Chapter Text
Chloe Decker has chased leads in some of the worst places Los Angeles has to offer—moldy basements, dark creepy alleys, sketchy roadside motel rooms with questionable stains on the beds...and walls. But a high-end nightclub in West Hollywood...this is a new one even for her.
When she arrived, she vaguely recognized the building. She’d been here five years ago, back when this had been an underground fight club, and she was investigating the death of an MMA fighter who was supposedly mugged. Solving that case had gone a long way to earning her detective badge—the very badge she’s trying to save now.
Three days ago, she was called into Lt. Monroe’s office and told in no uncertain terms that she has three weeks to solve the Palmetto case and prove Malcolm Graham was corrupt or close the investigation for good. If she doesn’t, she loses her badge and she’s off the force. Apparently, the scrutiny the Homicide department has been put under is painting the LAPD in a bad light, and the brass wants resolution—or Chloe out of the precinct. No amount of debating will change their mind. No amount of ‘how is this any different from any other unsolved case?’ got her anywhere.
The difference is, there’s a cop in a coma on life support, a family who is angry and grieving, and the press is having a field day. Some outlets are running with the ‘former B-movie actress-turned-cop gone rogue’ angle. Others are painting Malcolm as a hero and Chloe as the villain—a lot like the department itself. A few think Chloe is on the right track. But the point is, the brass is over it, and they have Chloe’s head on the chopping block.
When she left the lieutenant’s office, most of the bullpen was watching her with cruel smirks, probably waiting for her inevitable breakdown. Chloe didn’t give them the satisfaction. She managed to hold it together until she made it to the one women’s bathroom with a lockable door to fall apart. Afterwards, Dan was waiting nearby. Chloe had hoped her husband, despite their separation, would rally in support for her.
She really should have known better.
“You want my advice?” he’d said when they went for a coffee to talk. “Let it go. Walk away before they push you. Don’t ruin your entire career over this, Chlo.”
Translation: He thinks she’s already ruined her career, but he doesn’t want her to actually lose her job. Or worse, take him down with her.
Chloe is on her own with this, as she has been since she started quietly investigating Malcolm for corruption in the first place. As badly as she doesn’t want to lose her badge, she also doesn’t want to give up on this, because she knows she’s right. Somewhere there is evidence. Somewhere, someone knows something. She just needs to find the smoking gun—preferably literally, and the person who shot that gun would be the icing on the cake.
Whatever it takes, she won’t walk away from this. She’s never walked away from the truth, and she isn’t going to start now. Not even if it means the career she’s worked so hard for.
She spent the last three days going over every piece of evidence she’s accumulated. Every file. Every crime scene photo. Every note she has ever taken. She returned to the abandoned gym on Palmetto Street and went over the tracks of everybody present...and found nothing.
Well, maybe not nothing.
When she started asking around, trying to find some angle no one else has seen, she ran into an old CI named Ricky Ybarra. He was twitchy and paranoid as ever as he leaned in close, smelling like old shoe leather and skunk weed, and whispered, “You want to see the impossible done? You talk to the Devil.”
Chloe thought he was joking—or stoned out of his gourd—until she’d gotten a name.
Lucifer Morningstar.
The guy who owns L.A.’s premier party hotspot. British, with an odd reputation of knowing everybody worth knowing, and being owed by the most powerful people (and criminals) in the city. According to Ricky, he’s a man who can make things happen. Paperwork magically disappears as if it never existed. Criminal charges are mysteriously dropped no matter the proof. Secrets are unraveled like cheap thread.
And it never costs a dime. It’s always...something else owed in return.
A favor for a favor.
That night, Chloe googled Lucifer Morningstar—and laughed. There were pages upon pages about him. Photos of him at red carpet events with Hollywood’s most elite, or at high society engagements. With politicians and musicians. He even has his own Wikipedia page. The rumors about him are wild and outrageous—everything from ‘he’s the best lay I ever had’ to ‘the Devil walks the Earth—repent, sinners!’ He walks around claiming he’s the Devil—the literal, actual Devil. Like, from Hell. And apparently, he really does deal in favors—some say for one in return, others say for your soul.
Which...whatever. Chloe never believed in magic or the Devil or even destiny. Hell, she stopped believing in Santa Claus when she was five years old. What she does believe in is facts, evidence, and bad decisions that lead people to ending up in handcuffs. She believes in justice and fairness.
But she also believes she’s out of time. And if putting up with a nightclub owning playboy who thinks he’s the Devil helps save her badge—if he can help her find even one lead on Palmetto that she hasn’t sniffed out yet...
Walking into Lux now, it isn’t what she expected. Not that she knew what to expect from a nightclub owned by a guy who thinks he’s the Devil—whips and chains? Everything bathed in palettes of red? Fire and damnation? But the place is actually classy—definitely upscale, but not ostentatious or gaudy. The lights are dim but warm—bulbs fill the ceiling and the mirrors along the wall give off an effect like a sky full of stars. The music is loud, but not enough to make her bones shake. And she’s pretty sure she saw a piano in the middle of the dance floor. The only sign identifying the club name is along the far wall: LUX, made up of individual lightbulbs.
It’s early enough in the evening, on a weeknight, that it isn’t crowded, but there are still plenty of people drinking or dancing or flirting. She stops at the railing overlooking everything, scanning the club for the so-called Devil. The floor is sectioned with the bar on the right, a smattering of high-top tables, and long leather couches, booths, and banquettes spread around. The other half is the dance floor—and yep, that's definitely a piano. There's something you don't see in most nightclubs. When she doesn’t see Morningstar immediately, she makes her way down the stairs to the bar and orders a drink. Not for her nerves; to fit in.
But maybe she is a little nervous. She’s hinging her entire livelihood on the hope that a stranger might be able to help her find a lead in a case. Her reputation is already in tatters; the badge is all she has left. If she doesn’t solve this case in two and a half weeks, she’ll either have to give up her pride or her dream job.
What’s worse, she isn’t sure which it’ll be.
When the bartender, a blond man with tattoos covering his arms and a mohawk, returns with her rum and coke, she stops him before he can move onto the next customer. “Can you tell me where I can find Lucifer Morningstar?” she asks over the music.
He gives her a knowing look and smirks. “He’ll be at the piano in about,” he checks his watch, “two minutes. Good luck.” With a suggestive wink, he moves on, leaving Chloe blinking.
Shaking her head, she grabs her drink and winds her way through the crowd as the music begins to fade away and the lighting changes, turning dimmer as a spotlight appears in the middle of the floor. With a raised eyebrow, she moves closer, stopping at the railing as a man sips from a crystal tumbler at the piano. His hair is perfectly styled, his black three-piece suit is crisp and looks to have been made for him—and probably was. Dark, glittering eyes scan the crowd as he sips amber-colored liquor, then sets the glass down beside a crystal ashtray with a recently lit cigarette burning.
Lucifer Morningstar. She recognizes him from the Google searches. Admittedly, he’s even more handsome in person than in photos, which is saying something. But she isn’t here to admire the scenery.
Get what you need, and get out of here, she reminds herself.
Lucifer’s hands rest on the keys for a moment, eyes still checking the crowd like he’s making sure all the attention is on him. His gaze finds Chloe and stops for a second longer, though she can’t read the expression in them—amusement? Mischief? With a smirk, he starts playing.
At first, it’s subtle. Just a few low notes that fill the space with a lazy rhythm. Then the chords, played slowly and deliberately. Chloe recognizes the song immediately—You Can’t Always Get What You Want by The Rolling Stones. The way Lucifer’s fingers move across the keys, it’s like the piano is an extension of him. Every touch is precise, and he never once looks to see what he’s doing, as if he’s practiced it so many times he could do it in his sleep. Or maybe he’s just that good.
Who knew the Devil could play piano?
Chloe feels her lips twitch involuntarily, her drink halfway raised. No way is she about to be impressed by...whatever this is.
Then he starts to sing. And...okay, he has a really nice voice, low and rich and smooth. But the smug little smirk on his face, like he knows exactly how good he is and how good he looks doing it, ruins it a bit. Chloe can practically feel the self-satisfaction rolling off him from here. Every eye in the club is on him, transfixed, as if he cast some sort of spell on them, and he’s soaking it all up like a devilishly handsome sponge.
She barely notices when her foot starts to tap along with the music, or when she starts singing the lyrics in her mind. She scowls when she does notice—damn it.
The thing is, despite the smug little smirk, Lucifer isn’t playing in any sort of flashy or over-the-top way; this just seems like something he genuinely enjoys doing—performing, playing piano, being the center of attention. It’s slow, a little playful, with just a dash of irony that makes the whole thing...almost charming. Like he doesn’t take any of it seriously, and doesn’t want anyone else to, either.
The more he plays, the more she can’t make herself look away. The way his fingers effortlessly dance and glide over the keys, like he’s coaxing the music to make it something intimate. As much as she wants to laugh it off or roll her eyes, to be done with this so she can go home, she finds she’s captivated. There’s just something about the way he plays, the way he owns the space and the crowd around him, that makes it impossible to write any of it off some sort of joke.
When he hits the chorus, his low, soft voice seems to have everyone holding their collective breath, but he looks like he’s forgotten there’s a crowd at all. Like he’s lost in the music and couldn’t be happier about it.
“You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You just might find
You get what you need...”
Chloe glances around at the crowd. Not one person is laughing. No one seems to think a piano in a nightclub is out of place. They’re all watching Lucifer, hanging on every note, every lyric. Even she is starting to think it isn’t all that ridiculous.
Despite the lyrics resonating with the reason she’s here, she doesn’t allow herself to fall completely under his thrall. This isn’t what she’s here for, and yet, she can’t seem to take her eyes off him. Sipping her drink, she hardens her resolve—she’s here for a favor, to save her career. Nothing more or less.
Definitely not here to watch some showoff nightclub owner perform for his legion of fans.
Still...her gaze turns back to his fingers, continuing to move across the piano keys, perfectly at ease in his own world and weaving a spell she refuses to admit she might be falling under.
The song comes to a flourishing end, and just like that, the spell is broken. Around her, the crowd bursts into thunderous applause with Chloe reluctantly joining in—just a couple quiet claps. Because it actually was a decent performance. The man at the piano is soaking up the accolades with a smugness that nearly has Chloe reconsidering this entire situation. But she reminds herself she’s nearly out of time and completely out of other leads.
As she approaches, Lucifer Morningstar doesn’t rise to greet her, or even lift his gaze as he reaches for his crystal tumbler. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he sets down the glass and ghosts his fingers over the piano keys again as the club music switches back on. When she’s close enough, his eyes dart over and give her a once-over that’s slow, deliberate, and borderline obscene.
“Hmm... Well, if I’d known my next appointment would be quite so...compelling, I’d have worn something tighter,” he says, his voice a low purr.
Chloe raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Lucifer Morningstar?”
“The one and only, darling,” he says with what she suspects is meant to be a charming grin as his hands finally fall away from the keys. He folds his hands into his lap, head tilted and eyes shamelessly raking her over. “And who might you be? No, no, let me guess,” he adds when she starts to answer. “Judging by your attire, which is outside Lux dress code, by the way—but don’t worry, I’ll allow it—”
She rolls her eyes so hard it actually gives her a slight headache. Or maybe that’s him.
“I’d say...cop? No! Detective. Definitely a detective. You’ve got that,” he waves at her vaguely, “tense, morally-conflicted posture about you.”
Her jaw tenses. “Detective Chloe Decker,” she says coldly. “I’m not here to play games. I heard you grant favors.”
“Ooh, is this a shakedown? I love those! But perhaps we could skip the theatrics and jump straight into...what is it you desire, Detective Chloe Decker?” He holds her gaze with the intense look of someone who’s about to either rip off her clothes or eat her alive—or both.
“Do you always start deals with that question? It’s a bit cheesy.”
Lucifer blinks. “Cheesy?” he says, outraged. “I’ll have you know—hang on.” He furrows his eyebrows, studying her closely. “How did that not work?” She isn’t sure if the question is directed towards her or himself. Then he grins again. “Oh, you must be one of the complicated ones. Lovely!”
And the regrets just keep piling up. “Look, I’m not here for...whatever-this-is. The favor thing—is it true or not?”
“You know, I must say, most people don’t lead with asking for a favor. They usually start with drinks, or a bit of flattery and flirtation...the gentle slide into seduction. Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Closing her eyes, she takes a breath, searching for patience she doesn’t have. “I’m not here for seduction,” she says through gritted teeth.
He looks at her with twinkling eyes, like he’s having the time of his life right now. “Oh, well, that’s all right,” he murmurs, smirking. “We’ll get there in the end, they always do. But for now, the fact of the matter is, you are here, Detective. Which means something imperative has brought you to my doorstep.” He taps his chin in thought. “What might that be, I wonder? Usually, it’s a spot of bother, or a smidge of existential desperation. With you, though...mid-career crisis? You certainly wouldn’t be the first woman to seek out the Devil when she’s run out of options.”
Chloe struggles not to facepalm. Or strangle him—too many witnesses. “Are you for real?”
“Completely,” he purrs, smirking. “Want to come closer, explore for yourself?”
“No.”
He actually looks taken aback. “Are you for real?” he counters seriously.
Taking a long sip of her drink, Chloe counts to ten in her head, reminding herself why she’s here. “Look. I’m not here for...this,” she says again, setting down her glass with a bit too much force on the nearest table. “I need information. Or a lead. There’s a case I’ve been working for months that might get me kicked off the force if I can’t close it in the next two and a half weeks. And rumor has it, you’re a guy who can make things happen, who can pull strings. Get people to talk. So unless that’s all club lore and bullshit—”
“Careful, darling,” he says lightly, still grinning. “You’re dangerously close to besmirching my reputation.”
Chloe narrows her eyes in a glare. She isn’t sure this was worth the gas it took to get here. “Look, are you going to help me, or should I just finish my watered-down, overpriced drink and go?”
For a moment, he just looks at her as if she’s the oddity in the room. Then he slowly gets to his feet, smoothing down the front of his white shirt in a way that annoys her just from watching. He steps around the piano and approaches, each step precise and theatrically restrained.
“You are a fascinating little creature, aren’t you?” he murmurs, sizing her up. “Angry, cornered, pretending not to be desperate. But I do find myself wondering, why come to me? You seem the rule-abiding type who wouldn’t know fun if it sat in her lap.” He leans in, just enough to make her bristle, but not enough to make her uncomfortable. “Unless, of course, you’ve already tried everything else?”
“I told you, I heard you make deals, grant favors,” she repeats.
“Oh, I do. When it suits me,” he confirms. “But you should know, a deal with the Devil always has its price and is not to be entered into lightly.”
Uneasiness creeps over her at his words, spoken like a warning. “What sort of price?”
“Usually a favor for a favor. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo,” he says, rolling his hand in an et cetera gesture. “Sometimes to be named later, if I don’t have something in mind already. Not your soul, if that’s what you’re worried about, Detective. Souls are so...thirteenth century. And utterly useless as currency.”
“So...an IOU?” she says without flinching, though admittedly with the way he’s looking at her, it takes effort. “You help me, I owe you one. Something legal.”
The bastard actually laughs, tossing his head back in genuine amusement. “Oh, I like you,” he purrs, and it sounds like he means it. “Are you sure you want to owe the Devil a favor, though? I’ve been known to be terribly unpredictable.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she says dryly. But her voice feels tighter now, an edge creeping in that even she can hear. He’s exhausting and infuriating, and it’s only been five minutes.
Also...he isn’t at all what she was expecting.
Lucifer tilts his head again, studying her more intently. The playful glint in his eyes is fading just a little. “You’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
He takes a step back, leaning against the piano and crossing his arms. She doesn’t notice the way his tailored suit tightens around him—really, she doesn’t... “Well, then, I’d say you’ve got my attention.”
Chloe blinks. Surely it can’t be that easy?
“Now, I can’t promise anything,” he adds. “I don’t lie, and I can’t say I know a thing about this case of yours. I’m no crime-solving Devil. But I do enjoy a good puzzle. And I do so hate watching interesting women get crushed by boring, male-dominated systems.”
She opens her mouth to argue that she isn’t interesting, she’s desperate, but he’s already turning away from her.
“Come back tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he slides back onto the piano bench with impossible grace. “Midday. We’ll talk logistics then.”
She blinks. “Wait, that’s it?”
He’s playing again, something slow and sweet that she doesn’t recognize, and doesn’t look at her as he says, “For now. Unless you’re in the mood to stay and let me guess your safeword.”
Her fingers curl with the need to strangle him, but she resists again—barely. Turning on her heel, she doesn’t doesn’t storm out or even growl under her breath. She walks calmly—well, evenly—while ignoring the throb in her temple and the infuriating voice echoing in her head.
The guy is a complete joke. A narcissistic weirdo with a piano fetish and a God complex. Not to mention a grade-A asshole. Don’t give him what he wants.
But she only makes it to the stairs before she pauses, feeling her pride caving beneath the weight of practicality. She needs this favor, needs a lead that will pan out, and she’s convinced that if she can find even the smallest piece of evidence, everything else will unfold. What she isn’t convinced of is that Lucifer Morningstar is what he says he says—not the Devil, that stuff isn’t real. But some sort of favor genie. The problem is, she really is at the end of her rope...and she’s quickly losing her grip.
Cursing under her breath, she turns around with the sort of tightly coiled energy that warns people to get the hell out of her way. The only person who doesn’t seem to heed that warning is Lucifer himself, who doesn’t even flinch as she stalks back across the club floor. Even over the music, she can hear the click of her black-heeled boots on the polished marble, her anger bottled just enough to keep it from spilling out.
“I know you said come back tomorrow,” she says, stopping a few feet from the piano. “But I’m here now, and I don’t like wasting time.” Even if she had time to waste.
His fingers still on the keys, mid-chord, and he turns his head to give her a look that’s equal parts curiosity and mischief. A look that can mean nothing good. “And here I thought you were storming off in a huff. You’ve quite a lovely...huff, by the way.” He smirks. She scowls. “All righteous fire and tight...shoulders.”
Chloe ignores...all of that. “Look, I’m not leaving until you give me something. I don’t care if it’s a name or a rumor or a scribbled phone number on a cocktail napkin—just...something.”
Lucifer narrows his eyes just slightly. Not in a hostile way, but more curious. Calculating. Maybe he hears the desperation edging her tone. Or maybe he’s just bored. “All right. And what case is it that you’re trying to solve, anyway? Or am I meant to guess that as well?”
She hesitates. Simply saying the name feels like pulling scabs off old wounds, but she forces it out anyway. “Palmetto.”
He blinks at her. Just once. “Is that a fruit?”
She huffs and gives him a flat look.
“No?” He leans forward on the bench, elbows resting on the edge of the piano as he watches her with something dangerously close to genuine interest. “Ah, it’s a case. Quite the messy one, I presume?”
“You could say that,” she mutters, crossing her arms. “A cop got shot. He was meeting with a drug trafficker and things went sideways. I’d been investigating him for corruption up until then, and after that, it blew up. Now I’m being pushed out, and I have nothing to go on. If I don’t find something soon, make real progress, then I’m done.”
“And here you are,” he says, standing again. He moves closer this time, not exactly invading her space, but like he has no sense of personal space at all. “You, a woman who clearly despises every second of this, have walked into my den of sin and desire to ask me for a favor. Tell me, Chloe—may I call you Chloe?”
“No.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Detective, then,” he says without pause. “What exactly do you think I can do for you?”
Sizing him up in return, she lifts her chin defiantly. “I think you have connections, the kind that don’t talk to cops. I think you know people who know things. And I think maybe you don’t play by the rules the way I do.”
Lucifer gives her a slow smile, clearly pleased by her assessment. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.”
She shrugs. “So, are you going to help or just keep circling like a smug little shark?”
The smile grows toothy, his eyes dancing. “Oh, Detective, I can assure you, there is nothing little about me. And I am very good at circling.”
Rolling her eyes, she turns as if she’s about to walk away, but his voice catches her mid-step.
“You fascinate me, you know.”
She doesn’t look back at him. “Why? Because I’m not falling all over myself to sleep with you?”
“That’s part of it,” he confirms. “You’re not intimidated or even interested. You’re...skeptical, and that is so very rare these days. Rarer than you know. Makes a Devil wonder what it would take to shake those delicate sensibilities of yours.”
“Try offering real help. That’d be a great start.”
Chloe waits, not turning or speaking. She knows men like him, and nothing irritates them more than a woman who doesn’t fall for their charms. It’s more than that, though—at least, she thinks so. There’s something in his eyes that seems genuinely intrigued by her, something more than the fact that she refuses to sleep with him. Like she’s a mystery to be solved.
After a brief pause, he all but confirms that theory. “Very well. Consider me intrigued enough to assist. I’ll poke around, see if any of my less...savory contacts have heard murmurs of this Palmetto affair of yours.”
She turns back, eyebrows raised. “Really?”
“Really.” When he steps closer this time, his expression softens just a touch. “On one condition.”
Her stomach drops. “Here we go,” she mutters to herself.
He holds out his hand, his gaze turning far more serious than she’s seen it during this conversation. “As I said before, a favor for a favor—an IOU, if you like. To be named later. Nothing illegal or untoward, you have my word. When the time comes, of course.”
She stares from his hand to him. “That’s the deal?”
“That’s the deal. And before you shake, just know that deals with the Devil are binding. No backing out, no subterfuge, no evading. I assure you, you won’t like the consequences.”
Chloe blinks. Was that a threat? She genuinely doesn’t know; it sounded more like a warning, like he was trying to scare her off and change her mind. But this is what she came here for, and despite his...weirdness, despite her reservations, she does need help.
“Fine,” she says quietly. “You’ve got a deal.”
He wiggles his fingers, raising his eyebrows.
With a sigh, she places her hand in his, ignoring the way her stomach tightens and an odd tremor runs up her arm. Long, strong fingers wrap around her hand as he gently shakes it, but instead of releasing her immediately, he lifts her hand to his lips, warm breath brushing over her skin, and kisses the back. Another jolt, this one barely noticeable, almost like a static charge passes between them.
Her eyebrows furrow, but he just smiles at her. “Deal, Detective,” he murmurs, releasing her hand.
Swallowing, she flexes her fingers to rid herself of the tingle in her palm. She steps back, needing air and distance, needing to leave before she regrets everything. “I’ll, um, be in touch,” she mutters, turning away without awaiting a response.
“I look forward to it,” he says to himself, under his breath.
Chloe doesn’t look back as she pushes through the crowd. She can feel his gaze on her the entire way, and has to force herself not to speed up or take the stairs two at a time. Unwillingly, at the top, her eyes drift back to the piano, finding he’s still watching her. She can see the curiosity from here. The next time she looks, right before she leaves the club, his attention has wavered to a beautiful brunette with mile-long legs.
Shaking herself, she continues out, not stopping until she’s in her car again. “What the hell did I just do...?” she mutters to herself, staring at nothing.
After a few moments, she leaves. She has some research to do.
Notes:
This story is fully written will be updated on Thursdays.
Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Thanks for reading!
Credit to The Rolling Stones for You Can't Always Get What You Want.
Chapter 2: Intrigue
Summary:
Chloe looks into the Devil's history while facing down a ticking clock. Meanwhile, Lucifer considers Detective Chloe Decker.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The clock on the wall ticks to midnight, its hands slicing through the silence of the nearly empty bullpen. Chloe sits hunched at her desk, her eyes dry and aching as the glow of her computer monitor makes her skull throb. The coffee at her elbow is cold, the vending machine sandwich untouched, and she’s read the name Lucifer Morningstar so many times it’s starting to lose all meaning. Not that it had much to begin with.
Five years.
That’s as far back as his history goes. There are no high school transcripts, no birth certificate, no driver’s license issued before 2011. The earliest entry she could find is the business license for Lux, signed with a dramatic flourish and an address in downtown Los Angeles. She found tax records, liquor permits, fire inspection approvals—all clean. Nothing shady. Nothing fake. At least not on paper. He has a British passport, issued in London, but no record of him entering the U.S. through normal immigration channels. He has a social security number, a clean, perfect credit score, and somehow, has never been issued so much as a speeding ticket.
Nothing about it adds up. A guy like that? With his attitude, his money...his ego? There should be lawsuits, tabloid drama, something. Instead, his record is too pristine to be normal.
Leaning back in her squeaky desk chair, Chloe massages the bridge of her nose. “Who the hell are you?” she mutters at his rap sheet—or lack thereof.
She pulls up the passport scan again. Lucifer Morningstar, born May 21st, 1977 in London. The photo staring back at her is almost smug. Tilted chin, a flash of teeth, and dark eyes that seem to look straight through the camera. Like he’s taunting her.
Well, that fits, at least.
But there’s no way any of it is real—not the passport or the California driver’s license issued five years ago. Coincidentally, just a few days after his recorded birthdate. Either this guy has friends in very high places...or he’s hiding something.
Turning to the legal pad where she’s been scribbling notes, she adds possible theories in the margin:
Possible aliases?
Mob connections?
Witness protection?
Underground black market ties?
And a little lower:
Con man?
Elaborate identity fraud?
Religious delusions?
Cult leader?
Chloe snorts to herself. Honestly? Cult leader would explain a hell of a lot.
She’s just starting to look into possible shell companies linked to Lux when a voice rings out across the bullpen like a gunshot.
“Still chasing ghosts, Decker?”
Closing her eyes, she takes a steadying breath. Even without looking up, she knows who it is. She’d know that voice anywhere these days. Anthony Paolucci—Malcolm’s partner, and one of the biggest asshole slimeball detectives she’s ever had the misfortune of working near. Second only to Malcolm himself.
“You’re still here?” she mutters, not looking away from her screen.
“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” he says, strolling into view like he owns the precinct. He’s wearing his usual leather jacket-hoodie combo, and she swears she detects the faint sniff of booze on his breath. “Word is, you’ve got less than three weeks before they take you out with the rest of the garbage.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Well, when you’re about to be a cautionary tale, people talk.”
Refusing to rise to the bait, she glances at him. “You always hang around the bullpen after hours just to make people feel better about themselves, or is this a new hobby you’re picking up? Gotta say, you kind of suck at it.”
Paolucci laughs, leaning against her desk. “Oh, I’m just here for the show, Decker.” He darts a look at her notes and monitor, raising an eyebrow. “Digging through club records, chasing nightclub freaks with daddy complexes? God, it’s like watching someone drown in a kiddie pool. Sad, but...weirdly entertaining.”
“I’m working a lead,” she says coldly.
He smirks at her, crossing his arms. “That what you call it? Because, and this is just my opinion, it looks a hell of a lot like desperation. Pretty sure the brass has already made up their minds. They’re just letting you twist and flail a little more first. You know, so it stings more when the final day comes.”
Chloe slowly stands, leveling her gaze to him. “Are you done?”
“Nah. Not even close. ‘Cause, see, you just don’t get it, do you, Decker? No one’s buying what you’re selling. That Malcolm’s dirty, that something about Palmetto is fishy and doesn’t add up. The guy is a hero. He took a bullet and survived. You keep digging in that, ruining a good man’s name? You’re just embarrassing yourself. Pissing all over his legacy.”
Despite not wanting to lose her temper, because she knows it’s what he’s looking for, Chloe has had it up to here with this shit. She shoves back her chair with more force than intended, her jaw tense. “You want to talk about legacies? All right, let’s talk about how you’ve been riding Malcolm’s coattails for years. You want to keep his name out of the mud? Maybe stop acting like a dirtbag every time someone questions the story. You and I both know the truth, Paolucci, and it isn’t that Malcolm was a golden boy. I don’t think you are either.”
The smile on Paolucci’s face falters for half a second, then it comes back, meaner and crueler. “None of it matters. One way or another, you’re gonna be off the force before your kid’s birthday, Decker.”
She bristles at the mention of Trixie, but doesn’t snap back.
“And when that happens, I’m gonna be the first one to toast your fall.”
Chloe doesn’t say a word. She just glares at him, making a silent promise: not today, but soon. Malcolm goes down, they all go down.
With a wink and drop of his gaze below her neck, he taps the edge of her desk. “Sleep tight, Palmetto bitch.” Then he’s gone, leaving behind the sour scent of cologne, cheap booze, and ego.
Grabbing her chair, she drops into it, her hands shaking just slightly. Not from fear, from anger. From the helplessness she can feel curling in her gut and can’t get rid of. She should be used to it by now—the lack of respect, the cruelty, people waiting for the moment she falls flat on her face. It should make her want to give in, just to keep her badge. But it only makes her want to fight harder, to prove them all wrong. To do that, she needs evidence—proof that everything she saw and suspected is true. And that means exhausting every lead available to her.
Speaking of, she turns back to Lucifer’s file and sighs. He’s a man who shouldn’t exist. Barely exists. Who flaunts power and charm and whispers that he can get her what she desires most—for a price. This whole thing is reckless and dangerous, and normally, she wouldn’t touch any of this with a ten-foot pole.
But right now, he’s all she has.
The next morning, Chloe parks across the street from Lux and watches. Employees start arriving early, around nine, probably to prepare for the night ahead. The main doors seem to be unlocked at all hours—doesn’t Lucifer know the function of a basic lock? A few more hours pass and she has to keep herself from nodding out. She’s running on a steady stream of caffeine, four hours of sleep, and a breakfast bar she doesn’t remember eating as she rushed Trixie off to school. At her hip, her badge feels heavier than usual.
Maybe because it might not be hers for much longer if she doesn’t make some headway.
With a sigh, she reaches over to the passenger seat for her tablet and double-checks her notes, not that she doesn’t have most of them memorized by now. One last minute ‘is this really my best option?’ and she’s out of the car and crossing the street.
Inside the club, the lighting is dimmer even than last night, lit more by ambiance than actual light, and it smells like money, aged liquor, and heat. As she makes her way past the bar, she catches the eye of one of the bartenders—one she hadn’t seen last night. A woman in all black leather and a look in her eyes somewhere between animosity and predatory. Chloe thinks she sees a blade of some sort in her hand. The woman says nothing, following Chloe with her gaze.
Ignoring that, Chloe scans the club for Lucifer—not that it’s all that hard to find him. He’s back at the piano again, dressed in another suit, this one dark grey with a black shirt. Whatever he’s playing, it’s more upbeat and almost has its own swagger. He doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes to look at her until the final note rings out.
“Detective!” he calls, drawing the word out like it’s her actual name. “Back so soon? Couldn’t stay away, could you? Can’t say I blame you.”
In response, Chloe drops a thin folder onto the piano’s black, polished surface. “I looked you up.”
Lucifer lifts an eyebrow, smirking as he reaches for his whiskey glass. “I’d be rather insulted if you didn’t.”
“Your name really is Lucifer Morningstar,” she reports. “Your paper trail only goes back five years, and nothing before that. Not a single digital footprint, no online history or even a MySpace account, no records. Just—poof.” She makes the gesture with her hand. “You appear out of thin air in 2011.”
His smirk deepens, like he loves hearing about himself. Which also fits. “Mystery is so much sexier than documentation, don’t you think?”
“Are you running from something?”
“Oh, constantly. Mostly paparazzi—can’t stand those cockroaches.”
Well, that’s one thing they have in common... “I’m serious,” she says, giving him a hard look.
“So am I,” he says, leaning in with his chin propped up on his hand. “But do go on. I so love to hear about myself.”
She rolls her eyes, but that she believes. “You’ve got money, connections, immunity from a lot of scrutiny. This building is leased from Dean Cooper, one of the biggest, most hated real estate tycoons in L.A., but I can’t find record of the actual lease—”
“Oh, I assure you it’s all completely legit,” he says seriously, then breaks out in a grin. “Well, sort of.”
“No arrests, no fines, no sketchy investors—at least none on paper. Everything is perfectly clean.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And...that’s a problem?”
“It’s not normal,” she concludes.
“Perhaps I’m just very good at hiding things.”
“Or you’re someone else entirely.”
He laughs into his whiskey. “Now that’s more like it.”
Chloe crosses her arms. “So who are you? Really?”
Dark brown eyes sparkle as they look at her. “Would you believe me if I said I was the Devil?”
“No.”
“Good. That makes this much more fun.”
Suppressing the urge to scream, Chloe points at the folder. “Look, I don’t care what games you play with other people, but I need this case solved. If you’re involved in anything illegal, I will find it. If not...help me, and maybe we both walk away happy.”
Tilting his head, Lucifer watches her for a moment. “And what do I get if I do help you?”
“We had this conversation—an IOU.”
He hums. “Well, let’s get one thing clear then, as I believe I mentioned last night, Detective—I don’t lie. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“Everyone lies.”
“Everyone human,” he counters, as if that negates her argument. “My point is, I can’t promise results, but I can promise to do what I do best.”
“And what’s that?”
“Everything, of course,” he says with a cocky smirk. When she doesn’t crack a smile or laugh, the flirty edge fades. Just a little. “Want to know what I see when I look at you, Detective?”
“Not really.”
He goes on like he didn’t hear her. “Someone who’s been pushed to the edge, who’s climbing at the walls and trying not to fall. I admire that.”
Chloe blinks. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Nope. Just a reminder.” He stands and picks up the folder, tucking it under one arm as he flashes her a smile. “You’ll hear from me soon, darling. I have some very particular friends who owe me favors. We’ll see what they know about this...Palmetto mess you’ve found yourself in.”
Then he walks away, just like that, disappearing somewhere in the back of the club. The scary looking bartender shoots her a glare and follows him. Chloe remains by the piano for a moment longer, her heart beating a strange, uneven rhythm. This is insane. She should feel like she’s losing control. But for the first time in months, she feels like just maybe she might be getting somewhere.
Now if only she can keep from strangling the person who might get her there...
The party in Lux is in full swing. People dance and flirt. Booze flows. Music pumps and thuds through the speakers. But for once, Lucifer barely notices. He isn’t paying attention to the dancers grinding around him or the overpriced bottle service requests piling up in a corner VIP booth. He isn’t even flirting with the pair of lingerie models who have been attempting to get his attention for the last twenty minutes.
No. Tonight, his attention is...elsewhere.
More precisely, on a case file now spread out across his private booth like it’s some sacreligious altar. A case that shouldn’t interest him and he shouldn’t care about in the slightest. And a detective who should interest him even less.
And yet...
Swirling the Glenfiddich scotch in his glass lazily, he studies the glossy photo of a man with cold eyes, a mustache straight out of a 70s porno, and a badge. Malcolm Graham. Shot in the line of duty. Miraculously survived, though currently comatose. And also currently being sainted by half the force and quietly questioned by one tenacious little buzzkill in sensible black boots.
Chloe Jane Decker.
Well, she did her research. He did his. He knew she looked familiar from somewhere...
He taps her personnel file absently, having already memorized the salient details—thirty-five years old, separated from her husband, mother of one. Former actress. Minor roles in middling B-movies—nothing at all to write home about. Except for that one cult classic that has earned a permanent place in his...private collection.
Hot Tub High School.
What a glorious waste of cinematic effort. Gratuitous nudity, not that he has complaints about that. Cheesy, ridiculous plot. And the most memorable pair of— Lucifer leans back into the booth with a smug smile, folding his hands behind his head. Breasts. No need to be coy about it. Chloe Decker, cast as the vaguely nerdy valedictorian with a hidden wild side, had made quite the impression. He lost track of how many times he’s watched that film.
For research purposes, obviously.
But the woman he met last night is no starlet. She isn’t some giggling ingénue desperate for fame. She is flint and vinegar and rage wrapped in a leather jacket and tight jeans, and she looks at him like she’s just waiting for him to disappoint her.
Delightful.
And then there is that one other detail. Just a minor thing, really...
An impossible thing.
Dropping his gaze, Lucifer glances at the crumpled piece of paper at the edge of the table—the notes he’d scribbled after their first encounter. Three words are circled multiple times in red ink:
It didn’t work.
Not once. Not even a flicker behind her eyes. Chloe Decker hadn’t answered the question he’s asked countless humans and gotten answers to without fail.
What do you truly desire?
His power doesn’t fail, has never failed. Mortals always trip over their own tongues to spill their secrets, their lusts, their sins. Occasionally he’ll get a stubbornly complicated one, but in the end, he always gets what he’s after. It’s as natural as breathing. But with the Detective? She just looked at him like he’d asked her to name the capital of Mongolia. And then, she accused him of being weird.
That alone is intriguing, but there’s also something else about her. Something he can’t put his finger on with any accuracy. Perhaps it’s simply the novelty of his power not working for the first time in history. But he thinks it’s more than that, something about her specifically. Whatever the answer, he’s barely stopped thinking about her since he first met her twenty-four hours ago when she came seeking a favor.
At the reminder, Lucifer frowns and reaches for the folder again, leafing through transcripts, reports, and names. His network had turned up a few whispers in just the last few hours—nothing concrete, but enough to know the Detective is on the right path. Malcolm Graham is corrupt, and there’s something off about this Palmetto business. There had been inconsistencies in his file buried amidst the complaints and accusations. Dash cam footage that was redacted. A bullet trajectory that doesn’t match the official story. Rumors of a fifth person—Graham, the drug trafficker and his man, Chloe Decker, and a mystery shooter. And someone high up in the LAPD had swept it all under the rug.
It shouldn’t affect him in the slightest. In fact, he loves crooked cops; they’re much easier to bribe than the ones like the Detective. But if there’s one thing he despises, it’s injustice. Right now, Chloe is seeking the truth and rather than being held up as a role model for other cops, she’s being railroaded—and not in the fun way. For doing her job.
That is something he can’t ignore, but it also isn’t what kept him up for most of the night.
She didn’t respond.
It isn’t that she merely hadn’t answered his question; she hadn’t reacted to his charms at all. Not the voice or the eyes, not even the subtle pull that has most people leaning in to spill everything, right down to their most depraved impulses.
This is...unprecedented.
And utterly maddening.
Lucifer had even gone to check his reflection afterwards, but that wasn’t it—still devastatingly handsome. Still the Devil. Still perfectly charming and impeccably dressed.
So the question now is...what the bloody hell is she? And why does he want to find out so badly?
He takes a sip of scotch and tells himself it’s just curiosity. Novelty. A new puzzle to solve in a world where he’s solved most of them. Nothing more. But that isn’t entirely true. He wants her. Not just in the vague, hedonistic sense. Though, admittedly, that is very much part of it. He wants to take her apart piece by piece to find out what makes her tremble, what makes her melt and sigh. To see that rigid control she holds onto so tightly shatter in his hands.
But there’s something beneath that, something he’s not felt before that makes his skin crawl with both anticipation and unease.
Interest. Genuine, infuriating interest.
Rising from the booth, he moves towards the one-way mirrored glass that looks out at the club floor. The music has shifted as the hour grows later—slower now, thicker with smoke and bass. Bodies move slick and careless to the rhythm. He should be part of it, right at the center. And yet, all he can see is her face and that expression—sharp skepticism that refuses to play his game.
Not even a little tempted.
He remembers the look on her face when he offered to help her. Not gratitude. Not desperation. Just...wariness. Like she was waiting for the catch.
Clever girl.
Then there’s the way she says his name. Flat and unamused, like it offended her sensibilities. He adores it.
He needs to know more. And he’s already started digging.
Beyond the one topless, hot tub ‘scandal’, there isn’t much dirt. She has a clean record, and seems to be a decent detective—her solve rate is one of the highest in the precinct. That seems to be in spite of half the department wanting her gone months ago. No surprise there; brass hates outliers. Especially female ones who don’t know when to shut up.
Her father had been a cop, too. Shot in the line of duty when Chloe had been nineteen—a robbery by the looks of it. Another tragic wrinkle. And, he suspects, another reason she clings so tightly to the badge now, even as the system tries to pry it from her hands.
Chloe Decker has something to prove. And nobody to back her up.
Exhaling, Lucifer turns away from the club and grabs his phone, firing off a quick text to one of his less than savory contacts. If there is more dirt on Graham to be found, someone will know about it. And if anyone can dig it up, it’s the Devil.
He owes the Detective that much, doesn’t he?
After all, she intrigues him, and he always repays intrigue.
Tossing the phone aside—he despises carrying the thing, but Maze won’t stop nagging—Lucifer moves to the glass door hidden by a curtain, then out into the heart of Lux. He scans the crowd only to find the same as every other night. Beautiful. Wanton. Mortal.
And yet, not one of them holds a candle to her. Not one of them is immune.
Who the bloody hell are you, Chloe Decker?
He damn well intends to find out. And once he does? Well, he will get her into his bed—eventually. They always end up there.
Just not like this. Not with this odd pull in his chest, this itch behind his ribs that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that, for the first time in his long, long life, he isn’t the one in control.
And that?
Well, that is intoxicating.
Lucifer spots her the moment she steps into Lux. Black leather jacket, fitted jeans, and that same exasperated scowl, like she regrets every life choice that has led her here. He hides his smirk in his glass, already halfway down the stairs before she reaches the bar.
“Why, Detective Decker,” he greets, sliding in beside her like a shark scenting blood. “You just can’t stay away, can you?”
“Believe me, if I had literally anywhere better to be, I wouldn’t be here,” she deadpans, not even sparing him a glance. “And you said you might have something.”
Lucifer pouts. “You wound me, darling. Here I am, generously offering my time and help, and you act like I’m a plumber you called for a leaky shower.”
“If you were my plumber, I’d probably switch to baths.”
He grins, reaching for the bottle behind the bar and a second glass. “That almost sounds like a compliment. But not to worry, Detective, I am very good with my hands.” He slides the glass he poured towards her, but she doesn’t even acknowledge it.
Chloe finally turns to face him fully, her arms crossed as irritation wafts off her in waves. “Do you actually have something useful, or is this just another excuse to annoy me?”
“Well, I do live to annoy you, obviously.” He leans beside her against the bar, probably too close, and flashes her a patented devilish smile. “But yes, as a matter of fact, I have made several inquiries. People like to talk when you own more than half the nightlife in the city.”
“And?”
“Nothing concrete yet, I'm afraid,” he admits. “But there is a rather interesting rumor about our dear comatose Detective Graham. Something about a missing shipment, some very dirty money, and a bullet that may have been meant to find its mark.”
Her eyebrows lift, and if he didn’t know any better, she might look interested. “And you heard this where?”
“A little demon told me, of course,” he says, raising his glass in salute. “Aren’t you going to drink with me?”
“No,” she says, then without missing a beat, “You do realize that makes you sound like a mobster, right?”
Lucifer makes a face. “I much prefer the term devilishly handsome underworld entrepreneur.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“I’ve had a lovely idea, Detective,” he says, leaning in closer. “Why don’t we go visit the scene of the crime? See what we can sniff out together, hmm?”
“I’ve been there more than a dozen times,” she says flatly.
“Ah,” he purrs with a smirk, “but none of those times have been with me. And it just so happens, I’ve a way of seeing things others don’t.”
That seems to give her pause rather than outright shooting down his suggestion. For one long second, she looks genuinely torn. Then she sighs and mutters something under her breath that sounds like a curse, tosses back the last of the water she ordered, and stands.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with. But if you piss me off, I’m leaving you on the side of the road.”
