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“It’s just a cold,” sniffled Amenadiel, measuring Nyquil into a plastic cup with the concentration of a disposal specialist dismantling a bomb. “Although I’m not sure how the chlamydia could have been much worse.”
“Right, aside from giving your partners yet another reason to be disappointed in you.”
Lucifer watched the liquid fill in excruciating increments before snatching the bottle to pour out a generous dose. “Bottoms up.'' He handed his brother the shot and downed the rest himself.
Amenadiel grimaced, but that could have been from the medicine.
“I figured out how this fits into my test,” he continued, raising his voice to be heard over the other’s audible scoffing. “It’s to remind me of the virtue of patience! And the acceptance of my own–” the tissue box went sliding when he made a grab for it, ending up on the floor with the pile of scrunched tissues that had missed the bin; he sunk back into the couch with a sigh “–earthly limitation. You know, Luci… maybe you could take a lesson from your whole vulnerability complex, too.”
“Firstly, you'll find no such ‘earthly limitations’ here – ask anyone; second, I most certainly do not have a complex."
"But you are vulnerable. Just because you haven't caught a cold yet."
"The only reason I'm vulnerable is because our Father has a perverse sense of humour. Besides, it's only prudent when the Detective is around."
"So somebody coughs in the detective's vicinity, and next thing you know, you're sneezing your wings into the corporeal plane."
"How dare you. Premature unfurling happened exactly once–"
"Or maybe you'll slow down… long enough to… finally…" he trailed off, his hand roving absently to prod his face. "My lips feel funny… kinda… tingly? Is cold medicine supposed to make your face tingle?"
Pursing, Lucifer turned the empty bottle over in his hands. Then he grinned. "Would you look at that— this is actually the good stuff! Real premium blend, leftover from that pharmaceutical mixer a couple weeks back… certainly explains what it was doing in my cupboard."
His phone beeped, and when he glanced at the message his demeanour brightened even more.
“As much as I’d love to see how this plays out, it seems the Detective needs my assistance. You’ll feel better very soon.” Assurance lit his face. “And you know, brother… were you to spend less time on your ‘noble suffering’ and more on the delight, you might sooner learn that Dad's plan for us isn't all it's cracked up to be."
From the couch Amenadiel said nothing, inflating his cheeks and letting the air go in thoughtful bursts. Which was significantly better than what had been coming out of his mouth moments earlier, Lucifer decided.
While he wouldn’t be the one to deprive anyone of a good time, it irked him somewhat that, even at his lowest, his brother still managed to land all the perks. Instead of ash and sub-level living accommodations, Amenadiel got a runny nose and the opportunity to experience DXM at its heightened potency (the best he could hope for was a pleasant buzz to see him through traffic, maybe a brief reprise if any remained in his system by the time he reached the Detective). Plus, he’d lost his wings, which was just insult to injury at this point because his own sanctimonious appendages kept spontaneously manifesting at the worst possible times.
The elevator chimed, resetting his thoughts to the day ahead. The Detective was always a welcomed distraction, even if divine intervention had put her in his path, for reasons he had yet to suss out. He suspected things were not completely mended between them either, the whole Sinnerman debacle sitting like a corrupted file on her desktop, of which he likely shared an outstanding portion of the blame. That said, even the Detective’s shrewd reasoning deserved to be questioned at times, considering she continued to think Cain was an okay guy.
For some reason, that notion was more irritating than the wings.
Behind him Amenadiel had begun to sing, one of those cloying radio jingles that got into your head like an earworm. Determined to give it no further thought to any of it, the former Lord of Hell escaped into the elevator and was away.
·······•✦•·······
He was absolutely not thinking about what Amenadiel had said.
Not as he shuffled down the freeway (which was suffering enough for one day, thank you very much). Not a thought was spared while he parked, nor as he strode up to the large, colonial-style monstrosity complete with ostentatious pillars flanking the front entrance where he found the Detective waiting.
“That was surprisingly quick… which are words you’ve never heard before, yes, you’ve told me,” she cut him off with a handwave, the file already open on her tablet. “Our vic is one Harold Millard; the body was called in by his housekeeper / butler David Smythe. He’s currently our main suspect, and they have him detained inside. He’s been… uncooperative. Otherwise, Pierce seems to think this one’s an in and out.”
“Must take one to know one,” Lucifer groused, but the Detective only rolled her eyes. And then did something truly deplorable – she sneezed.
The Devil recoiled involuntarily.
The second eye roll could be seen from space. “Relax, it’s just allergies. The trees are blooming and I’ll be fine once we’re inside—” The door swung open to reveal a swirling grey landscape, reminiscent of the inside of a vacuum bag – or maybe Hell, during the ash season. Soft, clustering dust settled on every visible surface. “Or not.”
They exchanged looks before the Detective took the initiative, stepping forward with no regard for her sensible brown boots. “Come on, Ella’s got the body upstairs.”
·······•✦•·······
Harold Millard had been stabbed in the back. He'd since been lying in the centre of his master suite for at least half a day, during which time the dust had accumulated, batting him in soft grey flocking, turning black where it had clotted with blood.
"Whatever did him in, it was blunt and struck with a whole lotta force; then someone really got in there and twisted. Still no sign of the weapon, but the dust isn't making that easy. Poor dude’s gonna need vacuuming when we're done with him," Ella murmured.
"What is it?" The Detective was frowning, peering at the coated surface of the body (and everything else in the room).
"The dust? Oh, that's dryer lint! Courtesy of Mr. Smythe from what I hear. Word is he knew a guy who worked in the laundry at the Hilton, and dumped a couple bags full into the central air system – and voila! Whole place is flocked like an easter parade float! Well, a murderous easter parade float. Which is actually kinda on point–"
“Thanks, Ella." Chloe turned, finding Lucifer had barely made it into the room, eyeing the mottled surfaces as if he were personally affronted. It was almost cathartic, seeing him so far removed from his natural element and wallowing in the dust like the rest of them. She presumed his impeccably tailored self had never done his own laundry, let alone dealt with these nitty-gritty, messy parts of life (which seemed to describe the whole of her own right now).
She shook her head, refocusing. Now wasn't the time or place. Not to mention that she had enough self-awareness to suspect her ire with her partner might be partially motivated elsewhere.
She motioned to the door, avoiding the dust. "Let's go talk to Mr. Smythe."
Lucifer gave her a wide berth but fell in several steps behind as she led the way back downstairs.
"What?" she broke finally in exasperation. "If the case is offending your sensibilities, you didn't have to come, you know."
"Now where's the fun in that?"
She could hear the smirk in his voice. "Not fun; this is a murder."
"Right. Apologies." He made a halting gesture with his hand. She didn't turn, but her pace slowed, matching his. "And I want to be here. Because we're partners, Detective, and where you go, I go. Provided that allergies aren't catching. Are they?"
Her eyes narrowed, but that could’ve been because they’d reached the living room.
Inside, Mr. Smythe sprawled on the chesterfield, his arms thrown over the back and looking very pleased with himself. He was dressed sharply in professional black and white, although his sleeves were rolled and his hair had come ungelled at odd angles; it was the thick moustache peppered with grey that bore him a passing resemblance to Mr. Belvedere. On the opposite loveseat, two younger women were seated quietly in contrast, dressed for all the world like actual french maids.
