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There were three piles of clothes on the bed: Must Go, Can Stay If There Is Room, and What Were You Thinking Detective. Lucifer was on a mission to improve the Detective’s closet. Her sartorial choices tended towards the practical, but she did have a sense of style; and on top of that she now had her own personal Devil and his unlimited funds to treat her to a brand new wardrobe.
He wasn’t an idiot, he knew she wouldn’t wear to work what he wanted her to see her in (or out of). But what he’d got her was all made out of the finest fabrics, cut to be comfortable to run in and carry her service weapon yet flattering and tasteful. He’d spent time on it, thought long and hard about the colours, taken pictures to show his tailor, had even picked shoes to go with everything… and now there was so much that he had to make room in her closet. There was a lot of old, shapeless stuff in there; and it all needed to go.
He’d even found a very old, ratty sweatshirt at the back that he wondered about for a few minutes. Long ago, it had sported an LAPD logo on it; but now it was hardly legible. It was too big to have ever been hers, and didn’t look large enough to fit Dan’s wide shoulders; its faded dark colour was now indefinable – blue? black? grey? – and on top of that it had a hole under one arm. The neck and sleeves were frayed, the hood was even more shapeless than the body, and so he threw it over the Must Go pile.
Once everything had been sorted, he began filling the shelves and hangers and drawers with what he’d bought: soft practical underwear and sports bras (that he personally found boring, but he was ready to make a few sacrifices for his beloved; and he’d added a few lacy things that he just knew would look lovely on her and that she’d like to wear when not on the job), stylish jackets, loose shirts, tight-fitting blouses, top-quality jeans, boots made out of the most supple leather… he was looking forward to her reaction. Surprise, then a smile; he hoped maybe she’d kiss him as a thank you? He still wasn’t used to it, not used to her kissing him; and bending down and being the one to kiss her still felt like a wild leap. They’d been, well, an item as Ms Lopez had put it, for a few months now; but it still felt… What did it feel like? He wasn’t sure, and the suede coat in his hands held no answer. He’d have to ask Dr Martin as soon as possible, he decided as he carefully slipped the garment over a hanger and made sure no unsightly creases would appear.
“What are you doing?”
Lucifer looked down at the child. “I am improving your mother’s closet.”
“She won’t like it.”
“Why wouldn’t she? I had those tailored to her exact measurements, and I mostly picked things similar to what she wears at work.”
“Kid’s right. She won’t like it.”
“Mazie, aren’t you supposed to be on your murderous way right about now?”
“I know where my bounty is. I’m in no rush.”
“Right. Well, contrary to all your quite unneeded opinions, I do know what I’m doing, so – shoo.”
Once Mazikeen was finally out and the offspring had settled with some shiny toys, he went back to his task. He wanted to be done before she was back from her paperwork afternoon.
“Hey, Trixie! How was your day?”
Lucifer smiled when he heard her voice. He probably looked a bit silly, but there was no one in her bedroom to see him grin at a wall. She was home, greeting her child, asking about school and about her friends and about her homework, making sure she was happy… of course she was, he was well aware of the little human’s importance. He’d had everything delivered to make dinner, and he’d listened to the child’s desires. He’d cook them something she’d be happy with and a happy spawn meant a happy Chloe – or so he assumed. All the happier with her brand new wardrobe, too!
“Lucifer,” she said from the door to her room. He went on smiling gormlessly – he couldn’t help himself. “Thank you for watching over Trixie.” A little divot appeared between her perfect brows as she took in the room. He hadn’t had time to get rid of the bin bags yet. “Wait – what happened here?”
“I got you new clothes!” He made a grand gesture with his arms, feeling very proud of the colour-coordinated and precisely folded closet contents. He’d let the doors wide open so she could properly admire his work.
“I… can see that. Why?”
“Because you deserve the best! They’re all made to fit you, and I picked things you would wear, and I even – ”
“But where are my clothes? My own clothes?”
“Er… these are yours?”
“The clothes I chose and bought myself, Lucifer.”
He blinked a few times, hoping it would make the persistent small frown on her face disappear. It didn’t. It even made the spawn materialize in the doorway, looking at him like she wanted to say I told you so. He ignored her, and she rolled her eyes and went back to whatever it was she’d been doing. “So… You’re not happy?”
She sighed, and took a few steps closer to inspect the new garments. She ran her hand over the fabrics, took a few hangers out to look more closely at a jacket or a blouse. “They’re very nice, but… how much did these cost, Lucifer?”