Lucifer grins at her. “Challenge accepted, Detective.”
Notes:
We get more into the plot next chapter. Hope you guys are enjoying. Thanks for reading!
Also, I might have a bit of a surprise later on... 🎁🥳😈
Chapter 3: Evidence
Summary:
Chloe returns to the Palmetto crime scene, with a new set of eyes at her side.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chloe began regretting agreeing to this the moment they stepped out of Lux and Lucifer asked if he could drive. No. Then he flat-out refused to put on his seatbelt—And put wrinkles in my suit, Detective? This is Armani! Next, it was the music she had playing; apparently, anything from the 90s is ‘trite and detestable’. She turned up the volume and slapped his hand anytime he reached for the dials. He wanted her to hit the lights and siren—she ignored him. He wanted to stop for coffee and a bite to eat—she ignored him. Then he just started talking and didn’t stop for fifteen minutes—she isn’t sure he even took a breath—probably to drown out the music.
At long last, silence falls. Either he took the hint (which she doubts), or he’s thinking up all new ways to annoy the hell out of her. Of course, it couldn’t last forever; she’s pretty sure he just loves the sound of his own voice.
“You know, Detective,” he says musingly, “I find this whole situation of ours rather fascinating. You’re so determined. So...driven. And yet, you don’t even seem to like me.”
“Oh, well, that isn’t true,” she says, flipping on her blinker. “I find you repulsive. Like, on a chemical level.”
“See? Fascinating. But semantics don’t change facts, darling. You still came back. Surely that has to mean something.”
“Yeah, it does. It means I’m desperate and at my wits’ end.”
Lucifer beams like it was the highest form of compliment. “My favorite kind of woman.”
Chloe shoots him a glare. His response is to lift his eyebrows in an innocent look she doesn’t buy in the slightest. Before she can come up with a snarky response, though, her phone buzzes in the cup holder, breaking the tension. She glances down at the screen and sighs when she sees the name.
“Shut up. Don’t say a word, or I really will leave you on the side of the road,” she threatens Lucifer. He blinks as she pops in her Bluetooth earpiece and answers the call. “Dan,” she mutters. “Hey. I’m a little busy right now.”
“Hey,” her technically still husband says, his voice a little too brisk. She knows that tone and is already halfway through an irritated eyeroll as he says, “I can’t take Trixie tonight.”
“What? Why not? It’s your night, and she’s been looking forward to this since before the last time you canceled.”
“Something came up last minute.”
She scoffs. “Would this be the same vague ‘something’ that’s been coming up every time it’s your turn to take her lately?” she snaps.
Lucifer perks up instantly. Like a golden retriever who just heard the treat bag crinkle.
“What do you want me to say? It’s work,” Dan says defensively. “Not like I’m flaking on purpose.”
“No, of course not,” Chloe says, her tone hardening.
“But we do need to talk—about Palmetto.”
She sighs, wishing she could beat her head against the steering wheel. “Dan—”
“Chlo, you need to let this one go. The whole thing is nothing but a dead end, and it’s going to bury your career if you don’t walk away.”
She grips the wheel tighter. “I am this close to finding something, Dan.”
“Or you're chasing ghosts. Again.”
The words she’s heard more times than she can count hit harder than they should. She feels her throat burning. “You know what? Forget it,” she says sharply. “I’ll figure it out on my own—the way I always do. And you can tell Trixie why you’re flaking this time.” She hangs up before Dan can even take a breath to whine about having to make excuses to their daughter.
Beside her, Lucifer is practically vibrating. “Well,” he says brightly. “That sounded tense.”
“Don’t start.”
“Who’s Trixie?”
“My daughter.”
“You named your offspring Trixie?” he says incredulously. “That’s a hooker’s name.”
Chloe sputters, indignant. “It’s a perfectly normal name for a seven-year-old girl,” she snaps, not bothering to defend her child’s name further. “And none of your damn business.”
“Fascinating,” he repeats in a murmur, obviously enjoying every second of this. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
Chloe sighs as she pulls off the freeway. “Why am I doing this...” she mutters under her breath.
“Because I’m devastatingly charming. And undeniably sexy. And quite possibly the only lead you have to save your career.”
“You’re delusional.”
“And you’re still here.”
Chloe shakes her head and doesn’t respond. He watches her for the rest of the drive like he’s waiting for something to happen. Meanwhile, she’s thinking about how disappointed her daughter is going to be when she finds out Daddy is backing out of their plans—again. Dan is doing this more and more lately, like he can’t stand the sight of either Chloe or Trixie. There’s a reason she suggested a legal separation, and it isn’t because she wanted to move into her mother’s Malibu beach house.
Dan just...he doesn’t get it. Maybe she is holding onto this case a little too tightly, but she knows she’s right about Malcolm—about all of it. Dan gets defensive and argumentative at even the mention of Palmetto. She suspects because having a traitorous bitch for a wife is ruining his reputation with Paolucci and the guys. Just once, it would be nice to have one person on her side.
Her eyes reflexively drift to the man next to her.
Not him.
Except...he’s the only one who seems willing to stick their neck out enough to help her. Even if he’s a massive, smug asshole and annoys the hell out of her. Nobody else will even entertain the thought that she might be on the right track. Maybe this is all because of some deal, but at least Lucifer is (sort of) taking it seriously in the sense that he’s looking into things.
She’ll have to look into that missing shipment information later. That’s something she hasn’t heard yet.
“We’re here,” she mutters, pulling up to the curb and killing the engine.
The neighborhood is a bit run down and dim, even in the middle of the day. The sort of place you don’t want to be alone after dark—unless you’re a detective on her last legs with a gun. She stares through the windshield at the faded gym sign above the doors, the letters barely legible anymore.
Lucifer doesn’t move. He’s still studying her profile with the unsettling focus of a predator who just scented something strange. “So,” he says, trying to sound casual, “who was that on the phone earlier? The man who managed to piss you off with such efficiency?”
Chloe exhales, debating whether or not to answer at all. “My husband—sort of,” she sighs. “We’re separated.”
He lets out a low whistle, adjusting his suit. “I take it from that conversation the split was not amicable?”
She shrugs. “We get along. Mostly.” Opening her door, she steps out onto the cracked pavement, slamming the door with more than necessary force. “Until we don’t.”
Lucifer follows, keeping pace at her left shoulder as they approach the entrance. “Let me guess. He was a mediocre lover, a worse communicator, and an even worse father.”
Pulling open the door, she gives him a sideways look. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“Ah, but I do know a douche when I hear one, Detective,” he retorts smugly. “Cancelling on your offspring and then lecturing you about your job? Classic ex-husband-to-be behavior. You deserve better.”
Chloe doesn’t give him the satisfaction of responding that he doesn’t know her either. At least, not out loud. But in her head, there’s the faintest, reluctant—yeah, you’re not wrong.
Lucifer is scanning the exterior with a curled lip. “So this is where the infamous Palmetto incident took place?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, moving inside. “Follow me.”
The building creaks as they step inside, dust swirling in the light of Chloe’s flashlight beam. The air is stale with disuse, the scent of old sweat and mildew clinging to the walls. Moth-eaten gym mats lie curled at the edges near forgotten equipment left rusted and broken. The boxing ring looms like some weird altar, the ropes sagging and the canvas darkened with age and God-knows-what. Chloe moves slowly, her steps quiet, until they reach the place.
The spot on the concrete floor where three men’s blood spilled that night. True, they weren’t exactly good men, but that doesn’t mean they deserved what happened to them. Even months later, she can make out the faded red stains—Malcolm’s and Aoudi’s and Aoudi’s bodyguard’s.
Remembering finally she isn’t alone, she glances up to find Lucifer watching her again, though not with a smirk or amusement in his eyes. She isn’t sure what she’s seeing, but she averts her gaze.
“What happened here, Detective?” he asks quietly.
With a sigh, she starts to explain. “In the months leading up to the shooting, we were following a French drug trafficker named Nikolas Aoudi,” she says. “Somehow, he kept evading the LAPD. I arrested one of his guys, thought he was gonna flip.”
“And I’m guessing he did not, indeed, flip?”
“Nope. Got close, but then he suddenly changed his tune. The only cop who spoke to him was Malcolm. So one night, I tracked him here, sneaking in through the side door.” She starts moving around as she had that night, not making a sound. “And I hid behind this glass.” She taps the window. “I could see them—it was Malcolm and Aoudi and his bodyguard. And it looked like they were making a deal. Malcolm was holding cash. A bribe, maybe?”
Chloe shakes her head, her eyes distant. All she can see is the scene she’s replayed a million times. “I’m still not sure, but I leaned forward to hear what they were saying, and accidentally, I made a sound. I could feel it; he saw me, but he didn’t react. He just went back to his conversation. And that’s when the shot went off. It didn’t take long before bullets were flying everywhere.” She swallows. “I braced behind the door, and once the shots stopped, I ran in. Aoudi and his man were dead. Malcolm was on the floor, bleeding out.”
She blinks when she feels an unfamiliar warmth beside her, looking over to find Lucifer closer than she remembers him being. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her, but she can almost feel a sort of comfort from him.
“I called it in,” she says, clearing her throat. “And since then, I’ve been trying to figure out what happened—whose bullet hit Malcolm. None of the ballistics tests from Aoudi and his man match the one in his neck.”
Lucifer nods slowly, looking around as if he’s picturing her story, replaying it in his mind, piece by piece. A minute or two later, his eyebrows furrow. “It doesn’t make sense.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Well, Aoudi would have no desire to kill Malcolm. Trust me, Detective, if there’s one thing I know, it’s desire.” He huffs a laugh. “I mean, if Malcolm were indeed corrupt, he’d be Aoudi’s golden goose. It’d be quite dumb to shoot him.”
Chloe agrees, has thought that same thing herself, which brings her to her next theory. “I always wondered if maybe somebody else was here. Cops searched the place up and down, and didn’t find anything, but nothing else makes sense. Does it?”
Rather than telling her it’s an insane theory—the way others have—Lucifer actually considers it. “How would they have gotten in and out without being seen, though?”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” she says, frustrated. “I had the exits in my sight, and no one could have gotten past Malcolm and the other men. The thing is, I can’t prove anything. Every angle I’ve looked at was either blocked or covered. There’s no clear shot from anywhere.”
For a moment, Lucifer says nothing, his eyes scanning the gym like he’s searching for something invisible to the naked eye. Then, slowly, he starts to move around, looking at things from different angles. He ducks behind the door and observes the space from there, then rejoins her, his eyes narrowed on the boxing ring.
“I wonder...” he mutters to himself.
“Wonder what?” she asks.
Not responding, he strides purposefully towards the ring.
“Lucifer, what are you doing?”
“Thinking like a killer, Detective,” he says over his shoulder, already ducking beneath the ropes. “Or at least, someone who thinks they’re clever.”
Sighing, she follows, leaning against the ropes as he walks around like a caged panther. He paces every inch of the ring floor—twice—and she’s just about to tell him to stop screwing around when he pauses, frowning. With one foot, he stomps on the floor. His frown deepens.
“What?” she whispers, her heart racing. “Did you...did you find something?”
“Possibly,” he murmurs. “Listen to this.” Moving his foot to the left, he stomps, checking to see whether she’s paying attention, then moves his foot back to the right and does it again.
Chloe holds her breath. No way... “Was that...” Without finishing the sentence, she climbs into the ring as Lucifer stomps again. To the left, the sound is a thud, like the rest of the ring floor. But to the right...it’s more hollow.
“Doesn’t sound right, does it?” Lucifer asks. “Now isn’t that curious?”
Crouching, Chloe examines the floor more closely, shining her flashlight on it—there’s a seam, barely visible, but there. “Oh, my...” she breathes, excitement blooming. Before she can even dig for her pocket knife, Lucifer is handing her a blade of his own. She blinks at it. “Do I even want to know why you have this?”
“Well, you don’t expect the Devil to go without any protection, do you?”
Rolling her eyes, she takes the blade—which is more like a dagger—and wedges it into the seam. Between her and Lucifer, they manage to pry open the floor panel to reveal a rickety staircase. She stares at it in amazement.
“I can’t... I’ve been all over this place a dozen times, and I never knew this was here,” she whispers, looking at Lucifer.
He smirks at her. “See? Told you I’d be useful.”
Refusing to give him the satisfaction of agreeing, she ducks her head beneath the panel and shines her light down the stairs. “Looks like a tunnel of some sort?” she says, straightening. Without waiting for a response, she starts down the stairs carefully, half-expecting one of them to give way, because that’s the turn her life has taken lately.
That’s before you met the Devil... She ignores the whispered voice in the back of her mind.
As she shines her flashlight on the narrow tunnel, Lucifer joins her, eyeing the cobwebs and dust like they might attack him. “Well, this is cozy,” he says with a curled lip. “Bit underwhelming for a grand criminal conspiracy, though.”
“Hush.” Chloe is already moving, her flashlight cutting through the darkness. “There’s more this way.”
The passage stretches ahead with low ceilings—Lucifer has to hunch over just to move; Chloe hides a smirk—rough concrete walls, and leaky steel piping overhead. The smell down here is even worse than the gym, all damp and decay.
She casts a glance over her shoulder at Lucifer, who looks like he wants to gag. “You know, I didn’t exactly bring my spelunking shoes.”
“Should’ve dressed for the job, then,” she mutters dismissively, crouching slightly herself to continue forward.
He huffs irritably. “Yes, but I don’t recall agreeing to crawling through decrepit underground passageways. You owe me a dry cleaning bill.”
She mutters something in response that she doesn’t hear. Her heart is racing now, not from fear, but something closer to adrenaline-fueled hope. All this time, all the dead end leads, people telling her she was wrong or crazy—obsessed—and now this...
A tunnel.
Not exactly proof that someone was here, but it would account for the trajectory for the bullet that struck Malcolm. Someone could have popped up, fired off a shot, and disappeared in the chaos. Chloe had her back turned; she wouldn’t have seen a thing.
“This changes everything,” she says under her breath.
“Changes what?” Lucifer asks, ducking beneath a sagging pipe with a wince. “Aside from my opinion of your taste in field trips?”
Chloe stops, turning to face him. “Lucifer, think about it. If this tunnel leads where I think it does, it means someone could have entered the gym without being seen. That shooter—he wasn’t a ghost. He had a way in and out.”
He studies her, clearly intrigued despite the mildew and dust. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”
She shakes her head. “I know it now,” she says firmly, turning to continue down the tunnel. “And it proves I haven’t been wasting my time.”
Lucifer follows at a slower pace. She can feel his eyes on her, but doesn’t acknowledge him, too focused on seeing if she’s right. “Tell me, Detective, do all humans get this feral when chasing a mystery, or is it just you?”
Chloe throws him a grin over her shoulder. “It’s just me.”
Eventually, the tunnel widens slightly and the air shifts, thinning out and making it easier to breathe. The flashlight beam catches the outline of a heavy metal gate that’s been locked from the inside and looped with thick chains. She steps right up to the gate and looks through, confirming her theory—this seems to come out a block or so from the gym.
She exhales sharply. “I was right.”
Lucifer squints at the mess of locks. “How terribly anticlimactic. It’s chained shut, Detective. Perhaps the criminal mastermind forgot the combination?”
“Maybe,” she says, examining the age of the chains and lock—they look newer than the gate itself. “But look at these. They’re not even rusty; somebody could have placed these after the shooting, or replaced them after someone used bolt cutters on the old ones.”
“Your mystery shooter.”
“Exactly.” She squints through the gate, checking out the businesses across the street. “And it isn’t out of the realm of possibility for there to be traffic cam footage, security footage—hell, even a parking meter record nearby. Anything to prove they were here.”
“I highly doubt they would have stopped to worry about legal parking if their intent was to shoot a police officer,” he says, surprisingly reasonably.
She tilts her head. “Yeah, that...might be fair. But my point is, I’m not crazy.”
“No, you’re just hoping your salvation lies in grainy CCTV footage. It’s really quite adorable.” To her surprise, he leans against the wall, dusting dirt off his sleeve. Or maybe he’s written off the suit completely.
“Come on, let’s head back. I want to check the angles from the stairs before we leave.”
Sighing dramatically, Lucifer follows her again. Chloe is focused on what she has to do next—talk to the surrounding businesses, pull traffic footage from the night of the shooting—
“Hang on, what’s this?”
She stops. “What?” When she turns, Lucifer is bending down to reach for something. “Don’t!”
He freezes. “Oh...kay...”
Chloe shines her light on the place where Lucifer’s hand is hovering, catching the glint of something shiny on the ground. Frowning, she reaches into her back pocket for nitrile gloves and slips one on. Whatever it is, it’s covered in cobwebs, but still gleams in the light—something brass-colored. She reaches toward it, but Lucifer is faster. He leans down, fingers nearly brushing the object.
She slaps his hand away.
“What was that for?” he demands.
“Rule one of investigation: Don’t touch potential evidence,” she says sternly. Carefully, she picks up the object and feels her blood turn cold, rushing past her ears. It’s a key with a square head— “999,” she adds hollowly.
Lucifer looks between her and the key, frowning. “Does that hold some significance to you?”
For a moment, she can’t answer, another unvoiced theory popping back into her mind. “It’s an LAPD master key,” she says quietly, staring at the engraving. “For secure buildings, patrol stations, evidence rooms. Cop-issued only. You don’t get one of these unless you have a badge.”
Lucifer goes still. “A cop?”
Chloe looks up at him, trying to discern what it is she’s feeling—not quite anger; not even betrayal. It’s more like resolve. Like she’s really getting somewhere. “This wasn’t some random hit,” she says flatly. “This was internal. Someone on the force shot Malcolm and then covered it all up.”
He nods slowly, looking for a second like he might actually back away from the look she’s giving him. That isn’t directed at him for once. “Well, well. No wonder they wanted you to drop it.”
She doesn’t answer, turning back to the key. Then, carefully, she removes the glove over it, folding it to preserve any prints that might be left. Without a word of explanation, she turns and walks back down the tunnel. Lucifer trails behind her, silently for a change.
The drive back to Lux is a blur. Chloe wordlessly handed the keys over to Lucifer, too wrapped up in her thoughts to focus on driving. Or the way he drives, like he doesn’t even know what a brake pedal is. Her pulse still hasn’t calmed down from finding the key—actual, physical evidence that is real. Not a theory or a hunch. Something she can hold, that proves she isn’t crazy.
That she hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
How many times has she gone over the facts? How many times has someone from the department, or Dan, told her she was seeing things, or didn’t care? Not when she couldn’t name a shooter. Not when Malcolm is lying in a hospital bed, comatose, and his family is grieving for him before he’s gone. Not when the evidence dried up and the case went cold.
But now...with this key...everything is different.
Maybe. If she can prove it, and assuming there are any prints on it.
After parking via valet, Lucifer holds open the club door for her like some kind of arrogant, smirking butler. “After you, Detective.”
Chloe ignores the glint in his eye and pushes past him. The key is now in a sealed evidence bag, tucked safely deep in her jacket pocket. Every couple steps, her fingers brush across it like it might vanish if she lets it go for too long. In the early afternoon, Lux is still quiet, only a few patrons at the bar while ambient music plays in the background. It’s subdued, more lounge than chaos. She doesn’t know if that’s on purpose or if afternoons are always mellow like this.
Lucifer guides her down the stairs and across the club, and not breaking stride, they pass through a curtain to a hidden room made up of one-way glass. She raises an eyebrow, but he ignores her, opening the door without any sort of key.
“Have a seat, Detective. No one will bother us in here,” he assures her, moving towards a small bar in the corner.
Without questioning, she drops into the booth, too tired to do much else. A moment later, a glass of wine appears in front of her. She raises an eyebrow at Lucifer.
He shrugs, sitting across from her. “You seem like a red wine sort of woman. Was I wrong?”
No. But she isn’t giving him the satisfaction of a response. She shouldn’t be drinking, technically still on the clock, but...extenuating circumstances. She takes a sip, and her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh wow, that’s good,” she mutters.
“No need to sound so surprised, darling,” he says with a grin. “Lux has an excellent wine cellar.”
“Of course you do,” she mutters with a sigh.
A few minutes pass where they sit in silence only broken by Lucifer tapping his fingers against his crystal glass. “So,” he says quietly, taking a sip. “Now that we’ve spelunked through your haunted gym and unearthed buried treasure, do you have any prime suspects?”
Running a hand through her hair, Chloe lets out a slow breath. “There’s a list.”
“Naturally.” He doesn’t press.
She finds herself talking anyway, to fill the silence. “The ones who knew about Malcolm’s activities and had reason to cover them up...and it’s not a short list. Internal affairs. Paolucci, Malcolm's partner. Maybe a guy in Vice. Even one of the brass. Anyone who had a stake in keeping Malcolm quiet—or alive. Hell, maybe even someone in Narcotics trying to keep Aoudi off the radar until he stopped being useful.”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Delightfully cynical. I approve.”
Chloe doesn’t smile. “The key could belong to any of them. I just have to prove it.”
“Which brings us to your evidence bag...”
Tensing, she reaches into her jacket pocket automatically. Still there. Still real.
“You’re planning to take that to the LAPD lab?” he asks, tilting his head at her.
“That would be the next step, yeah,” she says. “Chain of custody, fingerprints, trace evidence—anything they can pull from it.”
“Hmm...” He frowns slightly, lazily swirling his drink. “And what are the odds those results actually reach you unedited, unburned, or un-lost in a ‘mysterious clerical error’?”
Straightening, Chloe realizes she hadn’t thought of that but— “It’s not like I have much of a choice here.”
Lucifer shrugs in a way that’s both casual and irritating. “I’m just saying, it would be a shame to hand over your smoking gun to the very institution that has spent months attempting to bury this case. And you, for that matter.”
“It’s the only option I have.”
“That is where we disagree,” he says, leaning forward. “I know of a private facility that is highly reputable. Not the sort of place that dabbles in murder or corruption. Mostly it’s paternity tests and the occasional ‘is this lipstick on my boyfriend’s shirt actually ketchup?’ scenario.”
Chloe gives him a look. “That’s...a hell of a range.”
He smirks. “The point is, they're discreet, efficient, and most importantly, not at all connected to anyone who might want to see you fail, Detective.”
For a minute, Chloe is quiet. The evidence bag feels heavier in her pocket than it should. Can she even trust this? Trust him? She’s known him for barely three days, and most of it has been spent hitting on or annoying her. What she does know of him...well, he's not exactly what she would call on the moral side of things. And this...aside from Trixie, work is all she has. She’s dreamed of being a cop since she was twelve, and far succeeded those dreams when she made detective. Now it’s all on the line, and she’s supposed to put her trust in someone who thinks he’s the Devil?
“I don’t even know you,” she says finally. “I don’t know who you are, or where you come from, or what you’re getting out of this.”
Lucifer doesn’t flinch. “I’m helping you. That is what I am getting out of it.”
She scoffs weakly. “No one just...helps like this,” she argues.
Leaning forward again, he holds her gaze. “Detective, you may not know me, but I think you’ve already figured out...I am not like other people.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I don’t lie. Ever. And I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep,” he tells her again. “You’re suspicious, and that’s fine—admirable, even. But you came to me for a favor, and I’m offering one more.”
Chloe studies him. The light hits his face at an angle that makes his expression inscrutable. She wants to say no, to tell him this is her case, her fight, and she will go down swinging before she hands over a shred of evidence to someone she can’t pin down in a file.
But he is right about one thing. She knows exactly what will happen if she submits this key to the department.
It will disappear. And so will her career.
She rubs her temples. “Look, I cannot afford to lose this. If it’s traceable, if they can pull prints or something—”
“They’ll find it,” he says simply. “And they will find it faster than your department ever would. No bureaucracy or red tape. No waiting. Only results.”
“And I’ll actually get those results back?”
“You have my word,” he says solemnly. “Unedited, unfiltered. No magic or tricks.”
Chloe feels her lips twitch against her wishes. “And here I thought you were the trick.”
Lucifer’s lips curl into a smile. “Well, I do like to keep things interesting, darling.”
Amusement waning, she stares at him for a long moment, too many thoughts running through her head to pin one down. Then, slowly, she removes the evidence bag from her pocket and sets it on the table between them. “I want it back,” she says sternly.
“Of course.”
“If you screw me on this—”
“Would I ever?”
She gives him a hard look that could melt through steel. “I’m serious, Lucifer.”
“So am I, Detective.” He reaches forward carefully, and takes the bag by the edge of the plastic, like he’d been handed something sacred. “You won’t regret this.”
She isn’t so sure. For a second, she considers snatching the bag back and figuring it out herself...but she doesn’t stop him. Instead, she watches as he tucks it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, almost reverently. Like this matters to him. Like she matters to him. Which she knows can't possibly be true.
All of a sudden, it’s becoming harder to remember why she doesn’t trust him. Leaning back, she drains the last of her wine and tries not to feel like she stepped off the edge of a cliff.
Notes:
Hope everyone is enjoying so far! Thank you as always for reading! ❤️❤️
Chapter 4: LAPD Officer #51249
Summary:
Chloe tries to enjoy a quiet night at home with her daughter.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The beach house is quiet. And too big. Both too much to be of any comfort at the moment. In the background, the low hum of a children’s movie echoes from the living room TV, the cheerful soundtrack clashing terribly with the storm of thoughts in Chloe’s mind.
Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she has one arm draped around Trixie, who is tucked beneath her fuzzy purple blanket and giggling madly at cartoon antics while clutching half of a chocolate chip cookie. Chloe has tried, really repeatedly tried, to focus on the movie. Something with talking dogs and slapstick humor. But none of it is really sticking. Her eyes keep drifting, unfocused, and her mind will not shut up.
The gym. The tunnel. The key.
Lucifer.
The name alone sets off a weird flutter in her chest. Not necessarily fear or dread, but something jagged that refuses to settle. He is smug and arrogant, infuriating and unreadable. He offered help, and against her better judgment, she accepted that help. She keeps waiting to regret handing over key evidence (quite literally) to a relative stranger—but so far she hasn't. Maybe she even trusts him. A little. Sort of. Honestly, she doesn’t know what unnerves her more—that she actually made a deal with the self-proclaimed Devil, or that it hasn’t blown up in her face.
Yet.
“Mommy?”
Chloe snaps out of her thoughts at Trixie’s voice. “Yeah, Monkey?”
“Are you even paying attention?” Trixie asks, peering up at her with big, skeptical eyes.
Giving her a tired smile, Chloe nods. “I am. Totally. The dog just...uh...”
“Fell in the pool,” her daughter supplies, grinning.
“Right. Yeah. That was—yep. Hilarious.”
Trixie narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it, but fortunately, lets it slide. She leans against Chloe’s side, warm and soft and safe. Chloe rests her cheek against her daughter’s head and closes her eyes.
Too many of these sorts of nights have been missed lately. Between the department trying to ice her out, the relentless digging into Palmetto, and...well, Lucifer—who somehow keeps popping up in her thoughts even when he isn’t smirking at her in person—time with Trixie has been inconsistent at best.
Dan really doesn’t know what he’s missing...
The doorbell rings. Chloe jerks upright, frowning towards it. They aren’t expecting any visitors...
“I’ll get it,” she says, already unfolding her legs and getting to her feet.
Surprisingly, Trixie doesn’t even look away from the TV. Usually, she’s the first to dart for the door. “Tell them I’m not allowed to stay up past nine.”
Smirking, Chloe pads barefoot to the door, glancing through the curtains. No one seems to be there. Weird. When she glances down, though, there’s a box sitting on the mat. She opens the door with a raised eyebrow and cautiously picks it up. Inside the cardboard box is a white paper bag with LUX stamped across it in elegant gold foil. Narrowing her eyes, she opens the bag and peers in, finding two takeaway containers...and a folded note.
Thought you might forget to eat with your current stress. You’re welcome. ~L
Chloe rolls her eyes so hard they very nearly leave orbit. Of course he knows where she lives. Because apparently, boundaries are optional in Lucifer Morningstar’s world. Her stomach, traitorous organ that it is, growls at the smell of garlic and something buttery. Italian. And, she grudgingly admits, annoyingly thoughtful.
Really thoughtful, actually.
With a sigh, she takes the box into the kitchen, debating throwing it all out and pretending this never happened, but Trixie has already spotted her.
“Is that food?”
“It’s...pasta.”
“Yessss!” Trixie vaults over the back of the couch like an Olympic athlete.
Chloe can’t help laughing. “Didn’t you already have dinner? And a second helping? And cookies and popcorn?”
Trixie shrugs at her. “I can help you eat yours. That’s different.”
Defeated by kid logic, Chloe sets the trays on the breakfast bar and digs out utensils. “This doesn’t mean I approve of random men sending us food, by the way.”
“Who sent it?”
Chloe freezes, hesitating. “Um, just someone helping me with a case at work.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“How come?”
Tilting her head, Chloe pauses. “Because...he’s weird and inappropriate, and he calls me ‘Detective’ like it’s my first name.”
She pointedly ignores how she told him not to call her by her actual first name. The weird part is, she kind of likes how Detective sounds coming from him. Like it's a title created solely for her.
Probably best not to examine that too closely.
Shrugging again, Trixie opens the containers—one of pasta, the other garlic bread. She goes for the bread. “He sounds fun,” she says through a mouthful.
“So not helping, Monkey.”
Chloe dishes out modest portions, planning to save the rest for lunch tomorrow. Or throw it out after all, but that feels too wasteful. And for a moment, everything feels...normal. They eat together in the warm light of her mother’s kitchen. Trixie chatters on about school and the weird kid who tried to trade her string cheese for a rock (“Not even a sparkly rock, either, just a rock rock!”), and Chloe does her best to be present. To laugh at the right times. And ask follow-up questions even when her mind keeps tugging her back to the evidence bag now in Lucifer’s clutches—hands. She means hands.
And then her phone buzzes across the counter. She glances at it—Mom. Of course. Just when everything was comfortable. “Hey, Trix, finish up without me, okay? Save me some garlic bread,” Chloe says, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s head. She grabs the phone and heads to the other side of the house for privacy.
“Tell Nana I said hi!” Trixie yells.
Chloe answers the call just before it rolls over to voicemail. “Hey, Mom.”
“Pumpkin! Oh, good, you’re free!” Penelope says brightly. It hardly ever stays that way.
“Yep. Just having dinner and watching a movie with Trixie.”
“Oh, how wonderful. I was just reading how important it is to maintain a familial routine during times of...upheaval.”
Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. “Mom. If you’re calling to talk about Dan—”
“I’m just saying, sweetie,” Penelope interrupts smoothly, “children pick up on these things like sponges, all the tension and the distance. It’s so hard on them. Divorce is—”
“We’re not divorced,” Chloe says through gritted teeth.
“Not yet.”
Her jaw tenses. “I’m hanging up.”
“Chloe.” Her mother’s voice shifts from pleasant to pointed in a heartbeat, and Chloe is transported to when she was sixteen and wanted a later curfew. “I know we’ve had our differences over the years, but I am still your mother, and I still worry.”
“You mean...you worry about what the tabloids are going to say if your daughter’s divorce becomes official.”
“Don’t be petty, dear.”
“Don’t be petty. Mom, that is literally your hobby.”
Penelope doesn’t say anything for a beat. Chloe can almost feel the disapproval. “I just don’t understand why you won’t try. At least for Trixie’s sake. Dan is such a good man.”
Chloe’s next breath hitches in her chest as she thinks about the ‘good man’ who keeps canceling on time with his daughter for ‘work’ reasons. “Well, then maybe you should have married him, Mom.”
“I tried to be supportive of your career.”
Chloe barely resists snorting a sardonic laugh. Not even close, Mom.
“But this obsession over that case, Chloe, it’s—”
“None of your business.”
“Of course it is! You are my daughter, and I only want what’s best for you. And I’m sorry, but when you jeopardize your job and your marriage by chasing shadows—”
Jesus, has Penelope been talking to Dan? What else is he telling her? Chloe doesn’t bother to respond, hanging up instead. She'll pay for it when her mother regroups, but for now, Chloe takes the petty little win.
For a few minutes, she stands at the window, staring out over the dark beach and ocean, breathing hard. Her hand tightens around the phone until her knuckles ache. Shadows. That’s what everyone thinks. Even Dan. She scoffs—especially Dan. She’d tried to explain it to him a dozen or more times, the inconsistencies, the lies, the pit in her gut that says none of it adds up. And every time, he looks at her like she’s somehow making it personal.
Hell, maybe she is. But she’s right. She knows she’s right.
A rustle of blankets signals Trixie heading towards her, apparently done with the pasta and still clutching the cookie. “Was Nana being mean again?”
Forcing a smile, Chloe rests her hand on her daughter’s head, her thumb brushing braids. Self-soothing. “Nana was being...Nana.”
Trixie leans closer, looking up at her with those big brown eyes. The ones Chloe has no idea the origin of. But she loves them. “Are you sad?”
“No, Monkey. Just tired.”
Trixie holds up her cookie. “Want the last bite?”
Chloe doesn’t, but she takes it anyway, because it’s sweet and kind and thoughtful. “Thanks, baby.”
They move back to the couch, and Chloe wraps her daughter in her arms again, holding her close. The cartoon dogs fill the silence again, and the scent of pasta and garlic and chocolate linger in the air.
Outside these walls, the world around her is falling apart. But right here, right now, everything is perfect.
Now if only it could stay that way.
Strolling across the mezzanine above Lux, Lucifer barely even glances towards his club, let alone the bar. He shakes off every hand that reaches for him, and dismisses every greeting directed his way. There is only one destination in his mind, and for once, it doesn’t involve debauchery.
Been there, done that today. Well, not really. And that is the crux of the issue.
Stepping into the lift, he tiredly presses the penthouse button, ignoring the scent of sin that clings to his suit—some mixture of whiskey, leather, expensive perfume, and the cloying sweetness of too many bad decisions. Tonight, there will be no theatrics. No charming the masses. No grand entrance. Instead, he leans against the wall with the kind of lethargy that suggests he’s slowly being eaten alive from the inside out by something terribly inconvenient.
Like emotion.
The moment the doors open, he shrugs off his jacket, slinging it carelessly over the back of the couch. The only light in the penthouse is from behind the bar, and he doesn’t bother adding more. He doesn’t need them as he heads straight for the bar.
Pouring himself two fingers of absurdly good scotch, the one he shares with no one, he leans against the counter and stares out over the skyline as he takes a sip. And thinks of her.
Chloe bloody Decker.
It isn’t intentional thinking. In fact, he doesn’t want to think about her. Not really. She is incredibly aggravating. Plainspoken. Impossible to read. Immune to his charms, which is in and of itself deeply unsettling and, frankly, really rather insulting. And yet, no matter what he’s doing, his thoughts orbit around her like a damned satellite caught in her gravity. The woman just ruined a perfectly good liaison with a pair of identical twin supermodels because his thoughts returned to her at the most inopportune moments.
He moves to the piano instead of the couch, drink in hand, and lights a cigarette to calm his nerves. Or well, his irritation, because it's all really quite ridiculous. Fag between his lips, his fingers idly wander over the keys, soft and slow at first, then blooming into something full of tension and half-lidded memory. A little Bill Withers, a bit of Radiohead, and something that isn’t a song at all, just disjointed chords echoing how his brain feels lately.
Unsettled.
Chloe has eyes that can pin a man to the wall with a single look, and a mind like a Hell-forged blade she doesn’t bother sharpening unless one deserves it. Which apparently, he does—quite often, in fact. Her voice practically lives in his head these days, full of clipped sarcasm, charming wit, and biting disbelief.
“You think this is helping?”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“I will never, ever, ever sleep with you. Ever. When Hell freezes over, Lucifer.”
He cracks a grin at that last one. She said it one afternoon with a sort of vehemence no woman has ever used with him before. Frustrating and wildly irritating.
But still, she continues to haunt him, and he can't understand why. He barely knows her, for Dad's sake.
Lucifer takes another sip of scotch just as the lift chimes again, the sound cutting through the night like a gunshot. As does its passenger.
Mazikeen. Of course.
The demon struts in like she owns the place, high-heel boots clicking on marble, blades hidden (but definitely present), wearing an expression that suggests she is one passive-aggressive comment away from stabbing someone.
Probably him.
“You’re brooding again,” she says by way of greeting.
“I do not brood. I am playing piano.”
“Which you only do when you’re thinking too much. Or trying not to think.”
Lucifer doesn’t respond, taking another sip of his drink. On one hand, it’s sometimes convenient to have someone who knows him inside and out from eons of (more or less) friendship. On the other hand...well, someone knows him inside and out. A Devil should have his secrets.
Stalking over, Maze drops unceremoniously onto a nearby stool, arms crossed and eyes gleaming. Which can mean nothing good for him. “You haven’t been downstairs in days,” she says like she’s accusing him of a war crime. “The bartenders are talking. The dancers are bored. The regulars think you’ve overdosed on yourself.”
Raising an eyebrow, he plays a low, dramatic chord. “And yet, somehow, the Earth continues to spin. Oh, the humanity...”
Maze narrows her eyes. “I know what you need.”
“Unless it’s divine insight, I can assure you, I do not.”
“A good old-fashioned, down and dirty, blackout-level night of debauchery. I’m talking sweaty, grinding bodies writhing all over the place, whips and chains—you know, the classics. I have a list of volunteers if you want to—”
“Not in the mood, Maze,” he mutters, cutting her off.
She blinks. “Not in the— Are you dying?”
“I’m perfectly fine, thanks.”
“No. No, you’re really not. You’re sulking, Lucifer. Over a human. That human—the cop.”
Just to feel like he’s doing something other than being dissected by his own demon, Lucifer stands and moves around the bar to refill his glass.
Naturally, Maze follows him like a bloody shadow. “You haven’t had sex in days. Days, Lucifer. That’s just...unnatural.”
“I fail to see how my carnal activities—or even lack thereof—are any of your concern.”
She stares at him, lip curling in a sneer. “I can smell it on you.”
“And that is deeply invasive.”
“And I don’t care.” She smirks, leaning in. “This weird thing you have going with that detective? It’s disgusting and beneath you. You are the Devil. The King of Hell. Remember?”
Cracking his neck, Lucifer doesn’t look away from his drink. “Oh lovely, thank you ever so for the reminder. I had nearly forgotten.”
“Look, I didn’t leave Hell to be a bartender or your errand girl while you play obsessed boyfriend with some human who’s going to be dead in five to seven years.”
Lucifer turns slowly, fixing her with a glare that simmers more than blazes. “I am not obsessed. Or her boyfriend.”
Maze snorts. “Please. You’re practically writing her poetry in your head.”
“I do not write poetry.” Anymore, he adds silently.
“Not yet.”
Silence falls for a beat, then Lucifer’s voice drops, a low timbre even Mazikeen of the Lilim must heed. “In case you have forgotten, Mazikeen, I am the Lord of Hell and you are the servant. You do not get to tell me what to do.”
The demon’s smirk fades a bit, but she doesn’t flinch. Not exactly. “Fine. Whatever. But don’t pretend this whole thing isn’t making you all...weird.”
Setting aside his drink, he steps forward, pressing his palms to the counter and closing the distance until he’s towering over her. “Leave it, Mazikeen.”
Raising her hands in temporary surrender, Maze backs up a step. “Fine. I get it. Drop the grumpy pissy look. I did come here to drop something off, which you would have known if you’d come to the damn bar.” From nowhere, she produces a plain envelope that looks almost offensively boring. “Delivered earlier. No name. No return address.”
Lucifer’s gaze sharpens. “Give it.”
She holds it out of his reach. “You sure? ‘Cause you still seem a bit emotionally compromised. Wouldn’t want you to cry or something.”
He gives her the look. The look complete with crimson eyes that glow like molten lava, heat bubbling just beneath his skin. “Mazikeen...”
“Ugh,” she mutters, thrusting the envelope towards him. “Fiiine. You’re no fun anymore.” He snatches it from her fingers, and she turns on her heel. “You want me, I'll be downstairs sharpening knives and not giving a shit.”
The lift doors shut behind her a moment later.
Already knowing what’s in his hand, Lucifer tears open the envelope—surely the Detective won’t mind. He’s just...making sure it’s what he thinks it is. Turning it over on the counter, a brass key in a sealed evidence bag falls out first, followed by a single sheet of paper with lab results. He eyes the bagged key for a moment, then turns his attention to the results, scanning quickly.
The report is sparse—clean and efficient, and filled with technical jargon that means nothing to him. But the results at the bottom are quite concise.
Partial latent fingerprint match belonging to:
Espinoza, Daniel Alejandro
LAPD Officer ID #51249
Lucifer’s hand stills halfway to his glass. There’s also a photo attached—a headshot. And while he’s not met the man in person yet, he saw this face in the background check he did of Chloe. In it, he looks ten years younger and considerably less douchey, but it’s unmistakably the same man.
Chloe Decker’s not-quite-ex-husband. The man she co-parents her spawn with. The man who dismissed her every theory, her gut, and her integrity—over and over again.
Lucifer looks at the photo. Then the report. Then the key. And then back to the photo. “Well, well, Detective Douche,” he murmurs. Something new washes through him. Something sharp and cold. Fury—on Chloe's behalf. For months, she’s been lied to. Undermined. Told she’s chasing ghosts, while that ghost was probably smiling and feigning support the rest of the time.
He downs the rest of his drink. The piano is calling to him again, but this time, he doesn’t answer.
Really, it shouldn't concern him. He doesn't know any of these people and it doesn't affect his life in the slightest. And yet.
“Bollocks,” he mutters, shoving the key and incredibly incriminating results back into the envelope.
He needs to see her. She needs to know.
Now.
Because whether it involves him or not, this isn’t just a case anymore. It’s far more personal than that. And Lucifer is going to find out exactly what kind of man stabbed Chloe Decker in the back.
And then he wants to do what he can to ensure she never gets burned again. If that involves a bit of punishment from the Devil...well, Lucifer tells himself he's merely doing what he does best.
He ignores the way the half-lie burns in his mind.
Moonlight pours through the curtains like water, too soft to offer any real clarity. It’s the sort of light that makes shadows out of everything and gives shape to the thoughts Chloe has been trying to ignore for the last three hours. Trixie has been asleep for at least that long, the soft hum of her white noise machine offering an illusion of peace.
Unfortunately, though, Chloe isn’t asleep. She’s lying on the couch in sweats and an old LAPD hoodie two sizes too big that still smells faintly of a time when things were more normal. When she and Dan still pretended to even have a marriage. When Palmetto was just another unsolved case and not the noose tightening around her badge. Her eyes are burning from too much screen time and too little sleep, scrolling through reports she’s read dozens of times, hoping something—anything—might jump out at her.
It never does.
A knock pulls her out of her spiral. She can almost pretend she imagined it, the soft sound, barely more than a tap. As if the person knocking doesn’t want her to know they’re here at all.
But then she hears it again.
Immediately, she sits up, setting aside the tablet as her heart gives a suspicious leap. No one just shows up here, except for earlier when dinner was delivered via an annoying, boundary-clueless nightclub owner. But never this late. Not unless it’s bad news.