The officer in charge looked relieved to see them, like he’d lost the battle with his histamines. Chloe nodded in acknowledgment while Lucifer circumvented them entirely to focus his attention on the women, who instantly looked far less subdued then they had moments before. None of that was surprising. But before anyone could speak, Mr. Smythe let out a hoot.
“Oh, you must be the detectives! How droll, this is so much better than I anticipated – and I anticipated a lot! Well, come on then and get it done with, I can’t wait to share this with my bridge club.”
The officer gave a weary shrug that implied this was now her problem.
"We'll talk to him," she agreed. “One on one.”
That way, the stories could be compared, and there’d be less distraction. She waited until the officer had seen them out, totally not counting down in her head until Lucifer had wandered back to her side.
"Did you know," he began promptly on the 47-count, "college tuition these days may as well be legalized extortion? Turns out Tatiana and Maddison were putting themselves through a law degree, and Mr. Millard paid well. As luck would have it, LUX is hiring, so it seems they won’t be without employment for long.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“Yes, I know, but shouldn’t we focus on Mr. Belvedere here? The sooner done with this dust bowl, before one of us develops asthmatic sympathies.”
From the sofa, Mr. Smythe preened, drawing their attention. “Real shame Harold didn’t have asthma; then he could have choked on his pride, literally. But this is just as good – better even, like a game of Clue? Even I couldn’t have planned for that!”
“He’s clearly waived his right to remain silent,” Lucifer peered through furrowed brows. “I don’t suppose that will do as a confession?”
Chloe frowned. “Mr. Smythe, do you understand what’s happening here?”
“I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re asking,” his posture shifted, sitting straighter to bring his hands together. “Not that working for Harold these last twenty years would leave anyone of sane mind. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be working day in, day out, alongside someone living in a completely different version of reality than you are?”
“I’m… sure that would be difficult,” she carefully bridged, “but you’d hope that murder is pretty extreme in any reality.”
David Smythe sighed. “I didn’t kill Harold. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted him to die a hundred thousand consecutive deaths on the spot for every ill and ridicule I’ve endured over the years. But instead, I quit. And told him to consider this–” he threw out his hands, thumping them on the back of the cushions for emphasis and sending a plume of dust into the air “–my resignation letter! And the best part? I’m not cleaning any of it up!”
Behind her, Lucifer stifled a gasp, but only because the whirling motes came dancing towards them on the sunbeams that sliced between the heavily shuttered curtains. Chloe held their focus. “I suppose you have people who can vouch for your whereabouts at the time of the murder?”
“Oh, I was here. Wouldn’t have missed his reactions for the world! Also the maids were here, as well as the pool boy. But I was on the phone with Leslie nearly the whole morning while packing up – she’s from our bridge club – which is why I didn’t hear a thing and only found the body on my way out. Talk about a legendary parting shot! You can check phone logs, can’t you? The government is supposed to be tapping those things anyways. It’s all on there.”
“We’ll pull those logs,” the Detective nodded, knowing full well the best they might get from the service provider were usage times. Yet her gut was saying this wasn’t their guy, despite the sweat that had begun to bead down his balding head in the absence of the air con; dust settled there, sticking fast. God, she was going to need a shower herself when this was done…
She turned to consult with her consultant only to find the space empty. Well that figured.
“Mr. Smythe, there’s a few more questions we need to ask, and get your friend Leslie’s contact info too. Would you mind talking with the officer? It won’t take up much more of your time.”
“Can’t be worse than Harold,” he harrumphed, eyeing the other policewoman’s approach. “The years of my life lost to that smug, commandeering chump…” Dust swirled as somewhere else in the house a door opened; he watched it settle with gleaming satisfaction. “Still totally worth it.”
·······•✦•·······
Lucifer escaped into the hallway before accosted by the dust, stifling what might have been a sneeze on his way through. At this point, the whole place was making his skin crawl worse than a bad trip, and he could feel the tickle spreading through his whole body, down to the tips of his forcefully concealed wings.
Dad damn you, Amenadiel…
He needed to put some space between him and the situation before all heaven broke loose.
He knew, on some level, the Detective would be displeased; she often was these days. It was his fault, mostly. He knew that, but the alternative remained infinitely worse – were she to know the truth, it would only confirm every terrible thing she already knew about him, irrefutably. And then she would put him out of her life for good.
Well, that part was inevitable. He knew that too. But sometimes a devil liked to play that he was an ordinary civilian consultant, with no worse a reputation than a boozy and capricious club owner, and have that be the singular reason she was disappointed in him. It was kinder to them both.
He turned into the front foyer and was within paces of the entrance when a door swung open somewhere above, loosing a torrent of scurrying grey particles into the atmosphere directly overhead. He nearly shot his wings out then and there but he didn’t, mustering the urge and instead bracing ineffectively with his hands. It worked as well as he thought it would. Dust fell like ash and memories shuddered with them until distracted by something else entirely: Ella’s voice descending from above, and the Detective a few steps behind, and – he was going to sneeze.
Beneath the sweeping staircase that climbed up the left wing of the foyer was a small but sturdy door; it was unlocked in a blink of an eye and he dove inside.
“AH-CHOO!”
“Bless you,” said Ella stopping at the top of the staircase as a sudden, resounding THWUNK! went shuddering through the walls. Then all was still. “Huh. That was weird,” she spoke to the following silence, and then carried on her way.
·······•✦•·······
Chloe ducked her head into the kitchen to find it relatively clear of dust, likely owed to its own exhaust system that gleamed in stainless steel above her; otherwise the room was unremarkable, and more pointedly, Lucifer wasn’t there.
She wasn’t looking for him. She absolutely wasn’t; she didn’t have any time for his Luciferness right now, not when the key suspect turned out to be anything but and Pierce was going to want a briefing soon. So she didn’t give a rat’s ass that Lucifer had poofed on her again, not after he’d told her just the day before that he did care (about the cases; he cared about the cases) or that he’d wanted to be here, because they were partners (work partners; that’s what they were).
She had no idea why standing alone in the empty kitchen surrounded by cold marble and steel would reflect something about how she felt. Surely, she knew better than that. She did. She knew how this partnership worked. And that the novelty of whatever great notion he’d been pontificating about moments earlier had simply worn off, as it always would.
More likely, he’d just come up with a new one.
She wondered briefly if it was called Maddison or Tatiana.
She heard voices at the front door and refocused. She had a job to do, and a boss to call, and why did that one cause her stomach to flop in a completely different way? Because that was also ridiculous.
Was it? Pierce was as dry as toast, impassive and aloof, and oftentimes outright rude. Also, her boss. But he did have great arms and really cared about the job – and maybe a little about her? In his own cryptic and phlegmatic way. At least that’s what Ella kept saying, so maybe if she said it enough times it had to be true…?
Currently, Ella was at the bottom of the stairs with Dan, who offered a short smile when she landed beside them. “So, we found some things. Where’s Lucifer?”
Which was the last thing she wanted to talk about and hoped it didn’t show on her face. “Around. What’s up?”
“Enough cocaine to fuel a week-long bender, although for him, it’s probably a Tuesday." Dan's face was pensive, but resigned. "You might want to keep him away from the pool house until vice is done bagging it.”
“Right. Well, that’s something,” she acknowledged plainly, “because I don’t think the butler did it after all; so that leaves us with the maids and the pool boy.”
