Author's Note: So, I'm not dead, but 2017 did give me one final middle finger for goodbye - and about a week ago I slipped (in slow motion - it was kind of funny, actually) and broke my wrist while I was out with the horses. It's a pain in the ass to type, but this was mostly written and just needed some tweaking.

This chapter is chronologically first - you'll see at the end Lucifer still has his wings, but I couldn't figure out how to swap them around. And the scenario is entirely spurred on by Lucifer's first season reactions to priests/preachers, as seen by the fake one on the street that he tormented, and then again with Father Frank. It seems to be a little...touchy about people preaching what they don't believe. As always, read and review! They help fuel the muse (and keep my spirits up while I try and find a way around this stupid %^&* cast).

LA wasn't exactly where he expected to arrive. In truth, he hadn't really expected to live through his jail break at all. After millennia of being stuck in what he equated to his Time Out corner of the universe, with no response from his Father or, really, anyone else, he'd simply left without any real thought at all as to where he wound up.

City of Angels indeed.

One of Lucifer's favorite things about humans was the creation of irony, which, ironically, no one actually seemed to know the meaning of.

Another favorite was sarcasm, though if his brother was to be believed, humans had gotten it from him, not the other way around. Arguably, it was a chicken or the egg debate, and one that he didn't care too much about. How it started was of a little interest. What was of interest was how it allowed him to be brutally honest, and people thought he was joking.

It'd taken him a few weeks to get used to mannerisms of the living. Well, the differences in people, at any rate. He only ever saw the worst of the worst – it took him longer than he cared to admit to get used to the idea that not everyone was a sociopathic serial killer (which lead to some really awkward conversations). He'd never been permanently stuck in Hell, he'd only been stuck in charge. He could rove topside to interact with people, collect and dole out favors as it suited him, but he always had to return to the Pit. Hell couldn't run itself (yes, it could), and someone needed to make sure all the twisted and depraved Souls that wound up there got what they deserved.

Or, more importantly, didn't go wandering off the way he did.

Oh well. He was always pretty good at setting a bad example.

Lucifer had to wonder if the arrival in LA was his Father's doing, just one more twist of the knife and 'ha ha' of ironic victory that His fallen son turned up in a city named for His other children. Even if it was true, he was hard pressed to find a reason to leave. Los Angeles has everything – it had the beach, it had wonderfully shallow people who had as little vested interest in their immortal souls as he did, no one liked attachments, and no one batted an eye at the fact that a man named Lucifer Morningstar, who popped into paperwork existence one morning complete with social security number and driver's license, promptly bought a club at a crossroad where it became known that he dealt with exchanges and favors as much as monetary currency.

It also helped considerably that the weather was similar, and, much more importantly, the city was a place where he could recognize things. Souls in the Pit were strange – they could stop their torment whenever they felt like they no longer deserved it, but until then, they would try and comfort themselves to keep from truly breaking. They would sing songs. They would quote movies. They would recite famous speeches, recount fictional lives that weren't their own.

It was fascinating.

So naturally the first thing Lucifer did after becoming a real live citizen on paper, he set about discovering all the things humans found so deliciously sinful they would condemn themselves for eternity over them.

Lucifer discovered several things that way. One, that even the supposedly 'forbidden fruit' of the modern world got old. More and more often, he would find himself doing things because he knew his Father wouldn't approve. Knew that his brothers and sisters didn't appreciate. It was momentary distraction at best, and Lucifer tried to keep as much distraction around him as he possibly could.

But where days used to disappear weeks at a time, they now seemed to drag on for weeks themselves.

How did people live like this? Was this how it was supposed to happen? 'See what you're missing, Son? Nothing at all and back to the Pit you go'? It had barely been a few years and he was becoming so bored it was driving him mental.

And two, that humans had really poor understandings of what exactly it was that condemned one to Hell. He thought the Ten Commandments were a pretty solid rule of thumb – don't run around stabbing one another, don't take what isn't yours, etc…but apparently not. He learned real quick that humans not only had those rules, but a million other ones that made hardly any sense at all. Like zoning laws about not growing a fruit and vegetable garden in a front yard. Out of spite for that one, he had a healthy patch of contraband strawberries on his balcony and a lemon tree in a pot. And for all the inane rules they set about for themselves, it was like they had them just to break them – like crosswalks. Who knew it was an actual crime to cross a street without those stupid little signs telling you when you could or could not walk?