Swallowing, she throws her legs to the floor and pads barefoot to the door, pausing only briefly to glance out the window without turning on the light. Not that she needs it to confirm that silhouette.
Lucifer freaking Morningstar. Wearing a three-piece suit, at midnight, and looking...well, serious for a change. This isn’t his usual smug, smirking self. He’s standing still, not fidgeting, hands in the pockets of his slacks with a tight expression on his face.
Reluctantly, Chloe unlocks the door and cracks it open. “This had better be good.”
“It is,” he murmurs quietly, his voice low. “Or bad. Suppose it depends on the perspective.”
She frowns. “What?”
Lucifer sighs, looking like he wishes he was anywhere else but here. “I have the results. From the key.”
She blinks. And just like that, every ounce of irritation drains out of her. “You—you have them?” she breathes, hardly daring to hope. This might actually save her career. Her livelihood.
He nods once, something cautious, almost wary in his expression. “May I come in, Detective?”
Stepping back, she opens the door enough for him to enter. “Yeah. Just—we need to be quiet. Trixie’s asleep.”
No obnoxious jokes about her daughter’s name as he steps inside with a grace she can’t help but notice. He’s a bit too smooth for a guy wearing that much designer wool and hair gel. He doesn’t speak a word, barely looks at her, just wanders a few steps in, then hovers awkwardly near the kitchen island like he doesn’t quite belong and knows it.
This is the first time Chloe has seen him look anything close to...uneasy.
Taking a deep trembling breath, Chloe crosses her arms to avoid fidgeting herself. “Well?” she prompts quietly. “What’s it say?”
Without a word, he pulls an unsealed plain envelope from inside his jacket...but doesn’t hand it over. Instead, he places it on the counter like it contains something fragile. Or highly explosive.
Raising an eyebrow, Chloe reaches for it. His hand shoots out, covering it before she can touch it. “Wait.”
She huffs, blinking. “Wait? For what? I’ve been waiting for months, Lucifer.”
He swallows, meeting his gaze. “Detective. Perhaps...you ought to sit,” he suggests, pulling out a stool for her. “And you should...prepare yourself.”
“Prepare...” she echoes, shaking her head. Then her stomach turns as realization dawns and suspicion sinks her stomach like lead. “Oh shit, it’s someone I know.”
Lucifer nods, his mouth opening like he wants to say something more, but he closes it again.
The suspense is setting every nerve in her body on fire. “Lucifer, you’re freaking me out. Just...give it to me already. Please.”
“Detective, I’m serious,” he says quietly, holding her gaze. “This changes things. It’s...it isn't something you can unsee.”
Her throat tightens, her pulse is pounding in her ears, but she keeps her voice firm. “Then I need to see it. I need to know.”
For a moment, he just watches her. Then he reaches into his jacket again and pulls out his silver flask. “Here,” he murmurs, holding it out to her. “You’ll want this.”
Chloe stares at it for a few seconds like it might bite her, but she takes it and unscrews the cap, sniffing. Something smoky, expensive, and probably aged longer than she’s been alive. She takes a sip, pauses, then takes another, longer one, surprised at how smoothly it goes down and warms her belly.
“Okay,” she says, setting it on the counter. “There. Sufficiently braced.”
“Doubtful,” he mutters under his breath. For another long second, he studies her, and she gets the feeling he’s considering the merits of snatching the results and running out of the house to protect her from what is inside. But then he slowly slides the envelope across the counter to her.
Willing her hands to stop trembling, she opens it and pulls out the bagged key, setting it aside. Then removes the sheet of paper. Her hands tremble slightly anyway as she reads.
And then freezes, wondering faintly if this is what the end of the world feels like.
Partial latent fingerprint match belonging to:
Espinoza, Daniel Alejandro
LAPD Officer ID #51249
Chloe stares at the paper like the words will change if she looks long enough. Her fingers tighten until it’s crinkling in her grip. “That’s...”
Lucifer says nothing. Just watches her, hands folded in front of him like he isn't sure what to do with himself. Or with her.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. That’s—he wouldn’t—Dan wouldn’t—” She cuts herself off, her voice cracking in the middle of the sentence.
Lucifer’s voice is soft and apologetic. “I had them test it twice, just to be sure the results would be accurate.”
She shakes her head, harder this time. “It—it’s only a partial. A partial print. That—it doesn’t prove anything. He could’ve—he could’ve...I don’t know, loaned the key to someone or-or dropped it or...” She trails off, thinking of all those times Dan denied that there was anything to find at Palmetto. That he told her she was chasing ghosts. She thinks about how defensive he gets when she brings the topic up, or that guilty look on his face when he thinks she isn’t paying attention. She thought maybe that was because he feels bad for missing so much time with their family.
But it isn’t. Is it?
Then she thinks about the rest of the department. The harassment. The bullying. Palmetto bitch. How she’s been shunned by everyone, hated by all, made the enemy with a scarlet letter P on her chest. How she was given three weeks to either solve this case or lose her badge. Even if she closes it without complaint, she doesn’t think they would keep her on; apparently, she’s caused too many waves.
But if she walks in there with evidence...
Espinoza, Daniel Alejandro
At first, she feels nothing but numbness. All of her limbs have forgotten how to work. Her voice is gone. Then all at once, that changes, and the tide begins to roll in. The betrayal. The jagged hurt. The slow, creeping realization that something fundamental has shifted beneath her feet.
He’d told her she was wrong.
He’d told her to let it go.
He’d called it grief. And guilt. And paranoia.
And all this time—
There's only one explanation for Dan's 999 key to have been found in the tunnel. And even with her denials, her wishing it meant something different, she knows the answer: Dan was at the gym the night Malcolm was shot. He was in the tunnel.
Dan shot Malcolm.
“God,” she whispers, gripping the back of the stool for balance. “Oh, my god.”
Lucifer doesn’t move. He just watches her like a man standing at the edge of something he doesn’t understand.
Chloe rubs her face with both hands, the paper crinkling in her grasp.
“Detective? Are you okay?”
She blurts a bitter, wet laugh. “Do I look okay to you?”
“You look...” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “Like someone who has just been stabbed in the back by someone she trusted.”
Accurate.
She nods slowly, her hands dropping to her lap. The paper flutters deceptively innocently to the counter, like it didn’t just overturn her entire life. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Lucifer silently slides his flask towards her in silent offering. She takes it.
A beat passes. Then another. And then she looks up at him. “Why are you even here, Lucifer?” she asks, her voice hollow.
He blinks at her, head tilting to the side. Faintly, she thinks he looks like a confused puppy. It’s a little adorable. Or it would be if her world wasn’t burning. “I told you, Detective. The results.”
“No. I mean...why do you care? Don't get me wrong, I appreciate everything you've done more than you know, but... You could have just delivered them and left.”
For several long moments, he hesitates, as if he doesn’t know the answer to that himself. Emotion flickers across his face, like he might say something real—something that isn’t a joke. Then he says, his voice barely audible, “I knew you would be hurt by this. And I didn’t think you should be alone.” He swallows. “I don’t like the thought of you...in pain.”
The words sink in slowly, pushing the hurt down just a little. She can see in his eyes he's being completely sincere and honest with her right now. Which is a hell of a lot more than she can say for others in her life.
Letting out a shaky breath, she leans back against the chair. For a long time, neither of them speaks. Lucifer takes a step closer, leaning near her against the counter, offering silent support. Showing her she isn't on her own. Just the two of them in the quiet dark, the ocean beyond the glass, though the crashing waves don't soothe her nearly as much as usual. Between them on the counter, the results sit there. Their job is done after taking a wrecking ball to her life, destroying everything in its path, especially her.
For the first time in weeks, though, Chloe doesn’t feel entirely alone anymore. She might not entirely trust Lucifer Morningstar—she barely trusts herself at the moment—but she does believe his words about not wanting her to be alone. And for now, she’ll take what little support she can get.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! I'll post a new Lucitober one-shot later today!
Chapter 5: Special Delivery
Summary:
Chloe wakes to a surprise delivery. Then has to go into work and pretend her world isn't falling apart. She gets another unexpected surprise there.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun feels like a slap in the face. It’s harsh, golden, and far too cheerful for the way Chloe feels as she shuffles down the stairs like a zombie fresh out of the grave. Her body feels as heavy as lead, and her brain a thick, soupy mess of images, facts, and feelings—
Dan’s name on the report. His partial print on the key. The look on Lucifer’s face as he handed her the results.
Yet again, she didn’t sleep. Not really. Maybe twenty minutes here, ten minutes there. Mostly she just laid on the couch where Lucifer had left her, staring at the ceiling, and replayed every moment of the last few months. Every conversation. Every excuse Dan had given her. Every flash of guilt he’d tried to pass off as grief or frustration. Every time she blinks now, all she sees is the report etched into her eyelids.
Dan. Dan. It feels impossible and absurd. Because he wouldn’t...he couldn’t... Except he might have. And that feels even worse.
Confusion overrides everything else when the smell hits her halfway down the stairs. Food. Eggs. Bacon. Syrup. Coffee.
She pauses on the last step. What the hell... And then she sees the table. Her jaw drops.
The dining room has been transformed into a breakfast buffet extravaganza. Pancakes, waffles, strawberries, croissants, three kinds of eggs—scrambled, poached, and what she thinks might be frittata—applewood bacon, chicken sausage, and a massive carafe of what smells like the best coffee she’s ever inhaled in her life.
And right in the center of it all is Trixie, happily destroying a massive Belgian waffle, her face sticky with syrup.
“Mornin’, ‘ommy!” she calls, her mouth full of waffle.
Chloe stares. “What...what is this?”
Trixie somehow manages to swallow and grins hugely at her. “Room service!”
Chloe blinks. “We’re...not in a hotel...?”
Her daughter stuffs another massive bite into her mouth. “Delivery guy said it was for you,” she mumbles around it. She swallows it mostly whole. “I let him in. He had a really cool accent.”
Feeling her blood freeze, Chloe can only mouth silently for a second. “You did what?”
Trixie blinks innocently at her, completely unfazed. “Well, he knew your name, Mommy. Said it was a surprise from your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a—” She pauses mid-sentence as she looks around, spying a small black envelope propped up against a crystal jug of orange juice. Her name is written in bold, elegant calligraphy that she recognizes immediately. Dramatic and extra—just like him.
I’ll kill him. The thought isn’t nearly as firm as it should be.
She picks up the envelope, hesitates a beat, then flips it open to read the card inside:
Detective,
You looked like death warmed over last night, and not in the charming undead way.
Here’s an entirely unreasonable amount of breakfast. I know it won’t make up for what happened, but perhaps it might help a little.
Do try the coffee. It’s blessed by the Pope—or possibly cursed by me. Either way, it should keep you awake.
Don’t go mad. I rather prefer you sane.
~L
Chloe lowers the card slowly. “Boyfriend?” she echoes blankly.
Trixie shrugs carelessly. “He was wearing a vest. And he had really shiny shoes. And the people with him were really nice too.”
Lucifer. Of course it was Lucifer. Why would she have ever thought differently?
She looks back at the table. It’s just...absurd. So over the top. And it probably cost more than her monthly grocery budget. And yet...he’d done it. For her. Because he knew she wouldn’t sleep. Because he knows today is going to be hell.
“Okay,” she says numbly, staring at the perfect strawberries that look like they've come straight from a magazine to her table. “No more letting strangers in when I’m not up, Trix.”
“But he was nice!”
“No buts. We’ve had this conversation so many times.” She isn’t angry. She doesn’t have the energy to be angry. In fact, her voice sounds flat and exhausted even to her own ears.
Trixie notices, and her little brow furrows as she stops chewing. “Are you okay, Mom?”
Pasting on a smile, Chloe nods. “Yep. I’m fine, baby. Just...didn’t sleep well.” Or at all. Same difference.
Admitting defeat, she sits down at the table and reaches for the coffee like it’s a lifeline. One sip, and her eyes nearly go crossed. It’s so good it should be illegal—maybe it is, knowing Lucifer. Like, illegally grown, illegally imported, brewed with some illegally elaborate coffeemaker. Chloe isn't nearly as annoyed about that either. Because holy crap, the taste of it. Rich and strong, and it has some kind of vanilla-hazelnut note she can’t name but kinda wants to marry.
She tries to eat. Nibbling some bacon. Half a croissant with fresh raspberry jam (not jelly, not that she can ever taste a difference). But her stomach won’t allow it. It churns and twists with every bite, too full of anxiety and grief to hold much else.
So she settles for coffee. Lots of it. All the while, her mind won’t stop racing.
What is she meant to do with the information she received last night? March into the precinct and hand over the report? Accuse Dan to his face? Pretend nothing has changed until she has more to go on?
You’re the one who said something about Palmetto was fishy, she reminds herself. You said there had to be another shooter present.
And now she has the proof. Not just that someone had been there, but that that someone had been Dan.
She feels cold again.
Her ex. Well, her almost-ex. The father of her child. The man who begged her to drop the case like it was poisoned.
Was he trying to protect her?
Protect himself?
She has no idea. And it’s killing her.
Lost in her thoughts, she barely notices Trixie watching her, the waffle all but forgotten. “Mom?”
Chloe looks up in question.
“You’re really sad.”
Lifting her coffee again, Chloe forces another smile, though this one feels more like a grimace. “No, baby, I’m just really tired.”
Trixie glances down at the table briefly. “Is it about Dad?” she asks hesitantly.
Her stomach flips. “What?”
Trixie shrugs a little. “You and Dad are fighting,” she says quietly. “You guys think I don’t notice, but I do. And whenever you guys fight, you get really quiet and sad.”
Chloe feels her chest ache. Sometimes she forgets just how perceptive her little Monkey is. And almost dreads the days to come, when Trixie hits her teen years and hones those skills.
But this was another reason for the separation—the way her and Dan arguing was affecting Trixie. Penelope was right about one thing last night, kids do pick up on these things.
With a sigh, Chloe reaches across the table to take her daughter’s syrup-sticky hand. “Trix, your Dad and I...we’re going through some stuff right now.” And it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse, she doesn’t add. “But no matter what, we both love you, and that is never going to change.”
Trixie gives her a nod that’s too solemn for a kid her age. It isn’t the first time she’s heard those words by a long shot. After a few moments, though, she reverts back to typical seven-year-old, her face brightening. “Can I have more whipped cream?”
A small, genuine smile pulls Chloe’s lips and she huffs a quiet laugh, grateful for the shift. “Go for it, Monkey.”
Trixie is already reaching across the table for what looks like real whipped cream, made in a steel dispenser rather than the cheap aerosol can Chloe usually buys. Because of course Lucifer would be too snobbish for anything but the real thing.
Shaking her head at the spread on her table, knowing she isn’t going to eat any of it now, Chloe starts putting the leftovers away, converting some of it to go in Trixie’s school lunch. The whole thing is ridiculous and way too much, and she’s a tiny bit annoyed that he delivered it all while she slept, but Chloe can see the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. The kindness. And she suspects that isn’t Lucifer’s go-to response when someone he knows is upset.
Sex probably is his go-to...
And yet, he did this for her. Why? Why does he care about her or this case at all? It doesn’t affect his life beyond the deal they made. Even with the deal, he doesn’t have to go out of his way to help her; he could have just made some calls, come up with nothing, and Chloe would either have to swallow her pride and close the case or give up her badge.
Unfortunately, Lucifer Morningstar and his...Luciferness are the least of her worries this morning.
Despite her exhaustion, she still manages to help Trix get ready for school. Braiding her hair. Finding the ever-missing left shoe. Locating the backpack that somehow vanished under the couch. And they make it out the door more or less on time.
The drive to Trixie’s school is mostly quiet, save the upbeat music of Katy Perry and Taylor Swift playing on the radio. Chloe is dreading walking into the precinct. She still doesn’t know how to handle this key or the results Lucifer’s lab pulled from it. But the tiny part of her that trusts him knows those results are accurate; he’d have no reason to pin Dan as the suspect—they’ve never even met. And somehow, Chloe doesn’t think Lucifer would let her life fall apart like this if he had any choice in the matter.
But she’ll have to go into work and maintain a cool exterior while pretending her life isn’t imploding, or have it out with Dan in the middle of the precinct. As satisfying as the latter would be, it isn’t a viable option; Chloe is trying to keep her badge. Which means...pretending.
Pretending she doesn’t know about the key.
Pretending she doesn’t know Dan was there.
Pretending her almost-ex-husband didn’t betray her in one of the worst ways possible.
All while running on maybe two hours of sleep.
Yep. This day is going to be awesome.
Chloe pulls up to the curb outside the school, also pretending she doesn’t know her daughter has been watching her like a hawk for the entire drive. “Okay, Monkey. You got everything? Homework, lunch?”
“Yes, Moooom,” Trixie says in that long-suffering tone she probably picked up from TV. Or inherited from her mother. She starts to dart out of the car, but then hesitates, looking back at Chloe. “You gonna be okay today?”
Feeling her eyes prickle, Chloe nods, smiling faintly. “I’ll be fine, Trix. Don’t worry about me.”
Her daughter gives her a mischievous grin. “Maybe you should call your boyfriend. He's really funny, I bet he'd cheer you up.”
Chloe blinks, her cheeks heating against her will. “He—he's not... He’s not my—”
But Trixie is already halfway out of the car. “I really like him!” she calls, slamming the door shut and running towards the school.
With a sigh and headshake, Chloe pulls away from the curb and heads to the precinct. The day had barely even begun, and already, she feels like it’s dragged on a thousand years. And it’s about to get so much worse.
She doesn’t remember the drive. There’s a vague recollection of a traffic jam caused by a fender-bender, but she barely recalls that, either. Which should probably be concerning, especially with how many red lights she must have hit on complete autopilot. And now, here she is, walking into the precinct like nothing is wrong. Like it’s just another day. Like the foundation of her entire reality hadn’t been yanked out from under her less than twelve hours ago.
Smile, Chloe, she reminds herself. Then she has to dial down the brightness of the smile when a few people give her odd looks. She settles for closed-lipped smiles after that.
She walks past Jerry at the front desk, one of the few people who still acknowledges her existence without a cruel word or sneer. She nods in greeting, but doesn’t hear whatever joke he cracks. Her forced laugh when he grins expectantly at her sounds too loud in her ears.
The closer she gets to Homicide, the more her anxiety ramps up. Despite what movie critics thought, she’s a decent enough actress, but she isn’t sure even she has the chops to act like Dan hadn’t shot a man in cold blood.
The bullpen is buzzing with the usual morning chatter while people start their days with paper cups of stale coffee. Someone even brought in donuts—the good kind from the decent donut shop down the street. Jenkins has powdered sugar on his shirt collar. Nobody has bothered to tell him. A few people’s gazes drift towards Chloe as she walks in, smirks on their lips that she ignores on her way to her desk.
Normal.
It all feels too normal.
As she puts her bag away—in a locked drawer so it doesn’t get stolen for a ‘prank’, again—she notices there’s even a case waiting for her. An arson out in North Hollywood with a body in the debris. This could be her focus for the day. It should be her focus for the day. A nice distraction to take her mind off her rapidly deteriorating life. With shaky hands, she opens the folder to read the prelim details, letting everything around her fade away while her brain struggles to reboot.
It might have worked. If not for—
“Hey, Chlo.”
She freezes. That’s a voice she would recognize anywhere. The same one that nervously asked her out a few months after they met. That stumbled and stammered as he proposed marriage, and was over-the-moon excited when he found out Chloe was pregnant. The same voice that encouraged her to not give up when she was struggling with her career. Who joked and laughed and cried with her over the years.
The same voice that has spent months lying to her and telling her she was seeing things that weren't there at Palmetto. And came up with excuse after excuse as to why he couldn’t make a family dinner or pick up Trixie for the weekend.
Dan.
He just popped up at her elbow like a goddamned jack-in-the-box, holding two cups of non-precinct coffee and wearing that bright, easy smile she gradually fell for all those years ago. The same one that used to get him out of more than a few arguments over the years. And damn if it doesn't almost work.
Almost.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you before you buried yourself in a new case,” he says, still grinning as he holds out one of the cups. “Stopped on the way in, got your triple shot vanilla soy thing.”
Chloe blinks at the cup, taking it reflexively and setting it down. Vanilla soy thing? She hates soy and prefers sugar-free caramel, which she thought Dan would know by now after over a decade of knowing her. But then, maybe he never really knew her at all. Isn't that one of the reasons they fell apart?
“Thanks,” she says, managing to keep her voice calm. Her hand even stops shaking.
Dan leans against her desk like he belongs there. “Trix said you got her some huge breakfast this morning? She was bragging about it when I called before school started.”
She hums and nods. “Yeah. Special delivery.” She doesn’t bother saying from who.
He watches her for a moment, like he’s debating asking or waiting for her to say, but seems to change his mind—Good call, Dan. Not that you’re making many of those lately... He smiles again and it looks a little too casual. “So I was thinking... Maybe we can try dinner tonight? I know I missed Taco Tuesday, but it can be just the three of us, you know? No pressure, no work. Just us, like it used to be.”
Chloe feels her stomach tighten. Her fingers, still gripping the paper coffee cup, clench so hard the lid dents inward. Acting, she reminds herself. She can act and pretend and manage not to lose her shit in the middle of work.
She can do this.
Clearing her throat, she forces a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Not sure,” she says, forcing herself to hold Dan’s gaze. “Depends on the case. You know how it is.”
Dan nods like that makes perfect sense, but she can see the disappointment he tries to hide. What else has he been hiding? “Right. Yeah. Of course. Maybe tomorrow.”
She wants to scream. Or punch him. Or march into the lieutenant’s office and hand over every piece of evidence she’s found that puts Dan at the scene. Instead, she gives him a tight smile. “We’ll see.”
When Dan’s phone rings, she swallows a sigh of relief. He checks it, winces, and gives her a sheepish look. “Better take this. Lieutenant’s got me running around in circles.”
Chloe manages to nod. Once. A moment later, he walks away. She collapses in her chair and lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Every muscle in her body aches from tension. Her jaw hurts from keeping her expression even. The words in the file have blurred into nonsensical symbols. She doesn’t move, doesn’t look around.
He smiled at me like everything was fine. Asked about dinner like any other time he’s trying to make-up for missing something. He brought coffee, even if it was the wrong coffee.
Is he playing her? Dumb question. He’s been playing her for months, probably thinking she would never find out. Or does he actually think he can talk his way out of this one?
Her thoughts are spiraling fast, every one more brittle and sharp than the last. She’s about two seconds from locking herself in the file room or janitor’s closet just to breathe—or scream. Then something in the room shifts, an odd ripple in the air that feels familiar. She feels a prickle at the back of her neck like someone’s eyes are on her.
Chloe looks up slowly. And blinks. Then blinks again in case she was imagining what she couldn’t have seen.
No.
No freaking way.
Standing at the edge of the bullpen near the elevators, leaning against a file cabinet like he owns it, is Lucifer freaking Morningstar. He’s wearing his usual three-piece suit with a maroon shirt and a pocket square that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. His hair is perfect, his smirk insufferable, and his eyes are locked on her.
What the hell is he doing here?
He doesn’t even look real here, all sharp lines and tailored confidence in the middle of beige law enforcement chaos. No visitor badge. No appointment. No warning. No reason.
Chloe actually gasps.
He actually waves, grinning at her like an idiot.
“Oh, for the love of—” Gathering her case file, she shoots to her feet and marches towards him, heat rising in her face as she ignores the stares around her. “What are you doing here?” she hisses when she reaches him, her voice low but seething. “This is a police station.”
Lucifer’s smile widens. “Yes,” he agrees brightly. “And yet, here I stand. No handcuffs, no sirens—though if you’d like to whip out your own cuffs—”
“Lucifer—”
He looks around, eyebrows rising. “Remarkably dull place, really.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “What are you doing here?” she repeats.
“Well, I was in the neighborhood,” he says smoothly, twisting his cufflinks. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite detective. I assumed you’d be in a state of emotional disarray following last night’s debacle and revelations, so I thought I’d offer a distraction.”
Her mouth opens. She closes it when nothing comes out. A distraction...? “This is not the place,” she snaps quietly. “You can’t just drop by my job like it’s—like it’s Lux!”
“Hmm, yes, I rather like Lux much better,” he says, glancing around again with a bored expression. “At least there, the uniforms are skimpy and leather—and optional.”
Closing her eyes and reining in her temper, she looks at him again. “Why are you really here?”
He tilts his head at her. “Well, I told you. Checking in on you. Also, I’ll admit to some curiosity regarding the great House of Justice you so deeply adore. Possibly meet a few of your fellow detectives, get a feel for your ecosystem as it were.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because it’s—” She lowers her voice. “—completely insane. You don’t belong here. Not to mention, we’re investigating a case together on the side and we can’t talk about it here.”
He waves that off. “Ah,” he says, his eyes dancing with mischief or excitement. Or both. “We don’t have to talk about...you-know-what. But perhaps I do belong here.”
“Not even close.”
His expression softens without warning. “I meant it, you know. Last night. That if you need anything—anything, Detective—I’m here.”
Chloe’s breath catches. She remembers that, one of the few things from last night that wasn’t a blur. Right before he left, he sat down beside her on the couch and said exactly that. She hadn’t been able to respond then, and isn’t sure she can now, either.
The thing is, Lucifer might be a completely insufferable pain in the ass, but there’s something else behind his words now. Not teasing or mockery. Not flirtation or seduction. Just quiet support, like last night. She almost hates how much steadier she feels, not just from what he said but having him here at all.
Before she can respond, though, a shadow passes by.
Dan. He glances their way...then stops. His expression shifts instantly from blank to guarded to cool curiosity, then he walks over.
Shit.
Lucifer beams. Though to Chloe, there look to be sharper edges in his smile and eyes. “Ah, you must be Daniel. Lovely to put a face to the name.”
Dan blinks, raising an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. And who are you?”
“Lucifer Morningstar.” He doesn’t extend a hand to shake. “I have heard so much about you from the Detective.”
Dan glances at Chloe suspiciously. She doesn’t say a word. Dan crosses his arms over his puffed out chest. She swallows a sigh. “Funny. I haven’t heard a single thing about you,” he says stiffly.
Chloe knows that tone. It’s the one he adopts right before some macho display of jealousy and possession.
Lucifer’s grin widens. “How fascinating. And here I thought my name might come up over scotch and shattered illusions. Being you’re such a key figure in the Detective’s life.”
She elbows him sharply.
He doesn’t even flinch, gaze still locked on Dan like a predator scenting prey. Or playing with it.
Dan looks between the two of them, suspicion rising. “Are you two...?”
“NO!” Chloe and Lucifer say in unison.
“Well, not yet, anyway,” Lucifer adds, winking at Chloe.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the floor opened up and swallowed her? Right this second, preferably.
Dan gives them both a strange look, then excuses himself and walks away. Every few steps, he throws a look at them over his shoulder.
Once he disappears around a corner, Lucifer turns to her looking smug. “Well, he seems lovely.”
She shakes her head at him. “You are the absolute worst.”
“Devil, darling,” he sing-songs.
“I’m starting to believe it,” she mutters under her breath.
He perks up. “Really?”
“No.” He pouts, and she shakes her head again, feeling the beginnings of a smile tug at her lips. “I am so going to kill you,” she mutters. The weird part is, she’s not as annoyed at him as she should be.
How does he do that?
“Tease,” he says, stepping closer, just enough to invade her space. She doesn’t back away. “Although, if it helps, Detective, you look marginally less like a wreck than I expected. Shall I take credit for that?”
She finds a glare for him, but her shoulders are relaxing. She’s about to grab him by the ear and drag him out of the precinct when another, far less welcome voice invades her ‘marginally less wrecked’ mood.
“Well, if it isn’t Hollywood,” sneers a voice from behind her.
Chloe’s eyes close of their own accord. She can feel Lucifer looking at her as Paolucci joins what is quickly turning into a three-ring circus. Apparently when she assumed her day would be hell, she wasn’t far off.
When she opens her eyes, Paolucci is standing a few feet away from them, smirking coldly. “Heard you’re working a new case,” he goes on, pretending to look at the file in his hand. “Hope it’s not another dead end. I’d hate to see you waste even more of the department’s valuable time.”
Her jaw tightens. Beside her, Lucifer stiffens, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’m doing my job, Anthony. Maybe you ought to try it some time,” she says mildly.
Paolucci snorts a mocking laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Just don’t expect anyone to cover your ass when the shit finally hits the fan.”
None of you covered my ass before. Why would I expect it now? she bites back.
Lucifer straightens. “And you must be Anthony Paolucci,” he says in a light tone that might seem friendly and polite. Or it would if Chloe didn’t know him. “The one with the forehead real estate large enough to advertise bad decisions?”
Chloe drops her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. No, no no—
Screwing with Dan was one thing, but this is something entirely different.
Paolucci’s neck flushes with anger. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Lucifer sips from a mug she hadn’t seen him carrying, grimaces, and promptly dumps it in a nearby trash can. “I’m the Devil. Ask anyone.”
“Lucifer,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth.
“Too late, darling, he asked,” he says brightly. “Though, between us, you really ought to invest in better coffee. This tastes like burned regrets and gas station betrayal. Surely the department budget could afford an upgrade?”
Paolucci looks him up and down with a curled lip. “What are you, a lawyer or something?”
Lucifer looks genuinely offended. “Do I look like I enjoy paperwork and moral ambiguity?”
“Yes,” Chloe says under her breath.
The idiot winks at her. “I’m simply here to assist the good Detective with her case,” he says, pivoting back to look at Paolucci. Chloe didn't miss the emphasis on ‘good Detective’, and neither did Paolucci. “Which, based on what I’ve heard, she’s doing a brilliant job with, despite the rather unrelenting peanut gallery commentary.”
Paolucci takes a step forward, looking like a puffed up parakeet on steroids. “Sounds to me like neither of you belong here,” he says in a low, threatening voice.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, his smile turning sharper than it had with Dan. “Oh, I’d say the Detective here is far better at her job on her worst day than you could ever hope to be. Tell me, does the leather jacket and badge come with a side order of low intelligent toxic masculinity or did you inherit that from your mother?” The words come out like he’s discussing the weather—light and polite.
Several heads turn, and someone coughs into their hand. Chloe resists the overwhelming urge to let her face fall into the nearest desk. Or laugh. She isn’t sure which.
Paolucci looks like he’s chewing nails. “I’ll be reporting this to the lieutenant,” he snaps.
“Oh, please do. And while you’re at it, let her know the vending machine is an offense to both humanity and Hell.”
With that, Lucifer spins on his heel to smile at Chloe like he hadn’t just verbally suplexed one of her colleagues, who, technically, outranks her—in front of the entire bullpen. “Right, then, darling. Shall we?”
Before she can stop him—or murder him—he snatches the file out of her hand with all the theatrics of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat and starts flipping through it.
“Lucifer,” she growls, following when he turns and moves to the elevators, “you can’t just—what were you thinking? You just insulted a cop in a police station!”
“Yes, and wasn’t it magnificent, Detective?” He beams at her over his shoulder.
Sputtering, she jabs the elevator button. “That—that’s so not even the point.”
“Oh, come now, darling.” He leans against the wall, reading through the file. “You didn’t even attempt to shut him down. And I know you’re more than capable, as you do it to me all the time. That wasn’t like you. Are you ill?”
“I was—I had it under control.”
The look he gives her is skeptical with a side of oh, really? “You were tolerating it. Quite badly, at that.”
The elevator doors slide open, and she steps inside with a long-suffering sigh, massaging her forehead. She doesn’t know if the oncoming headache is lack of sleep, Lucifer, Dan, or Paolucci. Probably the combination of all the above. Lucifer follows her, because of course he does.
“You are not coming with me,” she tells him sternly.
He ignores her. “Hmm. This suspect looks promising.”
“There are no suspects yet, since I haven’t even seen the crime scene,” she says, reaching for the folder. He holds it away from her. “Lucifer. I mean it.”
He finally looks over at her. “You’re clearly overwhelmed, Detective. Running on caffeine fumes and stubbornness. If you insist on burning yourself out physically and emotionally, the least I can do is offer some devilishly handsome company.”
She gives him a flat look.
“And,” he adds, holding up one finger, “I’m really rather invested now. This whole Palmetto business? Utterly fascinating. Conspiracies, corruption, a coma-bound cop with a shady partner—it’s practically Shakespeare. And I would know. I helped him write some of his most famous works.”
Chloe blinks at him, then sighs, giving up on getting the folder back from him. Instead, she glares up at the glowing numbers above the doors. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I stand,” he says cheerfully. “But I’m also right.” He grins at her. “So. Where are we headed, partner?”
“We are not partners.”
He grins like it’s his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. “The lady doth protest too much, Detective.” Then he leans closer, adding in a stage-whisper, “I wrote that line.”
“Kill me now,” she mutters.
He just chuckles.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! I know there are a lot of updates lately (I'll post my Lucitober one-shot later), but hope everyone's enjoying anyway!
Chapter 6: Poetic
Summary:
Chloe (grudgingly) lets Lucifer tag along to her latest crime scene. Lucifer spends more time watching her than anything else.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chloe isn’t sure what is happening, much less how it happened. Despite her protests and her firm repetitions of “It’s not happening, Lucifer,” Lucifer Morningstar is in her passenger seat as she drives to her latest crime scene.
Maybe her exhaustion is taking the power out of her glares. Or the stress of the last week has culminated to make her not care. Or maybe it’s that Lucifer has actually been helpful to her. Not only has he made phone calls on her behalf, he found the secret access in the gym that proved someone else could have shot Malcolm Graham. That then led to the discovery of the key he sent out for testing to a private lab because she can’t trust her own department.
He stayed with her last night when he brought the results, knowing they would upset her. There was no flirting or suggestions that sex would cheer her up. He was just there, as if he somehow knew that was what she needed. Knowing she wasn’t alone might not have fixed everything, but it helped. There was the breakfast he delivered this morning, too. She almost wants to ask him about the coffee because...damn, that was some good coffee.
The point is, he’s been there for her, in his own weird way, and some part of her isn’t ready to give that up. So here he is. Accompanying her to a crime scene.
She wonders again how long it will be before she regrets it.
The silence currently filling the car isn’t hostile, but it isn’t exactly peaceful, either. Chloe has both hands on the wheel and her eyes fixed straight ahead on the road. The case file is facedown on the dash, and for once, Lucifer hasn’t picked it up again, nor has he said a word in ten minutes. That alone should probably be a sign that something is off.
He turns towards her slightly. She doesn’t look back. “You know,” he says, his voice slicing through the silence, “I rather thought you’d be more excited, Detective.”
“About what?” she mutters, still not looking over.
“Justice, of course,” he says lightly. Though there seems to be an odd edge in his voice. “You finally have the evidence you require. The path forward is clear, and the truth lies in the palm of your hand. Yet you look like someone just offered you a root canal with no anesthetic.”
Chloe sighs, tightening her grip around the steering wheel. “It isn’t that simple, Lucifer.”
He leans back in his seat, head tilted slightly as he studies her. “I would imagine it usually is. Evidence. Motive. Guilt. Consequence. Humans do love their cause and effect.”
She raises an eyebrow at his use of ‘humans’, like he isn’t one of them. Then she lets out a humorless snort, deciding not to acknowledge that aspect. “I doubt you would understand,” she says with a sigh.
“I rather think I understand far more than you think, Detective,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “Particularly when loyalty and betrayal bleed together.”
She blinks. The way he says it, he’s experienced such a thing before—repeatedly. Glancing over at him, caught off guard by the shift in tone, she wonders about what his past was like to bring him to who he is now. Not for the first time.
“The difference is, this isn’t just some random suspect I’ve never met before. This is Dan.”
“Ah,” he exhales with a knowing nod. “Yes. Daniel Espinoza. The walking moral contradiction.”
The breath she lets out is half-exhausted, half-frustrated. She isn’t sure if it’s directed at Lucifer or Dan. Maybe both. “We were married for almost ten years,” she says, mostly to herself.
He raises an eyebrow. “So I gathered.”
“And...you know, not all of it was bad,” she adds, almost defensively. Immediately, she hates how defensive it sounds.
“Of course not,” he murmurs. He almost sounds sympathetic. “I sincerely doubt you would be hesitating now if it had been.”
Slowing down for a red light, Chloe lets out a breath, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel in agitation. Her brain has yet to fully process it—that Dan had been behind Palmetto and everything that came after. Her eyes start to burn as she speaks again.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” she says, eyes on the car ahead of them. She barely sees it. “To have everything you believed about someone you once loved start to just...crumble? Slowly? Piece by piece? Not all at once. Just enough, every day, to make you question if you ever really knew them at all?”
Lucifer’s expression softens further. “More than you can imagine.”
She glances at him again. “Yeah? You ever been married?” She doesn't think so; it hadn’t been in any of the background checks she ran on him, but...those aren’t always accurate.
“No,” he murmurs with a tight smile. “But I have watched plenty of relationships implode over eternity. And I do have a sibling I once got along swimmingly with who has dedicated his existence to returning me to Hell. So I think I understand betrayal quite well.”
That pulls a faint laugh from her. “Sounds healthy.”
“Oh, I assure you, the family therapy sessions are an absolute riot,” he deadpans.
The light turns green and the car in front of them moves forward. Chloe presses on the gas. “The thought that keeps crossing my mind is...I don’t want to hurt Trixie,” she says after a moment. “She loves him, you know? He’s her dad. And if I turn him in...she would never forgive me.”
Every time she closed her eyes last night, all she could see was Dan being led away in handcuffs and the look of pure betrayal in her daughter’s eyes. The knowledge that her mother is the reason she has to talk to her father from behind glass or never gets to hug him would stay with her for life.
“And what happens if you don’t follow through?”
Chloe furrows her eyebrows, shaking her head a little. “What do you mean?”
Lucifer shifts in his seat. “If you pretend you never saw the results? If you simply go on as before, like nothing ever happened?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Because she isn’t sure that’s a reality she could even live in, risk of breaking her daughter’s heart or not.
“I might not know her personally,” Lucifer admits quietly, “but I have gotten to know you over the last week. If she is anything like you, she’s smart—clever, even. And eventually, she will figure it out, Detective. Children always do—loud, sticky, taxing burdens though they may be, adults tend to underestimate them. And when your daughter asks why you didn’t act...what will you tell her?”
Breath stuttering in her chest, Chloe shakes her head. Insults aside, Lucifer is right. Kids are smarter than some parents give them credit for. Trixie, especially. She’s the daughter of two detectives, and she seems to have inherited that investigative gene. Hell, Chloe sometimes thinks her daughter is the smartest of all of them.
“I don’t know,” she confesses in a whisper. The words come out quiet and heavy. “Maybe that I was...scared?”
For a few seconds, Lucifer just watches her, then tries a different angle. “What would you do if it were anyone else? Any other colleague? Even that puffed up one with the forehead I met today.”
She doesn’t smile. “I’d turn them in,” she says with no hesitation.
“Well, then. I suppose the only question is why Daniel deserves different treatment.”
“Because it’s complicated!” she snaps.
Lucifer doesn’t flinch or pull away. He barely blinks.
She sighs, softening her voice, because this wasn’t his fault. “Because I loved him. Because he’s the father of my child. And because we built a life together, and even if it’s over, that doesn’t just...disappear.” She pauses, then admits the real truth. “Because I’m scared of what this’ll do to Trixie. Because I don’t want to be the reason she grows up with a criminal for a father and no explanation for why her mom put him away.”
Tense silence fills the car. Chloe is blinking tears out of her eyes, unwilling to shed another one for Dan Espinoza. Beside her, Lucifer is quiet, thoughtful. Outside of the car, the city buzzes on around them, traffic lights and pedestrians and horns and life carrying on the way it always does. Oblivious to the fact that Chloe’s life will never be the same.
“You know,” Lucifer says eventually, “when humans talk about justice, they rarely ever consider how personal it gets when the lines blur.”
She looks over at him, surprised by the lack of snark in his tone. “Yeah?”
His gaze drifts towards the window, his eyes far away. “It’s easy to call for punishment when it’s theoretical,” he murmurs. “Harder when the guilty party used to brush your daughter’s hair at night and bring you soup when you were sick. Or...so I'd imagine.”
Chloe swallows hard, remembering times when Dan did those exact things.
Lucifer turns back to her. “He betrayed you. And worse, he jeopardized your case and your career. He hurt you. And yet...you’re still thinking about how this affects him.”
“Not like I can just...turn it off,” she mutters, shifting uncomfortably beneath his knowing stare. It isn’t judging. More like he’s seeing her in a way she doesn’t let others view her. The weird part is, there’s a side of her that likes knowing somebody sees her.
“I know,” he says quietly.
She blinks at him, a little unsettled by the genuine empathy in his voice. In his eyes. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”
His smirk is barely there. “Please. You’ve seen nothing yet.”
The car turns down a side street, approaching a roped-off perimeter of the crime scene. As they pull up, Chloe parks and kills the engine, but for a moment, neither of them moves, just staring out the windshield.
Finally realizing she isn’t going to come to a resolution to this any time soon, Chloe reaches for the door handle. “Come on. Let’s go see what’s waiting for us.”
Lucifer watches her for another moment, then follows. “After you, Detective.”
As they walk up to the crime scene, Chloe tries to remember the last time she even had a partner. But more than that, she wonders when the so-called Devil became someone she could really talk to.
Contrary to popular belief, Hell is not filled with fire and brimstone. There is fire, but that originated when the angel formerly known as Samael crash-landed into the infernal plane’s landscape with the force of a meteor, creating the Lake of Fire and setting the place ablaze for centuries. The lake still burns with molten lava, and when Lucifer was still king, he avoided it like the plague—bad memories and all.
Eons later, the scent of burning flesh tends to trigger those memories, and that’s what’s happening now, despite his attempts to force them back. While he had known this crime scene was a result of arson, he hadn’t taken into account that the place would still smell like this. Charred flesh, smoke, and suffering.
Lucifer stands just behind the yellow police tape, hands in his pockets as he stares over the ruins of some business or another. He looks impeccable, as always, with his tailored black suit and not a speck of ash on his shoes. The same cannot be said for most of the officers traipsing through the soot-stained rubble. But then, Lucifer has never been one to get his hands dirty.
Well, until now. Apparently.
“Well,” he says, scanning the remains of what was once a modest commercial building. “It’s no Lux, but I do admire the dramatic flair. Arson with a side of body? Classic combo.”
Chloe shoots him a glare as she ducks beneath the tape. “Can you not?”
“What? I’m simply appreciating the theatricality of it all.” He gestures to the collapsed roof, the blackened remains of a desk, and what might have been a filing cabinet. Whatever it was, it’s now melted into a sad puddle of metal and plastic. “It’s like Hell’s waiting room.” He pauses. “If Hell had a waiting room, of course. Perhaps I should add one if I ever return.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t surprise him. She’s all business today in a tan blazer with her hair tied back in a strict ponytail. And the ever-present crease between her brows that screams overworked and underappreciated.