“Already ahead of you.” He pointed beyond the door, where the young man stood next to the cruiser, talking with another officer. He was built like a statue of Adonis and dressed sparingly in a sports top and bright red shorts. His right hand however was bound in a sling. “I don’t think he’s our killer either.”
“What a shame.” Ella’s eyes rested a beat longer on the suspect than was professionally necessary. “I mean, that arm…! Also, from the angle of impact, I’d put money on our killer being right handed. The pool boy… currently isn’t. Sure would be helpful to find that murder weapon though…” She gave herself an out and took it through the open door.
“I’ll tell you if we find anything else in the pool house,” Dan offered placatingly before heading back towards the terrace. No Lucifer, he mouthed in parting.
Chloe was left alone in the dusty foyer.
At least the first part was simple. No Lucifer: task failed successfully.
Irritation may have been the motivating factor when she reached for her phone. She expected no calls, and there were none. Because he was busy. And she sure as hell didn’t want to know what (or, let's be honest, who) he was busy with. But this was a crime scene dammit, and the least he could do was show a little professional courtesy!
…unlike the time he'd started a distribution centre out of that teen ranch, or swiped the Sinnerman out from under them to do God-knows-what before Pierce put the whole situation to rest.
She fumed silently. If he really cared about the cases – and she didn’t exactly doubt that he did – he sure had a strange way of showing it. But it was pretty damn clear what he thought of her, and maybe her failure to acknowledge that is what led to this messy sort of limbo they were both stuck in now.
So that was it.
She’d call Pierce and give the update, then close out this case like the competent professional she was.
But first…she dialled the number, absently pacing the foyer as it ran through to voicemail, because of course it did. Chloe jabbed the red button far harder than needed while recomposing her thoughts. She reached the opposite side of the room and hit redial; it rang again.
Behind her, muffled by the modest door tucked beneath the staircase, came a correlating ringtone, sounding vaguely like The Pink Panther.
The phone slid away from her face, and she closed it with a thumb. The music stopped. The silence that swallowed the foyer was complete, muted by the blanket of thickly coated lint.
She knew what she needed to do, which was turn and never give Lucifer Morningstar residence in her thoughts again, because Chloe Jane Decker was not an idiot.
She was, however, completely pissed off.
“Lucifer.”
The responding voice was subdued, mostly owing to the wall between them.
“Detective.”
Her own voice somehow remained level. “Do I want to know what you’re doing in the closet?”
“Other than setting civic sensibilities back some thirty years? That would be a resounding ‘no.’”
Imperturbable Chloe Decker, patient, tactful, and composed, would have simply walked away. But that Chloe Decker had left the building about six excuses ago, and the one that was left stood glaring at the door like she’d will it to spontaneously combust.
“Well, that's great; while you’re at it, why don’t you set my career back to the start as well, since that’s where it’s going once HR catches on to what really goes down in the evidence room! We are at an active crime scene, like, can you be any more indiscriminate! Apologies to whomever else is in there; I mean you, not them.”
“Er, duly noted and refuted; however, I would like to lodge an amendment – it was the supply cupboard, not the evidence locker, those walls are a step above ricepaper and only a complete solipsist would propose in there. And I feel purposely inclined to mention it’s just myself at present, no further malefactors to speak of.”
“Oh God, you found the blow…” her forehead thumped against the door in defeat.
There was some garbled expletive involving his father, then, “Wait, they found what where?”
“Lucifer, just, get out of the closet.”
A pause. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Detective.”
She straightened, eying the panel. “Are you… alright?”
Another pause. “Divine.”
“Then get your divine ass out here, or, so help me, I’m counting to three and then dragging you out of here myself.”
She felt her cheeks colour the moment the words left her mouth, followed hoarsely with a moderately draconian “One!” before he could return anything in response. A series of muffled thunks and thuds transpired on the other side of the wall and she honed herself, doubling down. “Two!”
“Detective, please; it’s not what you think, trust me. It’s far worse.”
There was a quality to his voice that made her pause. “Then come out and let’s talk about it.”
“That would be unideal.”
“Well, we’re partners, yeah? That means we’re there for each other, both the good and the bad; because otherwise, what are we even doing here? So, try me.”
It was like standing on a precipice, a place they’d reached a half dozen times before, looked over the expanse and bore witness to everything that could be – what they could be. And the notion made her heart skip and stutter even now, because it was a ledge, and that was terrifying, and yet… she wasn’t afraid at all, because maybe, she wasn't standing there alone.
Memories dove and clattered like striking billiard balls startling her into a more honest recountment. But then they scattered, clearing the way.
Maybe this time will be different.
“Detective… I can’t.”
She released the air from her lungs in a whoosh and faced the hard reality of the door in front her.
“Three,” she said, grasping the handle and pulled, unceremoniously leaning into the jam; she practically hooted when it clicked free in her hands. The door swung open. “Lucifer—”
It was a fairly large closet, boasting the entire space beneath the stairs. In true utilitarian fashion the space was packed with all manner of polite closetries – brooms and mop bucket, three separate vacuums of differentiating ergonomic design, a wheeled coat rack host to a myriad of uniforms ranging from the practical to others that were clearly meant to be removed after minimal wear, boxes, piled upon boxes, and shelves above where the height allowed, also full.
Embracing the clutter in between were feathers – long, sweeping, white, and possibly glowing faintly with a warm sheen. It was as if someone had stuffed the wings there as an afterthought, regardless of everything else already in place, because one length was folded awkwardly where the staircase crouched to meet the floor and the other seemed impossibly immersed amongst the rest of the mishmash, under the shelf, through the coat rack, toppling boxes, and thoroughly tangled in small appliance cords.
More curiously, the wings seemed to conclude in the middle where her partner stood, staring at her like an animal trapped and wild-eyed.
Even more disconcerting, they seemed to be attached.
When he remembered to breathe, the wings shuddered too, ever so slightly.
She swallowed, something settling deep in her consciousness that made the world seem a little off-kilter, as if its axes shifted.
“Detective,” he began haltingly. “I understand how this must look to you—”
“I’m not sure that you do.”
She didn’t remember speaking. Too many colliding realities were facing off inside her head, and she wasn’t sure which one would come out tops. And he was staring at her, like she was the one from another planet – no, wait, that would be another plane, right? Because Heaven and Hell were real and angels existed, and the one standing in front of her in an impeccable three-piece suit was hiding in a closet because – he was afraid of a little dust?
He also happened to be the Devil, her brain supplied helpfully, who had ruled Hell and punished bad people and could be reduced to putty at the hands of her nine-year-old. Who spent his days indulging his every desire and pissing her off in every possible way. Who had saved her life, again and again, then fled when confronted with the truth about their situation, while he’d kept his own secrets hidden in plain sight.
And she’d seen all of him – on multiple occasions, along with the rest of L.A – a body undoubtedly formed by the actual hand of God and every inch of him divine, profound, and carnal; and then she’d seen his scars, where he’d cut his wing off once before. Wings that were currently fanned out behind them, fixing him in place. Because he was an angel. In a broom closet.
“I’m going to need a minute,” she said simply, stepped out, and closed the door.
Dust swirled as her back slammed against the wall for support. The foyer was the same, but now it just seemed so damn ordinary, listless and dull and grey. Well, that last part was merely coincidental.
“Hey!” Ella appeared at her side, and she practically jumped. “Whoa, sorry – didn’t mean to startle you there. You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Not…that I would know anything about ghost-sightings… Anyhow, just came by to say Dan’s following up with the maids, so you might want to join him with Lucifer; he does have that way of making people open up, and then you know for sure he’s not in the pool house.”
