Chapter Text
Satisfaction settled in Lucifer’s chest as he watched Cain expire, the knowledge that he would be punished for another eternity in Hell licking through him like a flame. He smiled.
“You can’t escape who you really are,” he told the dying man.
Cain’s mouth stretched in a thin line. He let out a strangled laugh. “Neither can you,” he gasped. The light faded from his eyes and his body went slack.
Lucifer gazed down at the dead man. I never wanted to.
A step sounded behind him, its muffled echo disappearing into the dome above, and Lucifer straightened, turning. It was Chloe, of course she had followed him. His chest tightened at the sight of her. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, her gaze darting from the bloody feathers littering the floor around them to Cain’s body at his feet to Lucifer’s face. Her lips moved. It took a moment for her words to reach his ears:
“It’s all true.”
All true. She believed.
Finally, she believed. She knew the truth.
The first thing he felt was relief.
“Detective?” He reached for her, but froze when he caught sight of the raw red flesh of his hand. He touched his face, felt the ridged skin under his fingers, the hairless scalp, and when he looked at her again he recognized the expression on her face.
Terror. Horror.
It was the terror, the horror of a woman who was seeing the Devil. The look he had never wanted to see on her face, and so he had made excuses, stalled, deflected, and she had made him feel less and less like a monster every day, but now—
You can’t escape who you really are.
A monster.
Chloe was the most deeply good person he’d ever known, and he didn’t deserve her. More to the point, she didn’t deserve him, didn’t deserve the horror this form inspired, just as his other one sparked desire.
He turned away, hiding his ravaged face from her. He couldn’t bear to see her fear him, couldn’t bear to watch her run away.
So he didn’t give her the chance.
***
It was dark by the time Chloe got to the penthouse. SWAT had swarmed in after Lucifer left, and it had been hours before she could make her escape with injuries seen to and statements given. She’d felt dazed, grateful for Dan’s presence as the SWAT team and paramedics peppered her with questions. All she could see was Lucifer’s face. She had read the fear and anguish in his expression even through the burned, disfigured features and fiery red eyes, but couldn’t move to go to him, couldn’t make her body obey her as her brain shorted out, unable to process what she had known for so long, what she had been afraid to let herself know.
It’s all true. All true.
Lucifer was playing the piano when she got there. If he heard the elevator chime, he gave no sign, just kept playing, his head bowed, barely moving except for his hands on the keys. His skin was still raw, angry red. Chloe couldn’t tell if the music spilling from the piano was soothing him or pushing him deeper into darkness. The last notes faded to silence and he remained where he was, hands resting on the keys. His cigarette case lay open in front of him, a drink and a lighter beside it, but he made no move to reach for them.
She stepped deliberately loud as she crossed the floor. He stiffened at the sound. She had intended to go to him, to slide onto the piano bench beside him, but seeing him again, in this form, made her freeze before she could cross the penthouse.
He was the Devil. The Devil was real.
And she had--what, followed him? She should have run in the opposite direction, grabbed Trixie and gotten as far away from L.A. as she could--
“You shouldn’t have come, Detective.” The familiar sound of his voice, rough with emotion, cut through her escalating panic. She stared at him, the familiar lines of his shoulders still the same, his head bowed and--
She was afraid, afraid of what it all meant, the vastness of the truth, but—not of him.
She couldn’t be afraid of him.
She didn’t want to be.
“Why not?” She crossed to the piano and sat on the edge of the bench, telling herself it was because she wanted to give him his space, not because she was afraid to get too close. She slid her fingers over the keys in front of her, skating near his hand but not touching it.
“You shouldn’t see me like this.”
She forced herself to look at him. He kept his face turned away, but she could still see the red glow of his eyes. “Isn’t this what you’ve been trying to show me? All this time?”
He slid off the other end of the bench, picked up his drink from the piano and walked to the open door onto the balcony. “I wanted you to know the truth. I—I hoped—but—” The glass trembled in his hand. “I’m a monster, Detective. Cain was right. I can’t escape who I really am, any more than he can.”