With a sigh, he follows her into the remains of the building, carefully stepping over debris. Technically, he isn’t supposed to be here—why is he here again? But no one has stopped him, and Chloe allowed him to tag along, which, in his mind, is a clear enough invitation to participate.
Seriously. Why is he here right now? He could be back at Lux drinking scotch or having sex with a beautiful woman—or drinking scotch from a beautiful woman. Instead, he’s here in this soot-smeared, hollowed out building surrounded by scents he doesn’t like to think about. Instead of sleeping in this morning, he got up much earlier than normal to deliver a buffet breakfast to the Detective’s home where he briefly met her sticky-fingered offspring. The child, whose head barely reached his hip, proceeded to play Twenty Questions with him before even letting him in the door.
“Who are you?”
“Lucifer Morningstar?”
“Like the Devil?”
“Exactly.”
“Why are you here?”
“I have a surprise for your mother.”
“Are you her boyfriend?”
“Certainly not.”
“How come?”
And the questions became more absurd from there. His only goal had been to bring the breakfast and then leave before Chloe woke up. All night long, from the time he left her on the sofa, she ruled his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but couldn’t come up with a reason to stay, and he knew she needed sleep.
On the drive home, he questioned whether he should have left her alone.
Walking into Lux, just after closing time, he wondered if she was doing all right.
As he drank a nightcap, he remembered the look of hurt and betrayal on her face when she read the lab results and her initial attempts to deny them.
Stripping off his clothes, he felt an odd ache in his chest at the recollection of the tears she was trying not to shed.
Staring up at his bedroom ceiling, still wide awake, he imagined punishments for Daniel Espinoza—he told himself the punishments were for his misdeeds, knowing all the while it’s because the man hurt Chloe.
As the sun rose, he gave up on sleep to watch it, and imagined Chloe there with him. Not after a night of sweaty, athletic, mind-melting sex, but fully clothed and just...sitting together. Cuddling.
The Devil is not a cuddler.
This whole situation is beyond absurd. He doesn’t understand the draw to this woman. Why he keeps coming back. And yet, he does. He suspects that unless she sends him away, this will be the status quo—him following her around, wanting to spend time with her, get to know her on a level he’s never known anyone.
It makes no bloody sense.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he wrinkles his nose at the overpowering stench of burnt plastic, smoke, and something...meatier. Something human. And tries not to recall when he was the one burning. Then he makes a mental note to get his clothes steam-cleaned once this day has ended.
As they approach, a forensics tech glances up. “Detective Decker,” he says politely. But the way his gaze lingers on her, then slides away says more than words could. Another tech mutters something under his breath, glaring at her.
Lucifer narrows his eyes on them. “Delightful welcome committee. Did they all flunk out of charm school together, or is this merely standard procedure for ungrateful peons?”
Chloe ignores the jab, stepping closer to the center of the building. Or what is left of it, anyway. A tarp has been pulled over what can only be the victim’s remains, the shape vaguely human, crumpled up like a broken doll. “What do we have?” she asks briskly.
“Male,” one of the techs says. Or rather, grunts. “Found under the beam. Cause of death is likely blunt force trauma, but with the fire...” He shrugs, as if to say, ‘Who knows’.
“No ID yet?” Chloe asks, crouching down and lifting the tarp.
“Not on the body. But we’re still digging through rubble.”
Lucifer crouches down beside Chloe, tilting his head thoughtfully. “How poetic. Reduced to ash and anonymity. What do you suppose he did to deserve such a flamboyant exit?”
Chloe elbows him. “Stop talking like this is theater.”
“I’m not,” he says, slightly offended. “This is real life, Detective. Just...with much better dialogue.” He frowns slightly at the ache in his side. It doesn’t...hurt. Not exactly. But he shouldn’t have felt anything with that.
Probably his imagination.
She gives him another one of her signature looks, but he swears there’s just the faintest twitch of a smirk before she turns away. “Who found the body?” she asks the techs.
The man looks at Lucifer with a raised eyebrow, as if wondering who he is and why he’s here, but doesn’t ask. “Woman. Vic’s business partner. She’s over there,” the tech says, gesturing towards the far side of the tape.
Lucifer straightens, half-tempted to offer Chloe a hand up, but she pushes to her feet first, leading the way to a woman sitting on the curb. She’s petite, probably mid-forties, and her face is streaked with soot and mascara. A tissue is clutched in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
Comforting grieving humans is not his forte, so he hangs back a little while Chloe kneels down beside the woman, her tone softening. “I’m Detective Decker. What’s your name?”
“Elena,” the woman says with a sniff. “Elena Cruz.”
Chloe smiles sympathetically. “Elena, I know this is hard, but could you tell me what happened?”
The sniffling woman nods, wiping at her eyes again. “I—I got here this morning, around seven. The back door was locked and I could smell something...wrong. Like burnt plastic. I thought maybe something electrical might have shorted; we’ve had that happen a few times. When I opened the door, the smell hit me like a wall. Then I saw smoke coming from the back and I ran outside to call 9-1-1.”
“When was the last time you saw the victim?”
“Ray. His name was Ray Talver. Um, I haven’t seen him for a couple days. We had an argument. It was so stupid,” she huffs, her lip wobbling.
“What was the argument about?”
Elena lets out a broken sigh. “The business. He wanted to do more and more, but I didn’t think we were ready yet. We were barely limping along as it was. I got frustrated with him and left, and haven’t talked to him since. Now our last conversation will have been things neither of us meant.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Chloe says, sounding like she genuinely means it.
Lucifer’s eyebrows furrow as he watches Elena wipe her eyes again—her dry eyes. He takes a step forward, crouching again near Chloe. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, but his gaze is on the supposedly grieving woman.
“Hello, darling,” he says with a charming smile. “Would you mind telling me something?”
Elena blinks at him. “I-I guess?”
He leans forward slightly. “What is it you truly desire?”
Chloe stiffens and he feels her glare, but he doesn’t break eye contact.
The other woman’s eyes go glassy, widening slightly as her lips part. “I...I just wanted to succeed. In the business. Me and Ray—we put everything into this place. Ten years, and he always said we were due for a break.”
“How is this helpful?” Chloe hisses, her glare intensifying.
He holds up a finger. “Wait for it, Detective,” he murmurs, then turns back to the woman “And what was stopping you from this break of yours?”
She hesitates, then lets out a rush of breath. “Ray started gambling again,” she says, as if she can’t wait to get the information out. “Not just regular poker nights either. Real money with bad people. I begged him to stop. Last week, someone slashed the tires on his car and keyed it. He just...laughed it off. But I knew something bad was coming.”
Chloe turns back to the woman. “You didn’t mention this to the police? File a report?”
“I—I was scared,” she admits shamefully. “If they knew I talked...”
Reaching for a notepad, Chloe quickly starts jotting down notes. “Do you know who he owed?”
“He never gave me any names. But he did mention a guy once. Said he had gold teeth—called him ‘Midas’. He thought it was funny. I didn’t.”
Lucifer clucks his tongue. “Nothing like gallows humor from the soon-to-be-incinerated.”
Chloe shoots him another glare, turning back to the woman with a gentle tone. “Thank you. The officers have your information. We might have follow-up questions later.”
Elena nods, dabbing at her eyes, now filled with tears for the first time since their approach.
Back in the building, Chloe pauses near the skeleton of what might have once been an office. She glances sideways at Lucifer. “So. Gambling debt?”
“Indeed. And quite a dramatic exit strategy for dearly departed Ray. Though if he was trying to fake his death, he did a rather poor job of it.”
Rolling her eyes, she mutters something under her breath and steps over a charred beam. Lucifer follows, hands in his pockets as he scans the wreckage. He isn’t here for a laugh. Not really. He’s here because she is letting him be. Because despite everything, she hasn’t told him to go. And for reasons he still doesn’t understand, he wants to be useful. Not just as entertainment to the masses, not provocative or flirtatious. Just...useful.
He finds himself watching her more than the scene or the people around them. The way her eyes narrow as she tries to make sense of a missing piece. The way she mutters half-formed theories under her breath, piecing things together like it’s a puzzle only she can solve. He’s seen countless humans do this sort of work, often incompetently. But Chloe...well, she’s something else altogether. Sharp. Unrelenting. Passionate. The kind of soul that burns brighter under pressure.
Lucifer frowns. Since when does he care about pressure? Or passion outside the bedroom? He glances down at his shoes, scuffing one lightly against the ash-covered floor. None of it makes any bloody sense.
“Lucifer,” Chloe calls, pulling him swiftly out of his reverie. “Focus.”
He blinks, stepping closer to her. “I assure you, I am focused. Exceptionally so.”
She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Right. So what’s your take? What do you think happened?”
Mildly surprised she’s actually asking—and looks interested in his opinion—he glances around the scene. “Our victim was in trouble. Debts. Threats. Perhaps he was hiding out here. Someone came to collect, and he either refused or couldn’t pay. Things got heated—quite literally.”
Chloe nods slowly. “And...what if it wasn’t only about the money?”
He tilts his head. “You think it was personal?”
She takes a slow breath. “I think fire is emotional,” she answers slowly. “It isn’t just a way to kill someone. It’s a statement.”
Lucifer’s lips curl into a smile. “Well. Now who’s being poetic, Detective?”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. He doesn't miss the way her lips twitch, though, just for a moment.
Behind them, one of the techs calls out, “Hey, Decker? We’ve got some camera footage from the storefront across the street. Might show something useful.”
“On it. Thanks,” she calls back. She glances over at Lucifer. “You gonna keep tagging along?”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling.” He blinks when he realizes that he means it. For once, this isn’t about chasing a high. No, he’s chasing something far more dangerous with much higher stakes.
Curiosity.
Her.
The former never ends well. The latter? Well, that remains to be seen.
Notes:
This was more a transitional chapter than anything, to get us to what happens next. Informative, I know. Thanks for reading! I'll post my Lucitober fic later on.
Chapter 7: Unforeseen Consequences
Summary:
Chloe and Lucifer close in on a suspect, and they run into trouble.
Notes:
Apologies for the tardiness on this chapter! At least you won't have to wait a full week until the next one? 😊
Chapter Text
Even this early in the year, the late morning sun is already starting to bake the sidewalk as Chloe and Lucifer walk towards a small corner shop across from the North Hollywood warehouse remains. It’s one of those weird Los Angeles juxtapositions: a healthy juice bar is completely untouched just feet away from the charred, hollow bones of a building that saw hellfire just last night.
Lucifer strolls along beside her like they’re going on a coffee run, hands in his pockets while his eyes flick lazily to the shop signs and storefronts. Chloe steals a glance at him, taking in the pristine black suit, devil-may-care swagger, and the faintest trace of a smile, like the world exists solely for his amusement.
Why the hell is he even here?
It’s the question that has been needling her since he showed up at the precinct. She still wants to know how he got past security and directly into her morning routine like it’s normal. Like they’d planned it all along.
Is it boredom? Some twisted sense of entertainment? She can’t imagine him sitting at home watching reruns of Forensic Files and CSI. Maybe he’s one of those rich guys who gets off on true crime and wants a front row seat to the action.
Or maybe it’s about her—
Nope. No. So not going there.
Still, for someone she barely knows, who she definitely hadn’t invited into her life past their deal, he’s been strangely helpful. She’s still trying to pretend him staying last night and the breakfast delivery this morning doesn’t make her feel...something.
A partner. The thought creeps in before she can stop it.
She bites the inside of her cheek. Hard. She doesn’t even know his real name—probably. He’s just some nightclub owner with too many secrets and a smirk that should be illegal in all fifty states. A guy she made a deal with out of desperation—and that deal resulted in her entire life being turned inside-out. Not that that was his fault.
Swallowing hard, she pushes that particular ache back down as they step into the store.
A bell jingles cheerfully overhead, and an older man behind the counter looks up. “You the cops?” he asks, squinting through thick glasses.
Chloe gestures to the badge at her hip. “Detective Decker. We’re hoping to have a look at your security footage from last night, specifically facing the warehouse across the street.”
“Sure thing.” The man nods and shuffles out from behind the counter, leading them to a back office that smells like lemon cleaner and dust. He motions to an old monitor and a clunky tower beside it. “Footage loops every three days. But if it’s recent, then you’re in luck.”
Sliding into the chair, Chloe reaches for the mouse. Lucifer leans over her shoulder in a way that makes her overly aware of the crisp scent of his cologne. Something expensive, warm, and entirely too enticing. Blinking out of those thoughts—then locking them up tight—she clicks through the timestamp menu, quickly finding last night. The footage is grainy, barely a few steps above useless, but the angle catches a good portion of the sidewalk across the street, and the warehouse is in frame.
The flames haven’t started yet. Then there’s movement in the lower third of the screen. Chloe squints, trying to make out what she’s seeing. A figure. No—two figures. One walking while the other paces back and forth near the building looking agitated.
Lucifer leans even closer, pointing at the pacer. “Detective, is that...?”
“I think so,” she murmurs, adjusting the playback speed and zooming as much as the nearly ancient system allows. The woman pacing is familiar. Long dark hair, slender frame, tense posture.
The same woman they just interviewed. Tear-streaked face, shaking hands, broken words about her business partner.
“Oh, you liar,” Chloe mutters.
Lucifer lets out a low whistle. “Well. Someone’s acting chops might actually rival yours, Detective.”
She tenses—he knows about that?—then she shoots him a look, but it lacks any real heat. Her mind is already spinning as pieces of the puzzle click into place. Why lie? Why pretend she hadn’t been near the scene?
Unless, of course, she has something to hide. Or someone.
“I mean, it could be a coincidence,” Chloe says, though her gut is telling her it isn’t. “She does work there.”
“You don’t really believe that?”
She doesn’t answer. Because...no, she doesn’t. Not even for a second.
The woman—Elena Cruz—claimed she hadn’t seen the victim for a couple days before the fire. They’d argued about Ray’s gambling and the future of the business but left things unresolved. And now, here she is, the night of the fire, loitering outside the very building where her partner died.
“I need to talk to her again,” Chloe says, standing abruptly.
Lucifer offers a dramatic bow, gesturing towards the door with a flourish. “Lead on, Detective. I’m eager to learn your ways of detecting, you know.”
She rolls her eyes, pressing her lips against a smile. Because the truth is, he does have a strange knack for getting to the center of things. Or at least rattling people enough to get useful reactions. At this point, Chloe doesn’t care where the truth comes from; she just wants it.
Especially if it leads her away from the train wreck that has become her life and toward something solid she can hang her badge on again.
Assuming she gets to keep it.
Stepping back out into the sun, Chloe feels the first spark of momentum since she found the key at Palmetto. Standing next to her, whistling an off-key tune while looking completely unbothered, is a man who makes her question every assumption she’s ever had about...well, anything. She still doesn’t know what to make of him, but she’s starting to wonder if he might be just what she needs to get back on level ground.
Or maybe she really is crazy.
Or maybe it’s both...
By the time they make it back across the street, searching for Elena, she seems to have vanished. Chloe asks a nearby uniformed officer who doesn’t even look at her as he shortly informs her Elena went home. Lucifer raises an eyebrow at the officer’s attitude, but surprisingly doesn’t comment. After getting their possible suspect’s information, they head back to the car while calling in to put out a BOLO on Elena.
There’s a bit of debate about Lucifer wearing his seatbelt; apparently seatbelts positively ruin the lines of his suit. She rolls her eyes and tells him to buckle up or walk home. He buckles up. Grudgingly, while grumbling under his breath about ‘tyrant detectives’ and ‘dry cleaning bills’. Again. Chloe ignores him and starts driving.
The silence is a little unsettling. She’s somehow grown accustomed to Lucifer’s constant chatter filling it, and can’t imagine anything good coming from him not talking her ear off. Glancing sideways at him, she realizes he’s humming under his breath, some melody she doesn’t recognize, and tapping his fingers idly in rhythm. Actually, he hasn’t said much since they realized Elena lied to them. He just followed along like some kind of lost puppy.
“You know, I could arrest you for impersonating an officer,” Chloe says, turning down a quiet residential street. She’s joking. Mostly.
“Could you?” he asks lazily, not looking at her. “You’d have to explain who I am first, and I’ve a feeling you don’t want to do that.”
He isn’t wrong. How is she supposed to explain to the lieutenant she went to a nightclub owner who thinks he’s the Devil for help with Palmetto?
“You’re infuriating,” she mutters.
“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a genuine compliment.
Rolling her eyes again, she fights twitching lips. At this rate she's going to have a migraine by the end of the day.
Quiet settles again until she pulls up across the street from a modest house with trimmed hedges and a blue door. Elena’s place. From the outside, it looks harmless and normal. Like the kind of place someone builds a life in. The kind of place she saw herself, Dan, and Trixie eventually living in.
She kills the engine but doesn’t get out of the car. Instead, she stares straight ahead, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The question on her mind since she and Lucifer left the precinct is fighting its way out. “Why are you really tagging along?” she asks quietly.
Lucifer blinks at her, caught off guard. He turns to her, raising an eyebrow with curiosity rather than his usual smugness.
“I mean,” she continues, “you could be anywhere. Doing anything. Drinking overpriced liquor. Sleeping with people who should probably know better. Playing the piano shirtless. Or whatever it is you do. So...why do you keep showing up?” She isn’t just talking about today anymore.
“Are you saying I haven’t been helpful?”
No. That isn’t what she’s saying at all. He has been helpful in his own...Luciferish ways. “I’m saying it’s weird.”
Leaning back in his seat, he tilts his head at her, thinking. “What can I say? I’m fascinated. I find you intriguing, Detective.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He hesitates for a long moment. “It’s an honest answer.”
Chloe studies him for a moment. “But it isn’t the entire truth.”
Averting his eyes, he lets out a sigh. “It’s the only answer I currently have,” he says quietly.
“Of course it is,” she sighs, opening her door.
They get out of the car and cross the street, gravel crunching beneath their feet. She thinks about his answer, not remembering the last time someone found her ‘intriguing’. What does that even mean? She isn’t some sort of experiment. Or something to pass the time with when he gets bored.
Maybe he doesn’t know what any of this is anymore than you do, her mind supplies.
She supposes that’s fair enough. For now, anyway.
Chloe glances at the windows, but doesn’t see any movement. The lights are all off and the curtains are drawn. “She might not be home,” she says, hand moving to her weapon out of habit.
“Oh, she’s definitely home,” Lucifer replies, his quiet voice light but certain. “People always run to where they feel safest. And liars very rarely think ahead.”
Chloe frowns, then, without meaning to, she asks, “Do you know what you want yet? The IOU?”
Lucifer blinks again, glancing at her briefly. “My favor, you mean?”
She nods.
He tilts his head, lips quirking slightly. “Not yet. But not to worry, I won’t waste it. I can be a patient Devil when I want to be.”
“I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying.”
The idiot winks at her. “Why not both? More fun that way, Detective.”
She rolls her eyes, not pushing it any further. Part of her appreciates that he hasn’t collected on their deal yet. Another part worries about what he might eventually ask her for. What really throws her off is that, somehow, she trusts him more than she trusts most people in her life at the moment. And that feels like a problem.
Crossing her arms, Chloe stares at the blue door for a moment longer before sighing, coming to at least one decision. “I’m talking to Dan tonight.”
Lucifer looks at her, surprise flickering across his expression. “Are you now?”
“I need answers,” she says, more to herself than to him. “I need to know why he did it. Why he shot Malcolm. Why he lied to me for months—gaslit me into thinking I was crazy.”
For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Do you think he’ll tell you the truth?”
“I don’t know, but I have to at least try.”
He pauses for a beat. “And if he does? If he confirms everything you already know?”
Swallowing, her chest tightening, Chloe looks up at him, her jaw tense with resolve. “Then I do what I have to do. No matter what it means.”
Lucifer studies her like he can see past her words, down to the knot of pain she hasn’t admitted the existence of to herself. He nods, and without a trace of mockery, he says, “You’re stronger than you believe, Detective. And far better than most others deserve.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice disarms her. She looks away. “I’m doing my job,” she says, because anything more honest might hurt too much to say aloud.
He nods at the door. “Speaking of, shall we see if our potential pyromaniac is taking visitors?”
“Yeah,” Chloe sighs, dropping her arms and knocking on the door. For a split-second, she thinks she sees a curtain twitch. But there’s no answer.
To her absolute not-surprise, Lucifer is already craning his neck to peek through the narrow gap in the curtains beside the front window. “Well, well,” he murmurs. “Either our dear Elena lives in complete squalor or she’s been very busy not cleaning up after herself. I spy with my little eye at least three dirty dishes, a half-dead plant, and oh—is that a cat skeleton?”
Chloe rolls her eyes. “Lucifer, back away from the window.”
“You know,” he says, stepping back with feigned solemnity, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s expecting company and doesn’t wish to entertain.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Chloe scans the street, every instinct she has prickling. Something isn’t right. “Stay here,” she mutters to Lucifer.
He pouts at her. “But Detective, what if she comes to the door and we’re not both here to greet her? That’s quite rude, you know.”
She shoots him a don’t screw with me right now look. “Stay. Here.”
Lucifer sighs dramatically, but makes a show of staying put.
Suspecting he won’t stay there long, Chloe turns on her heel just as something shifts in her peripheral vision—movement behind the house, just a shadow creeping away.
Shit.
She takes off at a run, feet pounding hard against cracked pavement around the side of the house, her hand already going for her service weapon. As she turns the corner, she sees Elena quietly sneaking away towards the side gate.
“Elena!” she shouts. “Stop!”
The woman flinches, not breaking stride for a second. She’s halfway to the gate when Chloe catches up, drawing her gun. “Don’t move!”
Elena freezes. She turns around slowly, hands raised just enough to show she isn’t reaching for anything. “Detective,” she says evenly, a fake smile on her face that shakes at the edges. “I was just...getting some fresh air.”
Chloe raises an eyebrow. “Fresh air while sneaking out the back door?” she says. “We know you were at the warehouse the night of the fire. Your prints are everywhere.”
It’s a complete and total lie. Chloe hasn’t even been back to the precinct to find out if there are fingerprints. Even if there were, they were probably burned away by the fire. But Elena doesn’t need to know that.
Her face pales. “I—I didn’t mean to,” she says in a rush, backing up a step. “Ray was...he was making things difficult. The business was falling apart, and—and he wanted to sell. He was going to cut me out!”
“So you killed him?” Chloe keeps her voice calm and steady, watching Elena’s every move.
“No!” the other woman snaps. “I didn’t mean to. We fought. I shoved him, and he fell. Hit his head. There was just...so much blood and I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do. It was an accident!”
“Setting the building on fire wasn’t the right answer, Elena,” Chloe says. “You’re going to have to come with me to the station. We can talk about it there.”
Elena shakes her head, eyes filling with tears. “I’m not going to jail,” she says, her voice cracking as her hand dips into her jacket.
“Don’t,” Chloe warns, her gun aimed.
But Elena moves too quickly. She pulls a small pistol and points it directly at Chloe’s chest.
Chloe tenses, silently cursing herself. Her exhaustion. Her stress. Everything. “Put it down,” she says quietly, adrenaline surging in her blood.
“I can’t,” Elena whispers tearfully. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just—I can’t go to jail.”
From behind, almost from nowhere, a tall shadow approaches. “Darling,” Lucifer’s voice drawls, a few feet from Elena. “I assure you, that will not end well for you.”
Startled, Elena spins towards the sound just as Chloe shouts, “Lucifer! Get down!”
But he doesn’t even flinch. He takes another small step forward, his expression confident and unshaken.
“Elena, listen to me,” Chloe says, trying to keep her voice steady. “You really do not want to do this.”
Elena isn’t listening, her gun hand moving between Chloe and Lucifer as she keeps them both in sight, still backing away. She’s caught and she knows it—cornered and desperate. A really bad combination.
And then the gun fires. The sound is deafening. For a terrible second, Chloe thinks Lucifer is the one who got shot and guilt surges through her. He’s only here because of her.
Then the pain hits, ripping through Chloe’s left shoulder, like white-hot lightning. Her gun drops as she collapses on the cold, hard ground with a strangled cry, her breath caught between a gasp and a sob.
She barely even registers the chaos that follows.
Something snarls—an inhuman sound she hadn’t known a human throat could make. For one insane second, she thinks someone let a lion or bear into the yard, but it sounds so much worse than that. A woman screams in sheer, bloody terror. There’s a scuffle...something slams hard against the fence...and then silence.
The next thing she knows, Lucifer is crouching over her, his face filling her vision. He's pale, his eyes wide, and she faintly wonders if he got hurt too. The pain in her shoulder worsens as his hand hovers over her, like he’s unsure what to do.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs, his voice tight. “You’re all right, Detective.”
Her vision swims, the edges dimming slightly. The pain is unbearable, nearly blinding her as it pulses through the rest of her body, tearing her apart. “I don’t...” she chokes, trying to catch her breath.
Trixie’s face floats through her mind—last night, smiling up at her with her big, wide-eyed grin. Cuddling her on the couch. Offering her half of a cookie to comfort her after a phone call with her mother.
She tries to focus on Lucifer. The man she’s barely known for a week, and yet, he seems to be her only friend in the world right now.
“I don’t want to die.”
Lucifer’s hands tremble as he presses one to her shoulder, making her cry out. He mumbles hurried apologies, stroking her hair away from her face in comfort. He gives her a shaky smile, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as his eyes scan her face like he’s memorizing her. “I won’t let you. My father will just have to wait for you,” he murmurs in a promise.
Chloe stares up at him, dazed and scared and in pain, her vision dimming completely until everything slips away into blackness. The last thing she’s aware of is Lucifer calling her name. Not Detective, but her real name.
“Chloe!”
Hospitals are one of the locations Lucifer despises most, just behind Hell and the Silver City. Sterile walls and the scent of antiseptic that try and fail to mask despair and suffering. The artificial hum of machines reminding him of his former kingdom’s monotonous buzz. Not to mention the deathbed confessions in the hopes of alleviating guilt that rarely, if ever, work.
And yet, here he is, sitting in a hard, plastic chair at the bedside of Chloe Decker.
He hasn’t left her side—or at least her vicinity—from the moment she was shot. The tense and bumpy ambulance ride as EMTs tended to her, staring down at his hands and suit, still streaked with her blood. Being forced to remain in the waiting room while she was rushed into surgery, pacing to alleviate the agonizing dullness, and what he wasn’t willing to admit was nervous energy and worry as he awaited word on her condition. Now here in her dimly lit hospital room with only the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor as a soundtrack while she lies next to him, unconscious, pale, and too still for his liking.
This entire day has been a study in unsettling, but this especially.
He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t do hospitals. He doesn’t wait around for humans to wake up from surgery. This is the sort of thing people with feelings do. Compassion. Empathy. Caring.
None of this is his style.
But he still hasn’t left.
Why?
Chloe Decker is a conundrum wrapped in a leather jacket, denim, and snark. All righteous fury and inconvenient vulnerability. She’s a woman who didn’t flinch with a gun pointed to her chest. Who doesn’t swoon under his charm, or confess her deepest desires when he turns on his mojo. Who baffles him as much as she irritates him.
At first, he told himself she’s a curiosity. An oddity. Maybe even a scientific anomaly in sensible black boots. But then she’d been shot right in front of him and he hadn’t been able to stop it. And something inside him had...snapped. It snarled in equal parts fury and concern.
Quite frankly, he hadn’t known he could still feel that way.
Leaning forward, Lucifer rests his arms on the bed railing, eyes fixed on her face. Pale and freckled and beautiful. In that understated way that seems to be effortless to her. Not to mention stubborn. Bloody hell, this woman is stubborn.
He hadn’t wanted to care. Tried everything to deny that he might. But watching her bleeding out on the ground, whispering brokenly that she didn’t want to die...well, that had cracked something wide open for him.
Letting out a breath, he rubs his temples as his phone vibrates in his pocket—again. Maze has called four times. Well, five now. But he hasn’t answered once. He doesn’t want to explain any of this, not when he doesn’t understand it himself. Nor does he want to hear that he’s going soft, that Chloe is changing him, that he needs to stop caring and be the Devil.
So what is it that keeps him here, exactly?
Pity, perhaps? The poor woman’s life is imploding. Between the threats from her superiors to take away her badge and leave her jobless, and her almost-ex-douche’s betrayal, and now a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Maybe this is nothing more than he feels sorry for her.
Or maybe it’s the thrill of the chase. Not once, in all of his existence, has a human told him no when he offered himself to them. And yet, Chloe had. Repeatedly. And well, the Devil does so love a challenge.
Or maybe—and this is quite possibly the most dangerous maybe of all—it’s something else entirely. Something unfamiliar. Something...human. Something that should send him running for the hills—or the nearest, most debauched orgy he can find—but it hasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
Chloe stirs, and Lucifer straightens immediately, not wanting to be caught leaning so close. He watches as her fingers twitch slightly against the blanket. Her eyebrows furrowing. Her lips parting. Then she lets out a soft groan and blinks slowly, her eyes fluttering open with a haze of confusion and pain.
“Detective?” he murmurs, leaning forward. “Well, look who’s back.”
She blinks again, then shifts, and hisses softly in pain. “Wha—?” Clearing her throat, she whispers in a raspy voice, “What...happened?”
“You got yourself shot, darling,” he says, trying for light and casual, and failing miserably. “I very heroically saved your life—you’re welcome, by the way—and called for an ambulance while you bled all over my Armani. Rather rude, but as you were unconscious, I won’t hold it against you.”
Chloe makes a face, ignoring most of what he said as she grimaces. Her hand hovers over her shoulder as if she’s remembering the day's events. “What happened to Elena? I heard her scream and then...nothing...”
Lucifer holds Chloe’s gaze, keeping his expression inscrutable. He hadn’t made the conscious decision to show Elena Cruz his Devil face; it sort of just...happened, and yet, he doesn’t regret it for a moment. “Elena,” he sighs. “Well, Elena got what she deserved. Though not at my hand exactly. Alas, I did restrain myself.” Barely, he doesn’t add out loud. “She is currently in police custody.”
She watches him for a beat, then huffs a weak laugh. “You almost sound disappointed.”
“Only mildly,” he says with a smirk he doesn’t feel. “After all, she did ruin a perfectly decent suit.” He glances down at the dried blood on his sleeve, having washed his hands vigorously of blood hours ago, and winces. “Honestly, Detective, you really ought to work on bleeding less. It’s terribly inconsiderate.”
That gets a laugh out of her, just a short, quiet burst, and she immediately flinches, grabbing her shoulder again. “Ow...”
Lucifer forces a grin. “There, see? That, darling, is what you get for finding me amusing.”
Chloe shakes her head, but can’t quite keep her smile at bay. “You’re such an ass.”
“An exceptionally good-looking ass,” he replies smoothly, preening a little. It seems to amuse her more.
Though she rolls her eyes, she’s still smiling. Until her expression sobers. Reaching over with her non-wounded arm, she rests a hand over his on the bed rail. His own amusement fades as he looks down, trying—and failing—not to notice the warm, tingling jolt running up his arm.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Blinking at her, because he couldn’t have heard that correctly, he leans forward, cupping a hand around his ear. “So sorry, I must have misheard that. For a moment, Detective, it sounded as if you may have expressed gratitude towards me.”
She doesn’t rise to the bait, her eyes softening as she looks at him. “I mean it,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Lucifer.”
He goes still. When was the last time anyone sincerely thanked him for anything not related to a deal or sex? Or thanked him at all. Fear he’s used to. Begging—all the bloody time, for a variety of reasons. Cursing his name? Constantly.
Thanking is something entirely different.
Swallowing, he searches for a joke or something to break...whatever this is, and comes up empty. All except for two words. “You’re welcome,” he says, smiling faintly.
Her eyes search his face, and for a moment, they sit in silence. Not an uncomfortable quiet; it feels almost...companionable. Nice, even.
And then, she breaks that silence. “So...what now?”
Lucifer leans back slightly, reluctantly removing his hands from beneath hers. “Well, you’re on the cusp of solving the biggest case of your career, a pariah in your department. I think I’ve rather proven myself useful in the world of detectiving. Perhaps this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Detective.”
She opens her mouth to respond—whether an agreement or vehement refusal, he never finds out. Behind him, the door bursts open.
“Lucifer!” calls a loud, high-pitched, vaguely familiar voice.
Lucifer looks over in time to see the Detective’s offspring launch herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He flails, arms out at his sides as he tries to lean away, or perhaps search for the button that will release him from this new Hell.
“Ah, yes... Hello...small human.”
And of course, Chloe is no help whatsoever. She looks delightfully amused by his predicament as she laughs. Then winces again. He takes the small payback. “Trixie!”
Finally, the child releases him, grinning up at him toothily—though she seems to be missing one of her front ones. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”
“Yes, well,” Lucifer mutters, lifting her beneath the armpits and depositing her beside Chloe as quickly as possible. She winces again, giving him a narrow-eyed glare. He smirks at her. “There you go. Let’s keep the physical contact to a minimum, if you don’t mind.”
The child is no longer paying attention to him, though, turning to her mother. “Does it hurt, Mommy?”
“Only a little,” Chloe assures her, though she must be in considerable pain, having her shoulder torn open by a lead projectile. She wraps her good arm around her offspring, smiling down on her.
The sight doesn’t—entirely—repulse him. More evidence that something must be wrong with him.
The door opens again, more slowly this time. Lucifer turns to look and finds Daniel Espinoza pausing in the doorway, eyes taking in the scene. That snarling feeling rises in his chest again at seeing the man who hurt Chloe walk in here like he isn’t a lying liar who broke her heart. Lucifer forces the feeling down, glancing at Chloe. Her expression has frozen as well, but she masks it quickly.
Daniel glances briefly at Chloe, and he has the audacity to look worried for her, then he shifts to Lucifer. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks rather aggressively for a man wearing a hoodie beneath a leather jacket.
Lucifer smirks at him, his expression amused and cool. “Oh, merely keeping the Detective company whilst you were...elsewhere. Doing whatever douchey things you do in your off-time.”
Chloe gives him a look, but says nothing.
The other man purses his lips and turns to her. “You okay?”
She nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Lucifer wonders if he’s the only one who hears the hint of frostiness in her tone. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me for not staying for the family reunion. They tend to give me terrible IBS.” He looks at Chloe briefly, raising an eyebrow to silently ask if she will be okay with Daniel here. She gives him a minute nod and small smile, and he gets to his feet. “Right. Well, get well soon, Detective.”
“Thanks again,” she says quietly, ignoring the look she’s receiving from her (hopefully) soon-to-be-incarcerated ex.
“Of course,” he murmurs.
“Bye, Lucifer!” the child says cheerfully.
“Yes, goodbye, child.”
Daniel is standing near the door, arms crossed like a bouncer at a two-bit, discount strip club, giving the Devil the stink-eye.
“Detective Douche,” Lucifer says, walking past. “Do try not to upset her further. She’s been through enough, don’t you agree?”
The man raises a suspicious eyebrow, but doesn’t say a word.
The moment he’s out of the room, his thoughts begin spinning again. Between Chloe (who doctors have assured him will be fine) to these new feelings (a clusterduck in their own right) to Daniel (and the punishments Lucifer would love to deliver), his only current desire is to go home and drink.
He ambles slowly down the corridors towards the exit, hands in his pockets and a thoughtful furrow in his brow when he notices the change. The way the world seems to be slowing down—quite literally. He stops to look around, watching a nurse who was hurrying past him slow to a near stop mid-step. A roll of tape on the cart nearby falling off the edge, defying gravity in how long it takes to move an inch. A man who stumbles, flailing in midair, the coffee cup in his hand hanging as droplets of dark liquid seem almost frozen.
Lucifer curls his lip. “Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously? Now? Hurry up, Amenadiel, I haven’t got all day.”
Chapter 8: Debt
Summary:
Lucifer deals with his brother and Maze. Chloe deals with Dan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Hurry up, Amenadiel, I haven’t got all day.”
Lucifer looks around, searching, until he sees his eldest brother walk around a corner ten feet away wearing his usual flowing, holier-than-thou robes. And not bothering to hide the silver-grey angel wings pulled close to his spine. Around his neck is that ridiculous silver necklace that set off the chain of events which led to Lucifer remaining on Earth for the last five years. On his face is the usual unreadable expression.
“Well, I have been wondering when you’d pop by again,” Lucifer mutters irritably. “Let me guess your reason for being here now. Either it’s to finally get that stick up your arse removed and you require medical intervention, or Father has sent you to nag me. Or did you just miss the sound of your own sanctimonious droning?"
Amenadiel doesn’t acknowledge that Lucifer even spoke. “Your return to the underworld has been requested,” he states in that annoyingly calm tone of voice.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, twisting his cufflinks and ignoring the blood on the diamond. “Is that so? Well, as always, request denied,” he says briskly. “Now move along, you feathered maggot. You can tell our absentee patriarch that I’m quite busy these days. Whiskey to drink. Humans to vex. Women to—well, you get the idea. Or perhaps you don’t and that’s your entire problem.”
As ever, Amenadiel continues to scowl. “You have avoided your responsibilities for too long, Luci.”
“I’ve been enjoying my vacation,” Lucifer corrects smoothly. “Living my life free of Daddy’s plan. Which, need I remind you, you agreed upon when we made that fateful deal years ago. No more forcing me back to my throne, remember? And besides, it isn’t as if Hell has fallen apart without me.”
“You’ve been different.”
Lucifer blinks at the subject change, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, is that your divine diagnosis, Dr. Oz? I’m different? I assure you, Amenadiel, I am the same Devil I’ve always been.”
“I’ve been watching you lately, Luci. Reckless, even by your standards,” Amenadiel says evenly. “Ever since you met that human detective.”
“Well, that sounds disturbingly voyeuristic, even by your standards.” Lucifer’s brow twitches, just a touch.
The angel takes a step forward, his feathers fluttering agitatedly. “You’re changing. Even if you don’t see it yet. This human—she’s affecting you in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”
“Oh please,” Lucifer scoffs, adjusting his lapels. “I’ve been affected by humans many times before, brother. Several times a night, in fact. In ways your stale, virginal brain couldn’t possibly comprehend.”
“This isn’t like that,” Amenadiel says, his tone sharpening.
“Are you jealous, brother?” Lucifer smirks coldly. “That there might exist someone on this Earth who is infinitely more interesting than your endless hymns and halo-polishing?”
His brother’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t a joke,” he snaps. “You saved that mortal woman’s life today, and not for any selfish reasons, Luci. You’ve started to care.”
“Oh, for the love of... Is that a crime now?” Lucifer laughs, but it sounds a bit strained to his own ears. “You’ll have to forgive me for not sobbing over the moral decay of it all.”
“Father is watching, Lucifer. And he will not be patient for much longer.”
Lucifer feels his eyes darken for a fraction of a second, his temper spiking. “Well, then perhaps he ought to try speaking up for a change instead of sending his holier-than-thou errand boy to ruffle feathers in my face!”
Amenadiel takes another step closer, menace filling his stance. “Careful, brother.”
“Or what?” Lucifer snaps. “Eh? You’ll smite me? Drag me back to Hell in chains? Again?”
The angel’s wings flare slightly before going still again, his lip curling. “No matter what you do, you will never outrun what you are. Or where you belong.”
“I haven’t run in five years, Amenadiel. Haven’t even threatened the heavens. I’m simply living my life, minding my own business. Perhaps you should do the same.”
With another long, unreadable look, Amenadiel takes a step back. “We’ll see about that.”
And without another word, he vanishes. The moment he’s gone, the world snaps back into its regularly paced motion. Hurried footsteps resume. The tape roll hits the ground, bounces, and rolls across the hall. The coffee cup splashes everywhere. Somewhere down the hall, a shrill phone rings.
Lucifer lets out a long breath, feeling anger bubbling below the surface that only his brother’s visits can cause. But worse than that is the unease at the realization that Amenadiel knows about Chloe. Which means, so does their father. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, Lucifer continues towards the exit, stepping out into the cool Los Angeles night.
This can’t mean anything good. And he has a feeling it isn’t over by a long shot.
Chloe’s shoulder throbs painfully in time with every heartbeat, an insistent reminder of what had happened today. Of how close she had come to dying. She isn’t sure what kind of pain meds she’s on, but if this is them doing their job, she’d hate to know what it feels like without them. Her thoughts are a chaotic whirlwind of the last week, none of them staying long enough to allow her real focus. She doesn’t even know what time it is, though judging by the darkness outside the window, it must be at least mid-evening.
But at least she has Trixie.
Her daughter is still curled up in her side where Lucifer unceremoniously dumped her like he was afraid of catching something contagious. While Trixie flips through a coloring book she brought from home, Chloe tries to pretend this is normal. That she isn’t exhausted, wounded, and furious all rolled into one. That Dan isn’t standing at the foot of her bed, acting like everything is fine.
He’s even grinning like he hadn’t—
Trixie sits up suddenly. Chloe suppresses her pained wince from the movement. “I’m hungry,” the little girl announces. “Can I go see what the vending machines have?”
“Sure thing, Monkey.” Dan fishes into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a few crumpled bills as Trixie hops down from the bed. “Get me some chips too, yeah?”
Their daughter narrows her eyes at him. “Only if you say the magic word.”
Sending Chloe a wink, Dan places a hand over his heart like he’s making a solemn vow. Like the ones he made on their wedding day to honor and respect her. So much for that. “Please, my vending machine, junk food-fueled angel?”
Giggling, Trixie takes the cash and bolts for the door. Chloe watches her go, feeling her heart twist at the thought that if today turned out differently, she wouldn’t get to see her daughter again. She forces it back. She’s fine—she’ll be fine.
“We have a really great kid,” Dan says with a fond grin.
Chloe’s jaw clenches. The plan had been to ease into the discussion. To wait until she’s home when she has a clearer head, when she’s stronger. But she feels it bubbling up in her chest—and she doesn’t think it will wait that long.
Dan steps closer, his eyes raking over her in concern. “How are you really feeling?”
Ignoring the sharp pain in her shoulder, Chloe turns to look at him. She starts to answer that she’s fine, but that isn’t what comes out. “How long were you going to let me believe you were innocent?”
He blinks at her, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. She doesn’t know if it’s genuine or feigned. “What?”
“You heard me,” she says, her voice strengthening and turning sharper. “You lied to me, Dan. For months. You let everyone believe I was crazy. Hell,” she laughs, bitter and humorless, “I thought I was crazy. But I wasn’t. Palmetto... Malcolm...”
Dan’s expression freezes for half a second, then he holds his hands up in entirely mock confusion. “Whoa, Chlo, hang on. You feeling okay? Those pain meds must be crazy strong—”
“I have proof,” she snaps, cutting him off. “I found the passage underneath the gym, Dan. And I found the key. Your 999 key. I had it tested for prints outside the department. The results came back last night—with your name. Your prints.”
His face drains of color from one blink to the next. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Chloe sees the truth all over his face. The guilt. “Chloe, I can explain,” he says eventually, his voice low. “I was protecting you. Malcolm—he was going to shoot you.”