“Nope, he is not in the pool house.”
“Awesome! I mean, I love the dude like my own brother, but I wouldn’t let either loose in a candy shop, y’know?” She continued her way up the stairs.
No, she decided, she wouldn’t leave the Devil unattended in a candy shop either. Because somehow she had become idiot-minder to the actual devil, and that wasn’t even the kind of thing you could put on a resume.
Oh God – because yeah, there was a God, he was Lucifer’s Dad, and he sounded like a complete asshole – and holy shit, did that mean Charlotte Richards wasn't human either? And Amenadiel? And Maze…? Actually, that one made a lot of sense…
But one part she couldn’t wrap her brain around was how she fit into all this: ordinary Chloe Jane Decker, who sure as hell wasn’t remotely special in any way. This was some kind of vast, cosmic joke. It had to be. Because any alternate narrative was completely insane. And why the hell was he still in the closet?!
She swirled, seizing the knob and with one decisive tug swung the door open. He was exactly as he left her, a caricature of what clearly should have been some far more reverent tableau.
“You,” she began, allowing forward momentum to make the rest of the decision for her, “have some explaining to do.”
And the door slammed behind them.
·······•✦•·······
There was a small light above the closet door, but Lucifer hadn’t lit it.
He could have; he’d always had an affinity with lights and igniting things – especially when all one needed was a little spark – and he was incredibly good at turning things on. Ask anyone.
But he didn’t really need the light to see (superhuman abilities and all that), and moreso, there wasn’t anything he’d particularly cared to look at. Certainly not the huge, feathery aberrations that remained stubborning flaring from his back, despite the small quarters and any sense of decorum.
Worse, he couldn’t put them back; it was all Amenadiel’s fault, really.
And then, as if that wasn’t enough nuisance for one day, the Detective had come looking for him.
Wait, no— the Detective wasn’t a nuisance; she couldn’t be, no matter how utterly confounding she was in her pursuits and bewildering in her insistence and care of things (namely of him, because that was ridiculous; nobody cared about the Devil, they just don’t).
Although that may have been, in part, because she hadn’t believed he was the devil. Which he may have, in no small part, ignored to define.
Until two minutes ago when she had burst through the doors and got an eyeful of him in all his dolorous winged glory.
And then she left.
Well, at least one thing today had gone like he’d bloody expected.
His wings hurt, stuffed as they were in the too-small space. He rolled his shoulders, without result. The pain was second to the knifing sensation that cleaved his chest when he breathed. The world had come to a shuddering stop with a slam of that door, and he found himself once again in darkness.
At least it was something he was used to. And he should know better than to reach for things above his station. But he had always been a creature of desire, and he wanted – oh, how he wanted! What he would give to be allowed but one more admonishing look, a bright retort, or a smile, the softest ones she used now and then when she looked at him, that he liked to pretend were only for him.
By now she was probably halfway across the city, nay, the world— putting reasonable distance between herself and the monster lurking in the closet.
Then the door opened, and his heart tripped all over again as she closed it behind her.
“You – have some explaining to do.”
He stared.
The suffusive glow from his wings lit her face. Her eyes were wide, set with a familiar determination. In equal turn, they measured him, darting to either side in a brisk assessment of his assets before centring again. (The cheeky things had the audacity to grow suddenly brighter in response, fanning towards her the way a sunflower might follow the sun. Oh, the idolatrous, back-stabbing bastards). He swallowed. “I can explain.”
She cocked a brow.
“I seem to have experienced a rather unusual reaction to airborne contaminants.”
The wings shrugged in appeasement.
“Oh.” She considered the information, her features scrunching into what he affectionately called her thinking face, the one she wore when a case was throwing her a curveball. “So this is, like, an allergic reaction?”
He huffed. “Were this something bloody Claritin could clear up, I’d be downing it by the bottle-full. Well, for medicinal reasons…”
“And how am I supposed to know that?” She balled her hands into fists. “Because it’s not like you share with me anything that’s actually important! Like that you have wings!”
“I told you, Detective, Devil here. I’ve never lied—”
“But you knew I didn’t believe you!” Her index finger planted in the centre of his chest. “You knew, and you didn’t do anything about it.”
“I— tried.” The word sounded hollow even on his tongue, but he forged ahead. “Like that time, in the boardroom – I tried to show you my devil-face, but dear ol’ Dad went and swiped it on me!”
“Your dad… as in God, swiped your... devil-face. He can do that?”
“That’s what having the omnis is about: the ability to meddle in absolutely every aspect of my life whilst completely ignoring me simultaneously! You have no idea, Detective.”
“Well, you’ve met my mother.”
He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Everyone’s apt to complain about their upbringing. It’s a right of passage, if you will. But not every parent chooses to abandon their child, casts them into Hell, and has them vilified for all of eternity.”
“Yeah, that’s true. And you’re right. I’m sorry.”
The silence settled between them. Chloe felt prickling on her face, a wash of her own mangled emotions and whatever was emanating from the man – angel – devil – in front of her. A realization dawned about the scale of experiences between them: he’d seen everything, done everything, and for millennia endured. And for much of that time it had been hell, literally.
The knowledge chilled her, for the mark it left was enormous, perhaps insurmountably so. Another piece slotted into place in her head, stirring turbulence while two vying fractions coalesced into a cohesive whole. Maybe she’d never be able to understand the whole, because trying to understand the machinations of the universe and its enigmatic God was hopeless, but also pointless, because it didn’t change what she knew about the person in front of her. If she were to take a leap of faith about anything, the devil she knew – angel – infuriating yet achingly endearing man – was who she’d do it for.
They were partners, after all.
Filing her questions about God and his terrible parental instincts away for now, she allowed her eyes to wander along the apex of the wings that braced uncomfortably against the underside of the shelf, back to where Lucifer was standing uncharacteristically still. His face was schooled into something resembling neutrality, but she knew him well enough to catch the tell-tale signs of tension that drew his brows and worked his jaw.
“Are you… stuck?”
He laughed. “Hardly; more an inconvenience.” He tried to emphasise his point, but his right wing was wearing a coat rack, and the left was jammed into parts unknown.
“May I…?” she gestured awkwardly, and, at his acquiescence, went darting beneath the wall of trailing secondaries.
“Detective!” Lucifer all but yelped in surprise. He could feel her rummaging behind his back, the brush of her hand passing just above the wing’s surface, barely touching. A very confusing surge of feelings was suddenly replacing his existential dread.
“How— Are they— They’re actually passing straight through your jacket! How are they passing through your jacket and still getting caught on everything else?!”
“They’re transdimensional entities,” he gritted out, doing his best to ignore every sensation but the will to keep his wings still; the Detective had moved to appraise the coat rack next, and the tight quarters ensured she remained pressed against his side whilst she shimmied to avoid the feathers. He swallowed. “But seeing as it’s the degree of control that’s culpable here, I’d rather not break time and space any more than necessary and risk drawing further attention to ourselves. Proof of divinity does weird things to your under-developed human brains. On that note…. why are you not more… scrambled right now? Most people would have already blue-screened. Are you sure you weren’t dropped on your head as an infant?”
She straightened, shuffling slightly until she faced him. “You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re a freak.”
“I’m not the one stuck in the closet.”