“Money’s no matter, you know that. I’m not cheap!” He felt he needed to point that out, but it only earned him a little laugh.
“You’re not, of course.” She patted him on the arm. “But I still want my own clothes. I am not your kept woman. You do not get to pick my clothes, even if, well. I have to admit you paid attention to what I go for.”
“So you like them? You’ll wear them?”
“It’s not about liking them, you know.” Her eyes fell on the plastic bags in the corner of the room. “Are those my clothes?”
He pointed at the new ones. “Those are – ”
“Lucifer.” She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t reacting the way he’d hoped.
What had he done wrong? He watched her go to the bags, pick one, and empty it over the bed. He didn’t know what to do, so he hovered behind her and didn’t say anything as she re-sorted through everything, making her own piles according to criteria he couldn’t quite guess at. He’d wanted to spare her that work, and she was redoing everything anyway as if whatever he did was never good enough, like that time he’d tried to help with her files at the precinct.
After a while, she turned to him. “Look, I know you meant well, but… these are my things. My life. I picked them because I liked them, all right? You can’t throw them away because you don’t like them.” The bag she’d just resorted was the Can Stay If There Is Room pile, and so not the worst of the lot. He decided not to point that out. “But you’re right, there are some here I haven’t worn in a while, and perhaps I can give them away. But I’m the one deciding, all right?” He nodded.
“Are you going to keep those I got you?”
She sighed. “I’m going to go through these bags, and then I’m going to go through what you got, and then I’ll decide.” He wanted to shuffle his feet and refrained from doing so. He was the Devil, not a little boy who’d eaten all the cookies. Right? “Meanwhile, you and Trixie can make dinner, okay?”
He looked down and nodded. He didn’t want to leave the room, and she hadn’t even really touched him, and he felt a bit lost in some human thing he didn’t get, again. As he made for the door, she stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“Hey.” He finally looked in her eyes. “Hey, I’m not angry, okay? It’s just… one of those things that we’ll work through together, yeah?”
“All right,” he said. He didn’t really understand, but he was probably supposed to. The good doctor would probably explain next time he’d see her. He hoped so, at any rate. He hadn’t done bad but he hadn’t done good either; she was and wasn’t upset. He’d thought it would please both of them, and it hadn’t.
But then she rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, and he was sure he blushed when she patted his bum to propel him to the kitchen.
Once dinner was eaten, the dishes were in the dishwasher, and a story was read by the Devil himself because Lucifer couldn’t say no to two pairs of Decker eyes begging him to do the voices, they closed Trixie’s door and made for the kitchen.
“Isn’t she a bit old for that now? She can read by herself.”
“She can, and probably is right now; but it’s a little family ritual that we both enjoy.” He tilted his head. “And so do you, stop pretending you don’t like doing the voices.” All right, so maybe he did. Still wouldn’t admit it.
“Mmh. Nightcap?”
“Bring it upstairs, I’ve still got one bag to sort through. You can help.”
“I thought my help was no help.” He man angel Devilfully didn’t pout.
“Well, you can learn, then.” She gave him one of those impish smiles that made him turn to goo inside and went up the stairs, so he made for the cabinet where Maze kept the good stuff and poured them both a fine cognac Chloe liked.
But when he pushed open her door with the tip of his shoe, he hastily put the glasses down and hurried to her. “What’s wrong?”
She was crying, her face buried in the ratty old LAPD sweatshirt. Should he… put his arms around her? His hands on her shoulders, perhaps? Was that too forward? Why was she upset? What was wrong? He stood there, hands closing and opening, unable to make up his mind, until she threw herself against his chest.
“Det – darl – Chloe. What…?” He kept his voice low, and slowly wrapped an arm around her. “You’re crying,” he said stupidly. He wiped a few tears from the square inch of face he could reach, then stroked her hair, light and slow. She seemed to welcome it, at least. Him.
“It… it…” She hiccuped, and sniffled, and whimpered a little; and he felt absolutely at sea. Looking around, he saw she’d just opened the last bag, the first one he’d made, the Must Go one.
“You… can keep all your clothes if you want to? Of course? I can take the new ones back?” He felt her shake her head against his chest. “You can keep everything? I’ll just… I’ll refold everything better, and get someone to refurbish the closet so it can hold more, and you can keep it all? Even this very, very old thing?”