“So you shot him first?” she asks, incredulous. “And then covered it up, walked around for months like it never happened? Made everything look clean so you wouldn’t go down for shooting a colleague?”
“I-I was just protecting you, all right? Chloe, that whole scene was—it was bad. It was chaos. Everything was spinning out of control. I didn’t know what else to do!”
The words are familiar. Chloe heard them earlier today, right before she got shot. Her suspect said them. “You let me chase shadows,” she says bitterly. “Told me I was seeing things, seeing ghosts. You let the entire department hang me out to dry, and now I could lose my badge. Because of you.”
His eyes close and shame shivers across his expression. Good. He should feel ashamed. “I thought...if you didn’t know, then it couldn’t hurt you. That you’d be safe.”
“No,” she snaps. “All you were doing was keeping yourself safe, Dan. Don’t twist this into some noble sacrifice.”
He opens his eyes, takes a breath to say something—
And the door swings open. Trixie steps inside, beaming, with chocolate already smeared around her mouth and her arms laden with vending machine snacks. “Look what I got!”
Chloe and Dan instantly school their expressions, the instinct coming from years of practice after fighting. To protect their daughter from it.
But either they were too late or Trixie has caught on—probably both. Her smile falters. “You guys were fighting again,” she says quietly, looking between her parents.
Pulling herself together, Chloe tries to shift into an upright position, wincing. “No, baby. We were just...talking.”
Dan forces a smile. “Yeah, you know. Just...grown-up stuff.”
Trixie doesn’t look the least bit convinced by their acts as she crosses the room and climbs back up beside Chloe. The snacks lay on the blanket between them like a buffet. “I got your favorite, Mommy,” she says, her tone subdued. “The peanut butter cups.”
Heart twisting at the sad look in her daughter’s eyes, Chloe kisses the top of her head. “You’re the best.”
A few minutes of tense silence passes between them as they all eat their snacks, nobody looking at each other. Finishing off his chips, Dan crumples the bag, tossing it in the small trash can beside the door. He checks his watch.
“Hey, Monkey, we should head out,” he says quietly. “Let your mom rest.”
Trixie pouts. “But we just got here!” she whines. “And I haven’t even finished my snacks. See? I still have gummy bears and chocolate bars.”
Chloe gives her a sympathetic smile, knowing the snacks aren't why Trixie doesn’t want to leave. “I know. But I’ll see you soon, okay? Next time, you can bring me even more snacks. Maybe even a balloon or stuffed animal from the gift shop.”
“I’ll bring all three,” Trixie says decisively. After a moment of hesitation, she nods, hugging Chloe tightly around the waist. “Love you, Mommy. I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“So am I. Love you too, Monkey.”
Dan gathers the empty wrappers and wipes away the crumbs from Chloe’s blanket, not meeting her gaze, then ushers Trixie towards the door. He pauses before leaving, glancing back at her, his expression a tangled mess of regret and something that might be fear. Chloe glares stonily back, not softening. Not now. He sighs and nods, then the door closes softly behind them.
Exhaling hard, Chloe lets her head drop back to the thin pillow, staring at the ceiling as her eyes water. Silence settles over the room, heavier than before.
She thinks back over today from the breakfast buffet to Lucifer showing up unannounced at the precinct. To how he followed her around the crime scene and was actually (moderately) helpful. Then to the suspect’s house where it all exploded in gunfire. She can still see his worried expression looming above her, the soft promise that he wouldn’t let her die, the way he called her name with something like panic in his voice. And he stayed—right here beside her until she woke up, as if he needed to reassure himself she would be okay.
She thinks about Trixie and Dan, and the guilt in the latter’s eyes. His attempt to deny at first and blame it on the pain meds. Even after all this time, does he really think she’s that stupid? That she would come at him with an accusation of that caliber without proof? Then he stopped denying altogether.
Maybe it started out as protecting her. But instead of doing the right thing and telling the department exactly what happened, he covered it up and betrayed Chloe. There’s still every chance she could lose her badge over this, and he doesn’t even seem to care. All that matters to him is protecting his own ass. His own reputation.
What the hell is she going to do?
When she can’t come to a resolution, she blames the pain meds for making her head fuzzy. Her thoughts drift to how quiet the room feels without a certain infuriating man in a designer suit making commentary that annoys and amuses her in equal measure. He would have something to say now to make her laugh or shift her focus.
Closing her eyes, ignoring the pain, all she can think about as she tries to sleep is Lucifer bloody Morningstar in all of his ridiculous, infuriating charm.
And how much she misses him.
It must be the drugs.
Leaning against the balcony railing overlooking Los Angeles, Lucifer wonders what the hell happened to his life. A pair of black silk pajama bottoms clings low to his hips and a crystal tumbler hangs loosely from his fingers as he looks up at the sky...contemplating. He isn’t even savoring the sight of the few stars that are visible tonight through the haze of smog and light pollution.
Around him, the air is warm, charged with the buzz of Los Angeles nightlife, though up here, none of it reaches him. The thrum of music below in the club—his club, his music, his crowd—barely reaches his awareness. Normally, this time of night, he’d be hip-deep in sin: bodies, sweat, heat, and pleasure, all drenched in desire like it’s oxygen itself.
But no, that isn’t what he’s doing. Instead, he’s standing here on his balcony in pajamas, alone and thinking. Again.
It isn’t merely the sudden deviation from his usual debauchery that irritates him; it’s the reason for that deviation. One woman. One bloody woman.
Someone who, by all mortal standards, isn’t even particularly outrageous, or special, or even his usual type. She’s prim and rule-abiding, and barely tolerates his existence—or so she lets on. She’s beautiful, sure, no question about that, but there’s more to it. Her fire. Her cleverness. Her stubbornness. Her absolute refusal to be charmed—who does that? And there’s the way she looks at him, like she’s trying to see what he isn’t saying. It’s bloody infuriating.
And yet...
“I am not interested,” he mutters under his breath, lifting the glass to his lips. “It’s just...curiosity. Nothing more.”
Even to his own ears, the words sound paper thin.
He should be in bed with a handful of willing, beautiful companions, delighting in the pleasure and variation of desires. Instead, he’s contemplating why he spent the entire day fretting over a stubborn, maddening, mortal woman with an attitude problem and a bullet wound.
Bloody hell.
Exhaling sharply through his nose, he throws a glare up towards the Silver City. Amenadiel, the winged prat, planted the seed earlier, and he hates how much it’s taken root. Is he changing? Does he truly care about the Detective?
No, that isn’t what this is. She was injured and expressly stated a desire to not die. Lucifer was just...doing what he always does—he fulfilled the desire. Nothing more.
That doesn’t explain why you rode with her in the ambulance, paced the waiting for hours, then waited at her bedside until she woke up, says a voice in his mind.
He had done all that, hadn’t he? He actually sat at her bedside like some...lovesick teenager. Hell, he even had flowers delivered—sunflowers. When was the last time he bought bloody flowers?
“She’s changing you, Luci.”
“Shut up, Amenadiel.”
Honestly. Not even here, and the pious prick won’t leave him alone.
He hasn’t slept with anyone in days. Hardly visited Lux at all. And his only excuse is—
“Lucifer!”
Suppressing a groan, he curses his distraction for not hearing the lift. “Marvelous,” he sighs, long-suffering, annoyed, and unsurprised.
Maze stalks out onto the balcony and slams her hands on the railing like it looked at her cross-eyed. Her daggers are holstered at her thighs—for now, anyway—jaw tight, expression pissed off. “Where the hell have you been?” she demands.
He sips his scotch, not bothering to look at her past the cursory glance. “Since when are you my mother, Maze?”
“If I were your bitch of a mother, I’d be back in Hell—where I belong,” she growls, glaring at him. “And that wasn’t an answer.”
“I wasn’t offering one. Can’t a Devil enjoy a quiet evening of brooding alone on his balcony without being interrogated by a homicidal demon?”
“You’ve been gone all day,” she hisses, stepping into his space. He glances at her sidelong, raising an eyebrow. “Again. And don’t even try to bullshit your way out of it, I checked. You weren’t at Lux or with any of your usual distractions. You were with her.”
Lucifer turns towards the demon slowly, meeting her eyes. “Do you know, I don’t actually recall appointing you my keeper.”
“I am your right-hand, and it is my duty to protect you, whether we are in Hell or on Earth,” she says, baring her teeth. “This was fun for a while, back when you were you. Now look at you.” She gestures irritably at him as if he isn’t perfectly aware of his appearance. “You’re wearing pajamas before midnight, drinking alone, following some human around like a lost, lovesick puppy.”
“I am not a puppy,” he snaps, setting down his drink with more force than necessary. “I am the bloody Devil.”
“Then act like it for once.”
“And what are you acting like, Mazikeen? From where I’m standing, I see a jealous demon who seems to have forgotten her place.”
“I didn’t follow you out of Hell for this, Lucifer!” she shouts. “To be some bartender! I thought we’d rule here. Corrupt the innocent, punish the guilty, indulge in every form of sex, drugs, and violence Earth has to offer. Not watch you...sit around, mooning over some cop with a marriage as dead as her career.”
Rage flares in his blood as he stands to his full height, towering over Maze. “Do not speak of her that way,” he thunders.
Smartly, Maze recoils half a step.
“I am still your king, Mazikeen of the Lilim,” he growls, low and lethal. “Do not ever forget that.”
She glares at him, eyes flashing with anger of her own. She recovers that half-step, hissing in his face, “Then act like it.”
They stand in silence, the air between them thick with fury and what feels damn close to betrayal. Lucifer’s fists clench at his sides, trembling with the effort of not tossing her over the railing.
Finally, Maze barks a sharp, bitter laugh. “Fine,” she says, her lip curling in a snarl. “But don’t come crying to me when this shit blows up in your face. And it will, because with humans, it always does."
Lucifer’s jaw tightens, eyes flashing with crimson Hellfire.
She turns to leave, pausing at the door. “She is making you weak, and you don’t even see it. You might think you’re in control, but she is going to break you.” Then she’s gone, stomping back towards the lift, glaring daggers at him until the doors close.
Lucifer stands there for a long moment, his heart pounding. He inhales deeply, holds it for a beat, and exhales slower. Snatching his tumbler from the table, he stalks inside towards the piano, running one hand over the keys without pressing down. He stares at his reflection in the glossy lid and it stares back, rumpled and angry. And far more uncertain than he cares to admit.
Maybe Maze is wrong. Or maybe she’s right. What he does know for certain is that he is no longer who he had been when he first arrived in Los Angeles. And it has everything to do with one stubborn, infuriating woman with a badge. He moves over to pour himself a drink, but doesn’t return to the piano.
The sky has turned a pale bruised grey by the time Lucifer abandons all efforts of sleep. All night, the penthouse remained still and silent in a way he usually loathes. Silence means no music, no laughter, no sex, and absolutely no distractions. Right now, the only desire and craving he has is for a distraction.
And there is none.
Most of the night was spent pacing barefoot across the marble flooring in his pajama pants and a robe that hung open. He drained two more whiskey bottles after the first. For ritual rather than indulgence, and he barely tasted a drop. His mind refuses to settle, even now. He hadn’t felt even a flicker of curiosity about what sins the mayor’s daughter was committing last night—she texted that she was down in Lux, asked if she should come up; he said ‘not tonight’. All because he couldn’t pry his thoughts from her.
Chloe.
From the first time she stepped into his nightclub to ask him for a favor to save her career, and the desperation in her eyes. The fear she wouldn’t let float to the surface. And every moment after that. Tagging along to the ghost town of a gym on Palmetto Street where they discovered the hidden door in the floor, the excitement and relief in her eyes, knowing she’d been right. That she wasn't crazy the way everyone else told her she was. Finding the key, sending it out to the lab...the results.
Lucifer had been standing directly in front of her as her heart broke when she read her not-quite-ex’s name at the bottom of that page. He sat with her for hours, barely exchanging a word as they passed his flask back and forth. He’d thought perhaps it was pity he felt for her, but he suspects it might have been empathy; after all, if there is one thing the Devil knows, it’s the sting of betrayal.
Then yesterday, starting with breakfast, showing up at the precinct, following her around while she worked her case... Well, that had actually been quite fun—the puzzle and the mystery and chasing after a suspect. Right up until the point she’d been shot.
“I don’t want to die...”
He’d felt something at those words, a primal sort of feeling that twisted in his chest at the idea of losing her before he’d even begun to understand what she is to him. Before he could unlock her secrets, and not only the ones pertaining to her favorite sexual positions. Just...getting to know her.
Instead of reveling in the chaos of debauchery, twisted sheets and velvet ropes, bodies and moans for more, even the occasional safeword whispered like a prayer, he’s here. Back on the balcony, barely feeling the cool L.A. morning breeze around him, thinking about a woman who is barely in his life. She’s only supposed to be another favor—a debt. Hell, a fleeting amusement in the form of an LAPD detective with emotional baggage and a devastating glare. He’s only meant to be involved because of their deal.
The reminder feels like a cold shower.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters into his coffee-tinged-whiskey.
Amenadiel had been right about one thing—he is starting to care, far more than he should.
Enough is enough, he decides, exhaling sharply through his nose. He needs to end this, to do what he should have done days ago—scratch out the deal, close the ledger, move on to the next. He’ll cancel the deal and end the arrangement without calling in the IOU. Allow the Detective to return to her messy, mortal little life, and he can go back to his.
First things first—she needs to keep that life.
Grabbing his phone, he dials the number. It only rings twice before a gruff voice answers. Lucifer lets a smirk pull at his lips. “Ah, Commissioner, good morning,” he purrs into the speaker.
“Who is this?”
“Oh, I’m hurt. Lucifer Morningstar. Surely you’ll recall that little matter I sorted out for you last...March, was it?”
A call girl mistress. A threat that the secret would be revealed—to his wife, to the LAPD, to the press. Lucifer had it handled by the end of the day, and the police commissioner got to keep his wife and the call girl. Separate, of course.
There’s a beat of silence over the other end of the line. “Right. What do you want?” he asks warily.
Lucifer’s smile widens, cold and bright. “I’m calling in that IOU. There’s a homicide detective—Chloe Decker, LAPD. She is off-limits, to be left alone completely, with her badge and her job fully intact. No demotions or transfers. No retribution or disciplinary action. No quiet erasures. She is a bloody good cop, and a credit to the LAPD—quite possibly the only one there is.”
He makes no mention of Palmetto. Nothing about Daniel Espinoza or his crimes. Chloe has yet to decide what she wishes to do about that, and it isn’t his call to make. But he will be damned—again—before he lets her take the fall for someone else’s sins.
The commissioner lets out a sigh. Lucifer hears the tapping of a computer keyboard. Another long pause, likely as the other man reads whatever he needs to read. “Done. Her job is safe,” he says quietly. “Is that all?”
“For now. Lovely doing business with you,” Lucifer purrs, hanging up.
He stares out over the city for a long moment. That should have felt immensely satisfying, yet for some reason, it doesn't. Because it isn’t quite over yet. With a heavy sigh, he turns and heads inside.
The suit he picked out this morning is dark as his mood—charcoal with a blood red pocket square. Somber, but still classic Lucifer Morningstar. He didn’t bother with a drink before leaving the penthouse, just walked straight out the doors of Lux into the L.A. sunshine, like it isn’t the beginning of the end.
He makes one stop, telling himself it isn’t procrastinating. The least he can do is bring her something palatable to eat and some decent coffee. Walking towards the front entrance of the hospital, he pauses at the doors. He’s here to sever ties, to tell the Detective she is free of him, that her job is safe and they are done.
Simple.
So why does his chest ache at the very thought?
Not metaphorically or even wistfully—a real, sharp, unfamiliar ache.
Wincing, Lucifer presses a hand to his sternum, telling himself not to be absurd. He hasn’t suffered any physical injury. He isn’t mortal, for Dad’s sake.
No, this feels like something much more dangerous. What he’s afraid might be guilt. Or care. Or even worse than all of that—hope. Though hope for what, he has no bloody clue.
He blows out a breath and shakes himself. He’s here for one thing and one thing only. Nodding sharply, he straightens his cuffs as the paper bag in his hand crumples slightly and steps through the doors. Whatever it is, he’ll figure it out later—after this.
After he sees her one last time.
Notes:
So, who wants to bet about whether his plan works out the way he thinks it will?
Chapter 9: So Bloody Screwed
Summary:
Lucifer visits Chloe for what he plans to be the last time. It...doesn't work out the way he intended.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Lucifer steps into Chloe’s hospital room with a coffee tray in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other. The resolve he’d built back at Lux clings to him now like a wet shirt—cold, uncomfortable, and increasingly useless. The entire drive here, he told himself this visit would be the end. Closure. Finality. Yet here he is with artisanal coffee and a truly indecent amount of butter-laced baked goods because he overheard a nurse yesterday say that hospital food is a war crime.
So, clearly, his priorities are perfectly intact.
Chloe is wide awake when he enters the room, sitting upright in the too big bed with her good arm curled around a pillow and her injured shoulder gently braced. Her hair is a bit messy, her face free of makeup, and yet she looks entirely too captivating for someone on pain meds and antibiotics.
And—damn it all—she smiles when she sees him.
This isn’t a tired, obligatory grimace, or a sarcastic, flat smirk. This is a genuine, if surprised, smile.
Pausing at the door, Lucifer tries to steel himself—to remind himself, You’re here to say goodbye. Not fall deeper into whatever witchcraft she’s weaving.
“Hi,” she says, switching off the television. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Well, I couldn’t let you languish here on your own, now could I?”
“You didn’t have to come back, you know.”
Again, he pauses, mid-step this time. “Would you prefer I left?” The ache in his chest throbs.
Her eyes widen. “No, that isn’t...” She sighs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come out so...rude. Pain meds, I guess. No, I wouldn’t prefer you to leave.”
He almost wishes she did, then he could tell her what he came to say and leave. Clean break. Instead, he steps closer. “I come bearing salvation,” he announces, holding up the coffee like it's an offering to some ancient god. “Dark roast, no cream, two sugars. No whiskey. And enough pastry to shame a Parisian café.”
Chloe blinks at him for a moment. “You...brought me coffee?” she asks, eyes lighting up in some mixture of delight and suspicion.
“Yes, well, I somehow doubt you'll get a decent cup in this horrid place. And as you're already suffering from a gunshot wound, no sense depriving you of one of the best brews in the city.”
Setting down the bag, he rolls the tray table over to her bed and drops into the chair he sat in yesterday. If he ever returns to Hell, he really ought to get a few million of these for the true deplorables. Since she only has one good arm, he places her coffee in front of her and opens the bag.
She reaches in like it might bite her, removing a strawberry cream danish and placing it on a napkin, then offers him the bag in return. He chooses a chocolate croissant, tearing off a piece and popping it into his mouth. For a few moments, they fall into a comfortable, companionable silence. Lucifer tries to remember the last time he had this with anyone, where all eyes weren’t on him, expecting entertainment in some form. But she doesn’t ask anything of him, doesn’t demand a performance, as if she genuinely enjoys his company.
Bloody preposterous... Nobody just enjoys the Devil’s company.
Even with their deal, this...whatever this is between them doesn’t feel transactional. Sure, he helped with her Palmetto case, but everything else he’d done has been purely his own decisions. And he doesn’t understand that either; since when does he do anything for free?
Since her...
“You know, you don’t have to keep showing up,” she says quietly, watching him over the rim of her cup. “You’re not my partner.”
“No, I’m not,” he agrees, just as quietly. “And yet, here I am, practically Florence Nightingale—with better hair, of course.”
She snorts a laugh, and something in his chest loosens. Just slightly.
He grins at her, leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, crossing one ankle over the other as he stretches out his legs. “You know,” he says, croissant in one hand and a smirk forming on his lips, “for someone who got themselves shot yesterday, you’re looking remarkably un-horrific.”
Brushing crumbs off her fingers, she reaches for her coffee, raising an eyebrow at him. “You always this charming to people in hospital beds?”
“Only the ones who bleed so spectacularly in my presence.”
Chloe rolls her eyes. He rather likes her eyerolls. “Please tell me you didn’t say that to the nurse.”
“I did, actually,“ he says brightly. “She blushed, of course. Though that might have been out of horror.”
She takes a slow sip of her coffee, and he thinks she’s hiding a smile. The sound she makes at the taste has something tightening low in his belly—not quite a pleased sigh, not quite a groan. “Okay, I’ll admit it. This is good coffee. Like, surprisingly good. I really wouldn’t have thought you were capable of non-alcoholic beverage choices.”
“Well, I was aiming for morphine, but they wouldn’t give me any—quite stingy about rules and procedure. Rather a lot like you, really. So I settled for caffeine and carbs, and you’re welcome.”
She snorts another laugh and winces, her good hand flying to her shoulder. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
Lucifer’s smile twists with just the slightest hint of concern. “You’re the one with an excellent taste for humor. I can’t help it if you find me devastatingly witty.”
“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” she says, grinning through the pain.
“No need to be rude, Detective. Here I am, delivering a delicious breakfast to save you from the horrors of hospital food, a caffeine buzz that could wake the dead, and most importantly, providing you with my delightfully charming company, and you wound me.”
“I’m the one who got shot, remember?”
“Impossible to forget, darling; my Armani will never recover. But your words still cut. Right here.” He gestures dramatically to his heart.
She hums, eyes sparkling with amusement as she looks him over appraisingly. “Yeah, pretty sure Florence Nightingale didn’t wear Italian suits and thousand dollar shoes.”
“Well, then I’d say it’s time to redefine nursing fashion.”
Shaking her head, Chloe finishes off her danish, hiding a smile. “You’re so weird.”
“And you, Detective, are strangely tolerating of that weirdness. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Please. I’m on heavy painkillers. That is, quite literally, the only reason.”
Lucifer leans forward, lips twitching. “Now, see, what I just heard is that drugged Chloe actually likes me.”
She grins at him, reaching into the bag again. “I wouldn’t get used to it. I’m out of this place this afternoon.”
He raises his coffee in mock salute. “Too late, already used to it. And you will never live it down.”
That silence settles between them, and Lucifer watches her cradle the coffee like it’s the only warm thing in the room. The sun is slanting through the blinds, casting soft lines across her blanket and the curve of her cheek. Her hair is messy, her eyes still a bit puffy from sleep—or lack thereof—and painkillers, but she looks lovely. Content. Like herself.
Not until now does he realize how badly he’d needed to see this. Her. To know she really is okay.
She breaks the silence first. “So, did you really sit here all day yesterday like some kind of dark angel of brooding?”
Lucifer lets out a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, yes. It would seem not even Los Angeles hospitals have thought to put in bars. Or cabaret dancers. Or literally anything that qualifies as entertainment. It’s appalling, truly. I mean, think about how much better morale around these places would be if the rooms had a stripper pole installed in every one of them.”
She laughs, groans, then laughs through the groan. A jolt of pride runs through him; even in her current state, he’s managed to improve her spirits, even temporarily. “So basically, you were bored out of your mind? Poor baby,” she says with entirely feigned sympathy for his plight.
“Excruciatingly bored. And yet,” he tilts his head, watching her with a soft curl of his lips, “here I stayed. Imagine that.”
For a moment, she’s quiet, her gaze drifting down to stare at the edge of the blanket. “Well...thank you.”
Dropping the sarcasm, Lucifer nods. “You’re most welcome, Detective,” he murmurs softly.
Her eyes flick back to his, and just for a second, he feels something unspoken lingering between them. Something more real than anything he’s ever known—and it’s almost terrifying. She clears her throat. “So last night, after you left... Dan.” Her jaw clenches tightly. “We...talked. Sort of.”
And just like that, the easy air between them shifts to something heavier. Lucifer leans back, his gaze sharpening. “Dare I ask how that went? No, let me guess,” he says when she opens her mouth. “Armed with denial and insufferable platitudes?”
“Lucifer, he smiled at me like nothing happened, the same way he’s been doing for months,” she says, a touch of disbelief in her voice still. “Talked about Trixie, asked how I was feeling, acted like we were still just...” She trails off, shaking her head.
Lucifer watches her quietly, gaze darting to watch the way her fingers clench tightly around the coffee cup.
“And I just...I couldn’t keep pretending anymore, you know? Not now that I know,” she admits, swallowing. “So I told him. That I know what he did.”
He nods slowly, a different sort of ache in his chest now. And beneath that, the desire to punish the man responsible for putting that hurt in her eyes and voice. “And?” he murmurs almost reluctantly.
“And he tried to gaslight me—said the drugs must be ‘crazy good’ and I was confused. That the pain meds must be messing with my head.” A small, bitter laugh falls from her lips. “But then I told him I had the key with the partial print and the results...”
Lucifer doesn’t interrupt with a snarky comeback. He just waits, because he suspects he knows how this goes; he’s seen it time and again in Hell. Not this exact scenario, but close enough.
“He went pale, and started saying things like how he did it to protect me. Apparently Malcolm was going for his gun, and Dan shot first. He says it was chaos, he panicked, didn’t know what to do.” Chloe reaches up and wipes underneath her eye. “And you know, maybe he really believes that. Maybe he did think it was the only way, but...it doesn’t matter.”
“Because he still shot a man and tried to hide it,” Lucifer says, his voice low.
She nods, not looking at him. But she doesn’t need to for him to see the tears in her eyes. “Not just that, but he let me think I was crazy. For the last three months. He constantly threw me under the bus with the guys at work, if only by looking away when they all started in on me. Now everything is at risk—my job, my reputation, even my custody of Trixie maybe, if I don’t keep my badge—all for a lie.”
Fury burns in his veins, just beneath his skin, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep his eyes from flashing crimson. “He let you drown when he should have saved you.”
Chloe nods again, more slowly this time. “Yeah,” she exhales. “He did.”
They fall silent again, each of them lost in their own thoughts. The distant beep of a heart monitor and a muffled intercom announcement fill the void. All Lucifer can think is that she doesn’t deserve this. She’s a good woman, doing her job, living her life, raising her child...and the man who vowed to remain steadfast at her side has let her hang all this time. To save his own pathetic skin, no less.
Finally, Lucifer speaks, his voice softer than before. “Have you decided what you’ll do now?”
She looks over at him, and he sees something raw and vulnerable in her expression. As if her mind is weighing far more than just this one decision. “Not yet,” she murmurs. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I want to. I want to do the right thing. But...I’m not even sure I know what that is anymore. He’s Trixie’s dad, and for all his crap, there were some good years. Some really good years. Before everything went wrong.”
Wiping her face, she reaches for her coffee again, just for something to do with her hands, he thinks. “And yeah, like we said in the car yesterday, if it were anyone else, I’d report them in a heartbeat. No hesitation. Because if the roles were reversed, they would be tripping over themselves to do the same to me. But this isn’t just anyone, you know?”
“No,” Lucifer agrees softly, leaning closer. “It isn’t. But that doesn’t make your integrity any less important, Detective. And I suspect that is something you hold dear.”
Chloe looks at him like she’s surprised he worked that out about her, then gives him a tired smile. “Why do you care, anyway?”
He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it again. When he smiles, it feels almost rueful. “Honestly? I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ve simply developed a thing for detectives who like to do the right thing, even when it destroys them.”
She snorts gently. “So, what? I’m a charity case now?”
“Hardly. You are the single most aggravating, infuriating, morally uptight thorn I’ve ever had the misfortune of enjoying in my side.”
For a second she stares at him, then raises an eyebrow. “Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Lucifer sniffs, shrugging with feigned modesty. “Apparently, I’m evolving.”
“Painfully slowly.”
“Careful, or I’ll revoke your croissant privileges.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He gives her a mock serious look. “Wouldn’t I?”
She laughs, then winces and presses a hand to her shoulder.
Lucifer is on his feet in an instant, debating whether to shout for a nurse or not. “Are you all right?”
Waving him off, she nods, removing her hand. He’s relieved to see there’s no blood visible through her hospital gown. “Yeah, fine. Just pulled at the stitches a little. I’m okay.”
But he doesn’t sit down immediately, hovering nearby. She watches him curiously, and he realizes suddenly that he really does care.
He genuinely, undoubtedly cares about Chloe Decker and what happens to her. More than that, he cares about seeing her happy again, no matter the cost to himself.
I am so bloody screwed...
In a different hospital across town, a family grieves—a wife for her husband, a son for his father. A man lies in the bed, not moving, eyes closed with a tube down his throat. Beside him, a doctor waits respectfully, even though he knows it’s time. Months have passed and the man is legally brain dead. There's no recovering from this.
The wife meets the doctor’s eyes, wiping her tears away, and gives a tiny, reluctant nod. With a practiced sympathetic expression, the doctor silently flips off the monitors. The steady beep-beep-beep instantly changes to a drawn out, shrill sound. Sobs fill the room, and the doctor turns off the noise, disconnecting the breathing tube.
Outside, another man watches, detached from the situation. He places his hand on the glass window of the door, closes his eyes, and focuses. After a few moments of searching, he finds what he’s looking for and tugs.
Back inside the room, the machines come back to life with a steady beep-beep-beep. Several people, the doctor included, gasp.
“What’s happening?” the sobbing woman asks, leaping to her feet.
The doctor couldn’t look more confused if he tried, but he immediately jumps to action, pressing a stethoscope to the formerly dead man’s chest. Confusion deepens. This isn't possible...
Glancing between the man and the family, the doctor says the only thing that makes even a modicum of sense: “It's a miracle.”
Outside the room, the hand slides away from the door, and the man walks away without a word. He turns a corner and vanishes into thin air.
The room is quiet again. Not like awkward quiet, just...quiet. Chloe might even call it peaceful if anyone but Lucifer Morningstar was her company. Because he’s still here—hours later. And the thing is, she doesn’t actually mind. She kind of likes having him here. Even if he is stretched out in the visitor’s chair like it’s a throne and he owns the place, flipping through channels on the TV bolted to the corner of the wall. She watches him for a second, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to the tension she’s carried in her shoulders since waking up.
At least, until he walked through the door with some of the best coffee and pastries in existence.
He hasn’t said much since their earlier conversation, which surprises her a little. Not that she minds; the silence is nice. It almost feels safe. Chloe isn’t used to safe. Most of the people she talks to, she has to weigh every word, measure her tone of voice, school her expressions. But with Lucifer, there's just something about him that allows her to be herself for once.
They talked for hours about everything and nothing—bad movies, weird British food he tried to convince her was real (she Googled every one, and some were not, in fact, real), celebrities he’d allegedly partied with. Nothing about the shooting. Or Dan. Or the key. Just light, unimportant stuff. The kind of stuff normal people talk about when they aren’t holding the weight of betrayal and bullets on their shoulders.
Like they’re friends. Something else she isn’t used to.
The quiet, almost-peaceful atmosphere shatters when her phone rings on the bedside table. She glances over at it. Immediately, the knot that had gradually loosened this morning tightens in her chest again.
Dan
Lucifer doesn’t miss it, either. He raises an eyebrow and makes a move to stand up. “I can step out if you like?” he offers. His voice sounds lighter, but not quite casual.
Chloe shakes her head, reaching over to silence the phone. “It can wait.”
He blinks at her, then resumes his lounged position, giving her a crooked grin. “Why, Detective, if I’d known all it took to become your favorite was a shootout, I’d have arranged it much sooner.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t tempt me,” she mutters. “I can still fire a gun one-handed, you know.”
Before he can respond, there’s a knock on the door. The doctor walks in with a clipboard and a smile that looks like it was practiced through all eight years of med school. “Afternoon, Detective Decker,” Dr. Ross says. He pauses briefly, glancing at Lucifer who offers a little finger wave and smirk. “Is this your...husband?”
“Do I look like a man who bathes in hair gel and has a savior complex?” Lucifer snarks.
“Yes,” Chloe says under her breath.
He gives her a narrow-eyed glare. She smirks. The doctor just blinks at them and decides to move on.
“Well, let’s have a look at that shoulder, shall we?”
Lucifer actually moves out of the way for the doctor while Chloe unties her gown at the back of her neck, pulling it aside enough to see the entrance and exit wounds. She expects several comments from the peanut gallery, probably to suggest she lower it further, but as the doctor peels back the white bandages, Lucifer is silent. She glances over at him. He’s staring at her shoulder, an inscrutable expression on his face. She almost wants to ask if he’s okay, but remembers the doctor is still here.
“Well, your shoulder is healing nicely,” Dr. Ross says, replacing the bandages with new ones. “The stitches are clean. As long as you take it easy, keep the wounds dry, and finish the antibiotics, you should be just fine.”
Chloe smiles. “Great. Thank you.”
“I’ll sign the discharge paperwork, and write you a couple prescriptions—one for the antibiotic, and one to take for pain as needed,” he continues. “Then you’re clear to leave as long as you have someone to drive you.”
She blinks, her smile fading. The only person she can think of is Dan, and that...yeah. She’d rather walk. “Well, I can—” she starts.
“I’ll take her,” Lucifer offers, a bit too quickly to be casual.
Both she and the doctor turn to look at him, her eyebrow raised. He clears his throat, shifting a little at the foot of her bed. “I mean, that is—I suppose I could be convinced to make the sacrifice. Someone needs to ensure you don’t collapse dramatically in the parking lot, and I’d hate to miss that possibility.”
The doctor gives Chloe a sideways look as if to say seriously, this guy? but he nods, walking out after helping her retie her gown without comment.
“You...really don’t have to drive me. I can get an Uber or something,” Chloe says, reaching for the little bag of clothes near the bed. She hadn’t even noticed Dan bring it in last night, and he hadn’t said a word. Though that might have been curtailed when she called him out on his gaslighting betrayal.
“It’s no trouble,” Lucifer insists.
She wants to question him, but thinks better of it. If he’s offering, it’ll save her an awkward rideshare and a bit of cash. “Okay, then,” she mutters, shuffling off the bed.
He shifts like he wants to help her, but she’s on her feet before he can move. His fingers fly to his cufflinks like that had been his intention all along.
Hiding her twitching lips, she gestures towards the bathroom with her stack of clothes. “I’ll...just be a minute.”
“Take your time, Detective.” Lucifer moves back to the hard, plastic chair and stretches out again, linking his hands behind his head.
Shaking her own head, she ducks inside the tiny bathroom and closes the door. It’s a little difficult with one arm, but she manages to free herself of the gown and start dressing. Every movement hurts. Her shoulder is stiff and aching, but that isn’t the real reason she pauses with her shirt halfway on.
The reason is Lucifer. And the fact that he showed up first thing this morning...and stayed all day.
From the moment they met, he had a way of getting under her skin—the smirk and the snark and pushing all the wrong buttons...probably intentionally. But she still likes having him around. Maybe even more than likes it. Which is just...patently insane and she should probably get a head scan while she’s here in case she suffered a concussion yesterday. Chloe doesn’t do chaos; she does rationality and evidence. And she doesn’t do mystery men with questionable morals and emotionally devastating cheekbones. Not to mention his eyes—he has really nice eyes.
And yet...
He makes her laugh, far more than she’s willing to admit to. He makes her think outside the box and see things from a different perspective. He makes her feel seen, in a weird way. Not just as a woman or a detective, but as a person whose thoughts and feelings matter to him. Like he isn’t just here out of pity or boredom, or because of some deal they made. Like he’s choosing to be here.
Smoothing down the front of her shirt, she eyes herself in the mirror and brushes her rat’s nest of a hairdo. “You’re losing it,” she mutters to her reflection. “Either he’s trying to get in your pants, or he’s here out of some weird obligation. That’s it.”
As she walks to the door, though, she can’t quite convince herself of that. Especially when she steps back into the room and Lucifer looks up, smiling in that lazy, way-too-pleased-with-himself-to-be-safe way and she sees something softening in his eyes. It disarms her even more.
“You ready?” he asks, already on his feet and holding her bag like some charmingly irritating chauffeur.
Chloe nods, clearing her throat. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
He gives her a half-bow, gesturing dramatically towards the door. “Your devilishly black chariot awaits, my lady,” he says, exaggerating his already pompous British accent.
Despite herself, she laughs, not even caring about the pain in her shoulder. He grins proudly as she leads the way to the reception desk to sign her discharge paperwork.
The last time Chloe was in a Corvette, she was seventeen and her boyfriend at the time owned one. Well, his wealthy Mommy and Daddy bought it for him, anyway. He was a snobbish, spoiled brat, and he dumped her for someone else a month later who was taller with bigger boobs.
Now here she is again, in a Corvette with a guy she hardly knows, yet in some weird way, she feels like she does know him. Maybe not everything—he definitely has his secrets and his walls, but one doesn’t spend a week with another person, uncover heartbreaking betrayal, and end up in a shootout with someone who saves their life without connecting with them in some way.
Whatever this is between them, it might have started out as a deal made in desperation, but it’s evolved into something else. Something she can’t name yet. And isn’t even close to being ready to consider what that name might be. For now, it’s just nice to have a friend on her side, who backs her up and is there when she needs him, and even when she doesn’t.
She’ll enjoy it while it lasts. Because it never lasts in her world. Something always comes along to take away what little bubble of happiness she might have found. It'll happen here too, she's sure of it.
The thought alone hurts more than she wants to examine right now.
Lucifer turned on the radio before they left the hospital parking lot, letting it hum low beneath the steady rhythm of the road. The engine isn’t as loud as she expected, more of a soft, rumbling purr. The seats are low, but comfortable, and she’s just enjoying the wind in her hair and the sun on her face.
Or she would be if Lucifer wasn’t way too quiet beside her. She glances over from the passenger seat. He has one hand on the wheel while the other taps restlessly against his thigh. His jaw is tense and his eyes, usually glittering with mischief or arrogance, seem faraway. He’s here, but his mind is somewhere else entirely, preoccupied with something.
She shifts slightly, wincing at the pull and twinge in her shoulder. “Okay,” she says, breaking the silence. “What’s going on with you?”
He blinks, glancing at her sidelong. “What do you mean?”
“You’re never this quiet unless you’re brooding, scheming, or waiting to deliver a punchline.”
That makes his lips twitch. Almost a smile, but it vanishes just as quickly. For a long while, he doesn’t speak, eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. If she had to guess at his expression, she’d say conflicted.
Then he lets out a heavy breath. “This morning,” he says, his voice barely audible over the radio and engine, “I had a plan. Before I came to the hospital.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “Yeah?”
He nods slowly, still not looking at her. “I was going to end our deal,” he goes on. “Erase your IOU. Free you from...your favor.” Somehow, she doesn’t think that's quite what he was going to say.
The words are a physical blow she wasn’t expecting, stunning her into silence. She sits up a little straighter, her heart giving a weird little lurch she doesn’t appreciate. At all. “Oh,” she whispers.
Lucifer glances at her quickly, then away again. “Surprised?”
“Yeah,” she admits, brow furrowing deeper. “I mean...I don’t know. I knew this started out as a deal, but I guess part of me wasn’t expecting you to still be keeping score.”
“I wasn’t. Not really.” A muscle in his jaw twitches as he exhales through his nose. “But I thought maybe you were.”
She glances out the window for a minute, trying to parse the strange ache in her chest. Surprise, sure, she’s definitely that. But there’s something else, too.
Disappointment? No, that doesn’t make any sense. She should want to be debt-free, especially from a guy who takes favors as seriously as Lucifer does. He calls himself the Devil, for crying out loud. She should want to get as far away from this bizarre man who speaks in riddles and has wild mood swings and his inexplicable...Luciferness.
But...she doesn’t.
“Why?” she asks before she can stop herself.
Again, he doesn’t answer right away. The light ahead of them turns red, and he slows to a gentle stop, his hands remaining tight around the wheel. She watches his throat bob as he swallows.
“Because,” he murmurs at last, lower and quieter even than before. She has to strain her ears to hear him. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
She blinks. The light changes to green. He doesn’t move.
“You...fascinate me,” he says, staring at the dashboard. “And irritate me, quite often in the same breath. You challenge me, you mock me.” He lets out a breath. “You...listen to me. Not because you’re trying to get anything, not because you’re afraid, but because you actually see me.” He pauses. “Like I’m a person.”
Chloe stares, her lips parted as she holds her breath. What is she supposed to say to that? Her heart is thudding loudly in her ears, and it feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
Behind them, somebody lays on the horn. Lucifer blinks, as if he forgot he was driving, then scowls into the rearview mirror before easing forward again.
She looks down at her fingers, tangled in the hem of her shirt. Her injured shoulder is now in a sling to keep her arm immobile while it heals. For a long while, she thinks, and then remembers her thoughts when she was changing in the bathroom.
“I could say the same thing about you,” she says finally. “You drive me completely up the wall. You’re a total pain in the ass.” That gets a small grin from him that fades as she goes on. “But...you also make me feel seen. Like I'm someone, not just a badge. Not just a mom. Like...I matter.”
He glances at her—really looks at her for a long moment—and her breath catches at the look in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to categorize it, only that it makes her...feel more than she has in years.
“And look, if you really want to cancel our deal,” she adds, her voice softer, “then...I get it. You’ve already done more than I can repay, anyway. I can take it from here. No hard feelings.”
Several city blocks pass in silence that isn’t tense, per se, but more thoughtful than anything. Then, almost so quietly that she nearly misses it, he says, “But I don’t want to.”
Chloe turns to look at him. He isn’t meeting her gaze exactly, but his expression is softer than she’s ever seen it. Vulnerable, even. She smiles and says nothing, leaning her head back against the seat. Her shoulder aches like a bitch, and her heart feels full of something warm and potentially dangerous.
But she doesn’t want to let him go, either.
Notes:
They are both, officially, totally screwed. And sort of finally admitting it.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 10: The Bold and the Betrayed
Summary:
Lucifer drives Chloe home, where she gets a phone call that leaves her with mixed feelings. And then she has a much needed confrontation with Dan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The rest of the drive to Chloe’s Malibu beach house is quiet. Lucifer isn’t usually one to enjoy quiet. Silence tends to leave room for things like thoughts, and he hasn’t been in the mood to entertain the damn persistent things lately. Especially not when they’re filled with honey blonde hair, narrowed sea blue eyes, and a smile that makes him feel like he isn’t just devilishly handsome sex-on-legs.
Not that she seems to be interested in that. At least, not from him. The odd thing is, he doesn’t even mind anymore. He doubts he’ll stop trying to charm her, but like he told her earlier, he’s evolving, and while he doesn’t understand why...he likes who he is around her. Likes how she makes him feel.
And according to her, to his shock and awe, he makes her feel the same way in return.
This morning, she’d been surprised to see him walk into her room. And pleased, he could see it in her eyes. She hadn’t even bothered to hide it. That had rather quickly shredded his carefully laid plans to end their agreement, walk away and reclaim his old life. He should be bored out of his skull by now and he isn't. Instead, he brought her coffee and pastries. He spent the morning and some of the afternoon making her laugh. She’d looked at him like she was genuinely happy to have him there.
Now, here he is, pulling into the driveway of a picturesque beach house in Malibu, helping Chloe out of the car and into the house with a bag of greasy drive-thru burgers and fries tucked under his arm.
This entire week has been utterly ridiculous.