“You’re really having a field day with this, aren’t you?
“Less a field, more a room without a view.”
He made a derisive sound with his tongue, and she took pity, hiding her grin. Maybe her brain was scrambled; she was in a closet with Lucifer Morningstar and his ginormous, feathery wings, and the worst part of the situation was the distress it obviously caused her partner. But they would figure this out. And working on a practical problem saved her from all the other thoughts that flitted through her mind unbidden, like how soft were his feathers (they looked soft) and how they might feel against her skin (wildly inappropriate…but also soft). She cleared her throat.
“If I can figure out what you’re stuck on, maybe we can get them folded into a more comfortable position? Maybe I can— just—" she manoeuvred the vacuum forward, stopping short where the ceiling slanted. She considered the issue. "Is it okay if I touch them? To help you out, that’s all! Unless it’s some big celestial faux-pas, or like bad ju-ju, where I turn into a pillar of salt or maybe go blind…"
The devil chuckled. “All smoke and showmanship, like most biblical falsehoods; there’s a lot of embellishing around the judgy bits; St. Peter in particular was very judgy. You, of course, are welcomed to handle my divine instruments any time.”
She turned so he couldn’t see her face and reached for the bent wing instead.
The chuckle died in his throat.
“Oh! I’m so sorry – did that hurt?”
He swallowed, purposefully, before speaking. “N–n–no. All good.”
“Okay,” she frowned. “Just let me know."
Because clearly, I have no idea what I’m doing here. It wasn't like the academy ran a night course on Dealing with Divinity, and she’d never been one to consider church; she had owned a budgerigar as a child, briefly, before The Kraken knocked over the cage and the budgie had escaped into the muggy wilds of L.A.
His wings were nothing like the budgerigar’s. For starters, she quickly realized they were much bigger than she initially thought (and wisely kept the comment to herself). They were soft but also sleek, thick, and glowing willfully. Also surprisingly warm. Because they were alive, and attached to him. Yeah, that was doing a number on her head.
The desire rose to linger, to admire the sleek vanes that fanned luminescent white and seamlessly slotted against each, or explore how the coverts shivered when she brushed over them, lifting to reveal the finest downy barbs beneath… Way to focus, Decker. She forced her gaze up. Where the walls met, feathers bent at an uncomfortable angle. The instinct was to smooth them, and so she did, letting fingers glide over the ruffled surface to coax them gently into place.
Behind her, Lucifer stifled another sound. It did all kinds of things to hone her focus, just not the parts she wanted to focus on.
“Why don’t I talk you through this,” she said in a rush. “There’s a large toolbox pinned against the underhang, and if I move—” she braced against the case, hearing it slide over the floorboards (what was in it, rocks?) and set the vacuum free. Now there was wiggle room. Chloe leaned in, carefully parting feathers so she could slip her arm below to steady the wrist. “Hey, I might have it; if I’m guiding you here, think you can pull out?”
“Normally, my pull-out game is second to none; however, bearing these extenuating circumstances…”
“It’s okay,” she offered a wry smile. “Happens to the best of us.”
“It does not happen to me.” The edge of bitterness sharpened his words, but they weren’t directed at her, instead aiming closer to the chest. “This is the sort of thing that happens to Regular Joe Lunchbucket, bound by the constraints of a prosaic existence, not the bloody Devil, and if Amenadiel hadn’t let loose that half-brained, asinine theory out into the universe…” His posture sagged, conceding defeat; he sighed. “Apologies again, Detective. You have regretfully caught me at my least endurable, and I am so sorry you’ve had to bear witness to any of this.”
In the quiet dim of the closet, the feathers dulled ever so slightly as the air stilled. Then Chloe was moving, delicately extracting herself from the tangle until she was standing in front him again.
“Hey,” she began, waiting for him to meet her gaze until she took the leap and drew his attention the rest of the way with a gentle finger against his cheek. “Lucifer, I’m glad I’m here with you. I mean that. I meant what I said – being partners means we’re there for each other, no matter what. When we’re at our worst… that’s when we need it most of all.”
His expression widened, incredulous doubt and hope clinging to the same crumbling shards and forcing themselves into something composed. He hung at her touch until, abruptly, his posture shifted, straightening. “You don’t understand. These wings, they’re not– My devil face–” he pulled back but in the confines of the closet achieved little “–my worst is so much worse.”
Stubble warmed roughly under her finger tips as she examined his face. “Did it look like lasagna?”
“…what?”
“Your devil-face – kinda red and crusty-looking? Like lasagna.”
His mouth was open but didn’t form any words, so she continued. “That night, in the warehouse… right before I shot you,” she winced at the particulars of that memory. “I guess I saw… your reflection?”
He hadn’t moved a muscle, which if nothing else proved he did indeed have the ability to stay still. “Oh.”
Another beat passed in silence. Then, “But… you– you continued to work with me. You didn’t run away. Everybody runs away. It’s what you do when faced with irrefutable proof of the most wicked and inescapable evil… Yet, you’re… here. Why?”
“Well, I guess it comes down to the facts." Her gaze wandered, seeking a neutral ground. "I'm a detective. I need facts, and I need to understand them. Otherwise, all the police work I do would be for naught, if I just listened to whatever people told me instead of following the clues where they lead. So, you're the Devil. Yeah, that's a lot, and I understand how some would react to that because of what they already believe about the world. And yes, there are parts of this that are very, very crazy right now and I'm going to have a lot of questions before I'm done processing… But, you're also my partner. The best partner I've had, and that's a fact. And in this line of work, I've seen evil. It's almost never what people expect, and I've seen all the terrible, wicked things that humans do. You are none of those things. Also facts."
She shrugged, offering a small, soft smile, watching the lines on his face crease until they resembled something closer to her own.
“Well, I suppose there's a first for everything.”
"I'll say. Look at me, holed up in a closet with the devil and his giant, fluffy angel wings."
"Not for any lack of trying on my part," he tried for his usual glib and almost succeeded. "About being laid up – or whatever else you'd like to do with me in here; I've always been open about all manner of distraction, so that part is entirely on you."
"Would that work?"
"What… work…?"
"Distracting you."
Her eyes twinkled in the dim, and he became acutely aware of where her hands remained, tracing a line beneath his jaw that sunk downwards until anchoring on the lapels at his chest. “If we could get your mind on something else, maybe…” Her voice trailed, suddenly losing whatever nerves had provided the inspiration in the first place. “Or, you know, I could get you a coffee. Or whiskey. Would cocaine help?”
He was staring, mouth slightly ajar. Then he swallowed. “Detective, what is it you desire?”
She huffed. “That still doesn’t work, Lucifer.”
“Right, well, just wanted to be sure you’re not high on divinity.”
The laugh escaped in a half-contained snort, which he thought was adorable. “Now that ego of yours almost makes sense. But don’t expect me to suddenly start fawning over you just because I know.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he even looked relieved, and a question surfaced again from the back of her mind. Her expression sobered.
“Why me?” she asked. Her voice sounded very small. “Of all the places the Devil would choose, why here? … Why me?”
“Detective,” he mouthed in astonishment, because surely she knew – how could she not? That it was her inexhaustible determination that invigorated him, her pursuit of justice opening his eyes to a deeper understanding of humanity, and finding the willingness to regard those aspects within himself in ways he had not before considered.
