Chapter 7 #3
“Fifteen years, and not a single sign you ever even thought of me. Why the fuck would I think you wanted me at home?”
Luce felt like he’d been slapped. “Because—because you’re my son! I thought it was a given that you were always welcome!”
“That’s the problem, Dad,” his tone made a mockery of the title. “You thought, you felt, but did you ever talk to me?! Everything is always about your perspective, your feelings and opinions. You don’t ever communicate!”
The air seemed to ring in the abrupt silence after his outburst. Luce burned with shame at the truth in those words—he’d taken so much for granted, acted out of fear and frustration.
He had failed so badly as a parent. But that didn’t change the reason he was here.
No one would be nominating Luce for Father of the Year, but Foster had made the choices he had with no input—for better or worse—from his father.
“You want to talk about communication?” Luce murmured darkly. “You can’t throw this all on me, son of mine. I may have been distant, but communication is a two-way street.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Foster snarled.
“What? You can criticize me for not making an effort, but I’m supposed to be a mind reader? I could be. Would you like that? Shall I slip into your mind and see exactly what you want from me?”
His son’s voice was as icy as his glare as he hissed, “I would never forgive you.”
“Then make up your mind! You made it very clear that the last thing you wanted was my presence. What was it that you said? Ah yes, I believe the exact quote was, ‘If you ever gave a shit, just do me one favor and stay the hell away from me. You left me with Mom, and you can leave me alone forever’. Yes?”
Lucifer slapped the carpet, then winced slightly at both the diminished effect and the oily feel of the fabric.
“We can agree that I was distant. But can you really say we had a bond even before we fought that day? Your mother insisted on raising you among mortals, and as a result, I barely know my own son!”
He didn’t even see Foster move. One moment he was sitting in the doorway, furious and sad and desperate to get through to his son, and the next, he was flat on his back in the hallway.
His jaw throbbed, sparks popping before his eyes, and in a strange way he was almost proud of the clean, powerful strike.
He started to sit up, dazed, but there was a heavy weight pressing into his chest.
Foster loomed above him, shaking out his fist and glaring down at his father with pure rage.
His brown eyes seemed lit with hellfire, and for a moment Luce felt a tremor of something close to despair.
This wasn’t the boy he had loved and raised; this was the young man he had neglected.
This wasn’t his doing, but it was still his fault.
“You have some fucking nerve,” Foster snarled, grinding the heel of his shoe into Luce’s ribs. “All this time, and you show up here and decide the best thing to do is lecture me and then say it’s my fault you’re a shit father. Fucking brilliant! Now I remember why I never missed you!”
“Foster, I –” he started but broke off with a wheeze as the boot pressed harder.
“No.” Yes, that was hellfire in his son’s eyes, the force of his rage bringing forth literal flames.
“No, that’s enough. I’m done listening to you, because you clearly don’t understand what an apology is supposed to be, and it still wouldn’t be enough to make up for everything you put me through.
All the years, all the time—even if you fucking groveled, I wouldn’t forgive you. ”
A stray ember drifted down to settle on Luce’s cheek, and the sting was nothing compared to what he deserved.
“I don’t blame you,” he nearly whispered. More scattered embers, each one a burning kiss where they landed and sizzled on tanned skin. He realized with a jolt that these were tears. Foster was crying. Luce hadn’t seen his son cry since...since Angela died.
“You're right, Foster. I was a coward, and as your father I shouldn't have let things get this bad. I should never have blamed you for this distance between us. But why does that have to mean that we can't make the effort now? Can't we admit our mistakes and start over?"
The entire building seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation of Foster’s response.
Even the baby had gone quiet at some point during their argument, or perhaps because of it.
The silence stretched between them until Lucifer began to wonder if his son simply wouldn’t reply.
Foster’s eyes burned, his hardened expression betraying nothing.
Finally, he scoffed. “You’re an idiot.”
Luce furrowed his brow in confusion. That was a reaction, at least, but it didn’t bode well for making amends.
“Did you not hear me?” He laughed, a hollow dark sound that made Luce shiver. “What part of ‘even if you groveled’ was confusing?”
He lifted his foot and Luce sucked down a deep breath, muscles twinging against what was definitely a cracked rib. Foster stepped back into his doorway, shaking his head. “You’re pathetic. I can’t believe you’re my father sometimes. Do us both a favor and go back to pretending I don’t exist.”
That stung. “Foster, please. We need to talk properly. There are things you need to know.”
“No.” His son shook his head, those glowing eyes the only thing Luce could focus on as Foster retreated into the gloom of his apartment.
“No, I’m done talking to you. Whatever you came here for, whatever dragged you to my door, it can drag you right back out.
Get lost, and if I never see you again, I don’t care. ”
He closed the door with a snap that reverberated off the dingy plaster walls, which were suddenly making Luce feel claustrophobic.
He scrambled to his feet and nearly ran headfirst into the pizza boy, barely more than sixteen, frozen on the stairs.
They stared at each other for a moment, the teenager blinking owlishly at the shoe print on Luce’s white shirt while the King of Hell dusted himself off and assessed how much the kid had seen.
Finally, the kid croaked, “Please tell me that wasn’t E3?”
Luce smiled. “It was. How much is the pizza? I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Thirty-six dollars,” the boy blurted, looking relieved, “and eighteen cents, technically.”
Luce grinned, reaching into his billfold and pulling out a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
He pressed it into the kid’s palm as he passed, going down the stairs, plucking both boxes from his hands.
So that hadn’t gone well at all. His son clearly hated him, and Luce couldn’t blame him.
He’d have to work harder to try and mend this relationship, and hopefully it would be enough to prevent Armageddon.
In the meantime, now he had pizza. Maybe it was petty, but it did make him feel better. He summoned up another Rift, vanishing without a trace before the pizza boy had even cleared the first landing behind him.