Before coming here, they stopped for her prescriptions first, which she’d waved off with an eyeroll and a muttered, “just a precaution”. Then she’d insisted on a drive-thru lunch of all things. He tried to convince her that there were better places if she wanted a burger, but she was set on her desires. Greasy food. Rude window service. Personally, he’d never seen the appeal, but when Chloe leaned her head back against the seat and said, “Come on. I just got shot. I deserve a cheeseburger,” he found very little room to argue.
Another little nugget he learned about her today: she positively abhors ketchup. So he ordered both burgers sans the foolish condiment, just to make her smile.
Because he likes seeing her happy. He just isn’t sure he likes what it says about him.
Inside the house, he leads her to the oversized couch across from the fireplace. The last time he’d seen her there had been the night of the test results. She’d curled up on her side and stared off into space until he eventually murmured that she should get some rest and left. He deposits the food on the table and looks around, having not given himself the chance the last two times he was here.
And then he spots the little shrine between a bedroom and the staircase. The poster for a movie he’s watched a dozen times. He blinks—he hadn’t pegged Chloe for a cheesy 80s sci-fi fan. Curious, he moves towards the table and notices the awards arranged along with a few framed photographs. He picks up the award, and then wonders how he could have been so stupid to not make the connection.
“No way,” he gasps, staring from the statue to Chloe, who turned around to see what he’s doing. “Penelope Decker?”
She cringes.
“Your mother is Penelope Decker? The Vampire Queen of cheeseball sci-fi? Why didn’t you tell me?” If there’s a tone of accusation and betrayal in his voice, he doesn’t think it’s feigned.
Chloe rolls her eyes. “Because I really try not to advertise that fact,” she says dryly, turning away. “Now come sit down and eat.”
“But Detective! You must introduce me!”
“I really mustn’t.”
He sets down the award and looks at the other memorabilia. His grin is huge. “So...you’re part of a family dynasty like me! No wonder we get on so well,” he says, leaning forward to check out a photo of a much younger Chloe—somewhere in her teen years, he assumes—dressed up like she’s about to walk the red carpet. Beside her is a woman, who is unmistakably Mama Decker.
“I...guess...?”
“Amazing,” he mutters to himself, still grinning.
He rejoins Chloe on the couch as she slowly unpacks their food with one hand. He gently bats her away and finishes up much more quickly. Popping a fry into his mouth, he decides it doesn’t taste entirely awful and opens his burger. Chloe takes a sip of her shake. They settle into another of those odd silences. The nice, easy ones he hasn’t experienced with anyone but her. With a window open, they can hear the sound of the ocean in the distance, the rustle of wind against the windows, and the creak of floorboards settling beneath them. It's damn near close to peaceful.
And then her phone rings.
She groans loudly, dropping her burger back onto the wrapper. “I swear, if it’s Dan again...” she mutters, wiping her fingers on a napkin and reaching for the phone. But then she stares at the display for a long moment. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a mouth full of beef, cheese, and soft bread.
“It’s Lieutenant Monroe.”
Before he can ask anything more, she’s moving to the other end of the house near the windows to answer the call. Her voice is low and measured, respectful but wary. He can’t quite hear her words, but he doesn’t need to. While Chloe Decker might be the only exception to his ability to read people, she’s advertising her responses to what her superior officer is saying, loud and clear.
At first, she stiffens, her back rigid and her shoulders tense. She stares out the window with wide eyes. Her head tilts slightly, lips parted like she can’t quite speak. Then surprise flickers across her face. For a moment, he thinks he sees elation in her eyes. But it vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared, replaced with something close to shock. She lifts a hand to her mouth for a moment, then drops it again to her side.
Lucifer leans forward, elbows on his knees as he watches with growing curiosity. Her expression shifts yet again, though this time she seems more...conflicted, perhaps? Her eyebrows furrow, eyes moving rapidly, though they don’t seem to be seeing anything. The fingers of her injured arm twitch restlessly in her sling.
After a few minutes, Chloe says thank you and ends the call, but she doesn’t turn back to him immediately.
“Everything all right, Detective?” he asks.
She turns around finally, slowly and visibly startled. “That was...” she shakes her head, “unexpected.”
“Oh? Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Do tell.” Lucifer gives her a grin. “Did the lieutenant offer a full apology for railroading you—and not in the fun way—then offer you a promotion?”
Chloe huffs breathlessly, walking towards him, still stunned. “Not exactly,” she says slowly. “She called to tell me the brass changed their mind. The three-week time limit? Gone. I’m not getting fired. My badge is safe.”
Lucifer blinks once, feigning surprise. “Really? Well, that is cause for celebration!”
She nods, clearly still trying to absorb the news herself. “Yeah. Apparently, the police commissioner called a meeting with the brass who wanted me canned. Said he went over my file with a fine-tooth comb, and what they were doing was targeted persecution. Like, really tore into them. Just...out of nowhere.”
Yes. Quite the little ‘miracle’. One that required calling in an IOU from a man who cheated on his wife, and probably his mistress too by now, and doesn’t want to see it in the papers. A man who knows what Lucifer is capable of and fears losing his long-held reputation.
Funny how life works sometimes.
Lucifer doesn’t say anything about his own involvement, allowing her to have her moment. She’s more than earned it.
Chloe’s forehead creases. “But there’s more,” she adds, starting to pace. “Olivia also told me that Malcolm Graham woke up from his coma. Also this morning.”
Lucifer stills, knowing nothing about that one. “Well, the miracle continues,” he mutters under his breath.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how ‘miraculous’ it is.” She runs a hand through her hair, weary and agitated. “I mean, he spent months in a coma, now he’s awake. And Olivia thinks I should steer clear of the office for a few days.”
“Well, you are on medical leave after your shooting, are you not?” he says carefully.
“No, I know,” she says quickly, dropping down beside him, good hand resting on her thigh. “It’s just...I don’t know. It feels surreal, I guess. The entire department was ready to hang me out to dry, and now suddenly everything is fine? It just...it doesn't make sense...”
Again, Lucifer says nothing. In the car, she’d given him the option to end their deal, and he said he didn’t want to—because he doesn’t. But he’d nearly forgotten about calling the commissioner, and now Coma Boy is awake...which was the entire reason Chloe came to him in the first place.
“You’re quiet again,” she says, tilting her head to look at him. “You okay?”
“Yes, of course,” he says quickly, reaching for a french fry. It tastes like cardboard on his taste buds.
“Lucifer.”
He looks over at her. She’s watching him with a patient but expectant expression. He sighs, “Well, it’s just...now that your job is safe. And you’ve solved Palmetto...”
Realization dawns in her eyes. “I mean...there are still things about Palmetto I don’t understand,” she says slowly, as if thinking as she speaks. “I know who shot Malcolm now.” She scowls. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t...you know, be friends.”
Lucifer blinks at her. “Friends?” he repeats as if it’s a foreign word. “You want to be friends...with me?”
“Yeah. I mean, I thought that was kind of what we said in the car. Right?” She looks at him through her lashes, suddenly unsure.
His mouth opens and closes a few times. No sound comes out. He clears his throat. “Right,” he agrees softly.
A flash of relief flickers through her eyes. “Okay, then. Friends.”
“Friends,” he murmurs, watching her long after she returns to her food.
The beach house is quiet and empty. Chloe doesn’t even have the reassurance of having Trixie asleep nearby since she’s staying with Dan after the shooting. Just until she heals a little more. Lucifer left hours ago, but not before obnoxiously (and weirdly endearingly) ensuring she wouldn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of the night.
“Doctor’s orders, Detective! You’re to rest and be boring whilst your shoulder heals.”
She’d given up arguing since he was doing what few dishes were in the sink.
Now, she’s sitting on her couch in sweats and a hoodie (not Dan’s tonight), with cheap wine and a home renovation show she’s barely paying attention to. Alone with her thoughts, which lately for her, is a dangerous companion.
There’s just...too much going on right now. Palmetto has felt like a lead weight around her neck while she was drowning at sea and everyone pointed and laughed while she sank. For months, she thought there was something off about that shooting—two criminals dead and a cop in a coma, and nothing made sense. To learn the one person who should have been on her side the entire time was the reason for, at least, Malcolm being shot... She doesn’t know how she and Dan are supposed to come back from that.
Hell, she isn’t sure she wants them to come back from that.
But now it makes sense. Why he was so hell-bent on getting her to close the case. Why he was so insistent that she was chasing ghosts and dead ends. He was trying to keep her away from the truth, all while lying to her face every time they spoke. It makes her wonder what else he might have been hiding, what else he might have covered up and lied about.
Then there’s Malcolm himself. Who somehow woke from his coma today. On one hand, Chloe is relieved. More for his family than anything else. She doesn’t even want to imagine what Mel and MJ were going through, spending their days at Malcolm’s bedside while he just...laid there, non-responsive. Chloe might not like Malcolm, or even think he’s a good person, but his family is innocent in all of this; they didn’t deserve that.
On the other hand...Malcolm’s awake. There will be fallout from that, though what form it will come in, who knows. The target on Chloe’s back is going to grow; that was the real reason Olivia suggested Chloe not come into the office. And since she’s on medical leave anyway, it’s the perfect excuse.
You could put all of this to rest, you know. All you have to do is turn on Dan the way he turned on you. Lucifer had a point—if this were literally anyone else there would be no question, no hesitation, no guilt. So why does Dan get special treatment?
Honestly, she isn’t sure anymore. Trixie is a big reason, but Chloe can’t be emotional about this, as difficult as that might be at the moment. She can’t hinge cases on her daughter’s feelings or even her own. She has to be impartial, even if it kills her.
Chloe takes a long draw from her wine glass. It doesn’t help. She pushes Dan from her mind for now, and almost immediately, Lucifer’s face pops up. Nothing about him makes sense. From his name and background to why Chloe feels drawn to him and vice versa. So much of her time in the last week has been spent with him, and while he does annoy the hell out of her...she doesn’t know. She can’t explain why she actually kind of likes the guy.
Okay, maybe not just kind of.
On the surface, they’re polar opposites. He’s loud and brash and impulsive; she prefers to keep her head down and do her job. He parties all night, drinks like a fish, and does who knows what else—and who else, for that matter; she was never really into the party scene, even during her ‘wild days’, and she has only had five sexual partners in her life. Lucifer is weird and talks in religious metaphors and might be delusional; Chloe doesn’t believe in any of that Heaven and Hell stuff, never did.
Nothing about them makes sense. And yet, something about them just...works. In ways she can’t explain. They work well together. He makes her laugh even when she would really rather not, and he’s done more for her in the last week than most people do in a year. He went above and beyond the call of their original deal. He saved her life, then stayed with her until she opened her eyes. Today, he showed up again and sat with her for most of the day, then came home and kept her company again.
If she’s being honest, she likes talking to him. He’s challenging and he challenges her. But having him around has been nice, even if he doesn’t know the meaning of boundaries and is her mother’s biggest fanboy.
And today, he was also planning on cutting ties and walking away. Then changed his mind. His explanation was that he’d never met someone like her, doesn’t quite know what to do with her. Well, that makes two of them. But she’s more relieved than she wants to admit that he decided to stick around.
Friends, they said. Maybe it’ll be nice to have a friend for a change. As insufferably annoying as this one is.
On the upside, her job is safe. Miraculously. Chloe has no idea why the police commissioner would get involved in any of this, why he would even care. She’s never even met the guy. But he saved her ass and her badge. That’ll probably increase the target on back—again—but it’s a weight off her shoulders.
She startles slightly at a knock on the door and raises an eyebrow. The first thought that pops into her mind is that it’s Lucifer again. Ignoring the faint hope that it might be, Chloe glances at the clock. It’s late—not terribly, but later than it would be for a casual drop-by. The last time someone knocked on her door at night, her life turned upside down.
“Chlo? You awake?”
Chloe’s jaw tenses. Damn it. She’s been avoiding Dan’s calls all day. She doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to speak with him. Not right now, and maybe not ever. But that isn’t an option; no matter what happens, they still have Trixie, and Chloe can’t just cut him out completely.
Briefly, she considers pretending she’s asleep, but this confrontation is going to happen sooner or later. Might as well get it over with, right? Leaving her wine on the table, she grudgingly tosses aside her blanket and pads to the door. There’s a brief hesitation before she unlocks it, and she only pulls it open enough to poke her head through.
Dan stands on the dark doorstep, hands in his pockets, shoulders around his ears, and a hangdog expression on his face. His hair is a wreck and he looks miserable.
Good, she thinks spitefully. He should be miserable.
“What do you want?” she asks quietly when he doesn’t say anything.
“Can we talk?” he mutters.
She watches him stonily. “I don’t know, Dan.”
“Please. Just five minutes, Chloe.”
Letting out a sigh, Chloe reluctantly steps back to let him in. “Where’s Trixie?” she asks, closing the door and crossing her arms. Not offering a seat. Not offering a drink. Five minutes, and he’s out.
“There was a sleepover she wanted to go to,” Dan says, running a hand through his hair. “And I didn’t think she should be here for this.”
So he is capable of thinking ahead, she thinks scathingly. Shame it’s a new habit.
Dan fidgets and looks around—everywhere but at Chloe—but he doesn’t offer any explanations or apologies. Chloe wonders what went wrong, when did he go from someone she trusted blindly to someone she can barely look at? Someone she barely recognizes? Gone is the funny, goofy man who offered to make her a bagel on her first day at the LAPD. Or the man she was in love with and thought they’d be together forever. The same man who cried the first time he held his daughter.
The man in front of her—all she can think is, How many more things has he kept from me? What other secrets is he keeping?
Chloe clears her throat. “You wanted to talk, so...talk.”
He sighs. “Look, Chloe, you have to understand—Malcolm was going for his weapon. He was going to kill you. I didn’t have time to sit there and think about it. I reacted, and then it all just...blew up. I didn’t know what else to do!”
She scoffs. “You could have been honest, Dan,” she says, her voice hard. “It would still have been justified. But no, you hung me out to dry and watched, kept your head down every time Paolucci and those other assholes called me ‘Palmetto Bitch’ and let the air out of my tires, or stole cases from under my nose. You stood there and told me I was seeing ghosts. Well, the ghost has a name now—Dan Espinoza. How many times did I come home practically in tears because of all of this, and you held me, telling me it would be all right?” She shakes her head, averts her eyes, forces back the tears. She will not cry in front of him. Never again. “My job was on the line, Dan. Not just my badge.”
”If you just closed the case—“
Chloe moves before she realizes what she’s doing, her hand moving of its own accord, striking Dan across the cheek. The resounding slap echoes through the house as Dan’s head snaps to the side. Already, there’s a red mark—she doesn’t feel guilty. Normally, she isn’t violent, even when angry, but she’s been pushed to her limit lately.
She shoots him a glare that should turn him to ash where he stands. “Don't,” she snaps. “Don’t you dare. Besides, we both know they were just giving me those three weeks to watch me run myself ragged before shoving me out the door. They had their minds made up before even talking to me.” He doesn’t seem to know her job is safe now, and she isn’t willing to tell him. He doesn’t get to hear about her life anymore.
”Chloe, I’m sorry—“
”You don’t get to be sorry, Dan.” They’ve been way past sorry for months now.
He sighs, running a hand down his face. “If I could take it all back—“
”You can’t take it back! It happened, Dan!”
”I know,” he says, staring down at his shoes. He takes a shaky breath. “What happens now?”
It takes her a minute to work out what he’s referring to. He isn’t talking right this minute, or even tomorrow. She isn't sure he's even talking about their marriage. He wants to know what she’s doing with the evidence.
“I don’t know. If you were literally anyone else, you’d be in a cell right now. And if Trixie weren’t part of the equation...” Chloe pauses, another thought, one she’s tried really hard not to think about, passes through her mind. But she thinks she made the decision the moment she saw his name at the bottom of those results from the key.
The words are out of her mouth before she’s fully processed the implications: “I want a divorce.”
Dan’s head shoots up, eyes wide, mouth agape. But he doesn’t look surprised, as if he’d been expecting this since their conversation in the hospital. “Chlo...we can work through this, can’t we? I mean, we have Trixie to think about and—“
”No. We can’t work through it,” she says, not a scrap of remorse in her tone. “I can’t work through it. I can’t trust you anymore, Dan. I can barely even look at you. Even without this, I’m not sure we could have fixed our marriage. Nothing ever changes, and I’m just...I’m done.”
“Is this about that Lucifer guy?” he asks suddenly.
By some miracle, Chloe doesn’t explode. “No,” she says through gritted teeth. “And you don’t get to start that macho-possessive shit right now. Not after all you’ve done.”
”How’d you even meet him?”
”I’m not explaining myself to you. In fact, I think we’re done here. I’d like you to leave.”
With another sigh, Dan nods. “Yeah,” he mutters, starting towards the door. “I really am sorry, Chloe. I never meant for everything to snowball like this.”
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even follow him out. Her eyes stay on him until the door is closed behind him, and she waits until she can hear his engine start and the headlights vanish from sight.
Chloe doesn’t cry over the future they could have had, even if it does feel like he stole it from them. She doesn’t even cry over the present. Her eyes drift to the counter where the pain meds for her shoulder are sitting. The pain is sharp, constantly present, and aching worse than normal at the moment, but she doesn’t take one. Instead, she grabs the bottle of wine from the fridge and heads out to the beach to think—or not think—and hopefully get drunk.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting in the sand, watching the waves roll in when her phone rings beside her. Between her feet, the bottle of wine is almost empty, and her fingers are nearly numb from it and the cool evening air. Glancing down at the bright display, she raises an eyebrow at the name she sees flashing back at her.
Lucifer Morningstar
Her heart does a funny leap at the sight, but she ignores it, and considers whether to even answer. But she could stand to hear a friendly, if insufferable, voice at the moment.
With a sigh, she answers. “Decker.”
“Detective!” he greets, his voice far too cheerful for both the hour and her mood. In the background, she can hear sounds of a party—music, laughter, people talking. He must be in Lux. “I do hope I haven’t interrupted your wild post-your-job-is-safe celebrations!”
Chloe glances around the deserted beach and her nearly empty wine bottle. Some celebration. “You called me at midnight, Lucifer. You’re lucky I answered at all.”
”Ooh, lucky, am I?” he purrs, delighted. “Well, you know what they say about the Devil’s luck, darling. But I did rather think you’d be celebrating not losing your badge to the patriarchal system.”
She rolls her eyes, but feels her lips twitch for some ridiculous reason. “Well, I’m sitting on the beach with a nearly empty bottle of $5 wine, so...”
”Five dollars?” he says, sounding deeply offended. “Really, Detective, I must introduce you to my wine cellar.”
Chloe sighs. “What do you want, Lucifer?”
There’s a long pause and the sounds of the party fade slightly, as if he’s moving somewhere quieter. “You don’t sound like a woman whose job is safe. Is everything all right?”
”I’m fine,” she says reflexively, then pauses, reconsidering. “No, actually, I’m not. Dan dropped by for a surprise visit earlier.”
Lucifer doesn’t respond right away, but the background noise drops completely.
She swallows, watching another wave crash into the surf, the tide nearly touching her bare toes, but not quite. “I told him I want a divorce,” she says quietly, an ache pulsing in her chest, though not as painfully as she expected.
There’s another long beat of silence, as if he doesn’t know how to reply to that news. “Well,” he says, his voice much softer than it was, “It’s about bloody time.”
A short huffed breath falls from her lips that might almost be a laugh.
”Also, if you require the name of a lawyer, I know an excellent one. She’s a bit of a shark, possibly drinks blood in her spare time, but she’s quite efficient.” He pauses. “I think she might actually be a succubus, but I’ve no definitive proof of that.”
Chloe rolls her eyes again, wondering why she’s smiling. He’s ridiculous. “I’m not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying.“
“Oh, I tend to aim for both, Detective,” he says, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself.
Chloe thinks about what else happened during her chat with Dan. “I, uh, I might have also slapped him—Dan, I mean.”
Lucifer lets out a gleeful sound. “Oh, well done, Detective! Do tell me you got it on camera!”
That pulls a real laugh out of her. Halfway through it, she realizes just how badly she needed to laugh. And maybe she needed to hear Lucifer’s voice too. She really doesn’t want to think about the implications of that.
”I’m serious, darling. I’ve always had a thing for violent women. Or maybe it’s strong women. Either way, it would seem you fit both categories. You really must teach me your technique.”
”I have no doubt that I could find a reason to slap you,” she says dryly, still smiling.
“Tease. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
Chloe chuckles, taking another sip of her wine.
“Still on the beach?” Lucifer asks after a few minutes of silence.
She hums. “Yeah. I’ve always liked it out here. It’s peaceful. Quiet.”
”I find quiet highly overrated. But I do suppose if your day includes a gunshot wound, betrayal, and slapping your douche of an ex, a bit of stillness might be warranted.”
She rolls her eyes, something she only did occasionally before meeting Lucifer Morningstar. “You make it sound like a soap opera,” she says dryly.
“I’d watch that,” he says cheerfully. “The Bold and the Betrayed? It could be your long-awaited return to the acting world.”
Chloe scoffs. “More like Single Moms of Greater Los Angeles,” she mutters.
“Hmm, catchy. Reality television—where anything is possible, if you pretend it isn’t all scripted.”
She chuckles, going along with it. “Yeah? What would your role be?”
“Obviously the dangerously charming neighbor with too many silk robes and absolutely no boundaries.”
”Yep. That tracks.”
Lucifer lets out a breath that almost sounds contented. “So tell me, when you slapped Daniel, was it a full palm or more a fingers to the face sort of deal?”
A smirk pulls at her lips. “Oh, full palm,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice.
He makes a sort of purring sound. “Excellent form, darling. Brav-a.”
The smile on her face fades slightly and she swallows. “He deserved worse.”
To her surprise, Lucifer doesn’t try to convince her to turn Dan in along with the evidence and results. She appreciates it. He doesn’t say anything, just lets her talk. Which is also appreciated.
“It’s weird, though,” she murmurs, pulling her knees closer to her chest. “I should feel...something, right? My marriage is over. I’ve been running myself ragged on this case for months, and it’s, more or less, over. I get to keep my dream job. I should feel relieved or guilty, or even sad. But I just feel...tired.”
”Well, emotional betrayal is quite draining, Detective. Not to mention that whole getting shot thing.”
She huffs wryly. “Yeah. That too.”
Chloe can almost hear Lucifer’s hesitation over whatever he wants to say next. “You’re going to be all right, Detective. You know that, don’t you?”
Sighing, she shakes her head. “I’m not so sure anymore,” she says, quieter. “My life has turned into a soap opera train wreck, and I don’t know how to go about fixing it.”
”Perhaps,” he murmurs. “Or...rather than a train wreck, you could look at it as a new beginning. Before the phoenix can be reborn, it must burst into flames and burn to ash.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So...I’m a mythical bird now?” she asks wryly.
He chuckles. “You understand what I’m saying. Everything may resemble a dumpster fire at the moment, but it won’t always be that way, Detective. You’ll find a way through.”
”And then there’s you,” she says without meaning to.
Another pause. “Me?” he says, sounding surprised.
”Yeah, I mean...I didn’t think you’d be all that helpful with this case when I came to you for that deal—“
”You say the sweetest things, Detective.”
She chuckles. “—but I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. Like, you started out as this sort of...weird sidekick I wasn’t looking for—” He scoffs. She smiles. “—but now you’re...” she trails off, unsure what he even is.
”A friend?” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle.
”Yeah,” she agrees. “A friend.”
For a moment, he’s quiet. “That’s really rather new to me.”
“What, having friends?” Though she can’t really see him not having friends, with how sociable he is.
“Being a friend.”
Chloe smiles. “Well, I guess you’re not completely terrible at it.”
Lucifer huffs a laugh. “Coming from you, Detective, that’s quite the compliment.”
Letting out a sigh, Chloe looks at her empty wine bottle. “You should get back to your party.”
”You’re far more interesting than them.”
”I’ll try not to let that go to my head.”
“Please do. I enjoy our little chats far too much to deal with an even more insufferable version of you.”
Chloe laughs softly. There’s a short pause, and she lets the warmth settle between them. A warmth she’s realizing she only feels around Lucifer. And she isn’t sure she wants to know what it means. Not with her life the way it is right now.
She sighs. “I should go. Good night, Lucifer.”
He hums. “Good night, Detective. Sleep well, darling.”
Despite her resolve to go inside to bed, she doesn’t hang up right away, waiting until she hears a click over the line. Then she sits a little longer, a smile on her face that wouldn’t have been possible before Lucifer decided to interrupt her night. As a wave rolls in, she notices the ache she’s felt almost constantly since learning what Dan did eases...just a little.
Notes:
And we finally have the slap everyone wanted. Hope it was satisfying. 😈
Chapter 11: Deliver Some Punishment
Summary:
A dear friend of Lucifer's is shot in cold blood. The police are no help. There might only be one detective who believes the murder wasn't drug-related. It's a good thing they're now friends...
Notes:
We get a little more canon-adjacent in this chapter. While some things happen the same, other things...well, don't.
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Drug-related.
That’s what the ridiculous shit-for-brains detective assigned to the case told Lucifer. Delilah was a known user, the shooter was a dealer, so there could be no other explanation for the shooting than that.
“I just pulled the trigger.” That’s what the shooter said when Lucifer latched onto his soul, right before the lovely lady Karma sent him to Hell.
All Lucifer can hear now is the sincerity in Delilah’s voice as she told him she was going to do as he asked—repayment for helping her achieve stardom—she was going to get her life together. And then she was gunned down in his arms. Riddled with bullets.
She didn’t deserve that. She deserved the chance to turn her life around, and now she’ll never get it.
Fury rushes through him with the knowledge there was more to her death than a simple drug deal gone wrong. Someone sent that shooter here. Someone wanted Delilah dead, and it would seem the LAPD is useless as ever, taking the easy answer.
Well, he supposes they aren’t all useless. If the Detective had been assigned this case, she would have properly investigated. She would find the responsible party. But she’s currently on medical leave, nursing a gunshot wound of her own.
Then it will be on Lucifer to hunt down the miserable excuse for a human who wanted Delilah dead.
“Lucifer!”
For the first time in twenty minutes, he looks up at the sound of his name, feeling that odd leap in his chest. Chloe is rushing down the stairs, now free of the sling she was wearing. He hasn’t seen her in close to a week, not since she was released from the hospital, and he feels something in him settle at the sight of her. A warmth he only feels around her.
“Detective,” he murmurs as she approaches, scanning him up and down.
”You’re okay,” she breathes, clearly relieved.
He raises an eyebrow. “What? Yes, of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She shakes her head a little, taking a step back. “I heard there was a shooting. A drive-by. Delilah...”
”Ah,” he says, glancing down at the keys. There’s another feeling beneath the fury, something that feels a bit too much like guilt but sharper, eating at him. “Yes, well, I am the Devil, darling. Immortal. Invulnerable. Bullets tend to bounce right off me.”
Chloe watches him for a second, confusion on her face. “Lucifer, I thought...” She shakes her head. “I heard you were with her.”
”Oh, I was,” he confirms. “She died in my arms. She—“ He breaks off, that sharp, clawing feeling in his chest, wrapping around his throat.
The Detective’s expression softens. “You were friends.”
“Yes,” he murmurs, reaching for his glass. “She used to work here a few years back when I first opened Lux. Sometimes she would sing and I began accompanying her on piano. Her talent was...unmatched.” He smiles but it feels sad. “When she asked me to help her break into the music industry, I introduced her to a producer and she got her big break. Then she started getting herself into trouble. She was here tonight, and I called in the favor she owed me.”
Chloe sits on the edge of the piano bench, close enough to brush his shoulder. The ache recedes just slightly. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow at her. “What on Earth for?”
“Because you lost your friend,” she says gently. “Because you watched her...” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes, well, humans die, darling,” he says, attempting to sound flippant. It comes out more hollow than he’d like. “And the bumbling detective assigned to the case believes it was a drug deal gone wrong.” He scoffs.
For a moment, she’s quiet. “But you don’t think it is?”
He shakes his head. “I had a word with the shooter just before he kicked off. Asked him why he did it.”
“What did he say?”
“Money,” he bites out. “Bloody greed is what killed Delilah. Then he told me he ‘just pulled the trigger’. What does that tell you?”
Chloe looks hesitant. “Look, Lucifer, I know she was your friend, but it’s pretty common knowledge that Delilah was troubled. She was into drugs. Maybe—”
“But that isn’t what happened, Detective!” he exclaims, slamming down his glass. “She was going to turn her life around. That was the favor I asked her for in return—to get herself together. And she told me she would. But she never got the bloody chance.” His chest is rising and falling quickly with fury and that other feeling, the one he doesn’t want to name.
To his surprise, Chloe doesn’t flinch or recoil from his shouting or his anger. She just studies him, a small furrow in her brow. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was worried for him. She rests a hand on his forearm, and he pauses, staring down at where she's touching him. The anger recedes, just enough to allow him to think. He sits down, unsure when he even got to his feet, and refills his drink.
“My apologies,” he murmurs stiffly, not looking at her. “I’m afraid I’m not quite fit for company this evening. You didn’t need to come all this way, Detective.”
“Of course I did,” she says as he starts to leave for the penthouse. He pauses. “As soon as I got word about what happened, I ran out of the house.”
Lucifer looks at her, only now taking in how rushed she looks. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a hoodie and jeans. “You did?” If he sounds bewildered...well, that rather fits.
“I was worried about you,” she says gently. “When they told me you were involved in a drive-by, I thought I’d get here and find you in a body bag. But...”
Swallowing, he sits back down for the second time in as many minutes. “You needn’t worry about me, Detective. I assure you, I am far sturdier than I look.”
“I also thought you could use a friend,” she adds in that same gentle tone.
His mouth falls open a little as he looks at her. No one has ever... “Oh,” he says quietly, staring down at the keys.
“As for what the shooter said. Assuming he wasn’t lying—”
“He wasn’t,” Lucifer says, a hard edge in his voice.
Chloe nods. “Then it sounds like someone wanted her dead. And not for drug-related reasons.”
“Try telling that to your useless colleague.”
“Who was assigned?”
“Some imbecile named Marquez.”
She winces. “Yeah, he’s...good friends with Malcolm and Paolucci. Dan too, actually,” she says apologetically. “He’ll go for the easy answer every time.”
“Well, if I have to take punishment into my own hands to find the true culprit, then so be it.”
“Lucifer, you can’t just go off on your own and investigate this murder.”
“Oh, can’t I?” he snaps. “Someone needs to be punished for this. Delilah was innocent, Detective. She had her problems, but she was a good person who didn’t deserve to die.”
“I’m not saying she did.” She hesitates for a long moment. “Even if I go to Marquez with this information, he’ll still rule it with the drug thing. But...” Chloe shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself as if she can't believe she's about to speak her next words. “If you really believe the shooter was just the one who pulled the trigger, that someone else is behind this...then I’ll help you.”
He blinks at her, frowning slightly. “Aren’t you still on medical leave for your shoulder?”
She nods. “Yes, but I also won’t sit back and let someone get away with murder. As long as we’re smart about it, then we can look into it. But I need you to follow my lead, Lucifer. No going off on your own. Okay?”
Lucifer isn’t sure how to respond. Chloe Decker—the by-the-books, never-breaks-procedure detective—is offering to help him go after Delilah’s killer. Who else does he know that would risk anything to help the Devil? Maze, but her motivation would be the promise of punishing a human at the end. Not because she wants to support him. Chloe has no stake in any of this. She didn’t even know Delilah, and yet...
“You would do that for me?” he asks, bewildered. “Why?”
“Because you were there when I was the one who needed help. And because we’re friends,” she says simply. She tilts her head slightly. “And because I don’t want you getting arrested for beating the shit out of whoever is behind this.”
He huffs a laugh. “I don’t know what to say.” He furrows his eyebrows, a thought occurring to him. “Is this your attempt to pay back your debt?”
Chloe shakes her head. “Nope. This is just for you. So do we have a deal? I’ll help, if you do this my way? Well, not a deal-deal, but you know what I mean.”
He doesn’t, really, but he agrees. “Yes, I shall follow your lead, Detective.”
“Okay. Good. We can get started tomorrow after I get Trixie off to school. Speaking of, I should probably get back home. I left her with a sitter. I just...needed to make sure you were okay.”
“Well, thank you, but I assure you I’m just fine.”
She seems skeptical, but accepts his response. “Okay, well, I’ll be back tomorrow. If you have any ideas of where we should start, since you know Delilah better than I do, write them down and I can look into them.”
“With your devilishly handsome partner at your side, of course,” he adds, smirking at her.
Rolling her eyes, Chloe gets to her feet. “Anything you say,” she says sarcastically. Then her expression softens. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” she adds, resting her hand on his shoulder.
He stares at her hand again for a moment, then looks up at her. “Until tomorrow, Detective,” he murmurs, unsure what else to say.
With one last smile, she heads for the stairs. Lucifer doesn’t take his eyes off her. “What on Earth just happened?” he mutters to himself.
She’d come charging in here like some sort of avenging angel in a hoodie, worry in her voice, not because she’d been assigned the case or because it was part of her job. Not because she had some legal obligation to pursue justice. No, Chloe had come here tonight for him. Because she’d heard about the shooting and thought something had happened to him.
And now she’s gone again after promising—nay, insisting—she would help him find the culprit responsible for Delilah’s death.
“Because we’re friends,” she’d said with so much sincerity it nearly stole his breath. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world for her to offer. As if it all makes perfect sense—and perhaps it does, to her. She’ll be breaking the rules, bending protocol, and likely risking a fresh wave of career sabotage from her colleagues just for him.
Well, he knows her job is safe, no matter what. But she doesn’t. She has no idea he spoke with the police commissioner at all, ensured she would be protected against retribution from her superiors. Her colleagues are another story, but Lucifer can deal with that if the need arises.
Lucifer reaches for his drink and tosses back what’s left in the glass.
Friends.
The word shouldn’t rattle him as much as it does. He has plenty of friends, after all. Hundreds, thousands even. Lovers, acquaintances, flings, and the occasional ally. He and Mazikeen have been friends for eons, for Dad’s sake. And yet, comparing them to this...connection he has with the Detective, he wonders if that’s at all the same. None of the others rushed to his side tonight, relieved to see he was unharmed. They aren’t the ones offering to go after the real killer.
Chloe rushed here looking as if she’d been preparing for bed when she heard the news.
Chloe was the one who offered to assist him.
But why? She insisted this wasn’t about their original deal, even if she did, in a way, make a deal with him. She isn’t attempting to fulfill her IOU so she can be shot of him for good. She genuinely wants to help him, because she’s a good person, and they’re friends. When she looked at him, it wasn’t her looking at some pest who’d burst into her life and refused to leave, or indulgence. She isn’t trying to get him into bed. Every word she spoke was genuine.
“I thought you could use a friend.”
Aside from his severe confusion, her visit—her touch—has quieted something in him. The storm he felt before her arrival, what he thinks might be grief over Delilah, the rage he still doesn’t quite know what to do with... It’s all still there, of course, lingering beneath the surface, but it isn’t roaring anymore. It’s more contained and manageable.
He doesn’t bloody understand any of it as he lets his fingers hover over the keys.
The woman is extraordinary, and he suspects she doesn’t even realize it.
Lucifer starts playing again, losing himself in his music and remembering the times Delilah would sing here in Lux. The crowd always loved her, every time. And the Devil was quite fond of her as well.
“Did I...sell my soul to the Devil?”
Shaking his head, he smiles sadly, still playing when—
“Lucifer!”
And just like that, whatever tension he was able to release has returned. Mazikeen is storming across the mezzanine looking furious and ready for battle. Inwardly, he winces, suspecting the reason for why she’s here now; the timing can’t possibly be coincidental. Her boots stomp hard enough across the marble floor he’s surprised there aren’t cracks.
He lowers his hands from the keys when she stops at the piano, fury in her expression.
“I just heard,” she growled. “Delilah’s dead?”
Nodding once, he reaches to refill his drink, the grief from before returning. “She is, yes,” he confirms quietly.
“And you let the bastard get away?”
“The shooter is also dead, Mazikeen,” he says with a sigh. “It was a drive-by shooting, and in an act of karmic vengeance, the vehicle was hit by a bus.”
The demon narrows her eyes on him. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asks, her voice half-suspicion, half-accusation.
Lucifer sighs again. “While he was the one to pull the trigger, I don’t believe it was his idea to murder Delilah,” he says, reluctant.
“So...let’s go find the bastard whose idea it was,” she says as if wondering why he’s still sitting down. “Got all my best knives and everything.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mazikeen,” he says briskly. “The Detective and I will be looking into the matter tomorrow.”
Maze blinks at him as if she isn’t sure she heard him correctly. “The Detective? You can’t be serious! Lucifer, Delilah was one of us! We should be the ones hunting down the human scum who hurt her and punishing them! You barely even know this human cop!”
“Indeed,” he says, sipping his drink. “And yet...I find myself trusting her more than I do some beings I’ve known for eons.”
She looks like she’s been slapped. “No, this is insane. You’re not thinking straight! We’re the ones who punish, Lucifer—you and me, remember? Not you, me, and some stupid human who batted her eyelashes at you.”
“I assure you, she’s never once ‘batted her eyelashes’ at me,” he says dryly.
“Look, let me track this guy down, I’ll drag his sorry ass back here, and we’ll do what we do best.”
With yet another sigh, Lucifer sets down his drink and rises to his feet. He knows the desire to stab and punish is Maze’s way of showing she cares, that she’s grieving—she quite liked Delilah too, in her own way. “I appreciate it, Maze,” he says quietly. “Truly, I do. I assure you, the one responsible will regret ever taking his first breath. But this isn’t your fight. It’s mine, and now, it’s the Detective’s as well, and we’re doing this her way. Not ours.”
Mazikeen stares at him like he’s betrayed her, and perhaps in her mind, he has. In the past, it’s always been the two of them against whatever enemy they might be facing, whether in Hell or on Earth. And now, he’s working with Chloe on this rather than her.
“You really are changing,” she says, her lip curled in a sneer. Clearly, it isn't a compliment.
He glances at the piano bench where Chloe sat with him not long ago. “Perhaps I am. But that is my business and my choice. Not yours.”
Her jaw clenches and she squares her shoulders like she might fight him on this, but she only shakes her head. “Fine. Have it your way. But when this all blows up in your face—the way it always does when humans are involved—don’t come crying to me.”
With that, Maze stalks away again, muttering curses in Lilim under her breath and shoving the side door open with so much force he’s surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges. Lucifer sighs, grabs his drink, and makes his way to the penthouse. He has some preparations and calls to make before tomorrow.
After dropping Trixie off at school, Chloe stopped at her favorite coffee shop to grab coffee and breakfast sandwiches for herself and Lucifer, and is on her way to Lux. She really shouldn’t be doing this, not so soon after nearly losing her badge for a different off-the-books investigation. Not with a still-injured shoulder. But she also hadn’t expected to see the grief in Lucifer’s eyes when she went to check on him last night.
She happened to be in the LAPD intranet system checking her emails—something else she shouldn’t have done, being on medical leave still—when the call about a shooting at Lux was reported. Before she knew what she was doing, she called her mom’s elderly neighbor to watch Trix, threw on a hoodie and tennis shoes, and nearly broke the sound barrier to get there. The scene had been chaos when she arrived. She saw the amount of bullet casings, the SUV where they were shot from, but only one blood pool—Delilah’s. But all she could think about was that Lucifer was hurt.
Except he wasn’t. There hadn’t been a scratch on him, despite Delilah being riddled with bullets beside him. She doesn’t understand it, but hadn’t wanted to push the whole ‘I’m the Devil’ thing when he was clearly hurting and trying his damnedest to hide it.
Then he told her his theory—that rather than being a drug deal gone wrong, Delilah's murder was a hit. She saw the conviction in his eyes when he talked about going after the person responsible if the LAPD wouldn’t. There was a darkness in his eyes she wasn’t used to seeing, a thirst to punish whoever murdered his friend. Chloe didn’t want him to do something he might regret, so she offered to help.
But that isn’t what kept her up most of the night. It was the look in his eyes when she offered that help, then told him it’s because they’re friends, as if he’s never heard anything like that. For all she knows, he hasn’t. From the conversations they’ve had, Lucifer’s life is rather transactional—he deals in favors, tit for tat, and in his world, nobody does anything for free.
Despite their deal, Chloe’s offer to help him catch Delilah’s killer was completely free of strings. She wants to help him as much as she wants to get real justice for Delilah, and she knows some of her colleagues would rather take the easy answer to keep their solve rate up than actually put in the work. Hell, Dan is one of them on occasion.
Which is why this has to stay quiet. Until they have a solid suspect, Chloe and Lucifer are on their own. But between their combined resources, she’s sure they won’t have much trouble.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
If she's really lucky.
As she takes the elevator up to Lucifer’s penthouse for the first time, Chloe wonders if she’ll find him at the piano again, still angry and grieving over the loss of his friend. It was a side of him she hadn’t seen before, and she would have liked to stay longer, but with Trixie at home waiting for her, she needed to get back.
When the doors open, she steps inside and stops, her jaw dropping a little. She’d expected luxury; a man who wears a different bespoke suit every day of the week and leases a penthouse at the top of a building on Sunset Boulevard would undoubtedly have plenty of cash for whatever he wants. But she isn’t sure how she expected Lucifer’s living space to look—the ultimate bachelor pad? Velvet and leather everywhere? Maybe a sex swing hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room?
But that isn’t what she sees.
The space is ridiculously huge. Dark marble flooring, high ceilings, floor to ceiling windows. There’s a library to her left—rows and rows of books and even a reading nook near the steel staircase leading up to even more books. To her right—and she isn’t sure why it surprises her—are more shelves, these ones full of what she’s sure are priceless liquors with blue backlighting. There is a piano up here, as she expected, right in the center of the space. Nearer the windows is a seating area with caramel-colored armchairs and an L-shaped couch. From here, she can just see into what she thinks is his bedroom—no doors, just an archway in the middle of stone walls with carvings she can’t quite make out.
It’s a bit over the top, but not in an obnoxious way; there’s a warmth to Lucifer’s home that makes it feel welcoming, optimized for entertaining his one-night stands. She likes it, though; it’s very fitting for the so-called Devil.
“Ah, Detective! Good morning!”
Chloe looks away from the stunning view of the Los Angeles skyline to see Lucifer jogging down the stairs, adjusting his cufflinks. He’s wearing a white shirt and black slacks with no jacket yet, and it looks like he just got out of the shower. She can smell his cologne and body wash from here—vanilla and something woodsy that she pretends she doesn’t like.
“Morning,” she says, stepping further into the penthouse. “You’re in better spirits today.”
“Yes, well, there is punishment to deliver, darling. What the Devil does best—aside from sex, of course.”
She rolls her eyes, setting the coffees and bag of sandwiches on the bar. “Right. I take it you’re ready to go?”
“Indeed. Oh, what’s this, then?” he purrs when he sees what she brought.
“I didn’t get time for breakfast, so I stopped on the way. Did you have any luck finding a starting place for this investigation?”