Rules were one thing – but their reactions were what he found interesting and, to be perfectly honest, utterly horrifying.

He watched as someone was cut off in traffic, which happened a lot – it was an overly crowded city with too few roads, too many cars, and a general misunderstanding of the 'zipper in' rule of driving, and the driver that had been cut in front of slammed on the gas, rear ended the first car, then jumped out of the vehicle and shot other driver three times with a handgun.

Over seven feet of space in bumper to bumper traffic.

Parents threw their children out because of who they loved.

Children killed their parents over Christmas presents.

People killed one another over inconvenience.

And nothing happened.

He'd thought his banishment was a little extreme after the first millennia. But he'd assumed that others suffered worse punishments for worse crimes. Yes, they went to Hell where they tortured themselves for the rest of eternity, but…Hell was still around at the time of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Why could they act out such evils without even a vague rumble of thunder?

The darkness in humanity didn't bother him, exactly. It was that it was allowed.

Something he or his siblings had been denied since Creation. Humans were allowed to be imperfect.

Lucifer stood in the middle of the church's crossing, hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep himself from crossing them defensively.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was even here.

His Father was no more present in this church than he was in any other building, grove of trees or mountain top.

There was no direct line to Heaven or the Silver City that magically existed within these walls and under this roof that enabled God to hear him or anyone else for that matter.

And yet…

"I suppose I should find it reassuring that you talk as much to your favorite toys as you do your supposedly favorite son," he muttered. He stared at the ridiculously large statue of the Virgin Mary crying over her dying son splayed across her lap.

He and Mary may never have gotten along, but her son was one of his preferred relatives. It was still weird to see him in on cheap scented candles and rubber bracelets.

This still felt stupid.

"One of my employees suggested I come here," he said, scoffing slightly. "She said it helped to come and talk to you, even if you never talk back."

The church remained silent.

Lucifer struggled for the words he wanted, the ones he needed besides just flipping his Father the middle finger and swearing violently at an inanimate statue like it was supposed to be Him.

"I don't understand," he said. "I don't. These were supposed to be your favorites. And I guess they must be, because how else can they be allowed to do the things they do with no repercussions? Why? They don't blame you, they blame me but I could never do the things they do…to each other, to themselves, to…anyone. I didn't invent murder, and I didn't create lust, I just…" he trailed off.

"I was curious. Was that really so monstrous? Out of all the sins your beloved humans are capable of…was mine really so terrible?"

Did it really warrant a lifetime banishment from a home he wasn't sure he ever belonged to?

The church remained silent.

"How is anyone supposed to know what to do?" he demanded. "How is anyone supposed to make you happy? We follow the rules, you say nothing. We break them, you say nothing. When did you go from helicopter parent to hands off? Are you so disappointed in us you can't even bring yourself to say so? Why?"

He didn't even notice he'd raised his voice. Didn't realize he'd taken his hands from his pockets as he demanded answers of a statue, clenching them into fists.

"I know you can hear us. I know you can hear me. What did I do that was so terrible that five thousand years alone isn't punishment enough? Am I even allowed here? Is this what you want from me? Or am I digging myself deeper? Does it even matter? Am I ever allowed to go home?"

Am I ever allowed to talk with You again?

"What's the point?" he asked tiredly, throwing his arms up in surrender.

And the church answered.

"I find myself asking that very question," a man's voice cut in, so unexpectedly Lucifer physically startled.

"How long have you been standing there?" he demanded, whirling on the newcomer.

The man sighed, shuffling along the last few pews towards the entrance of the church. Considering the man's age, Lucifer must have really been shouting pretty loud if he heard anything at all from wherever he'd just appeared from. "All I heard was the very emphatic 'what's the point'. Being hard of hearing has its advantages, my boy."

Lucifer felt the familiar tic near his eye whenever someone referred to him as anything remotely resembling familial bond.

He was an orphan, as far as he was concerned.