She barked a humorless laugh. Cain. She had almost married humanity’s first murderer. Aloud she said, “He doesn’t know who you are.”
He didn’t respond, just hunched his shoulders and sipped his whiskey, his posture stubborn and sad.
She followed him to the balcony. “You’re not a monster,” she insisted, despite what stood before her. “I told you, not to me.”
He shook his head. “Detective . . .”
She came close enough to touch him, her hand trembling. He flinched but didn’t pull away. His skin felt hot and rough under her fingers, eyes glowing like coals in the fading light, but underneath it all, he was still him. “I still see you.”
“You do?” He asked the question with such innocence, such vulnerability, it squeezed her heart.
She nodded. “Yes.” Was it her imagination, or was the glow fading from his eyes? She cupped his cheek, no longer afraid. “You could never be a monster to me, Lucifer.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes closing, and suddenly the skin under Chloe’s fingers was pale again, rough with stubble instead of scar tissue, warm instead of feverishly hot. He let out a choked sob, swaying on his feet.
“It’s all right,” she said. She wrapped an arm around his waist, trying to guide him toward the couch, but he steadied himself with a hand on the door frame and wouldn’t budge.
“I’m fine,” he said, but she could tell from the way he held himself that he was in pain—though not from any injuries she could see. His suit was torn and bloody, but the skin underneath was smooth, unbroken.
Except—
Bloody feathers everywhere. His arms around her, his screams.
“Your wings.” She managed not to trip over the word.
“I’m fine, Detective,” he insisted.
She gave him a little shove to make him turn and ran a hand over his back. He winced. “Show me,” she ordered.
“Detective—”
“Show me.”
A long, tense pause. Finally he let out a breath. “Very well.” He gestured her back, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gritted his teeth. A breeze ruffled Chloe’s hair.
White wings unfurled from his back, enormous and dazzling, even ragged and stained with blood as they were. He swallowed another cry. His fingertips were white against the door frame, gripping hard.
“Oh, Lucifer,” Chloe breathed.
He gave her a tight smile over his shoulder. “They’ll heal.” His eyes focused on her, and the smile softened. “It was worth it.” He shuddered, then, and the wings folded in on themselves and vanished, leaving him pale and winded, leaning against the open door.
“Wait!” Chloe raised a hand in protest. “They need--I mean--you--” She had intended--she didn’t know what. Help him, clean the wounds, remove the bullets, something. Not that she knew the first thing about how to take care of injured angel wings. Or any kind of wings.
“They’re healing,” Lucifer said. “They heal faster when they’re . . . away. It’s best if you leave them be.” He paused. “Leave me be.”
Chloe snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Detective--”
She waved his protest away. “I’ll take your word that you know what you’re talking about where your wings are concerned, but I’m not about to leave you be.” She beckoned. “Now come on.”
“‘Come on’?”
“Bed. Maybe a shower first.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You’ll feel better if you’re clean. Do you think you can manage it?”
“I . . .” He trailed off, looking at her quizzically. A hint of cautious humor flickered in his eyes. “Are you offering to take a shower with me, Detective?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”
A smile pulled at his lips, but there was something raw and vulnerable behind it, something like hope, or wonder. He let her take his hand.
***
Hell is not what Cain imagined.
He had endured a hell on earth, thousands of years watching everything he came to love crumble to dust, searching in vain for the thing that could redeem him. Trying to hold himself separate so he couldn’t be hurt, and succeeding, until something came along that drew him in despite himself.
He stopped trying to be better, to be good. He became the thing God had made him, and took human life with impunity, when it suited him. Took what he wanted, and didn’t give a damn, because he had been damned for so very long, and nothing could change that.
Until Chloe. Until he loved her enough to put her before himself. And still, she turned away from him.
And that was his Hell. Not the endless wandering, the loneliness, the boredom. It was the day she gave him back his ring. He had gotten better for her, and it wasn’t enough.
With every repetition, his rage grew. No one said no to him. No one left him. Not even in death.
Hell was a prison, but even prisons had doors.
One way or another, here or on Earth, he would have Chloe Decker.