He shoots her a grin. “Look at you, so diligent. Whatever would the LAPD say if they knew their injured detective was sneaking around off the record with the Devil?”
“They’d probably send me to have my head examined,” she says dryly.
“Good thing I’m charming enough to make such recklessness worth it then, wouldn’t you say?”
She scoffs. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Smirking, he moves behind the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey. She raises an eyebrow—it isn’t even nine in the morning—but doesn’t comment. “Which of these is mine?”
Chloe hands him one of the sandwiches and a black coffee, since she wasn’t sure how he took his. As it turns out, more whiskey than coffee is how he drinks it.
“But to answer your question,” he says, leaning against the bar and unwrapping his sandwich. He examines it briefly, makes a pleased sound, and takes a large bite of the bacon, egg, and cheese everything bagel. “I thought we should start with Jimmy Barnes.”
She blinks. “Jimmy Barnes? The record producer?”
“Indeed. When Delilah asked me to make some calls to get her start, Jimmy was the one I contacted. He has a sort of golden touch, and I knew he would help her make it big. He did, and he also happens to be her ex-fiancé. Delilah got cold feet, left him at the altar. She told me last night he was angry with her, locked her in the bathroom at an awards show recently, and told her he wanted to get back together. She was not amenable.”
Chloe’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, that could be motive for murder,” she says quietly, unwrapping her own sandwich.
“And it just so happens, Jimmy is getting married today.”
She blinks. “Wait, what? So he got left at the altar, then begs for reconciliation one week, and he’s getting married the next, the day after his ex-fiancée was shot to death?”
Lucifer hums into his coffee. “Convenient timing, no?”
“Suspicious timing,” she mutters to herself.
“The good news is, I know precisely where the wedding will be taking place, and whilst I would normally avoid such ridiculous gatherings, I think perhaps this one deserves a special appearance by the Devil.”
“What do you have against weddings?”
“Aside from the ritualistic declarations of eternal fidelity that are destined to end in betrayal, resentment, and in some cases, murder, you mean? Nothing at all.” He gives her a dry, mocking smile.
Chloe rolls her eyes. “So...bad breakup?””
“Not exactly. More like a front row seat to eons of ill-advised unions. Trust me, Detective, if I had a nickel for every tearful mortal swearing ‘til death do us part only for the groom to shag the maid of honor three weeks later...well, I’d still be obscenely wealthy, but perhaps I could add a fountain to Lux.”
She huffs a laugh despite herself. Her own views on marriage lately haven’t been all that optimistic, but Lucifer is downright cynical. “Okay, well, we’re not going to interrupt the ceremony, if that’s your plan. Jimmy is the target, not whatever poor woman he convinced to marry him.”
“But Detective, it will be so much more efficient if we do it my way.”
“And we agreed we would do this my way, remember? Besides, we’ll get more answers from him if he isn’t surrounded with what I imagine will be a room full of celebrities. Not to mention, less drama.”
“Drama is what I do best, darling.”
“Believe me, I’ve noticed,” she says dryly.
He pouts as he finishes off his sandwich. Chloe absolutely does not watch as he licks his fingers clean before wiping them on a napkin. “Very well. If you insist on being boring about it, subtlety it is.”
“Thank you. Ready to go?”
A shark-like grin fills Lucifer’s face after he finishes off his coffee and retrieves his black suit jacket. “Oh, Detective, I’m always ready. Let’s go deliver some punishment.”
Rolling her eyes again, Chloe leads the way to the elevator, all the while wondering how long it will be before she regrets ever agreeing to this.
Chapter 12: Short, Sweaty Homunculus
Summary:
Chloe and Lucifer investigate Delilah's death. Chloe quickly learns his methods are a bit...unorthodox. But effective.
Notes:
So because tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the States, I thought I'd post this early.
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Unlike a lot of girls Chloe grew up knowing, she didn’t spend her life imagining her dream wedding with all the frills and trimmings. She didn’t sit around and picture her future husband or plan everything down to what type of petals would be thrown by the flower girl. When she did think about it, she always imagined a small gathering, something intimate—maybe on the beach.
Reality had been much different. From the guy she married to the wedding itself, and now her soon to be divorce. The last few days were spent talking to a lawyer, getting paperwork and custody schedules, and trying to come up with ways to break the news to Trixie that she and Dan won’t be getting back together. Not to mention avoiding Dan at all costs when she could.
And now, of course, the universe sees fit to surround her with weddings and potential domestic bliss. A cosmic joke, maybe?
On the drive to question Jimmy Barnes, hopefully before he walks down the aisle, Chloe and Lucifer are quiet. He’s staring out the window with a pensive expression on his face, one of his hands folded into a loose fist. She wonders if he’s thinking about last night and Delilah, and wants to break the silence, but isn’t sure how. He breaks it first, turning to her with curiosity in his eyes.
“What was your wedding to Detective Douche like? I’m imagining a massively huge affair with several hundred guests and an elaborate wedding dress. Doves flying through the air.”
Chloe blinks at the question, then makes a face at his description. “Not even close,” she mutters, focusing on the road. “Actually, we just went to the courthouse, signed some paperwork, spoke our vows, then I was back at work before my lunch hour was up.”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “How enchanting,” he says dryly.
She cracks a smile. “Yeah, I know. Dan was in the middle of a big case and he didn’t want to wait. Between both our moms, preparations were getting out of hand, and it was turning into something neither of us wanted.”
“At least tell me you had a celebration afterwards. And a romantic destination honeymoon where you shagged like bunnies.”
Shooting him a sidelong glance, she shakes her head. “Small reception. And we went to San Francisco for a long weekend,” she corrects. “We did manage to find time to go to Hawaii a year later, though.”
He scoffs, adjusting his lapels. “Well, with such a remarkable start to your marriage, no wonder it lasted,” he says sarcastically.
Chloe wants to be annoyed but...well, he isn’t exactly wrong. Dan had steamrolled her every time she made suggestions about other ways they could elope to avoid their mothers’ preparations. Or which restaurant they held the reception at. And even where they went for their ‘honeymoon’. Looking back, there were warning signs early on that she ignored because she was young and in love, and wanted to make him happy.
“You really ought to set your sights higher, Detective,” Lucifer adds. “Find someone truly worthy of you, who actually takes into account your desires. And doesn’t betray your trust.”
She doesn’t respond to that. Isn’t sure what she’s meant to say. He says it like it’s as simple as shopping through a catalogue. “Yeah, my romantic history...” She shakes her head. “Apparently, I don’t have great judgment in that department.”
“I could help you find someone.”
The scoff falls from her lips before she fully processes his words. “Thanks, but pass. Probably best to stay out of the dating scene for a while. I haven’t even filed for divorce yet.”
“Well, what are you waiting on? Approval from on high? Cut those ties, Detective, set yourself free. And I didn’t say anything about dating; a good shag would do you wonders.”
“Okay,” she says, stopping him before he really gets on a roll. “I’m good, thanks. I don’t need help finding a ‘good shag’.” She impersonates his accent and tone—intentionally badly.
“I do not sound like that,” he says, offended.
“You do,” she says, trying not to smirk at him.
Lucifer huffs, and turns away, probably to pout.
Chloe bites her lip against a smile, turning her thoughts to the case ahead. She thinks about what Lucifer told her about Jimmy Barnes and his history with Delilah. Getting married the day after one’s ex-fiancée is gunned down outside a nightclub is just poor taste. But it says a lot about Jimmy himself, not to mention his feelings towards his ex. Looking at it from an investigative standpoint, she wonders if he’s going on with the wedding due to a guilty conscience and need to escape. If he had something to do with Delilah’s death, he wouldn’t want to stick around L.A. for long, even if the LAPD is ruling the killer was the drug dealer. And a honeymoon would be the perfect cover.
“What do you know about Jimmy Barnes?”
“Apart from the fact he has a five-head the size of the state of California?” Lucifer says, not missing a beat.
“Yes, Lucifer, apart from that.”
Stretching out his long legs as far as he can, he tilts his head. “Jimmy is the human equivalent of off-brand cologne and a midlife crisis,” he begins. “Got his start way back in the early 80s producing synth-heavy, tragically over-permed pop garbage that somehow passed for music.”
Chloe bites her lip against a laugh.
“Horrific, really, what some humans do to music. But Jimmy is one of those ‘if you can’t do, ride the coattails of more talented people’ types. Couldn’t play an instrument to save his life, but produced such ‘talent’ with names like Venom Vixen and Neon Disaster. He took their sound, slapped his name on it, and rode that glitter-soaked cocaine wave all the way to a gold-plated toilet in the Hills.”
Blinking, she raises an eyebrow. “That’s, um, oddly specific,” she says, trying not to be amused.
“Accurate, though.”
“And he’s the one you sent Delilah to?”
His own amusement fades, a dark look filling his eyes. “Yes, well, at the time, I hadn’t foreseen this particular outcome,” he mutters, adjusting his cuffs. She thinks that might be a nervous tic when he’s feeling aggravated or anxious. “Delilah desired fame, and Jimmy got her that fame. What came after...well...”
“It wasn’t your fault, Lucifer,” she says quietly, turning into Jimmy’s neighborhood. “You couldn’t have known it would end here.”
“No,” he agrees. “But perhaps if I hadn’t meddled in her career, she’d still be alive.”
“Maybe,” she concedes. “That doesn’t make you responsible for her choices. Or for someone coming along and ending her life. These deals you make—people choose to come to you when they want something or when they need help. Maybe they see it as an easy way to solve their problems, but even when the results aren’t favorable, you can’t see the future. You don’t know what dominoes might be knocked over.”
He looks at her, a furrow in his brow. “Is that how you feel? Having made a deal with me? That I was an easy way out of your problems?”
She pauses, blinking. “No,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean, I needed help or I was going to lose my badge, and I definitely hadn’t expected it to snowball the way it did, but I looked at it like another lead in a case. You’re not some favor genie. You’re a person who happens to have connections I didn’t.”
Lucifer stares at her for a moment. “So...you don’t regret it? Even though you learned of Daniel’s betrayal and your marriage is at an end?”
“Not for a second,” she says without hesitation. “As badly as it hurts, it’s a hell of a lot better than being left in the dark like I was before. And I got a friend out of it.”
A corner of his mouth hitches. “Yes, I hadn’t seen that coming myself.”
“See? Doesn’t always end badly.”
He doesn’t answer, but the dark look in his eyes has faded. Chloe decides to take that as a win.
As they walk to the front door of Jimmy’s Hollywood Hills mansion, they can see the wedding preparations in the backyard. A massive rental tent is billowing lightly in the breeze, already packed to the brim with guests. The driveway is filled with limos and one expensive car after the next, as if everyone here was trying to outdo the person before them. They can even hear the sound of a string quartet tuning up near a row of white roses. Groomsmen are hanging out near the pool, laughing and smoking cigars.
Everywhere Chloe looks, she sees signs of erasing what happened outside Lux last night, and absolutely nothing that screams ‘grieving ex’. From what Lucifer said, Jimmy was intent on getting Delilah back and when she turned him down, he moved on like it was nothing. She might be more pissed off at Dan than she’s ever been in her life, but she would never wish him dead. If, God forbid, something happened to him, she would never be able to just...move on like this.
So either Jimmy wasn’t as in love with Delilah as he claimed, or he came up with a way to get revenge for turning him down, leaving him at the altar. People have killed for far less than that.
It only takes Chloe flashing her badge and a little white lie to get them through the door. A tuxedoed staffer with a headset escorts them into a room that more resembles a recording studio than a sitting room. The walls are covered in framed platinum records by bands Jimmy must have produced over the years, including one called Wednesday’s Child that rings a bell in Chloe’s mind. Black leather couches are strategically placed near walls of glass overlooking the hills.
“Mr. Barnes will be with you shortly,” the staffer tells them. “May I get you a refreshment while you wait?”
Lucifer opens his mouth, probably to ask for whiskey, but Chloe beats him to it. “No, thank you. We’re just here to speak with Jimmy.”
The staffer nods, bows, and steps quietly out of the room. Immediately, Lucifer is off to look around (read: be nosy). Chloe doesn’t rein him in just yet. She’s looking around too, for anything that might reveal Jimmy’s feelings towards his ex.
She notices one thing quickly. “Lucifer,” she says quietly, pointing to a blank stretch of wall. Whatever was here has clearly been recently removed. She looks between the gold and platinum records on either side of the empty wall. Lucifer is at her side in an instant. “What do you want to bet this is where Delilah’s records were?”
Frowning, he examines the other frames, raising an eyebrow. “He launched her to super stardom. You’d think he’d want to commemorate his most recent feat and brag every chance he got,” he says. “Unless of course he has something to hide.”
Her thoughts exactly, but she doesn’t get the chance to voice them. Footsteps are quickly approaching. She spins around as who must be Jimmy Barnes steps into the room looking harried and impatient in his white tux and bowtie, a tulip in his button hole.
“Whatever this is about, make it quick. I’m getting married, in case you haven’t noticed,” he snaps at Chloe.
“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy...” Lucifer purrs. “Remember me?”
Jimmy’s expression drops slightly when he finally notices Lucifer. “You. How did you even get in here?”
“He’s with me. Detective Decker, LAPD,” Chloe says before Lucifer can take a breath to undoubtedly insult Jimmy. “We have some questions regarding the murder last night of your ex-fiancée Delilah.”
“Yes, starting with—this is quite the lavish affair for a record producer on the outs,” Lucifer says, moving towards the windows. Below they can see the spacious backyard and the wedding tent. He pauses, looking back at Jimmy with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You do remember me, don’t you?”
Jimmy’s tense jaw is answer enough. “Yeah. I remember you,” he says shortly. “I don’t have time for this. My bride is waiting. You want to ask questions, sweetheart? Make an appointment. I’ll be back from my honeymoon in Barbados in a month.”
“We’ll be quick, we know this is a busy day for you,” Chloe says mildly, watching every expression on Jimmy’s face closely. He manages to school it quickly, back to impatient. “A bit odd, don’t you think? Getting married the day after your once brightest star was murdered in cold blood?”
Jimmy scoffs. “What, you think I had something to do with that?” he asks.
“Yes,” Lucifer says immediately, moving closer. “As a matter of fact—”
Chloe holds up a hand to stop him. “We’re looking into different possibilities, Mr. Barnes.”
“I thought some drug dealer killed her,” Jimmy says, shifting on his feet. Neither Lucifer nor Chloe respond, waiting, and sure enough— “Yeah, look, it’s all very sad. But Delilah ruined my wedding once, and I’m not going to let that happen again.”
“Hard to be rejected, isn’t it, Jimmy?” Lucifer says, still smiling. “Twice. But I heard you tried to get her back recently. I mean, I’d kill someone who denied me once—not that that’s possible, of course.” He pauses, glancing sidelong at Chloe. She tries not to roll her eyes. “So come on, what do you say, Jimbo, hmm? Did you want her dead?”
“Lucifer,” she says quietly. Then she glances a bit awkwardly at Jimmy. “Did you?”
Jimmy is looking between her and Lucifer, clearly trying to avoid eye contact with the so-called Devil. “Stop looking at me like that, you freak,” he snaps, staring down at his feet. “No, of course not. I was furious, and I was humiliated when she dumped me, but believe me, I’ve rebounded pretty well.”
Chloe rests her hand on Lucifer’s arm, forestalling whatever snide comment he has next. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Delilah?” she asks.
“Look, I don’t know. Go talk to 2Vile.”
Lucifer looks at him skeptically. “The rapper?”
“Yeah, Delilah dumped me for that lunatic. They were always fighting. He slapped her around a bunch. The guy surrounds himself with gun-toting morons 24/7. That guy is the real deal. If anyone wanted her dead, it’d be him.”
Chloe and Lucifer exchange a glance. She can see he doesn’t entirely believe Jimmy, and neither does she, but she confirmed Jimmy’s alibi already—he was at a bachelor party last night on the other side of the city when Delilah was murdered. Not that that means much, if he hired the shooter. But until they can find proof...
“Well, thank you for your time, Jimmy. We’ll let you get back to your wedding.”
“Yes, and best of luck with the whole wedded domestic bliss,” Lucifer says, smirking. “I do hope nothing comes along to screw up the perfect life you’re trying to create.”
Jimmy glares at him. “Is that a threat?”
“No, of course not!” Lucifer says, the aghast look on his face feigned. “But whichever poor woman you’ve conned into marrying you simply so she can achieve fame will need all the luck she can get if she’s expected to have sex with you tonight.”
“Okay, we’re done here,” Chloe says, grabbing Lucifer’s arm to drag him out of the room. Jimmy looks incensed. And when she glances over her shoulder before turning a corner—he also looks relieved.
“You didn’t seriously buy that, did you?” Lucifer says incredulously.
“No, but we don’t have any proof it was him, Lucifer. We have to examine all the leads before definitively saying otherwise.”
Sighing dramatically, Lucifer looks around the mansion on their way out. They’re near her cruiser when he excuses himself, doubling back before she can stop him. “Lucifer, where are you going?” she calls, but it’s too late. He’s disappeared back into the house already. “Damn it. So much for following my lead.” Grumbling to herself, she leans against the car and starts researching 2Vile, debating whether to go after Lucifer or not.
From somewhere in the backyard, she can hear a commotion and what sounds like muffled laughter.
“Oh, that can’t be good,” she says to herself.
Not two minutes later, Lucifer is strolling back towards her, fixing his cuffs with a way too satisfied smirk on his face. “Right, then! Shall we go question the rapper unfortunately referred to as 2Vile?” he says cheerfully.
“What did you do?” she demands.
“I simply asked Jimmy’s bride a question,” he says innocently. “Nothing related to the investigation, but it certainly got a response from the wedding guests.” Chuckling to himself, he gets into the car.
Exhaling irritably, Chloe gets in the passenger side, shooting him a glare. “What happened to following my lead?”
“Well, I did, Detective. But you can’t expect me to allow some poor innocent, loin-stirringly beautiful woman to marry that short, sweaty, and altogether fugly homunculus?”
Closing her eyes, she takes a few breaths. “Lucifer, you can’t just...” Chloe grits her teeth. “Look, I get you’re angry, but you can’t just ruin someone’s wedding.”
“She didn’t want to have sex with him tonight,” he says casually, like they’re discussing lunch options.
She blinks. “Wait, she—she actually said that?”
Lucifer hums, eyebrows raised and smirk back in place. “In front of everyone,” he says, clearly delighted.
“Okay, well, still...” She furrows her eyebrows. “Just—next time, actually follow my lead.”
“I got him to tell us about 2Vile, didn’t I? Though I do wonder if he’s attempting to shift the blame.”
“It’s possible. Like I said, I wasn’t buying what he was selling either, but there’s a right way to do this if we’re going to prove he had something to do with it.”
“Yes, yes...evidence,” he says as if the word offends his senses.
Shaking her head, Chloe decides to pick her battles, putting in 2Vile’s address to the GPS—the rapper's real name is Milton Crenshaw. “Moving on. Do you know this 2Vile guy? I looked up his rap sheet—it’s a mile long with drug and gun charges,” Chloe says, leaving Jimmy’s residence before the wedding guests start flooding out. Since there probably won’t be a wedding today.
And yet, she still doesn’t regret agreeing to help Lucifer with this case.
“Fortunately, I do not,” Lucifer says. “Should be a bit of fun, especially if there was any truth to Jimmy's claims. Rappers are entirely overrated, though. Speaking rhymes into a microphone? Sampling music written by their betters? Then again, they do know how to throw a good party...”
Chloe rolls her eyes, but lets him rant about how much he despises rap and hip-hop. Her irritation from the scene he made at Jimmy's already faded—and she isn't even sure how he did it.
After leaving 2Vile’s house...she almost regrets it.
Everything was going fine right up to the point 2Vile referred to Delilah as ‘that bitch’, and Lucifer lost his temper, shoving the rapper through a glass window and dangling him over a railing by his thick gold chain. It had taken everything Chloe had to not lose her own temper with her supposed partner long enough to finish questioning the suddenly tearful 2Vile who couldn’t wait to tell them about a secret therapist Delilah was seeing. From there it spun out when one of the other guys present recognized her from her acting days.
On the upside, they managed to get out the door without anyone getting shot. And by anyone, she means Lucifer—by her.
“You cannot threaten someone’s life to get information from them!” she furiously says to Lucifer, stomping back to the car. “What if you’d lost your grip or that chain broke? Or if one of his guys shot you?”
Lucifer lets out a long-suffering sigh. “How many times must I tell you I am invulnerable before you believe me, Detective?” he asks in the same tone she would use with Trixie about homework. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t listen to me at all.”
She stops and turns to look at him incredulously. “People aren't bulletproof, Lucifer.”
“No, but the Devil is,” he says with what is probably meant to be a charming grin. “I could prove it to you, you know.”
“We don’t have time for...any of this.”
But of course, he isn’t listening, already walking to the back of her car. “Watch and be amazed, Detective!” he says, adjusting his sleeves slightly. Then he proceeds to lift the rear of her car until the tires are off the ground.
Four feet off the ground.
Chloe’s jaw drops. Slowly, she walks towards him, eyes wide. He’s holding the car off the ground with one hand and not even straining or breaking a sweat. Ducking down, she looks under the car—maybe he shoved a jack or something beneath it when she wasn’t looking, but...no. There’s nothing holding it up. Except for Lucifer.
“How are you...” she breathes, looking between him and the car.
“Celestial strength,” he says smugly, carefully lowering the car back onto its tires. “Being a former angel and current Devil does have its perks, darling. Impressed?”
Blinking rapidly, she stares at him. Then her brain kicks back into gear. “I mean, it is possible for humans to...” she tries to rationalize. “Surges of adrenaline or...or performance-enhancing drugs.”
Lucifer scoffs in offense. “Seriously? I lift a three ton car off its tires with one hand without breaking a sweat, and your explanation is steroids? Honestly, Detective. Would you rather I lift the entire thing and juggle with it?”
“No, that’s—” What the hell is happening right now? She lets out a breath. “Maybe you just ate your spinach and Wheaties today, Lucifer, I don’t know.”
He blinks at her as if he’s never seen anything like her before. “Bloody hell, you really are impossible, do you know that?”
“I could say the same about you.”
“If you did, you’d believe I was actually the Devil.”
“Just...get in the car,” she says, still staring between him and the very car she sent him to sit in. “And be glad I’m not making you sit in the back.”
Scowling, he does as he’s told. Chloe doesn’t join him immediately, telling herself the Devil isn’t real. Maybe he just has some freakishly strong genetics.
Because...it can’t be real.
Shaking her head, she gets into the car finally. Lucifer doesn’t speak as she starts to do her research on Doctor Linda in Beverly Hills, then calls to confirm ‘Penny Lane’ was a patient. When she finishes, she starts the car and starts to drive, finally turning to Lucifer.
“No more threatening suspects. Or this case is done. Got it?”
“As you wish,” he mutters, not meeting her gaze.
Rolling her eyes, she inwardly calls him a child and continues driving, watching him slump in the passenger seat. His usual smug cheerfulness has dimmed, replaced with something more sulky and adolescent. She thinks back to what happened in 2Vile’s driveway—how easily he lifted the car like that. He could have hurt himself, or her car, all just to prove he’s the literal, actual Devil. Now he’s pouting because she doesn’t believe him.
“Would it really be so bad?” he mutters, staring out the windshield like it personally betrayed him.
Blinking, she glances at him. “What?”
When he looks at her, his expression is unreadable. “If I were the Devil. Would it really be so terrible?”
The tone catches her off-guard more than the question does—quiet and soft, like it matters what she thinks. And what she thinks of him. Chloe hesitates for a long moment, navigating the relatively quiet streets of Los Angeles, then shrugs. “I mean, I’ve never really believed in all of that...Heaven and Hell stuff.”
“You’re an atheist?” he says, looking genuinely surprised.
“Not exactly,” she says thoughtfully, leaning her head back as they slow to a stop. “I just don’t think there are specific beings sitting on thrones in the clouds or...whatever Hell is supposed to look like. I believe there’s good and evil in the world, but I don’t think they wear crowns or have wings or pitchforks.” She glances over at him.
He’s watching her with his head tilted slightly.
She thinks about his question, and what little she knows of him. What she’s seen with her own two eyes. Then she says, her tone softer, “To answer your question, though...no, I don’t think it would be terrible. Or even so bad if you were actually the Devil. I think you’re weird and dramatic and full of yourself, and you don’t listen to save your life—” He smirks slightly. “—but I don’t think you’re evil.”
The smirk fades as he continues to watch her, not speaking. He doesn’t look smug, like she would have expected. Or even gloating. His expression is strangely...neutral, as if her words have disarmed him, and he isn’t sure how to respond.
A corner of her mouth twitches. “Besides, if you were the Devil, wouldn’t there be—I don’t know, fire? Brimstone? A chorus of screaming damned souls?”
Lucifer huffs a small laugh. “I left the chorus back in Hell, actually.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling again for some reason.
“As for the pitchfork—and the hooves and horns, for that matter—that’s the stuff of movies and TV. They always get it wrong.” Amusement has returned to his voice slightly, but his eyes are still soft, almost bewildered.
“Anything you say, Satan. Let’s go find this Doctor Linda, see what she can tell us about Delilah.”
Halfway to Beverly Hills, Chloe’s phone rings. She frowns slightly at the screen. “Hush,” she says to Lucifer, interrupting his rant about traffic and humans in general.
“Rude.”
“Shut up for a second,” she says hurriedly, answering the phone. “Decker.”
“Miss Decker, this is Principal Vasquez at Harris Place Elementary. I’m calling in regards to Beatrice.”
“Trixie. Is she okay?”
Beside her, Lucifer straightens, his attention on her.
“She’s fine, Miss Decker. But she was involved in a fight today, and she’s been suspended for assaulting another student. I attempted to call your husband to come pick her up, but he seems to be running late.”
Chloe huffs, both in irritation at Dan and worry about Trixie. “Of course he is. Yeah, I’m on my way. Thanks.”
“Everything all right, Detective?” Lucifer asks after she hangs up and starts searching for a place to do a U-turn.
“We need to make a detour. Apparently, Trixie got into a fight and got herself suspended.”
“Oh, well done, Offspring! Who did she beat up?”
She glares at him. “This isn’t a good thing, Lucifer. She shouldn’t be fighting in the first place.”
“Or she needs lessons on how to fight and not get caught.”
“I swear, I’m going to pull over and make you walk,” she threatens, only half-joking. Maybe a quarter-joking. “They tried calling Dan, but he’s running late, and I need to pick her up and get her to a sitter.”
“Can’t she call an Uber? Are we really allowing a pint-sized pugilist to dictate our movements?”
“Well, that pint-sized pugilist is my daughter, so... And no, she can’t call an Uber. She’s seven, Lucifer.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Parental responsibility—such a human affliction.”
Rolling her eyes, Chloe ignores him.
A few blessed, silent seconds pass. “You know, perhaps a long, contemplative walk home would serve as an appropriate punishment. I’m told it builds character. Perhaps we could throw in a thunderstorm for dramatic effect?”
Chloe starts to pull over and shove him out of the car.
“Kidding, Detective!” he says hastily when he realizes she wasn’t bluffing. “Mostly, anyway. I suppose your child isn’t entirely terrible. Besides, the spawn would be heartbroken if I weren’t there to console her after being thrown out of her educational facility. She adores me.”
“Well, you want to walk so bad? Be my guest.”
He scoffs. “Certainly not. These roads are filthy.”
“You’ll live,” she mutters, preoccupied with wondering what could have set off her sweet Monkey to the point she resorted to violence. She pulls back into traffic.
It takes her a minute to realize Lucifer hasn’t responded with some complaint or snarky comment. She turns to see what he’s pouting about now and nearly crashes the car.
Lucifer is gone.
Notes:
Well. That's awkward. 😏
Happy Thanksgiving!
Chapter 13: Cautionary Tale
Summary:
Lucifer deals with an interruption to his and Chloe's investigation. Then helps Trixie not get suspended and with her bully problem.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Lucifer had been, more or less, enjoying the direction of the day. Spending time with the Detective, working a case, questioning suspects—ruining Jimmy’s wedding had undoubtedly been the best part. And then her child’s school called with the news she’s been kicked out for the day. He thought she’d been bluffing about forcing him to walk after his (mostly) joke about making the child find her own way home. She hadn’t been, but he saw the way she was trying not to smirk as she pulled away from the curb.
Leaning his head against the window, Lucifer feels a bit more relaxed. He’s still thinking about how Chloe said he isn’t evil. True, she doesn’t realize to whom she actually said those words, but...well, it was quite nice to hear. And irritating as it is to have their day derailed by some sort of recess dramatics, he finds he’s not as annoyed as he pretended to be. Truth be told, he doesn’t mind the detour. Not really, anyway. Despite her penchant for hugging the unsuspecting, the Detective’s offspring isn’t terrible.
And spirited too, it would seem. He quite respects that.
Just as he’s beginning to suggest he and Chloe get a bite to eat once the little urchin is squared away, though, movement on the sidewalk catches his attention. There, standing outside an electronics boutique, arms crossed with a chronically constipated expression on his face, is someone who has absolutely no business being here.
Bloody Amenadiel. Watching the Detective’s car until it’s directly in front of him. With a blink, the world slows down to a crawl.
Immediately, Lucifer’s stomach knots with a mixture of dread and genuine irritation. “Oh, bloody hell, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He glances over at the Detective, nearly frozen along with all the cars around them. For a moment, Lucifer merely glares at his brother, but he knows Amenadiel won’t right time again until he gets out whatever lecture he has planned today.
Stepping out of the car, Lucifer closes the door harder than intended. “Well, if it isn’t Heaven’s favorite errand boy. To what do I owe this displeasure, Amenadiel? Couldn’t leave well enough alone? It’s only been a week since your last blustered threats.”
Amenadiel uncrosses his arms, watching him calmly. “What, and miss the chance to see this for myself? You, Lucifer Morningstar, Lord of Hell, playing sidekick to some mortal detective?” His lips twitch into a smirk. “Solving murders—how very noble of you.”
By some miracle, Lucifer’s eyes don’t fall out when he rolls them hard. “Oh, please. I’m not ‘playing sidekick’. I’m delivering punishment to the guilty. I’m quite invested, really.”
“Yes,” Amenadiel says, his smirk turning sharper. “That is exactly what concerns me, Luci. I've been watching closely, and I've seen more than even you are aware of. Things you should be greatly concerned about.”
Though he tries not to react, the smirk falters for just a second.
And of course, his brother sees it. “So the rumors are true,” Amenadiel says, stepping to the edge of the sidewalk. “You’ve traded in your infernal throne for...a badge? And why? Because some pretty little blonde batted her eyelashes and asked you to help her.”
The words spark a memory that he doesn’t examine immediately. Lucifer stands straighter. “Careful, brother,” he says quietly.
“Does she know?” his brother asks, ignoring the warning in Lucifer’s voice. “What you truly are? Does she realize she’s working alongside the Devil himself?”
“She’s really quite clever,” Lucifer says, his tone lighter than he feels. How long has Amenadiel been watching? Is he aware he and Chloe just had this conversation recently? “She’ll figure it out when she’s ready.”
“But she hasn’t yet?” The amount of mock pity and condescension in Amenadiel’s voice makes Lucifer bristle. “Doesn’t that get tiring, Luci? Constantly pretending to be something you’re not? All this time toying with the humans, and you still haven’t learned—they always see the monster eventually.” His gaze drifts past Lucifer to the Detective. “And so will she. One way or another.”
From anyone else, it might have been a warning. But from Amenadiel? That was a threat. He likes to pretend to be high and mighty about how humanity and divinity don’t mix, but if it suited his purposes, Lucifer wouldn’t put it past his brother to prove the truth to Chloe to send Lucifer back to Hell.
Lucifer feels something in him snap, and without a word, he surges forward, slamming his fist into Amenadiel’s jaw. The blow lands with a satisfying crack and aching knuckles. His brother’s head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t stagger.
Amenadiel’s eyebrows slowly rise. “Oh, so you’re in one of those moods today,” he says musingly, rubbing his chin. “Good. So am I.” He lifts his foot, driving it into Lucifer’s chest, hard enough to launch him across the sidewalk and into the mouth of a narrow alley. Lucifer hits the brick wall hard enough to crack the surface, forcing the breath from his lungs.
He grins. “Finally,” he growls, shoving off the wall and ignoring the stone hitting the ground behind him. “A proper family reunion.”
The angel launches at him like a wrecking ball, fists flying. Lucifer ducks one blow, catches the second, then twists, driving his elbow into his brother’s ribs. Amenadiel grunts, retaliating instantly by grabbing Lucifer by the lapels and swinging him farther down the alley into an empty dumpster, the impact ringing out like a gong.
Popping up instantly, Lucifer wipes the blood from his lip and gives the angel a wicked smile as he hops back out of the dumpster. “Always so touchy, brother! Are you jealous? Is that what this is? I’m sure there’s a human somewhere who might befriend a pompous, sanctimonious Daddy’s Boy if you put in the effort.”
Amenadiel growls, fists clenching. “You have forgotten who you are, Luci!”
“No,” Lucifer spits out, launching himself forward with renewed fury. “I’m finally starting to figure it out.”
They collide again, blows echoing off concrete as the combined divine strength between them clashes in a storm of violence. Lucifer ducks under his brother’s next punch, countering it with a hard jab to a kidney, gritting his teeth against the pain from the punches Amenadiel landed. The angel staggers half a step, more out of surprise than real damage.
“Oh come now,” Lucifer snarls, “don’t tell me you’ve gone soft up there in Daddy’s good graces.”
Amenadiel’s eyes flash at the insult. “I’m not the one playing human dress-up.” He lunges forward again, grabbing Lucifer and slamming him into another wall with enough force to crack brick and mortar. Lucifer ignores losing his breath again, clawing at Amenadiel’s shoulders and driving his knee hard up into his brother’s gut.
Amenadiel grunts, reeling back, but he recovers quickly. He spins around with a heavy backhand across Lucifer’s jaw. The Devil’s head snaps sideways, blood flying from his mouth, then he twists with the momentum and shoots his leg out, catching Amenadiel behind the knees, forcing him down to one. Lucifer pounces, straddling him, his fists slamming ruthlessly into his brother’s face once, twice, three times. Until Amenadiel’s wings unfurl, flinging Lucifer halfway back down the alley like a ragdoll.
Hitting the asphalt, Lucifer skids across it into a heap, groaning. For a moment, he lays there, breathing hard as his chest burns and his head spins. He should be less winded than this, more able to kick Amenadiel’s winged arse—unless their father is protecting the eldest, that is.
What other explanation is there?
Wiping blood from his mouth, Lucifer laughs bitterly. “Still the family favorite, I see,” he mutters. “Shocking.”
Amenadiel gets to his feet slowly, pulling his wings tight behind his back. His face is bruised and one eye is already swelling. “I didn’t come here to fight you, Luci,” he says tersely. “But if that is the only language you will understand—”
“Oh, spare me the lecture,” Lucifer says, climbing to his own feet, a bit more unsteadily. “You show up here unannounced as always, insult the one person in this universe who treats me like I’m more than a bloody cautionary tale, and you expect me to roll out the red carpet?”
“You are losing sight of who you are, brother.”
“Yes, well, perhaps that's the entire point, brother.”
For a moment, neither of them moves. Blood drips from Lucifer’s lip. Amenadiel’s chest heaves with panting breaths. The alley is silent again, humans barely moving past and not noticing the celestials fighting nearby.
“I don’t get it. She’s just a human,” Amenadiel says, not unkindly. “They all die. You know that.”
Lucifer’s jaw tenses, his eyes flashing crimson. “So did Delilah. And the only other person apart from me to give a damn was the Detective.”
Amenadiel blinks at him.
The Devil steps closer to the angel, rage simmering below the surface like molten lava. “This world—you and Father, and all our other siblings...you just let it rot. You sit up on your clouds and judge me—judge them,” he gestures towards the humans, “but you never bother to lift a damn finger. So yes, I’m working with her, and she’s helping me right a grievous wrong. Because someone bloody well ought to.”
For a long moment, Amenadiel just watches him, some of the fight draining from his shoulders as he exhales. His gaze turns hard as he adjusts his robes. “Then do it, Lucifer. Solve your little murder. Play detective while you still can. But don’t, for one second, pretend it won’t end the way it always does. You will return to Hell. Your little pet human will learn what you are. Because you will find a way to screw it all up.”
With that, Amenadiel turns and walks away down the alley, his wings flaring out, and he vanishes. Time resumes normally. Lucifer remains still, his chest heaving and his jaw clenched, wondering what Amenadiel’s game is, and how he seems to know so much about Lucifer and Chloe’s activities.
Chloe.
Bloody hell.
A car honks from somewhere as Lucifer steps out of the alley, searching for the Detective’s vehicle. How long was he glaring after his brother? She’s long gone.
“Damn you, Amenadiel,” he mutters.
Fortunately, there’s a taxi just down the block. And Lucifer knows precisely where he needs to go in order to catch up with Chloe.
He steps out of the cab just as Chloe’s sensible, LAPD-issued sedan comes into view. Thanking the driver, he crosses the street towards her, seeing her furrowed brow through the windshield when she catches sight of him. He straightens his coat, ignoring his protesting ribs and the way the cut above his eye itches, bleeding slowly down his temple. Glancing at his hands, he sees the rawness of his knuckles and can feel bruises forming along his jaw.
Worth it.
Forcing a rakish smile, he watches Chloe park and climb out of the car, her eyes narrowed on him the moment she gets a full look at him.
“What the hell happened to you?” she demands, her steps quickening. That concern is back in her eyes, the way it was last night after Delilah’s death. Concern for him. “One second, you’re next to me in the car, and the next, you’re just...gone, and now—Jesus, Lucifer...”
“Oh, you know me, Detective. Always finding the most inconvenient times to get mugged,” he says breezily, hoping to mask the tightness in his tone.
Chloe stops in front of him, scanning each and every injury she can see. “I called you, like, six times. You’ve been missing for the last fifteen minutes. What happened? How did you get out of the car without me noticing? Were you fighting a brick wall?”
“Close enough,” Lucifer says with a sigh, deciding it's easier to explain only the last question. “It was my brother, actually.”
She blinks at him. “You...have a brother?”
“Several, unfortunately. And sisters. This one in particular is a shining gem in the celestial family tree. Fairly sure the whole thing was shoved up his arse the moment he was created. He’s rather prone to moralizing, and annoyingly good with his fists.” He gestures to the bruises. “Hence this unfortunate temporary redecorating of my face.”
Chloe opens her mouth, but nothing comes out as she stares at him. “You got into a fistfight with your brother? Like, just now?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly pencil it into my day planner, Detective.” Lucifer wipes away some blood from his jacket, unsure if it’s his or Amenadiel’s. “He decided to pop in, say several incredibly condescending things, and insulted you for good measure, and it...escalated.”
Her expression softens slightly. “He insulted me?”
Lucifer averts his eyes briefly. “Implied quite heavily that you wouldn’t...like me much if you knew the truth.”
Her jaw tightens. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I assure you, it’s nothing to worry your pretty mortal head over, darling.” He catches the glare on her face now and sighs. “Fine. It does mean something. But right now, it doesn’t matter.”
Sighing, Chloe glances at the school and back to him, looking torn. “I need to get my kid. And you probably need to see a doctor.”
Lucifer scoffs. “I’ve had far worse than this.”
For a moment, she just looks at him, then takes a step closer, looking him over again. “I don’t know what kind of brothers you have, but this is not normal sibling behavior.”
“In my family, you’d be surprised, Detective,” he mutters, wobbling slightly on his feet. Chloe catches his arm reflexively. He goes still at her touch, offering her a half-smile. “Yes, all right, I suppose I could accompany you inside to fetch the child. For...moral support, of course.”
Chloe gives him a look but doesn’t argue, slipping an arm around his back to help guide him as they move towards the school. Annoyingly, he’s limping slightly, and she seems to notice.
“You know,” he says lightly, “I do believe this is the first time I’ve been escorted into an elementary school, let alone under threat of concussion.”
Huffing a laugh, she gives him a sideways look and a wry smile. “Welcome to parenthood. Or at least the part where you pretend to be normal for five minutes while trying not to bleed on the floor. I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car; I can clean you up after we get Trixie.”
Lucifer keeps walking even as he blinks down at her. Maze is usually the one to patch him up after rebellions or fights with Amenadiel, but only because injury in Hell is a form of weakness—and the King cannot be perceived as weak. That isn’t why Chloe offered, though; she did it because...
Why did she offer?
Because she cares.
The abrupt thought pops into his mind and makes him stumble on the stairs.
“Whoa, easy,” Chloe says gently, tightening her hold on him. “You good?”
Swallowing, Lucifer nods. “Fine,” he mutters, staring at her.
She gives him a skeptical look, but continues moving.
It’s one thing for Lucifer to care about her, but nobody cares about him in return. As they step into the school, he feels...steadier, and he knows it’s because of her. Because she isn’t demanding that he explain, not really. She isn’t running from the knowledge that his family is insane. She’s just...here. Silently offering support.
And he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Rather than staying out in the hall as Chloe suggests, Lucifer follows her into the principal’s office like he belongs there and listens to the supposed charges against the Detective’s spawn. He raises an eyebrow at the part where ‘Beatrice launched an attack on a fifth grader out of nowhere’. Though he doesn’t know what grade the spawn is in, he got a look at the other child involved, who is practically twice her size. Which is rather impressive, but to hear the way the principal says it, Chloe raised a feral little creature in the wilds of the Amazon.
Chloe doesn’t look impressed by the implications either. She begins to defend her offspring when Lucifer intervenes.
“Principal...Vasquez, is it?” he says, smiling charmingly. And ignoring the irritated glare Chloe is shooting him entirely. The principal is a woman in her early fifties or so with a steely bun and an even steelier expression. But nobody—aside from the woman beside him—is immune to the Devil’s charms. “Whilst I do understand that discipline is important—I myself was a warden of sorts for quite some time—surely a child standing up for herself against another child twice her size doesn’t warrant a suspension?”
Vasquez frowns. “Beatrice kicked the other girl—in the crotch. Her parents are threatening to file a formal complaint.”
Lucifer clears his throat to keep back his laugh. “Yes, yes, I’m sure they are,” he says smoothly, leaning over the desk. “But tell me, Principal Vasquez...what would make this unfortunate situation better, hmm? What is it you desire?”
Chloe makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat, as if she’s debating getting involved, but can’t quite speak the words. Though he can’t see her expression, he imagines it’s somewhere between exasperation and secondhand embarrassment only he can bring out in her.
The principal’s breath catches, her steely expression slackens, and her eyes glaze over. “You,” she says breathlessly, leaning towards him.
“Oh, my God, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Chloe mutters under her breath. He hears a soft slap, like she’s just facepalmed herself.