"You're not the only one to question God's plan for them," the man said, walking stiffly. There was a hitch in his left leg, like the hip joint didn't properly work. His leg didn't bend where it ought to, resulting in the damaged limb dragging more than moving. It was painful to watch him attempt to walk, but Lucifer didn't step forwards to help.

It was clearly an old injury, and the man was used to it. If he wanted help, he would ask.

"I hardly find that surprising," Lucifer muttered, sending an irritable glare skyward. "Radio silence is hard to interpret. I would consult tea leaves, but loose leaf is remarkably hard to find in LA."

The priest snorted, smirking beneath his mustache. "Consulting the bag might be just as fruitful."

Now it was Lucifer's turn to hide the reluctant smile. "I would think a man of the cloth had his path quite clearly laid out for him."

The man shrugged, looking beyond Lucifer for a moment to the statue behind him, offering a quick sign of the cross before setting down in one of the hard backed pews. "I serve a God who communicates through incendiary shrubbery. I don't think anyone gets a 'How To' for life's big plan. So. What brings you here?"

"The truth?" Lucifer asked, risking a slightly more sly grin to the ceiling.

The priest shrugged again. "Well, I can't offer much insight if you don't, but if we're going to get metaphorical, I prefer Tolkien's works. I know them well enough, I can at least work around that."

Dammit. Lucifer really didn't want to like the man, but he was finding it hard not to.

Fine. Let's see what the Truth got him.

"I came to talk to my Father," Lucifer said mildly, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "He's been a little distant over the last several thousand years, and this is sort of a last ditch effort to get a response out of him."

The priest didn't bat an eye. "Have a bit of a falling out?"

"Falling out, downfall…" Lucifer waved his hand dismissively. "Semantics. And an understatement."

The priest nodded thoughtfully, leaning forwards to rest his arms on the back of the pew in front of him. "And you've tried talking to him?"

Lucifer gestured towards the church with his free hand. "Thus why I'm here."

"What was the fight over?"

Lucifer fought the urge to cringe reflexively. "I…may have given a younger relative a push too far. And it backfired rather spectacularly."

The priest frowned. "You sure about that?"

Lucifer froze. "Yes?"

The priest chuckled, leaning back. "You don't sound very confident."

"It…it has to be. Because if it isn't, then…" Then nothing of the last five thousand years meant a damn thing. How was he supposed to learn his lesson if he didn't understand what he was being taught?

"If I were to ask you what you wanted to ask your father, right now, what would you say?" the man asked. "If he was right here in front of you, and he had to answer, what would you ask him?"

The immediate curse and middle finger came to mind, but Lucifer considered the question. The all-consuming 'why' was a close second, but knowing his Father the way he did, he wasn't likely to get a straight answer.

"I have memories of us. Me and him," Lucifer said carefully. "I remember…"

Love. Happiness. Being wanted.

"Being a family. And then I don't."

The feeling of Michael's fist against his skin. The snap of bones in his wings. The freefall that seemed to last an eternity. The endless silence that made his ears ring in the darkness.

"How come?"

The priest met his eyes, and Lucifer

"You asked what the point is, right?" the Priest asked. "To all of this?"

Lucifer didn't answer, raising a curious brow.

"Suffering."

Lucifer stared at him dumbfoundedly for a long moment before giving a slight, incredulous, 'ha'. "That's it? That's…your whole speech. The reason for everything is to be miserable and suffering."

The priest shrugged. "No one ever said life was sunshine and daisies all the time. That's what Heaven is for. Life is the test to see if you deserve it."

"What?"

The man pushed himself to his feet. "The reason why we have trials and tribulations is to see if we rise or fall. God doesn't put us in harm's way, or steer us towards temptation," he said, shuffling closer to him.

And here comes the 'But the Devil does'…

"And neither does the Devil."

Lucifer felt his own jaw drop in shock. That was never the direction this conversation took, no matter how many times he had it.

"We are our own worst enemy. We do things we know in our hearts are wrong, and then we try and blame anyone but ourselves. The point of this," the man said, waving his hand to encompass the whole of everything, "is to suffer and still love in spite of it."

Lucifer found himself stunned speechless – something that didn't happen often. Or at all. Was it really all about that? That his Father allowed such awful things to happen, to tolerate such evil, because it tested how strong they really were? Is that why his Father hadn't said anything? Done anything? To see what Lucifer would do if left alone to make his own choices?