She was, in no small part, the reason his whirlwind of a life had suddenly found a point of anchor, a refuge, this sense of belonging and home he’d never experienced before. She may be the Miracle set in his path towards an unfounded conclusion, but he was the Devil, and his Father’s Plan had never stopped him before; if anyone could find a way to thwart an almighty intention, it was him, and she was worth every risk, every manic whim of an uncertain existence. She was everything.
She was looking at him, and her eyes had become uncommonly bright, and he realized he still hadn’t said a thing. Not a lie – but never quite the truth. She knew nothing, because he in his infinite wisdom had protected her against the celestial reality of which he categorically belonged. Only now it didn’t feel so unanimously noble, and a voice that sounded an awful lot like Linda’s questioned who he was really protecting after all.
Because, she was impervious to all manner of celestial influence. He’d realized that, gloriously, and with palpable relief, but also with the bittersweet irony of that briefly-lived joy. She was free to make her own choices unfettered by any celestial might. And now that she finally had all the facts, she had the means to honestly consider, and subsequently, reject him completely. Except for some reason she hadn’t (yet). She’d even come back. He didn’t understand, but it had made a chord roar in his chest that the Devil had no business feeling.
Because what he wanted – more than he wanted anything since falling, that first time – was something unadorned and plain.
He wanted her to choose him.
And somehow, it seemed she didn’t know that he would choose her, too.
He heard the small, soft sigh that escaped into the silence. “Chloe,” he found his voice, his hands steady at her sides before she moved away. “I know I may not have been altogether forthcoming with you, and have done things that made you question your sanity – and mine. And some of those actions… may even have hurt you, deeply. That was never my intention, but, that isn’t an excuse to be made. I thought I was protecting you, giving you a choice, but the truth is… I was unconscionably selfish, because I realize now that by not being honest I divested you of that choice instead.
"And because of that, you then began doubting not just my sorry ass – who bloody well deserved it – but yourself as well. And that is where I must make amends. Because you, Detective, are incomparable. You are just, kind, and selfless to a nauseating degree. You are never afraid to seek justice and stand up for what you believe – you’d stare down the literal Devil if you had to, and I know, because you have, and you’re bloody terrifying. And beautiful. And care so much about the people in your life, whether they deserve that grace or not. Chloe… It’s because it’s you.”
He could almost accept the shimmer of his wings, the way they lit her eyes, her face, and made her hair glow softly, like moon-kissed gold. But the silence that grew to swallow his words filled him a desperate kind of dread.
Then she sniffled, and he realized he’d made it worse again. “I’m sorry, I meant–”
“Shut up,” she said, smudging away a tear from her cheek. “You had me at Detective.”
And she kissed him.
She followed by folding into his arms, snug in a way he could feel all of her, if he was paying attention to anything besides the warmth of her mouth against his, her teeth on his lip, asking entrance and then opening for him when he answered in kind. He drew her tightly, one hand threading upward to tangle in the hair at the base of the messy bun. He wanted to pull the damn thing free, to run his fingers through brown and gold unabated. Her hands were also moving, gracing the angled pane of his neck and leaving his skin flushed and wanting. He wanted to feel more of her, he wanted to explore every inch, every part pressed flush against him, her hands on his—
He choked abruptly on a sound he came to realize he’d made, once his brain engaged enough to parse the situation.
Chloe halted; her hands, which had settled over his shoulders, came away, brushing the underside of his wings again as they did. “Sorry – not good?”
“N-n– not entirely used to it, that’s all; can’t say I’m in the habit of making out with my wings out.” He breathed, taking advantage of the reprieve to focus his attention on that delectable spot where her jawline met her ear; he considered what it would be like to suck a mark there, just below. He nibbled instead, and whatever tension had creased her brow was gone instantly.
“Huh,” her head tilted, maybe with the query, maybe to give him better access to her neck. “Would you prefer if I didn’t touch them?”
His voice was far huskier than he intended. “I’d prefer us both out of this closet and our clothes so there’d be nothing between you and whatever you’d like to touch.”
She made a small, breathless sound of her own. It inspired no small part of him to rise again in admiration, the anticipation of when he could inspire all manner of noises from her fanning the ready-inferno that flared dependably in her presence. Then her hands returned to his shoulders, deliberate and achingly slow to broadcast the motion. When her fingers teased against the scapulars he stilled, and he could feel the gentle smile on her lips when she turned to him. “Still good?”
He nodded, willing air into his lungs, and if his wings arched against the flat of her hand when he did, that was on them.
It had been a millenia, maybe three, since any creature had touched his wings (save that one time he’d got Maze to chop the damn things off). He didn’t want them. They were disingenuous, the wings of an angel he had never been, and serving no purpose other than a heavy reminder of his Father’s dominion over him. They mocked him, mercilessly, for everything he was not worthy of being.
There was another time, so long behind him that the memory took a gauzy sheen, when he remembered how much he loved flying – windsheer breaking like joy over their graceful bend, his feathers fanning, brilliantly white, catching the first rays of dawn and turning gold.
Her fingers combed the downy coverlets, dragging patterns into the pristine surface, before returning to centre and sinking between the longer scapular feathers to the warm skin beneath. The feeling was a freefall – but he was soaring, a giddy high that swelled his chest and spread like quicksilver along his nerves. Everything was alight, rushing towards the pinnacle at harrowing speeds. He bent his face into the soft crook of her neck, dropping his hands to her waist. Her presence was an anchor. She held him, grounding him in the soft smell of florals and supermarket shampoo.
The almost pavlovian response it elicited was another thing in a quickly cascading procession of things. Not to mention the utter confusion of sensations boldly migrating, building on itself bluntly and with vigour anew: he was profoundly erect. “Chloe…”
“Too hard?” she murmured.
“You have no idea.”
“We can go slow,” she relaxed easily, moving to thread her fingers through his hair in gentle circles. “Tell me what you like.”
The whine that escaped was full of wanting. “This – isn’t how it's supposed to go. I’m the Devil – purveyor of desires, the one who’s supposed to bestow all manner of carnal delights on you… I gave you my word, and when I imagined us together, which I have, so many, many times… My point is, the thoroughfare within them all was I’d be here, worshipping you, no wings, no celestial shenanigans of any sort, and Dad forbid I last less time than it takes you to exit a hot tub!”
(That happened – just once – early in their partnership, after she'd spent a night sleeping off what he expected had been a roaring hangover, in his bed, sprawling and gloriously naked, while he had pointedly not done any of those things at all).
She considered this, her lips pursing as she did. He wanted to eat them, devour her, all of her, her knees pressed against his ears while she came.
“We can do that next time,” she shrugged. At his hung expression she moved, sliding a hand inside his suit jacket for no reason his brain could resolve until she fished the condom packet out between her fingers. “I’m good if you are.”
“But— what if I—”
“Lucifer. I’m in a broom closet with my very hot and currently very aroused partner, who I’m pretty crazy about myself, and also happens to be the Devil, with wings, and there’s enough adrenaline in my system right now to likely outrun a moose. It’s been over a year since I split with Dan and probably more like two since we last slept together, and unlike you, I don’t have people falling over themselves to show me a good time – present company excluded – so trust me when I say this is going to be embarrassingly fast for me, too. Okay?”
“Okay,” he motioned after her. Then she smiled, and he knew he was smiling back with what he suspected was an altogether goofy and lopsided grin. He was compelled to kiss her.
