dadbeatdad | Seasons - Lucifer's Voicemail

[Lucifer gently reaches over and squeezes Macaque's arm. Just a small confirmation he understands his feelings and is here too. Then Korone talks about Relius and trails off. Oh. Uh oh. Okay. He reaches out slowly to wave not too close to Korone's face to see if she would react.

Then he gently moves his hand to settle on the nearest hardest surface and starts to tap a steady sequence on a four beat. Tap tap, tap tap. Tap tap, tap tap.]

The arm squeeze helps a little. He reminds himself that this is done, in the past, and nothing to be angry about. The point is to get them gone.

He reaches out and stops Lucifer from waving his hand, saying "just wait" mildly enough, then stops Lucifer's finger from tapping. "The Fibonacci sequence is better." He taps the floor himself: one, one, two, three, five, eight...

[ Like Relius.

Three simple words.

Two. That's all it took. Two. One. Just one. Her name. The true name, true blue, too blue, shattering into ones and zeroes and shrieking static static static and that — that's where they're stuck. A voice that isn't their own caught strangled and silent in a throat they do not have. Lines of code. They don't. They don't breathe. Computers don't breathe. They don't feel. Can't feel. There's nothing to feel, nothing to feel with, only memories and it hurts.

Glazed blue stares past them. Through them. A minute passes. Two. Are the lights on? Is anybody home? Every breath, any breath is a thin, hitching spasm, too tight for comfort, skipping like a broken, forgotten thing. Shadows flicker. Little things, wisp-like; gentle as fallen feathers and sharp as knives, coiling close around her.

(Maybe it's a good thing Macaque stopped him?)

(one, one, two, three, five, eight)

They don't tap back.

(one, one, two, three, five, eight)
(one, one, two, three, five, eight)

Chest aches. (one, one, two, three, five, eight)

The shadows settle.

Fingers tense. (one, one, two, three, five, eight)

A faint twitch, slow as molasses. Fingers. (one, one, two, three, five) (four plus thumb) Four fingers and a thumb on a hand. Flex. Curl like they've forgotten how. Chest aches. (one, one, one, one — one, one, one one — one, two, three, four — one, two three, four) Remember to breathe. Remember how to breathe. Four count. Box breathing.

C'mon. Unstuck. Breathe. Four count. Fibonacci.

Lashes flutter. Glazed. Teal bleeding into blue one drip (one, one, two, three, five, eight) at a time. Th…ey? … They waver — too heavy, unsteady and unstable and fuzzy, listing dazedly in their … seat?

Their seat. Chair. Table. Seat on a chair at a table.

Lashes flutter. Teal eyes open, unfocused, focusing. Close again. Open. Fingers curl, uncurl, still so slow, and — still, still slowly, so slowly — they find the table-top. With their fingers. And also their forehead, a wobbling waver slumping into controlled crumple.

Tap. Tap. Tap, tap. … Tap, tap, tap … Following the sequence. The sweet, sweet Fibonacci sequence.

Chest aches. Tight. Loosening. Can't find their tongue. They definitely have one, where is it? Give them a moment.

… The shadows stir again.

But this time it's to pulse 'hiiiiii hello hi' in morse code. ]

[Lucifer stops from waving and stops tapping too. He sits there, watching the shadows, the small restrained, and shallow breathes. The lights flicker, shadows move, and nothing else happens. He waits as Macaque taps the Fibonacci sequence over and over and over. He doesn't feel confident enough to join in the tapping this time. He listens and memorizes the beat of the sequence. One, one, two, three, five, eight.

Then the shadows start to pulse. A series of shorts and longs. Morse code. Lucifer counts the pulses and translates quickly.]

hiiiiii stop. hello stop. hi stop.

Um. Hello. How are you?

Macaque watches patiently while things settle in. He's getting used to this, the wait, the change. He doesn't worry at all.

When he sees teal in those eyes, he smiles. His shadows pulse gently in response to hers, and he speaks with both them and his mouth. "Hello Tiánxīn."

[ Perception — reality — trickles through in drips and drabs. Hearing's still funky, fuzzy and throbbing, strangled out by the coil whine — no, the ringing. No chips or wires or code; they're flesh and blood and that was a panic attack. Sh…hhhhhey? they, yes, they shake their head a little without lifting it. Draws in a deeper breath, coaxing and soothing their tight throat and burning chest, You know how to do this. You can do it.

It takes a hot minute. … Another hot minute, on top of however long it's already been. Oh well. There's no rushing soup. Papa is right there and Lucifer is safe; they don't have to try to rush.

They rediscover their fingers. Tap, wiggle, flex. Their hands. Tap, wiggle, flex. Leverage themself up slowly, gingerly, a little at a time, inch by inch, from total face-on-table faceplant to face-on-arms, up up up until they're mostly sitting upish. They're still all droopy and visibly out of step of step with the body they're working to settle into, blinking and squinting like a sleep-drunk owl. (It probably does not help that their glasses are lopsided.) ]

Whh. [ Blink. Blink. ] Wh. [ Phbbbt. C'mon, words. They shake their head again, and as they do so blue — the same shade as Korone's eyes — bleeds across their hair from root to tip. ]

We - [ yes!! ] 'rrr, we're - [ YEAAAAH ] here. N'thoup — no, s'soupy, we're here n' soupy. Heylo, Papa, Luci-oji …

[ Their shadow waves brightly! Cheerfully! Hello!! ]

Seasons - Lucifer's Voicemail

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