What the Hell kind of lesson was that?

And immediately as he thought it, he shook his head ruefully. One his Father would come up with.

He almost laughed. It was so perfectly, ridiculously simple, and obviously Him.

"'A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, you should love each other,'" he muttered. "Way to set an impossible bar, Dad."

"It's as good a standard of living as I know of," the priest said.

"Still that bloody golden ring on the merry-go-round," Lucifer pointed out. "I mean, you can't honestly believe that humans are capable of that, do you? They hardly love themselves, never mind each other."

"If Heaven were easy to get into, there would be no Hell."

Lucifer felt his eye twitch. "What did you just say?"

The priest shrugged. "If it were easy to love one another, everyone would be in Heaven. We wouldn't need Hell."

Lucifer scoffed, staring unblinkingly at the man as he warred between emotions, not sure if this was unabashed rage or are you bloody serious incredulity. "You're telling me that the reason why I have to suffer is because my Father can't be bothered to do His own dirty work? I can't go home because He needs someone to babysit the Reject Pile of His broken toys?"

The priest raised an eyebrow. "Your father? It's just a metaphor, son. Just like the rest of it."

Something about the phrasing made Lucifer stop mid-rant, eyes narrowing. "Come again?"

"You're taking this a little…literally," the priest said, looking worried. Like perhaps he thought Lucifer was mad. "It's a good story. One of the best. But that's all it is."

Lucifer laughed outright at that. "Are you bloody serious? You're a priest. Isn't this quite literally gospel for you? Or is that uniform more a costume? You're going to stand there and lecture me about God's plan and you don't even believe it yourself?"

He stepped closer to the man and he stepped back just as fast.

"You're supposed to be my Father's Voice, you mewling quim, and yet you treat us like a bed time story?" Lucifer snarled. "Something to go bump in the night and frighten your sheep back to your flock?"

"That's not –" the priest stammered, hitting the back of his knees against the pew and forcing him to sit as Lucifer loomed over him.

"Do I look made up to you?" he growled, allowing his eyes to glow red. "Still think I'm a fairy tale?"

"What the hell are you?"

"Interesting choice of words, Padre," he hissed, slamming both hands on either side of the priest. His Devil face flashed and he felt his wings unfurl behind him – he was always rubbish at keeping them hidden when he was upset. "What do you think?"

The man gave a short shriek of something between horror and surprise. Lucifer was quite thoroughly convinced he would wet himself until he did something completely unexpected.

He threw himself at Lucifer's feet, hands clawing at his jacket, at his shirt, at anything he could get a hold of, jabbering so fast it took Lucifer a moment to understand what he was saying.

"Thank you," the man gasped, and grabbed Lucifer's hand, kissing his knuckles before Lucifer could rip it out of his grasp. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. Forgive me for doubting you, please, forgive me for forgetting my faith. I am humbled in your presence, oh messenger of God, forgive me –"

Lucifer jumped back away from the openly weeping man's grip, slapping at his hands when they wouldn't let go even as the man stumbled on his crippled leg, kneeling as he was.

"Messenger?" he echoed. Bloody hell, the man thought he was sent by God to test his faith? Were the wings really that much more noticeable than his Devil face that the man missed the fallen part of the angel bit?

"I am not His emissary!" Lucifer shouted, and his Devil face flashed. "I am not an actor to be moved and pushed about in His play! I am my own and no one commands me to do anything!"

The man fell forwards onto his hands and knees, still babbling incoherently.

He glared upwards at the ceiling. "So much for civil conversation, Father. You want to play games? You think you can still make me do your bidding? So be it."

With a flap of his wings, he was gone.

That night he made Maze cut off his wings, kneeling in the sand on the beach he'd first arrived on because two could play at the symbology game.

I need no gifts from you.

I need nothing from you.

And I will not be your slave.

So, what did you think? I think it's okay, but my painkillers may be nullifying my editing capabilities. Also, I'm debating knocking this down to a 4+1 instead of 5+1 (unless someone would like to give me an idea?) As always, thanks for reading, let me know what you think (and really, I appreciate all the messages you guys sent to make me feel better. You're the best).