[How he's missed hearing those words from this man. Everything's falling back into place in the way he's longed for, and it's... strange. This isn't how his life is supposed to be. But as strange as this is, so is everything else about this city. If the dead can live again in Duplicity, so be it. Toby wouldn't lie to him. Not about something like this. He knows that.
But there's a piece of all this that he can't get past. Demanding that Toby prove he isn't Lucifer after the man simply showed up does sound like something he would do, but his perfect memory doesn't hold a single second of the incident.]
I don't remember any of that. [He should. The portrait ensures it. How could this happen?
But glancing around at the foyer they're standing in, there's a ring of truth to Toby's words. Every inch of this house is attuned to his preferences. Toby would let him dictate their aesthetic. Sure, the man would complain about flourishes he didn't agree with, but he'd always come around in the end.] But I also can't see you making up a place this nice on your own.
[So that's it. In this place, the dead can live again, and people can leave and return without any sense that they've been here before. It's not the strangest thing he's ever experienced, but it's close. There will be more to say about this later, but getting a play by play account of the last time he was here is the last thing he wants right now. Dorian draws a steadying breath.]
No, I-- I don't need that. [He runs his fingers slowly along the line of Toby's jaw, refamiliarizing himself with the perfect face he knows so well.] I know it's you, [he asserts. And what a thing that is to say, and feel the truth of it settle into his bones.] I knew from the second voicemail I heard, and ... especially when you told me there were fae in the city. [The smallest of fond smiles forms at the corners of his mouth.] You knew I'd want to hear all the gory details about something like that. [He doesn't know how to explain it, but what he heard is enough. The voicemails hurt, but it wasn't the kind of pain Lucifer would have inflicted. Toby sent him pieces of himself, some significant and others mundane, and the resulting tapestry was unmistakably him. Dorian's smile fades, and he looks up to meet Toby's eyes, his own red and glossy, and widening with comprehension.]
I missed you. [The breath he takes is short and shuddering, and a single tear slips down one of his cheeks as the weight of everything hits him again.] There aren't enough words in our world or this one to say how much.
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But there's a piece of all this that he can't get past. Demanding that Toby prove he isn't Lucifer after the man simply showed up does sound like something he would do, but his perfect memory doesn't hold a single second of the incident.]
I don't remember any of that. [He should. The portrait ensures it. How could this happen?
But glancing around at the foyer they're standing in, there's a ring of truth to Toby's words. Every inch of this house is attuned to his preferences. Toby would let him dictate their aesthetic. Sure, the man would complain about flourishes he didn't agree with, but he'd always come around in the end.] But I also can't see you making up a place this nice on your own.
[So that's it. In this place, the dead can live again, and people can leave and return without any sense that they've been here before. It's not the strangest thing he's ever experienced, but it's close. There will be more to say about this later, but getting a play by play account of the last time he was here is the last thing he wants right now. Dorian draws a steadying breath.]
No, I-- I don't need that. [He runs his fingers slowly along the line of Toby's jaw, refamiliarizing himself with the perfect face he knows so well.] I know it's you, [he asserts. And what a thing that is to say, and feel the truth of it settle into his bones.] I knew from the second voicemail I heard, and ... especially when you told me there were fae in the city. [The smallest of fond smiles forms at the corners of his mouth.] You knew I'd want to hear all the gory details about something like that. [He doesn't know how to explain it, but what he heard is enough. The voicemails hurt, but it wasn't the kind of pain Lucifer would have inflicted. Toby sent him pieces of himself, some significant and others mundane, and the resulting tapestry was unmistakably him. Dorian's smile fades, and he looks up to meet Toby's eyes, his own red and glossy, and widening with comprehension.]
I missed you. [The breath he takes is short and shuddering, and a single tear slips down one of his cheeks as the weight of everything hits him again.] There aren't enough words in our world or this one to say how much.