“It was…” She pushed a little away from him to look up into his face. “It was my father’s.” Oh. “I’m not throwing it away.”
“Of course not?” He didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much; her father had been dead for two decades now and this old hoodie was not her father. But it did matter, and if she wanted it, she’d have it. “I’m sure I can find the same one without the holes, have it made for you even if it’s not manufactured any longer.” He tried to take it away from her, but she glared at him through red-rimmed eyes and gripped it tighter.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“I…”
She took a deep breath and sat on the bed, patting the space beside her. “Come and sit here, Lucifer.”
Of course, he sat. And then wondered – should he touch her? Or not? Should he take her hand? Do the one-armed hug, scoot a little bit closer? Or just not touch her at all? What? She slid her fingers between his before he fell into a full-blown panic attack. He felt entirely out of his depth here, and while it wasn’t uncommon around her this time it felt particularly terrifying and incomprehensible. She looked so fragile and so determined at the same time, breakable and harder than diamond, so… so human. Ready to fight him, the Devil himself, for a piece of torn cotton that she was gripping so tight he wondered if the fabric would survive.
“You were right,” she said. Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. “Some of those clothes… definitely needed to go. I’m not wearing them anymore, or I don’t like them anymore, or…” She snatched a tissue from the box on the bedside table and blew her nose. “You know. I guess I needed to get rid of some of them, like you said. But… I don’t have much left of him.” He waited, letting her get her words out between her still somewhat irregular breaths. “When he died, mom… she threw out a lot. She needed to do it, you know? And I thought she was right, and we didn’t keep much. The memories, the photo albums, yes. Not much else.” Her fingers squeezed his. “But then I saw that sweatshirt and while she wasn’t looking, I snatched it. I’ve kept it ever since. It’s, it’s a reminder of him, a reminder of what he fought for as a cop, of why I became one too. It’s like there’s still a piece of him with me, always. I don’t wear it anymore, but I used to. In the first few months, I would wear it to sleep. A little like he was hugging me. And when I was pregnant, too. I wanted… I wanted him to see my baby, too. To hold her.” She blew her nose again.
He hoped, he really hoped whatever torture hell had in stock for Perry Smith was horrible enough, but he doubted it. “Your father’s in heaven, you know. Boring place, but you’ll see him again. I promise. My word is…”
“Don’t say it. Don’t swear it.”
“Why?”
She put her head on his shoulder. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Will I ever see you again, after… after?” He didn’t answer. He tried very hard not to think about that, most of the time. “I don’t want to be forced to choose between you and everyone else. You don’t deserve – ”
“Shh. That’s a long way into the future,” he whispered. “Let’s not think about that, yes? I’ll find a way. I’ll find something. There’s time.”
She pushed him down on the bed and curled against him, John Decker’s ratty old sweatshirt tucked between them. He felt her breath even out, felt her fall asleep against the Devil and the one thing she had left of her childhood hero; and he stayed there, his legs dangling from the side of the bed, his suit jacket creasing under his back, and the most precious being in all of creation warm against his side. He kept his fingers in a strand of hair and glared at the ceiling, at who was beyond the ceiling, until he fell asleep, too.
She woke up in the middle of the night, shuffled to the bathroom, and poked his side when she got back.
“Hm…?”
“G’n th’bed,” she mumbled.
He wriggled about to get rid of his clothes without sitting up and crawled between the sheets, and soon enough there she was again, soft and pliant and her skin cooler than before. As he felt sleep tug him under once again, he heard her whisper, “can I keep the clothes?”
He wasn’t sure which ones she was talking about, but the answer was the same anyway. “Anything you want, love. Anything.”
The next Friday, he felt confident enough to try and tackle the task at hand. He settled in his couch, angled his tablet against the armrest so he could easily see the video tutorial, and carefully extracted all the tools he’d bought for the occasion and aligned them on the low table in front of him.
Thread, needle, thimble, scissors… he was all set. He watched the video where a man explained how to thread the needle to get started, but it was harder than it looked. The thread frayed, he cut it again, he finally got it through but realized he didn’t have enough length to sew with, and so he started all over again. His patience was very much like the bits of shredded fibres at his feet by now but he really, really wanted to do this, so he tried again and again until he was ready to actually begin.
He watched the next video, frowned, and looked down at his lap. It seemed so easy in the tutorials, but he wouldn’t get another chance. If he messed this up…
He clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and promptly stabbed himself in the thumb. A drop of blood welled to the surface, dark red and taunting him. It threatened to fall on the fabric, and he licked the blood away. It tasted just like human blood.