The kiss was inelegant and sloppy, but infinitely sweet, conveying a reverence and building haste. She was onto his shirt buttons, tugging them free with focused need, and he took the opportunity to loop his thumbs below her waistline, beyond the blouse to the ghost of skin beneath.
The contact had her breath hitching. His hands spread over the warm expanse, drawing over the smooth curve of her back and up her shoulders to release her bra with deft fingers. He took delight in tracing her ribs, following the clean lines forward before coming to cup the underside of each breast in his hands. He breathed. He had imagined them plenty, the kind of idyllic fantasy he knew would fall short. Better still, she sighed when he palmed them, and when he circled his thumbs over pebbled nipples – uneven, shivering gasps that had him straining against his own progression. This was bliss, but he wanted more; he was the Devil, after all.
There was sufficient room within the indiscriminately tight quarters for him to shuffle, less with finesse than born of necessity, wrenching his left wing with a climatic shrug. The closet contents shuddered and settled. He craned – scraping clear of the overhang and tipping the titanic tool box into a perilous cant – but he was free. It was just enough to extend the wing tips forward and so he did, furling the wide primaries until they were snugly tucked against her back. Their warming glow made her eyes shine the deepest ocean green when she looked up at him, the question on her face gone the moment after when he hoisted her lightly off her feet.
“Is this working for you?” he queried softly, nestling her into the crook of his wing.
Her eyes danced. “There’s no universe where this wouldn’t be working for me.”
“Wonderful,” the grin returned; but in the next breath his gaze grew more serious. “I can’t… draw out your desires. So I won’t know, were I to do something—”
“Then I’ll tell you.” There was a quality to her voice that warmed him through. She pulled him in, her hand resting over his heart, skin to skin. “And you’ll tell me. We’re in this together.”
She was beautiful, she was brilliant, and for some reason, she was his. His voice was thick when he spoke. “I very much like the sounds of that.”
“Me too.”
The admission was soft against his lips. There was so much brimming at the surface he suspected he could drown, if he let himself. It was too much for a single moment to resolve, but he sensed he wouldn’t have to. He trusted she wouldn’t let him drown. And that was enough to let himself fall again.
Chloe revelled in the warmth of him, cocooned within this space; there was a part of her brain that worried, a faint splotch of seeded dark that riled about what would happen, after, once they stepped back through the door. But here, now, surrounded by him, there was only warmth – that feeling of security he carried within his presence, but also heat, kindling something at her core, fanned now by the permission to touch, to cultivate and to be consumed.
To be vulnerable, because he gave her strength, and the courage to claim something for herself.
And yes, it was complicated, still – a hell of a lot more than she realized, really, as a feather tickled the back of neck and made the hairs rise – but the difference now was they both were here, ready to tackle it together. There’d be some stumbles, she knew, but she trusted him with her life, and her heart she’d given him long ago. Cradled between his arms and his wings, she felt home, swathed in darkness and light.
Then his hands settled at the top of her jeans with intent, his breath hot against her ear. “Let’s divest you of these,” he murmured, sending fresh goosebumps scampering in anticipation.
The answer was barely out of mouth before he was moving, pulling the fastenings and fabric away with almost frantic efficiency. She might have smirked at his handiwork if she didn’t agree with him completely, the motion tipping her back into the spread of feathers. They were so soft, part of her brain made note, but then all thoughts careened to a stop when his hand grazed the newly exposed skin to meet the apex of her thighs.
Her breath caught in her throat. The next expression came high and needy as his thumb nudged against the nub of her clit, his fingers slipping between her folds, slow, exploratory excursions into already slick, lubricious heat. She might have said something, and he answered with his mouth over hers, his tongue gliding in fervid strokes she had no challenge imagining elsewhere. She needed more of him, desperately, grounding herself on his fingers, feeling the edge tumbling, precariously near.
At this moment, she couldn’t have stopped it if she wanted to. She didn’t want to. She swallowed her breath, and he made a low, rumbling sound that couldn’t be entirely described as human, resonating with something deep within her core.
She came tumbling over with a desperate sound, breaking free like a band snapping. He held her close, supporting her as she went boneless, his own breath ragged in her ear when he finally spoke.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” The words elevated, easing his hand free to explore while her high settled into a pleasant thrum. His wing easily held her weight, which that curious part of her brain noted, working over just how strong he was, and how that might be better explored, before she registered he was talking again.
“Next time, I am going to make you work for it a little longer.”
She was far too relaxed to care how smug he sounded right at the moment. Almost. “You barely did any work there, I don’t know if that counts.”
“Oh, a challenge! Accepted, gladly. And you’ll be glad you did – I am a cunning linguist as you are well aware. Also, I’d eat you out like a Thanksgiving feast.”
Laughter escaped in a bright burst and she swatted at him, affectionately, deciding his ego needed no further buffing and besides, there were other things she’d like to polish. When he opened his mouth next she reached to cup the obvious bulging in his trousers. The words evaporated on his tongue. She boxed him in between her knees to work the belt and zipper and set his erection free.
He certainly hadn’t lied about that. At full attention, he was every inch impressive – and he had the inches; beautifully balanced in length and weight, the kind of cock that stood firmly in a state of intrigue without tipping into trepidation, a phallic masterpiece to which all lesser gods aspired. Well, damn. That’s not intimidating at all. Then she took him in hand, and he shuddered, cock twitching in response to her touch, his breathing harsh as he sucked the air between his teeth. His fingers dug into her buttocks when she began working over the glistening head and down the length of him, appreciating the weight of him in her hands and the short, breathy sounds she drew while he tried to still his hips.
No doubt she could have had him losing himself in her hands, probably in fewer strokes than he’d admit to ever again. And part of that feeling fluttering in her belly was the self-satisfaction of knowing the reaction she could induce. Yet there was another part bracing against the inevitable and coming admission, of facing the world outside (nevermind trying to explain why there was divinity all over the closet when forensic combed through). But another part couldn’t care less what anyone would think, except for those she cared about, namely the man before her and between her legs; who very certainly wanted her as much as she wanted him, every part of him, and the feeling that swelled inside wasn’t just pride, or passion, or need.
When he schooled himself to murmur, a low but weighted – “where?” – she put the foil to her teeth and tore.
“This is truly what you desire…?” his eyes found hers in the dim, his voice full of quiet wonder and something that squeezed her heart and made it sing.
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
He took the condom with another soft huff of amazement, his gaze fixed on her as he rolled it down his length, committing every detail into memory. She met his grin, looped an arm over his neck to rest against the folded wing until his hands were free; then he caught her up once more, wings flexing to brace the position and effortlessly hooking his arm beneath her thighs to draw her level. Her free hand slipped in between, positioning him at her entrance. She felt his heart thunder, his lips brush her forehead. There were no more words just now, just a soft murmur and a breathless sigh as she sunk down, slowly, letting him fill her.
They moved, unhurried at the start, becoming accustomed to each other’s bodies and quiet tells, a gratuitous give and take of desire they already shared. Friction built like a serpent winding tight down that premordial coil. She matched his strokes, placing open-mouth kisses at his throat, her hand digging into peaked feathers when his thrusts grew more uneven and urgent. He shifted, groaning with approbation when the change in angle caused her to bury a single, strangled cry against his clavicle, mouthing his name.
That was all it took. Like a wave cresting, he came, crashing against the enveloping swell of the shore and spilling over with a primal utterance that carried her over the brink with him.
