the whole chicken. Maybe, some bacon, too. Fuck, she envies Lucifer for his superior state of never-been-hungry-in-his-life.

She glances beside her hip. At some point during the night, Lucifer tipped over, and he's lying on the ground on his side, huddled in a ball under his jacket. Moss and pine needles and bark bits litter his clothes and tangle in his curling hair. Stress lines grip the corners of his eyes, even in sleep, and he looks so pale she could actually label him pasty.

Whatever substance Möbius used on him — celestial poison or otherwise — it laid waste.

Tilting her face upward, she frowns. The sun is high in the sky, and if she had to guess, she'd wager it's mid-to-late morning. Which means she and Lucifer slept for at least three or four hours. Maybe, as many as six.