“Lucifer?”
He looked up at her and felt his entire face reassemble into a wide smile. It was terrifying sometimes, how she affected him, how he didn’t control anything around her. Terrifying, and exhilarating. “Hello, love,” he said into her neck when she sat next to him.
“Hmm. What are you doing with my father’s hoodie?” She took it away from him and dropped it on the table, then did the same to the needle he was still holding.
“You’re wearing the clothes I bought you.”
“The pants, yes. That’s not my question.”
“You look lovely in them.”
Her lips twitched, but she was still the Detective he loved. She wouldn’t let go of her answer. “So. Sewing?”
“I…” he looked down at his knotted fingers. “There’s a hole under the arm?”
“And, what. You wanted to repair it?” Well, yes? Had it been a mistake? “Oh, Lucifer, that’s…” she shook her head, and smiled, and he didn’t know what she meant at all.
“I thought it would, er. You said you didn’t want a new one, so. That’s what doctors do on people too? Sew them back together so they last longer?” His eyes fell back on her shoulder, and he shuddered. She’d survived. This time.
“It’s a nice thought, but you don’t have to.”
“But…”
“It’s a sweatshirt. Not a person. It’s not me, it’s not my father.” Her voice broke on that word. “Nothing will bring him back.”
“Chloe? I’m sorry, I…”
“No, don’t be.” She wiggled under his arm. “You know, if anyone had told me when we first met that I’d find you one day trying to fix a hole in my father’s old sweatshirt…”
“What, you wouldn’t have believed the Devil could sew?”
She took up his hand and looked at the red dot on his thumb. “Well, he can’t. But,” she added, “he’s sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“Sweet.”
“But…”
“Sweet.”
He looked down at the crown of her head, bent over his own hand. A crown, yes; that would fit. “I’ve never done that, you know.”
“What, sew? I can tell.” She kissed his thumb like she would one of her daughter’s skinned knees.
“No, I mean. Well, that too.”
“What did you mean?”
“The… the wearing someone else’s clothes.”
“Hm. I’m sure I can get Dan to donate a shirt for the cause.” He made an outraged noise, and she shook her head. “Maybe your brother?”
“Amenadiel’s got terrible taste.”
“He has a different style, yes. It suits him.”
He liberated his thumb from her grip and ran his palm over the soft fabric of her new trousers. “I talked to Linda this afternoon.” She made an encouraging noise. “She asked me if I’d ever worn anyone else’s clothes and if not, if someone had ever worn mine. And how that made me feel.” He paused, and she waited for him to go on. How could it be so hard? “Do you remember that time I found you sleeping in my bed?”
“It was my birthday,” she whispered. “I was wearing one of your shirts.”
“It was, and you were.” And for just a second there, he’d thought, I want that. Every day. And then he’d remembered he couldn’t, and he’d put the thought away to contemplate when he’d next be alone, with his piano and booze and cigarettes.
“I still do it. And your robes too, some mornings.”
“They’re all too big on you.” And he loved it. “But I…” He needed to take a deep breath there, and she raised her eyes to his. He got lost for a little while, until she nudged him with her shoulder. “I… sometimes, when there’s no one else, I wear them. After you have.”
“You do?”
He fiddled with his ring. “It’s just… I miss you when you’re away? And they smell like you and me together, and… and… I know you said the… you said Beatrice needed sleep and a regular schedule and quiet at night and what with Lux and me in general it wasn’t ideal and we see each other almost every day already but… I…” He missed her. He missed her, and then he’d think about how one day she wouldn’t even be on earth any longer and he’d miss her for ever more and what would he do, then? When her smell would have faded and she’d only remain as a digital smile on his screen? What, then?
She scooted back a little on the couch and pulled on his arm until he was sprawled half over her. “One day at a time, Lucifer. When she’s just a little older, it will be easier. She grows up so fast… I don’t want to miss it.” I don’t want to miss you, either, he thought. He closed his eyes when she started carding her fingers through his hair. “And whatever comes for us… you and me… You’re the Devil, and your father can’t be worse than you at your most stubborn, right? I’ll get my way. Our way.”
Our way. He liked the sound of that. He trusted her, and he trusted her word, and he let it blanket his worries, for now. If anyone could get her way, she could. She would, and it would be their way.
Just theirs.