The waves rolled, ebbing and receding now at a more measured pace, leaving them breathless, basking in the pale golden afterglow of star-lit feathers.
Her head was cradled against his chest, and Lucifer sighed, a profound contentment rendering him limp and languid; he found he didn’t mind at all. Everything felt pleasantly buzzed, and no wonder – she was intoxicating, better than the DXM or any proof, and he needed none of Amenadiel’s half-brained suppositions to tell him that. He planted another light kiss against the top of her head, because he could, and gave his wings a small, inquisitorial shrug.
The next moment he was stumbling as the feathered nuisance vanished with a flippant whoosh!, upending all manner of mélange within the over-packed space – himself included. They collapsed backwards in a comically slow but unstoppable slide into the closet proper with Chloe tumbling down on top of him.
“Bloody Hell, those cheeky, egregious bastards!”
She tried not to laugh (she did!) but found it impossible to feel completely bad about anything right then, even tangled in the closet with her abruptly wingless and indignant partner. “Well, at least we know what to do next time.”
“Pffff. They’d like that, now wouldn’t they!” He meant to scowl but found the effort underwhelming. Besides, the Detective was grinning at him, and though the lights had gone out with his wings, he didn’t need them to see how gorgeous and thoroughly ravished she looked lying in his arms. There was that same, peculiar softness about her eyes he liked so much; he hoped she’d never stop looking at him like that. “Mind you, I find myself rather inclined to agree with them on this one very specific thing.”
“Just this?” she queried, and from her vantage on his chest it was easy to lean in, meeting his lips for a flush but lazy kiss. His arms, which had wound tight when they’d tumbled, began to move, reaching to smooth back the hairs that had fallen from her untidy bun, lingering about her face. She sighed, freeing her own hand to graze the soft stubble along his jaw as she deepened the kiss. Beneath her, she felt his cock twitch. Wait, was he actually hard again—
“Chloe?” Ella's voice permeated from beyond the door.
“Oh shit,” she squeaked in abject dismay as reality raised its head first.
Without a word Lucifer was straightening them both, drawing her jeans into place before he turned to adjust his own. Chloe latched her bra haphazardly, shoving her blouse back into her pants and leaving him to deal with his buttons, and with all the dignity she could muster she turned towards the door. There she paused for a weighted moment before cracking it ajar.
The tool box, heavy and heavily leaning, took the opportunity to topple the rest of the way over, spilling the contents into the open hall with a resonating crash.
Ella came skidding back into the foyer at the noise. Her eyes widened when they landed on the mess, and then the door Chloe and Lucifer had emerged from, back to the tool box, back to them, her brows drawing as they worked through a complex and multi-fascinated conundrum with growing acuity, then back to the tipped-over box where they widened even more as she exclaimed, “Oh, my God, you guys! You found the murder weapon!”
With professional grace, Ella slapped on a pair of gloves, snapped a quick picture before extracting what appeared to be a geometrically carved marble bookend from amongst the other more commonly acquired tools. The finial was obviously bloodied; she appraised it with veteran esteem. “Would you look at that! I’ll run some tests to be sure, but who wants to bet that’s going to match the dent in Harold’s skull like a missing puzzle piece? Nice try, Rodney!”
“Rodney?” Chloe inquired politely, absently scratching at the back of her neck; she dislodged a small, very white feather and stuck it into her back pocket.
“Yeah, Rodney Millard – waaaait, did you miss the whole thing?!”
“Depends on what your definition of a “miss” is,” Lucifer supplied.
She blinked at them again before launching. “Harold’s brother Rodney. Who arrived here not fifteen minutes ago riding a steer – like, with the horns and mooing and completely wasted! …Rodney, not the cow. But then the cow takes one look at pool boy’s hot red shorts and starts snorting like a steam engine, and they take off – across the veranda, through the pool house, and into the pool… people are scattering, cocaine’s flying everywhere – Alejandro’s fine, by the way – but they’re still trying to figure out how to get a coked-up cow out of the shallow end.”
Lucifer opened his mouth to say something but Chloe stopped him with a hand.
“Meanwhile, Rodney went sprawling into the begonias. And when Dan goes to help him, the man springs up waving around one of those flimsy Kitchenaid flambé torches. Says his brother deserved to go up in smoke the way his livelihood had, 'cause Harold allegedly sunk Rodney’s entire commercial empire in a hostile take-over. Talk about your sibling rivalries.”
The Detective still held the Devil at bay, which was fortunate, because Ella wasn’t done.
“Did you know dryer lint is combustible? It is! And Rodney learned that on an episode of CSI, so he’d come back to send his brother to the crucible once and for all… at least that’s what he got to say before Dan took him down, and now he’s sobering in lock up while the unis substantiate his claims. So, yeah, once I match these prints, the sordid tale of the Millard brothers should be formally closed.”
“Huh,” said Chloe when it was finished. Then she glanced at Lucifer, her voice low, “and here I thought Hell was supposed to freeze over.”
He shrugged in difference but returned a smirk of his own.
Ella looked between them, her face working through a complex rally of conflations. “You really missed all of that?”
“Afraid so,” Lucifer sighed. “It’s the price one must pay for the excellent bit of police work employed to find that incriminating evidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose,” she didn’t look entirely convinced. “But who am I kidding? What other reason would you two be rummaging around in a closet for? Not like you’re ever going to act on whatever’s been going on between you guys.” She clicked her tongue dismissively, then returned her attention to the bloodied object in her hands. “Guess I’ll be getting this back to the lab.”
She walked past Chloe, then turned. “Your makeup’s smudged,” she remarked before turning to Lucifer, “Yours, too,” and she ducked out the door.
Chloe choked on air. “Oh G– I mean, oh crap, I mean – do you think she knows? Of course she knows–”
“Detective, Miss Lopez is your friend; I expect she's eager to share in celebration along with you! Oh, I do hope she shares it with Daniel–”
“Ella can’t exactly keep a secret, so the whole precinct is going to know.”
He looked unfairly put-together for having just rolled in a closet, but now he began to work his cufflinks over with a keenly fastidious air. “Would that be a problem?”
Her gaze softened. “No,” she squeezed his arm, holding on until she felt the tension ease and his hands stilled. “Although, HR might not feel quite the same way we do.”
“I’ll take care of HR,” he assured, though at her sudden inward grimace continued, “Not that way; like I’d be able to settle for some tryst of convenience after you’ve so thoroughly ruined me for all other humans… Unless it’s Pierce you’re worried about…?” His expression casually furrowed.
“Of course not.” She made a face.
“Good; you should know he’s actually Cain, by the way.”
“...like, from the bible?”
“The one and only.”
“Huh. Well, I never liked him anyway.”
She didn’t miss the way he grinned. She bumped him with her shoulder, and he held the contact, and it was a moment, quiet and sincere – until a cow lowed somewhere in the background.
Chloe sighed. “We’d better go wrap things up out there. Ready, partner?”
“Absolutely,” he gleamed, all teeth and wolfish satisfaction, his hand extending chivalrously as they stepped between the scattering of disbanded tools, dust motes still swirling from all the excitement yet to settle.
If he held her hand a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, and she lingered with a look unfeigned before turning towards the front entryway, well, that’s just how it was going to be.
For he was the Devil, more than the sum of his many faceted pieces, and she was the Detective who desired to figure him out.
They walked out of the grey and into the sunlight together.