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They say you experience loss in stages.
But as she stands there, on the terrace of the penthouse, moments after confessing her love to her partner, followed pretty closely by him leaving her, Chloe Decker can absolutely call bullshit on that.
It hits her all at once. A whirlwind of unbridled emotions that she neither can— nor wants to— control.
Sure, she’s sad. She shed tears as he stood before her. As she begged him not to go. And the second he’d gone she’d been hit with a tidal wave of grief. But all that is dwarfed in comparison to what she really feels the most.
It’s the thing that makes her grit her teeth to stop from screaming. It makes her blood boil beneath her skin, rising to the surface and threaten to erupt from her in an explosive fit that would be fatally destructive to all in her path.
She is angry.
Angry at him for leaving. Angry at herself for letting him. And maybe even for believing that she could stop him. As if she ever thought that exposing the feelings she’d kept buried so deep within herself would change his mind.
She’d only made it more painful for herself and that… that makes her want to scream herself hoarse. But she doesn’t. On the surface, she remains calm as she walks back into the penthouse through the open sliding glass doors and heads straight for the bar.
Because if anyone deserves a drink right now, it’s her.
The bottles that line the shelves all look expensive, and if she knows Lucifer, they all are. To her, they will probably all taste the same, but that doesn’t stop her from running her fingers over the top of every one of them until she settles on the one that looks the fanciest and grabs it. She then selects the largest tumbler within her reach and fills it to the brim with the fancy, unidentifiable amber liquid, before promptly lifting it to her lips, and downing it.
The first glass only somewhat satisfies her, leaving her with a light buzz that nowhere near numbs the pain that saturates her heart. So, she pours another, and another. After the third, the world becomes a little blurrier, a little more unstable, than it had previously been, but she still doesn’t feel any better for it. In fact, she might argue that it only intensifies the horrible mix of feelings that stir within her.
But she’s sure a few more glasses— or maybe bottles— can soon remedy that. When she goes to pour her fourth drink though, her hand slips and the liquid sloshes over the side of the tumbler, spilling onto the counter.
Maybe she should sit down…
Wrapping her hand around the thin, ornate neck of the bottle and grabbing her glass in the other, she’s about to move her party to the couch, but the bottle is heavier than she expects. It slips from her now wet— and soon to be sticky— fingers and clatters to the floor, exploding in a burst of a thousand shards of crystal, showering the area around with a fine spray of whiskey.
Her brain stutters as she looks down on the mess that covers the Italian marble flooring. She did that. She broke Lucifer’s bottle, but… she doesn’t feel bad about it.
It actually felt really, really good.
And she may as well face the facts, he’s not coming back. What does he care if she breaks a few things?
So, she grabs another bottle and throws it to the ground, shielding her face as glass shards fly like tiny projectiles, scattering across the floor.
A laugh bubbles up inside her and spills from her lips.
Oh, and she can’t help herself, once she starts, she just can’t stop. She smashes another and another in a fit of anger and grief and sadness. With each bottle she breaks, she can almost feel all her emotions just draining away from her. The swirling pool of liquor that soaks the floor grows and grows and the shelves behind the bar become increasingly sparse.
And maybe she’s completely lost it, maybe she’s just that wasted, but, in some strange way, it makes her feel better. She’s not sure how, or why, but it does. The world around her just doesn’t seem important anymore. Her problems seem… inconsequential. It feels like it doesn’t matter what she does, her life is always going to be terrible anyway so, she may as well enjoy it.
Something about that makes her feel free. Like her actions have no consequences. She savours that as she smashes bottles and tumblers with absolute unmerciful indifference. After a while, bottles don’t satisfy and, she moves onto anything that she can throw. Vases, pictures, pillows. Anything.
When she’s done, the penthouse is a wreck.
It kind of looks like a storm has torn through the place, except one thing remains untouched. His piano. For some reason she couldn’t bring herself to harm the thing that he had held so dear.
At some point she’d cut her foot on a piece of glass and her pants are soaked with alcohol so she wreaks of it, but she can’t find it in herself to care. She feels free as she sinks down onto the couch, slumping down in the middle of the mayhem that she’s caused.
It’s like some weight has been lifted from her and now, she feels lighter.
Her eyes flutter closed, she’s tired and unbothered by… everything. She briefly considers sliding into his bed, but then remembers that she may have completely destroyed his pillows, creating a glorious burst of feathery fireworks. So, she just lets herself drift there on the couch.
Then, out of nowhere, a noise comes, scaring her almost half to death. She snaps her eyes open and tries to jump to her feet but finds herself wobbling slightly.
And he stands there before her.
Lucifer.
At first, she thinks she might have fallen asleep and is dreaming this, but no. The wake of her destruction still engulfs the penthouse, and he scans it before looking back at her with one eyebrow raised.
“Nice to see you’ve made yourself at home,” he says, a silent question in his expression as he looks her up and down as if trying to figure out what has happened here.
He looks the same. His hair is a little ruffled and something grey— ash maybe? — spatters the shoulders of his black suit jacket, but other than that, the same.
“Uh-huh,” is all she can make her mouth respond. Her cheeks burn and she can’t bring herself to look at what she’s done.
They stand there, awkwardly for a moment, the few feet between them suddenly feeling like a cavernous ravine that she can’t cross, and then he jars to life, striding past her, into his bedroom.
She can only stand there, frozen to the spot, half wondering why he’s come back so soon and half wishing she could turn invisible at will and avoid the embarrassment of… this.
He emerges a minute later in the archway, holding a packet of cigarettes in his hand. “Forgot these,” he tells her, holding the pack up when he sees that she’s still staring at him. “Best not to go cold turkey.”
“Right,” she mumbles.
And, oh god, it’s awkward. Neither knows quite what to say. This shouldn’t have happened.
She should have just left.
Instead she’s been stupid. She’s lashed out and destroyed his things and now he’s never going to forgive her.
An unbidden tear streaks down her face as they stand there, merely a meter apart, but it feels like so much further, because she wants him, and she knows she can’t have him.
And then, before she even realises that he’s moved, his arms are encompassing her and she’s sinking into his chest. Tears are streaking down her face, wetting his shirt as he holds her, one hand stroking soothing ministrations through her hair. “Don’t cry love,” he says, a deep rumble in his chest that she feels more than hears.
But she can’t help it. Nothing can make her stop. Well, one thing could. “Only if you stay,” she manages through her sobs.
“I can’t,” he replies, a simple truth that neither of them can outrun. “It’s for the best.”
She knows that. She knows that he’s doing it to protect them all. That doesn’t mean she will happily accept it. “But I don’t wanna go cold turkey,” she sobs, burying her face further into his shirt, holding him just a little bit tighter.
He pulls away to look at her with a puzzled frown. “Are you drunk?”
Pressing her lips together, sniffling a little, she nods before sheepishly admitting, “A bit….”
“It’s alright love,” he says, a quiet reassurance as he holds her tight in his arms.
“No ‘s not,” she mumbles against him. “You’re going to leave me again.”
He’s silent for a long moment at that. She listens to the steady thudding of his heart in his chest, savours the feel of his warmth seeping into her skin. “Yes,” he finally replies. “I am.”
“Can you promise me something?” she asks, knowing that he probably won’t and she’s probably ridiculous for asking. “Promise you’ll come back?”
At first, he says nothing. Just as she knew he would. He doesn’t want to break her, and he can’t lie to her. She needs to accept that she’s not going to see him again. That this is it for them.
And then, he says, in a quiet, vulnerable, little voice, “I promise.”
And that’s all the hope she needs.