Salvation? Radioapple Fic

Chapter I

Samael was Falling.

Everything burned. It felt like electricity danced along his spine, leaving welts and cuts, sending spasming shockwaves up to his head. It felt like he was snapping in half. 

Clumps of blackened feathers surrounded him, reminding him cruelly of the growing bald spots along the wings he once cared for so deeply. He could feel the heat of Hell, its flames licking his skin, sampling him.

He could taste the bitter, heavy taste of pure sin that never left your mouth, staining it. He had created this, a once pure world tainted by his foolishness. He shouldn't have listened, but he did, and now he had condemned humanity, Charlie even Lilith, to a fate never meant for them.

He couldn't bring himself to hate her, even with all she had done, but he could never forgive her. A lone tear rolled down his cheek as what was left of his burning wings curled around him in a meagre attempt to protect himself.

He could feel the pain grow stronger, weighing his limbs down and dragging him - seemingly - faster to his horrible creation. And he couldn't help thinking... maybe it would be better for everything, his star if he gave up, if he just stopped breathing...

"Lucifer..."

The sweat-soaked bed welcomed him to the land of reality, the tentacles belonging to the nightmare retreating to their shadowy enclosure waiting for his head to hit the pillow again. And that voice beckoned him to open that damned awful door again despite what had happened last time. When his anguish and temper had birthed this horrible place, his breath left his lungs in painful gasps as he remembered the origins of his name.

Lucifer. That name reminded him of aeons of loneliness, even his daughter had left him along the way. His little star... He sighed and reached across to his nightstand turning on his phone, viewing the bright white of the number '5:00' sitting back and allowing the piercing light to wash over him creating an, almost satisfying, ache behind his eyes. He looked at the mockingly obvious empty notification panel, desperately refreshing the page in a hopeless attempt, a routine he had found himself becoming dependent on. His thoughts travelled in a downward spiral, and he found himself wondering when the last time he'd received a text from his star had been, a couple hundred years perhaps? He rubbed uncomfortably at his chest, feeling the hole in his heart grow larger. Lucifer clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands indecisively before throwing on the nearest pair of clothes that were haphazardly thrown on the chair. With a look in the mirror he found himself staring at the pyjamas' on his person decorated with a pattern of neon-yellow ducks. He groaned and ran a hand through his blonde tresses as he decided not to change and quickly stormed out of his castle wishing to escape the crushing, fear-filled atmosphere that choked him every time he was in it.

Lucifer only slowed when he felt he had gotten far enough away from that damned castle. He rounded the corner loosening his tie, feeling as if he could finally breathe he allowed the neon of the 24/7 bar sign to wash over him. Removing his hat and propping his cane up against the wall of favoured customers, he limped towards the heavy oak serving counter. The familiar scent of old leather and terrible beer filled his senses as he stared at the 1950s diner decor that influenced the place. The owner of the bar, Milo, had arrived in Hell in 1952 after shooting a man between the eyes and started the bar up a year later decorating it as he was accustomed to. Lucifer didn't understand why Milo was in Hell, he had shot that man because the man had been threatening his wife with a knife and yet he had still ended up in this horrible place Lucifer had created. Lucifer sighed and shook his head, sitting down on the peeling fabric of one of the stools and hailing for Milos' attention. 

Milo poured a bottle of pink gin into the glass of the demon he was serving before sauntering over to him, throwing a tea towel onto his shoulder. "Lucifer, my friend, this is the 5th night in a row what's troubling you?" His voice was thick with an Italian accent and he cocked his eyebrow in concern. Lucifer found himself chuckling, 71 years in Hell and Milo still hadn't lost his accent.