The Devil doesn’t flinch, but he’s been rather uninterested in...carnal relations as of late. Perhaps he ought to see a doctor, after all. Maze taunted him about it a few days ago, and it’s becoming bothersome. At the same time...he isn’t bothered at all. The entire situation is really quite vexing.
“Tempting,” he says, ramping up his powers. “But let’s imagine something a bit more...fulfilling, shall we? You wish to be remembered as the sort of educator who gives her students second chances, don’t you? A champion of fairness, a woman who doesn’t let bureaucracy or politics stop her from doing the right thing?”
Principal Vasquez’s lips part and she nods slowly, dazed. “Yes,” she breathes longingly. “Yes, I do.”
“Lovely,” Lucifer says, getting to his feet. “Then let us all agree that this was merely a misunderstanding. Perhaps a warning and a day at home, but nothing on record? The child’s future remains untarnished, and your reputation, Principal Vasquez? Still golden.”
Vasquez blinks, nodding again, this time in agreement to his terms. “Yes, of course. A warning. But Beatrice will have to go home for the rest of the day, I’m afraid that’s school policy with fights.”
“I’d say that’s more than fair, wouldn’t you, Detective?” Lucifer asks, grinning at Chloe.
She looks like she might either hug him or strangle him, and even she isn’t sure which. “What...just happened?”
He looks at her smugly. “Why, I saved your offspring’s academic trajectory. You’re welcome.”
Sighing, Chloe drops her head in her hands again, rubbing her temples. “Just...go wait in the hall with her, please. I’ll finish this conversation like a normal adult.”
“Normal is boring, but as you wish, darling,” he says with a bow. Winking at the principal, he steps out into the hall.
The options for sitting aren’t optimal; there’s a child on either side of the hallway. But Lucifer chooses to take a seat beside the Detective’s spawn who’s kicking her legs beneath her, staring at the floor with what he suspects is a feigned look of dejection on her face. An act, believing her mother was coming through the door.
Deceptive little parasite.
She looks up at his approach, eyes lighting up. Until she gets a look at his face. “You look like you got into a worse fight than I did.”
“Let’s just say it was a squabble with my bro,” Lucifer says, smirking. “What about you, Urchin? You look awfully innocent for someone who nearly got themselves banished from their child prison.”
Trixie points towards the bigger girl across the hall, leaning closer. “See that girl over there?” she says in a stage-whisper. “She made a fake Snapchat account to bully me. Said I smell like cheese and have rabies.”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, eyeing the larger girl with her arms crossed and a permanent glare on her face.
“So I kicked her in the no-no-touch-touch square,” Trixie goes on almost proudly.
“The what—hang on, is that what your mother told you how to refer to a crotch? Well done on that, by the way.”
The child beams at the praise, then answers, “No, that’s what the teacher says to call it.”
“Bloody hell...” Why the Detective would send her offspring to this subpar institution, he has no idea. But he detests bullies; he just dealt with his own in an alleyway, and it would seem there is still some pent-up aggression. “Right. Stay here.”
Getting to his feet, he crosses the hall, crouching beside the bigger child. “Hello, mean girl,” he purrs.
The girl barely glances at him, rolling her eyes.
“Did you know there’s a special section in Hell reserved for bullies? So...have fun.”
When she turns to give him a skeptical yeah, right look, he flashes his Devil eyes for less than a second, but it’s enough. The child lets out a shrill, blood-curdling scream. Behind him, the principal’s office door bursts open and Chloe rushes out, glancing first at Trixie, then Lucifer and the mean girl.
She raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Oh, I think someone was just feeling a little guilty. That’s all.”
Chloe narrows her eyes at him, but he just shrugs at her innocently. Trixie is beaming like it’s her birthday. Or so he would imagine. Shaking her head, Chloe moves to address her offspring. “Come on, Monkey. You’re out of school the rest of the day, but the principal changed her mind about the suspension.” She throws Lucifer another look.
He smirks back smugly, joining them and leaving the terrified child behind.
They step back out into the sunshine, making their way down the stairs. Chloe is holding onto the child’s backpack, while Trixie herself holds her mother’s hand, skipping along as if she hadn’t been sent home for the day. They’re halfway to Chloe’s car when a familiar voice rings out—
“Chloe!”
She turns, and her entire body stiffens. Lucifer follows her gaze and sees Daniel Espinoza jogging towards them from the other end of the lot, his badge gleaming on his hip. The Devil doesn’t miss the sweat at his temples or the guilt in his eyes, and judging from her expression, neither does Chloe herself.
“I got here as fast as I could,” Daniel says when he reaches them. He glances first at Trixie, then Chloe. “I was in the middle of a case.”
Chloe doesn’t say a word, as if worried she might mention her ex’s betrayal in front of their offspring if she so much as opens her mouth.
Lucifer glances between them, eyebrows rising with interest. “Yes, well, as were—”
The Detective elbows him with the arm holding the backpack, hard in his bruised rib. Lucifer makes a strangled sound, gets the hint, and shuts up about their secret case.
Daniel notices the Devil’s wince, but ignores him, taking a step towards Chloe and lowering his voice. “I told them I’d be here. You didn’t have to—”
“They couldn’t get a hold of you. Apparently, it had been more than an hour when they called me,” Chloe snaps, her voice tight. “Trixie got in trouble, and you were nowhere to be seen.”
“I was—” Daniel pauses, his jaw working. Like he wants to say something snide in response, but knows it’s best not to, under the circumstances. “It was a lead I couldn’t ignore, okay?”
Chloe huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Glancing down at the sound of a small, lengthy sigh, Lucifer sees the spawn stuff her fingers in her ears, blocking out her parents’ bickering. This might be the first time he could ever relate to a human child; he spent many of the early years before his banishment to Hell listening to his parents fight. Usually over him.
“Perhaps you should refrain from arguing in front of the child. It’s unbecoming,” Lucifer says, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Daniel finally acknowledges Lucifer’s presence. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Lucifer gives him a bright smile. “Oh, I was merely assisting in a delicate educational negotiation. No need to worry, Detective Douche, your spawn’s permanent record remains unblemished.”
Daniel’s expression hardens. “I don’t know whether to laugh or to shoot you.”
“Surprise me,” Lucifer says simply, giving the douche a blasé shrug.
The child giggles, grinning toothily at her father. “Isn’t he funny, Daddy?”
With a strained smile, Daniel takes his child’s hand, and the backpack from Chloe as she says coolly, “We’ll talk later.”
“I’m sure we will,” Daniel mutters, barely looking at her.
Trixie breaks away long enough to hug her mother. Lucifer hears Chloe whisper, “Love you, Monkey. Good job standing up to the mean girl.”
He blinks in surprise, feeling his admiration for Chloe Decker rise even further. Even if the school didn't punish the child for the fight, she could have; instead, she's praising her. Fights with his siblings back in the Silver City were harshly punished by his father.
“Bye, Mommy! Bye, Lucifer!”
Daniel tosses one last glare over his shoulder at Lucifer, who gives him an air kiss and smirks.
“Well, that was cheerful,” Lucifer says, turning to Chloe.
She gives him a look. “You’re lucky my kid likes you so much.”
“What’s not to like?”
Chloe takes a breath to speak.
“Right, yes,” he says hastily. “I forgot who I was speaking to. Don’t answer that.”
Smirking, she jerks her head towards her car. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up before going to see Doctor Linda.”
“Ah, yes, the therapist to the stars. I nearly forgot after the eventful last hour.” He starts towards the car, realizing after a moment, Chloe isn’t with him. When he looks back, he has a brief moment of worry that his brother has slowed time again; she’s standing still, staring after her child and ex. “Detective?”
Fortunately, she blinks. “Yeah, sorry. Still getting used to the whole ‘Dan is the reason for Palmetto’ thing.”
Lucifer watches her for a moment. “If it’s any consolation, I did briefly consider punching him.”
She cracks a small smile as they walk towards the car. “You and me both.”
Notes:
Thanks as always for reading. Next week, Doctor Linda makes her appearance, and Chloe and Lucifer wrap up their case. 😈
Chapter 14: Existential Identity Dread
Summary:
Chloe and Lucifer interview Dr. Linda Martin about Delilah's death, and Lucifer decides to look into a little self-reflection.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chloe leans back in a chair outside Dr. Linda Martin’s office, thinking over the extremely odd day she’s had so far. Well, if she’s being honest, the last two weeks since meeting Lucifer Morningstar. But today in particular. From Jimmy Barnes to the...incident at 2Vile’s house, then in the driveway where Lucifer lifted her car one-handed, to Lucifer vanishing into thin air from a moving vehicle and still somehow beating her to Trixie’s school looking like he was dropped from a high-rise, then that thing with Trixie’s principal...
And it’s barely lunchtime.
“So, what’s that hypnotism thing you do with people?” Chloe asks, glancing at Lucifer. He helped himself to a cup of coffee, sipping it like it’s teatime. “How’d you do that?”
He scoffs. “First of all, it wasn’t hypnotism, Detective,” he says primly. “It’s power. People like to tell me things, but as we’ve established, it doesn’t work on you, you little freak,” he adds teasingly.
She doesn’t take the bait, just lifting her eyebrows and waiting for a proper explanation.
Sighing, he sets aside his coffee. “As I said, Detective, it’s God-given power, quite literally. One of Dad’s little gifts to his angels when we were all created. My siblings and I each have our own unique ability, and mine just so happens to be desire, which is perfect for me. I ask humans what they desire and they tell me what that desire is at that particular moment. Some are more complicated than others, but I always get something in the end.” He pauses, looking at her with an odd look in his eyes. “Well, almost always.”
“But it doesn’t work on me,” she says quietly.
“No, it doesn’t. You are quite literally the only human in the history of your species to not give me an answer. The only way for me to know what you desire is for you to tell me. It’s really quite vexing, actually,” he says with a small smile. “And oddly fascinating.”
Chloe nods slowly, not knowing what to make of his explanation—or him, for that matter. The whole God and angels thing aside, it sounds like some form of hypnotism, and she knows it works; she’s seen it with her own eyes. She isn’t sure if she’s disappointed it doesn’t work with her or not—on one hand, it would be interesting to find out what that feels like; on the other...well, there are things she doesn’t want other people to know.
Before either of them can speak again, the little red light beside Doctor Martin’s door switches off and the door itself opens. A woman steps out dabbing at her eyes but smiling tremulously. A voice behind her says, “Same time next week?”
The first woman nods, glances at Chloe and Lucifer, then hurries off.
A moment later, a woman who Chloe presumes to be Doctor Martin—petite, blonde, and wearing glasses—steps out, giving them a welcoming smile. “I can see you now, Detectives,” she says, gesturing to the office.
Lucifer lights up, leaning towards Chloe. “Ooh, Detectives,” he purrs.
Rolling her eyes, Chloe gets to her feet. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Once everyone is settled—Chloe and Lucifer on the couch, Doctor Martin in the chair across from them—the therapist looks between them. “So. What can I do for you today?”
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Delilah,” Chloe says.
Almost immediately, the doctor’s welcoming expression fades into something a bit more conflicted. “I’m sorry, Detective, I can’t discuss my patients,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic.
“I understand there’s doctor-patient confidentiality concerns, but we think there is more to Delilah’s death than a drug deal,” Chloe goes on, leaning forward a little. “We’re trying to find the real culprit, Doctor, anything you can give us would be helpful.”
Linda’s gaze keeps flicking from Chloe to the man beside her, even though she seems to be trying to focus.
Of course, Lucifer doesn’t miss it. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
The doctor seems to snap out of her daze briefly. “Sorry?”
Lucifer lets out a huffed laugh. “Yes, I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m like walking heroin—very habit-forming. It never ends well.”
Chloe sighs and shakes her head. “Can we focus?”
“Well, she can’t help it, can she? This is what I was trying to tell you, Detective. Humans are attracted to me like magnets.”
“Mmm, not this human,” Chloe says with a mock musing tone.
“Yes, but as we’ve established, you’re a freak. A fascinating one.”
Chloe takes a breath to get them back on track, but Linda interrupts, tilting her head a little at Lucifer. “You say it’s fascinating, but I can see you find it deeply disturbing.”
He blinks at her. “I wouldn’t say ‘deeply’,” he says with a chuckle, trying to play it off. But his eyebrows are furrowed as he looks between the doctor and Chloe.
“Doctor Martin,” Chloe says, ignoring...whatever this is. “We know that Delilah was having a clandestine affair with a wealthy married man, so if you just tell us his name, we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m sorry,” Linda says firmly. “I can’t do that.”
Lucifer leans towards Chloe. “She’s one of the more complex ones. Watch and learn, darling,” he murmurs to her. Then he turns towards Linda, turning up the charm to eleven as he straightens with a grin. “Linda, darling, why don’t you tell me, hmm?”
Linda averts her eyes. “Well, I can’t,” she says, laughing uncomfortably.
Lucifer just lifts his eyebrows, chuckling.
“I want to, but I can’t.” Linda laughs again, waggling her finger at him. “Oh, you’re the Devil.”
Though Chloe knows she should probably put a stop to this, she remains quiet. They need this information if the case is going to move forward. And according to 2Vile, only Delilah’s therapist knows.
“Correct,” Lucifer says through a chuckle. “Now, come on, Doctor Martin, I know you want to.”
“Oh, man, and it’s really juicy, too.”
“Ooh, I bet it is.”
“No, I can’t.”
“I’m afraid a trip to pound town is off the table at the moment,” Lucifer goes on, still grinning at Linda. “But I’m sure we can reach some other agreement, can’t we? But first, you’re gonna have to tell us, Linda, okay?”
Chloe blinks. Did he really say no to sex? Twice now today...?
Linda holds out for a few more seconds, then out of nowhere— “Okay!” she bursts out, chuckling as she leans forward. Both Chloe and Lucifer lean toward her in unison. “It’s Grey Cooper!”
Jaw dropping, Chloe looks between Linda and Lucifer, the latter looking back with raised eyebrows. “Grey Cooper? Seriously?” she repeats.
“Grey Cooper, the actor? The one who’s married to Amanda...what’s-her-chops?”
“Yeah,” Chloe says, wide-eyed, looking at Lucifer.
He scoffs. “Oh no, he’s horrible. So square-jawed, so handsome, so...vanilla.” He turns to Chloe, looking genuinely distressed. “Oh, I’m really quite disappointed in Delilah. That’s truly terrible taste in the opposite sex.”
Chloe nods, ignoring him. She’s already planning their next move. “Okay. Thank you very much, Doctor Martin. We’ll be in touch.” She looks at Lucifer. “All right. We gotta go.”
“Right, yes.” He shoots a grin at Doctor Martin, who’s watching him with disappointment and lust in her eyes, and he gets to his feet, following Chloe out of the office.
“Okay, so we need to figure out where Grey Cooper is,” Chloe says, moving quickly through the waiting room. “He’s got this squeaky clean image. Maybe Delilah threatened to leak their affair to his wife or the press, and he...” She trails off when she notices Lucifer isn’t beside her. Glancing over her shoulder, she finds him standing just outside the doctor’s office with a strange expression. “Lucifer? What’s wrong?”
He takes a breath, looking at her with furrowed eyebrows. “Detective, I’ll catch up with you down at the car. I’d like another word with the good doctor, if you don’t mind.”
“Do you have another question about Delilah?” she asks, starting to take a step back to the office.
“No, no, nothing like that. Just a...personal inquiry.”
Chloe blinks at him. “A...personal inquiry? With a therapist?”
“What, I can’t be interested in self-reflection?” he says, giving her a mock affronted look.
She starts to open her mouth to say he’s the least reflective person she knows unless there’s a mirror involved, but thinks better of it. “Whatever. Just...don’t take too long with your flirting. We need to track down Cooper.”
“Not flirting,” he corrects, “but yes, I’ll be quick.”
With a look of narrow-eyed suspicion, Chloe nods and turns back to the exit. “Behave,” she calls sternly over her shoulder.
“Always, darling!”
Shaking her head, wondering why she’s bothering to entertain whatever ploy Lucifer has cooking now, Chloe makes her way to the car.
Lucifer watches the Detective walk away, still running through the truly brilliant idea that just occurred to him. For the last few weeks, he’s been trying to work out what is wrong with him—why he can’t seem to get Chloe out of his head, why he cares, and whether there is something he can do to stop it.
Well, maybe not stop it, but make the whole situation more...manageable.
Perhaps it’s time to speak with someone. While he doubts any human therapist could understand the complexities of a divine entity’s mind, Doctor Martin seems fairly good at her job, aside from her inability to focus with him in the room—not that it’s her fault. And as he’s here anyway...
Turning back towards the door, he knocks briskly. It opens a moment later, and the good doctor blinks at him in surprise.
“Mr. Morningstar, was there something else?”
He smiles at her. “Actually, yes, and do call me Lucifer. I was hoping for another moment of your time—off the record, of course.”
“Is this...about Delilah?” the doctor asks, gesturing for him to enter.
“No, this is more about me, actually.”
Linda tilts her head suspiciously. “Are you even with the LAPD?”
Lucifer scoffs. “Certainly not. The Detective and I are...well, friends, I suppose. We’ve been assisting one another over the last couple weeks—a long-standing favor of sorts.” Though he’s all but forgotten about their deal, and hasn’t even considered calling in the IOU she promised him.
The woman across from him crosses her arms, her lips twitching. “You do seem particularly...close for two people who have only known one another for two weeks.”
The grin on Lucifer’s face falters for half a second before he recovers it. That others are noticing this odd connection between himself and the Detective is mildly concerning. “Yes, well, the Detective is rather...compelling. Honest, driven, stubborn as all hell.” His smile turns more fond, but when he notices Linda’s raised eyebrow, he gets back to business. “Which, of course, is not the point.”
“What is the point?” Linda asks pointedly.
Lucifer sighs. “Look, you’re clearly very good at your job.” He gestures towards the several framed diplomas on the wall. “And I think the time has come that I require a bit of...therapizing, as it were.”
Linda blinks at him. “Are you saying you wish to make an appointment?”
“I’m saying,” he drawls, “that I’d like for us to strike another deal. I shall find a way to repay you for giving us the information on that vanilla tosser Grey Cooper that doesn’t require sex. And offer another favor for a bit of a chat. You seem to be the practical sort—sensible shoes, messy desk, suspicious of charming strangers but not immune to them.”
She rolls her eyes. “And what exactly are you offering in return for free therapy?”
“Whatever you desire,” he says, charming grin back in place.
When she takes a breath, he interrupts, “Though as I said, sex is, currently and unfortunately, off the table. Or desk, or...well, anywhere else for that matter. A favor for a favor, Linda, from someone who can make just about anything happen. I think you’d be surprised at how helpful I can be when I put my mind to it.”
Linda watches him for a moment, suspicion turning to curiosity. “What exactly do you think you’re in need of therapy for?”
“Oh, you know,” Lucifer says airily. “Run-of-the-mill existential identity dread. A lack of understanding of basic human emotions. Just a dash of nihilism. The usual. And you rather strike me as someone who’s up for a challenge.”
Sighing, she purses her lips, clearly uncertain, but he can see the interest in her eyes—the promise of a challenging puzzle standing before her. Rather reminds him of the Detective, actually. After a moment, she nods slowly, once. “One session, and then we’ll see where it goes from there.”
Lucifer beams. “Splendid,” he says, delighted. “I assure you, Doctor, you won’t regret it. I’ll pop back round later—after the Detective and I catch the human stain responsible for Delilah’s death.” He shakes the doctor’s hand, and she blinks slightly at the spark sealing their deal. “Pleasure doing business with you, darling,” he adds on his way out the door.
Already he feels better with a possible solution to his Detective-related quandary. Now he just needs to figure out what to tell Chloe when she undoubtedly asks why he stayed behind.
A few hours later, after crashing an active film set to confront Grey Cooper, revealing his affair to his wife, who then revealed her own affair with Grey’s bodyguard, then starting a fight that got both men arrested, Lucifer and Chloe are sitting at the bar in Lux. Maze was nowhere to be seen when they arrived, which is curious, suspicious, and probably a good thing—Lucifer has a few questions for his demon regarding Amenadiel’s knowledge of his movements recently. The Detective is going over her notes, pen tapping idly against the edge of the bar, with the corners of her mouth turned down slightly.
Lucifer watches her with vague amusement, sipping his drink. “Darling, if you scowl at those papers any harder, I fear they might burst into flames,” he murmurs teasingly.
She blinks as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone, then offers him a weary smirk. “Wouldn’t even be the weirdest thing that’s happened recently.”
“True,” he says, sitting back with a sigh. “Still, I thought our charming little visit to Grey Cooper might yield something more substantial than a peek into the most clichéd marriage in America. The man probably wears socks to bed and crochets in his off-time.”
She snorts. “Are you seriously judging someone for being a little boring?”
“Yes, of course I am,” he scoffs. “Detective, boring is a crime, you should have arrested him for that rather than punching his wife's lover in the face. And if it isn’t a crime...well, it bloody well should be.”
Shaking her head in amusement, she runs a hand through her hair and drops her pen. “I’m not sure it was Grey who killed Delilah, though. He might not have wanted his affair advertised, but he doesn’t seem the homicidal type.”
“As I said, boring.”
She huffs a laugh, reaching for her drink. A moment later her eyebrows furrow. “So you never did tell me what you wanted from Doctor Martin earlier.”
“Ah,” Lucifer exhales. “Nothing important. I was rather considering seeing her—professionally, that is.”
Chloe blinks at him. “You really don’t seem the therapy type, no offense.”
“Oh, none taken. And I’m not under normal circumstances, but things have...changed lately, and I’d like to find out why.”
She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push the subject. For a few minutes, they’re quiet, Lucifer watches her trace the rim of her glass thoughtfully, wondering what’s going on in her mind. To his surprise, she shares.
“You know, it’s been kind of nice,” she murmurs quietly.
Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “What has?”
She shrugs one shoulder, gesturing between them. “This. Working a case with someone for a change. Having a partner, however unofficial and off-the-books as it might be.” She smiles faintly. “I mean, I’ve spent most of my time as a detective working on my own, and it’s been...miserable. Shouldering all the responsibility, not having backup if things go wrong, you know?” She pauses, glancing at him. “You make police work weirdly fun, Lucifer.”
He watches her for a moment, an uncertain smile flickering across his face at the genuine compliment. The intention is to respond with something clever and flippant to keep the moment from dipping too far into sincerity. But what comes out is something entirely different.
“Well,” he murmurs, glancing at her, “I’m always available. If you...need a partner.”
At first, she doesn’t respond at all, and he wonders if she even heard him, then she turns towards him, blinking once. It had been meant as a joke, really, but the words hang between them, genuine and almost hopeful. Chloe studies him like she’s trying to decide whether to take him seriously, then her head tilts slightly, as if she is taking it seriously, and might actually like the idea.
But then her attention diverts to the television playing softly above the bar. Lucifer follows her gaze to see a news program running a segment on Delilah’s death. Images of her playing for sold-out crowds, fans outside Lux placing flowers in front of a small shrine in the spot where she died.
Then the anchor is talking about how sales from the Time Will Tell soundtrack have skyrocketed since her death last night. Chloe goes still, then leans forward to study a graph on the screen. Lucifer knows that look already.
“Detective?” he murmurs, straightening in his seat.
She holds up her hand, eyes moving back and forth as she thinks. “The shooter—you said you talked to him before his death, yeah?”
Lucifer nods slowly. “I did, yes... Why?”
“Did he have a watch on?”
He blinks, thinking back. “Actually, yes, it looked remarkably like the one Grey Cooper had on.”
“But was it real or a knock-off?”
“Oh, definitely real.”
Chloe exhales hard, gathering her notes. “I know who had Delilah killed.”
That gets his attention. “Do tell.”
“Think about it. The shooter said he did it for the money, right? That watch Grey wore had to cost ten thousand dollars, at least. No way some low-level drug dealer is going to have that kind of cash.”
He catches on quickly. “You think someone paid him with the watch.”
“Yeah, I do. And now we have a way to link Jimmy to the murder—you said he was a ‘record producer on the outs’. That soundtrack—Jimmy produced it, which means, he’s about to get a butt ton of royalties headed his way.”
Lucifer growls. “He didn’t kill her because she left him at the altar; he did it because he’s broke. I did wonder how a corrupt little cretin like him could afford such a lavish wedding ceremony.”
“Exactly. Come on, we need to figure out where he is, since his honeymoon's cancelled.” Chloe is already headed towards the stairs, her blonde ponytail swinging as if it's as excited as she is to have evidence to call Jimmy out. “Lucifer. You coming or what?”
“Always, Detective,” he purrs, quickly downing the last of his drink and rushing to catch up with her. “The chase is on,” he adds, grinning down at her. “Partner.”
Chloe presses her lips against a smile, not responding, but he can see she doesn’t mind the word quite as much as she would have a week ago. He quite likes it himself.
“Jimmy, you don’t have to do this!” Chloe says, holding up one hand and pointing her gun at the floor with the other. Lucifer is beside her, hands clenched into fists, fury already building. Across from them, Jimmy Barnes has a young man in a chokehold, a gun pointed to his head.
“I made her! And she ruined me!” Jimmy roars furiously.
“You didn’t make her, Jimmy,” Lucifer snaps. “You’re not God. But you did destroy her. And now...now I'm going to punish you.”
The barrel of the gun trembles in Jimmy’s hand as he snarls at them. Lucifer and Chloe take a single step forward at the same time. “Stay back!” Jimmy shouts at them, pressing the barrel harder into the singer’s temple. The young man flinches, looking terrified between Jimmy and Lucifer and Chloe.
Lucifer takes another step forward, barely hearing Chloe’s hiss to get back, Lucifer. “It’s fine, I’m immortal,” he says faintly, eyes on Jimmy.
Jimmy removes the gun from the singer’s temple, firing what Lucifer supposes is meant to be a warning shot—it grazes his arm and—
Lucifer hisses, his hand flying to his bicep as pain burns across his skin. When he pulls his palm away, he sees the impossible—blood.
He’s bleeding.
He doesn’t bleed.
“Lucifer, you okay?”
He doesn’t answer Chloe, looking from his red-streaked palm to his bicep, now leaking fresh blood. From a mortal weapon—at least, he assumes Jimmy bloody Barnes hasn’t gotten his hands on celestial steel.
“Lucifer! Talk to me. Are you okay?”
“Fine, Detective,” he murmurs, turning to face her, to show her his bloody hand. “What does this mean?”
Her expression goes from concerned to wide-eyed—though not because he’s been shot. “Lucifer, get down!”
Jimmy fires again. The gunshot ricochets around the studio, hitting a pole and knocking a heavy stand over—directly onto Chloe’s head. She collapses onto the floor, unconscious. Lucifer goes completely still for a moment. Although time hasn’t slowed down, he wants it to, to give him time to check on her, but everything keeps moving too quickly. Every beat of his heart feels quicker than the last. He doesn’t think she was hit with the bullet, but this is the second time she’s been harmed in his presence, and this time, it’s his fault for distracting her.
Behind him, Jimmy is shouting again, dragging the struggling, terrified singer towards the backdoor. Lucifer snarls and whips around, eyes alight with hellfire. The sting in his arm is nothing, less than a gnat bite, little more than a nuisance. He’s moving before fully processing what he plans to do. Jimmy doesn’t have time to react as Lucifer rips the gun from his palm. It’s enough of a distraction for the singer to escape, ducking from Jimmy’s loosened grip and bolting towards the exit.
Lucifer grabs Jimmy by the throat and slams him back into the studio glass hard enough to crack the panes.
Jimmy’s eyes are wide. “No, no, please don't kill me. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Lucifer snarls, leaning closer. “That’s what they all say, Jimmy, and they never are.” He ignores the scratches on his hands, Jimmy’s attempts to claw his way free of the Devil’s hold. “You killed Delilah. For nothing more than greed. And you hurt the Detective. Oh, I’m going to have so much fun with you...”
Lucifer summons his Devil face, feeling the molten rage rise to the surface. His skin crackles and burns, revealing the monster within. “She trusted me to keep her safe, and now she’s hurt again—”
The rest of what he says is drowned out by Jimmy’s terrified screams, all pretense of escape and defiance long gone now. Lucifer is just deliberating on what sort of punishment to impart when—
“...Lucifer?”
The single word, broken, distant...horrified, cuts through everything from Lucifer’s wrath to Jimmy’s screams. The world goes utterly still. For a moment, Lucifer doesn’t even breathe, then he forces himself to look over as Chloe pushes herself to her knees, shoving music stands and books off her body. Her eyes are wide and locked on him.
Well, not him. The Devil. The monster he hadn’t truly wanted her to see, and only now does he realize he would have rather kept it all hidden.
Lucifer releases Jimmy, not registering the man must have fainted from terror. He doesn’t look as the producer collapses at his feet in a heap. Because Chloe is still staring at him with an expression that makes something inside him shatter—she’s looking at him in uncertainty, fear...horror.
He turns away, unable to look at her any longer, to see her reaction, and forces his Devil face to recede. For some reason, the transformation hurts this time, a feeling like regret and something far worse replacing it. When he looks back at Chloe, his face is the one she knows, but it’s already too late. The damage has been done.
The look in her eyes has been seared into his memory. The confusion. The fear. And unlike when others have seen the truth of what he is, this guts him.
“Detective—” he starts, not moving an inch, his voice barely a murmur.
She flinches. Not much, just a fraction of an inch, but he sees it, and it feels like a blade to the chest—to the heart.
So slowly, she pushes to her feet, not taking her wide eyes off him. She swallows hard, trembling just a little. “You’re—” she says, stopping short as her breath hitches. “What—what the hell are you?”
He sucks in a painful breath. “I am what I’ve told you from the night we met,” he says softly. Carefully. “I am the Devil, Chloe.”
This time, she doesn’t laugh or scoff or roll her eyes. She just stares at him like she’s never seen him before in her life. And...well, she hasn’t, has she? Not until a moment ago.
“So...it’s true,” she breathes, swallowing again. “It’s all true.”
Lucifer nods, once. Barely.
Chloe lets out a harsh-sounding breath, and averts her eyes, blinking rapidly. “I-I need call in backup,” she mutters, mostly to herself, he thinks. “And an ambulance—you should...probably get that looked at. Or something.”
He blinks, only now remembering he’s been shot—just a graze, but enough to bleed. That should probably bother him a lot more than it actually does. But it ranks quite low on his list of concerns at the moment. He’d thought, maybe, it would be a relief for Chloe to believe him. She told him in the car earlier that she doesn’t think he’s evil.
Does she still think that? Judging by the look on her face, he’d wager...no. She doesn’t still think that.
And it isn’t a relief. Not even close.
For the first time in a very long time, Lucifer doesn’t know what to say. Or what to do.
He doesn’t know how to fix this.
Notes:
I promise she's not going to Rome...
Chapter 15: Vulnerable
Summary:
Chloe deals with the fallout of seeing Lucifer's Devil face, while Lucifer begins to learn what it means to be truly vulnerable.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Twenty minutes later, Chloe is handing a now-conscious, jittering Jimmy Barnes off to uniformed officers, her hands surprisingly steady. She managed to give her statement—just the facts—with her usual cool professionalism. The gun was recovered at the scene, the hostage escaped, there were no casualties—one shoulder wound. Jimmy doesn’t meet her eyes as he’s loaded into the back of a squad car. She isn’t sure she wants him to.
Before the officers can ask her why Jimmy is mumbling about the Devil, Chloe turns away, swallowing hard. Her head is throbbing—she still doesn’t know what hit her—and her bullet wound from a week ago aches, too, aggravated by her fall. One of the EMTs offers to check her over again when he sees her pressing a hand to the knot already growing, but she waves him off. She isn’t bleeding—anymore. At least, not on the outside.
A little farther down, Lucifer is sitting on the edge of the open tailgate of an ambulance. Another set of EMTs are tending to his shoulder, talking to him in that gently scolding tone reserved for idiots who get themselves shot doing something stupid. But he isn’t looking at them or responding. There’s no grinning or throwing out double entendres or preening under the attention. He’s completely silent and still, allowing them to work on his arm. Hell, he hadn’t even put up a fuss about letting them patch him up in the first place; he just nodded and did as Chloe said.
It’s unsettling.
Chloe stares at him from across the lot, her feet rooted in place as the scene buzzes around them—officers chatting, reports being filled out, radios crackling. But it all fades away under the memories, the images in her mind of that face.
Lucifer’s face.
Not the one he’s wearing now. Or the smirking, smug one. Not even the softer one she’s seen more and more lately. That other one. The one she would have said couldn’t possibly be real if she hadn’t seen it with her own two eyes. She’d regained consciousness just in time to see him slam Jimmy to the glass, then hiss something to him in a voice she barely recognized. And then, she saw the way his skin crackled and shifted, as if tiny flames were searing across his flesh. His eyes burning crimson and rage she’d never seen from him.
She’d seen his expression change when she called his name. How the fury changed to something close to fear in an instant. He’d looked away then, and his face changed back to the one she knows.
Or thought she knew.
“What are you?”
“I am what I’ve told you from the night we met. I am the Devil, Chloe.”
Well. She believes him now.
Forcing back her existential crisis for when she isn’t standing in the middle of a bunch of cops—she really doesn’t want to join Jimmy in the psych ward, where he’s undoubtedly headed, thanks to Lucifer—Chloe takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she returns to the moment. She can deal with this later.
The EMTs have finished patching Lucifer up. He nods once, staring at the ground still, and gets to his feet, flexing his arm as if he doesn’t quite trust the bandage to hold. Grabbing his ruined suit jacket with his good arm, his eyes flick towards her. After a long moment of hesitation, he slowly walks across the lot. Towards her.
With every step he takes, memories start to play in her mind—not only from today.
“I heard you make deals, grant favors,” she said the night they met.
“Oh, I do,” he confirmed. “But you should know, a deal with the Devil always has its price and is not to be entered into lightly.”
Uneasiness creeps over her at his words, spoken like a warning. “What sort of price?”
“Usually a favor for a favor. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo,” he said, rolling his hand in an et cetera gesture. “Not your soul, if that’s what you’re worried about, Detective. Souls are so...thirteenth century. And utterly useless as currency.”
She watches Lucifer’s hand press against his pocket, like he’s checking for something, and realizes—shit, she made a deal with the literal, actual Devil. What the hell does this mean for her?
“Your name really is Lucifer Morningstar. Your paper trail only goes back five years, and nothing before that. Not a single digital footprint, no online history or MySpace account, no records. Just—poof. You appear out of thin air in 2011.”
“Mystery is so much sexier than documentation, don’t you think?”
No wonder she couldn’t find any information on him—he was probably in Hell before 2011, ruling over demons and torturing damned souls or whatever he does there.
The way he lifted her car like it was nothing—light as a feather, grinning at her the whole time. (Was that really only just today?) She nearly believed him then, but couldn't wrap her mind around it. And then he vanished from that same car less than an hour later—there one second, gone the next. When she next saw him, he'd been beaten and bloody.
His weird, hypnotic desire mojo thing—pulling information from people, and the way their faces go slack before pouring their hearts out to him.
“If I was the Devil. Would it really be so terrible?”
At the time, she told him no, it wouldn’t be so terrible, because she thought it was all make-believe. Myths and fairytales. She told him he wasn’t evil, and the look on his face... She couldn’t quite make it out—surprise, maybe? Or was he hiding how he was laughing at her for not believing him?
Chloe’s breath hitches in her chest as he stops a few feet in front of her. She doesn’t back away—not that her feet will let her at the moment. Finally, he lifts his gaze to look at her, his expression closed off. Neither of them speaks and the unbearable silence stretches.
Lucifer swallows, eyes scanning her face. “Are you all right, Detective?” he murmurs softly, like he’s afraid to raise his voice above that.
She tries to open her mouth to respond, to say her head is fine, even though she knows that isn’t what he’s referring to. But she can’t manage to make it work.
He lets out a breath, fingers flying to his wrist, twisting his cufflink. “I know that what you saw—it was...a lot,” he says in that same soft tone.
Still, she doesn’t respond. Not because she can’t make her mouth work this time, but because she isn’t sure how to respond. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling at the moment. Yes, it was a lot. She went from being agnostic her entire life, not believing God and devils and angels and demons were anything more than symbolic, to staring into the eyes of the Devil himself and feeling her entire belief system shatter into nothing.
A lot is an understatement.
The expression on his face cracks slightly, just enough for her to see what might be resignation, maybe sadness in his eyes.
But that’s ridiculous. What would the Devil have to be sad about? That he ruined his suit? That there’s a chunk of his arm missing?
How did that happen, anyway? He’s spent the last two weeks telling her the Devil is ‘immortal and invulnerable’. Now all of a sudden he’s bleeding? Had that invulnerable talk been a lie?
“Well, let’s get one thing clear then, as I believe I mentioned last night, Detective—I don’t lie.”
“Everyone lies.”
“Everyone human.”
“Detective,” he says, tensing for a second like he wants to take a step forward. The space between them remains. “If you need time to...process—” Now there’s something else in his voice. Something almost raw and fragile. “—or if...if you never wish to see me again...well, I would understand.”
Chloe wants to speak, if only to ask him what that would mean for the deal they made—the binding, unbreakable one—but she still can’t find the words. Instead, she swallows hard and nods. Once.
Lucifer lingers, just a few moments longer, as if he’s hoping she’ll snap out of her sudden mutism and say something. Anything. She tries, more than once, wanting to wipe that look out of his eyes. When she still can't manage a word, his shoulders fall, his gaze drifting away. But in the moment before it does, she sees something like hurt in his eyes—and she doesn’t think it’s from his arm. She glances at his bicep, the white bandage stark against his dark shirt. He looks at her one last time, then—
“Right. Well, I think I can find my own way home from here,” he says, the casualness in his tone entirely feigned.
Briefly, she wonders when she got to know the Devil so well to know when he’s faking something.
Without another word, Lucifer gives her a tight smile that’s more of a grimace, and turns to walk away.
Part of her wants to stop him. The part that remembers Lucifer has been her friend, the only one she's had in a long time. The part that remembers everything he's done for her. The part that likes having him around, probably more than she should. She doesn’t. Doesn’t call his name. Doesn’t move an inch. She just stands there in the middle of a crime scene with her aching head, her heart pounding, and her world titled off its axis.
Everything changed tonight, and she has no idea how to fix this.
The penthouse is silent as a tomb, quiet in the way it can only be once closing time at Lux had passed. Silent and hollow. Downstairs, the bar is empty, the music shut off, and even the city outside seems reluctant to trespass on the hush that has fallen over the place.
Lucifer has changed into silk pajama bottoms and nothing else. On the table in front of him is a bottle of whiskey he hasn’t touched—no glass, because why bother? There's no one here to impress. No one to care. He sits on the Italian leather couch, hunched forward with one elbow on his knee as he stares down at the object resting in his palm like it might whisper the answers he needs if he glares hard enough.
A bullet.
Nothing extraordinary or unassuming about it. Just a simple piece of Earthly lead fired from an Earthly gun by a pathetic excuse for a human. The damn thing shouldn’t even matter. It shouldn’t have touched him. But it had. Somehow.
His upper arm stopped throbbing on the long walk back to Lux. Now it itches beneath the bandage that hides where the bullet had grazed him. The fabric is tight around his arm where EMTs placed it, telling him to leave it on until tomorrow. If he weren’t so preoccupied by other things, he’d have ripped it off by now. As it is, he can’t be bothered to care. Curiosity? Sure. There shouldn’t have been a graze to even itch at all, let alone bleed, and he doesn’t understand how.
Not once, in all of his existence, has a human or human weapon made him bleed. He’s bled plenty, from moderately to profusely. He’s been injured so severely he wasn’t sure he would ever recover. Hell, the wounds from when Maze cut off his wings bled for nearly a week; she hadn’t been sure he would even survive that. But he had. Only today, Amenadiel left him bruised and bleeding, and Lucifer hadn’t cared.
This, though, he cares about. Because it shouldn’t be possible.
The bullet glitters from the light of the tree root chandelier as he turns it over again and again in his hand. One side is still streaked with blood—his blood—and it seems to mock him with every second that passes. Now here he is, confused and angry, wounded and aching. And not only from the injury to his arm.
He should be furious. Hell, he is furious. But not at Amenadiel or even Jimmy Barnes, not at the failed attempt to mortally wound, not even at the existential riddle this bullet poses.
The rage he feels now is far more familiar, far more ancient. The sort of wrath that sits like coals beneath his skin, hot, slowly burning, and impossible to extinguish. For once, he isn’t even placing blame on his father. All the blame for what happened today falls on Lucifer’s shoulders. He should have retained control over himself, and he hadn’t. And now—
Chloe’s face flashes in his mind. He doesn’t see the unflappable, sarcastic, stubborn detective he’s spent weeks thinking about. Or even the far more vulnerable woman whose world was turned upside down by her husband’s betrayal. Or when she lay injured herself from a gunshot wound in the hospital. The woman who told him he makes police work weirdly fun; who threatened to make him walk back to Lux if he made another joke about her offspring’s transportation home after a school suspension.
The Chloe he sees is terrified. Her voice echoes in his head. “...Lucifer?” So soft, so uncertain, and so very afraid.
Of him.
Closing his hand around the bullet, Lucifer presses his forehead against his fisted knuckles. The pressure is keeping him grounded, allowing him to corral the chaos threatening to unravel everything inside him.
He hadn’t meant for it to happen this way. All this time, he’d been so careful, more careful than he’d ever been around another human in all the millennia he’d visited Earth. The teasing, the metaphors, the double-speak—all of it had been a game to him. And yes, he’d told her the truth, again and again, but never directly. Never in a way she could understand. The closest he’d gotten was in the car—the one he’d lifted, hoping she might make the connection. But of course she found a way to rationalize it. There’d been a sort of unspoken rule between them: he would call himself the Devil, and she would laugh it off. Harmless fun. A joke. A metaphor.
Well, nobody’s laughing now.
Chloe saw the truth today. And then she looked at him like he was a monster.
Lucifer swallows the lump in his throat, feeling the way it burns going down. He knows fear when he sees it. Millennia of watching mortals tremble before him trained his eyes to recognize it with ruthless precision. And hers—that flash of terror in her eyes, that instinctive recoil, the way he’d seen her hand twitch as if she was ready to reach for her weapon... That hit him harder than any bullet ever could. Not even Amenadiel or one of Maze’s blades could hurt him worse.
Leaning back against the couch, he lets his head fall against the cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. He wants to throw something just to hear it shatter. Put his fist through the ancient Assyrian stone wall just to release some of the energy building up inside him.
She’d hardly said a word to him after that, just some mumbled suggestion about getting his arm tended to. But once that was done, she stood there in a daze while officers took Jimmy Barnes away. Both of them ignored the way Barnes ranted and raved about the Devil—nobody would believe him, anyway. Except for Chloe.
When he eventually returned to her, he intentionally kept his distance. She hadn’t screamed or run away. She just stared at him, pale and shaken. So he offered her a way out. Told her he’d find his own way home. And if she needed space to process, or if she never wants to see him again...he would understand.
And he would. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.
But she let him walk away. Didn’t try to call him back or stop him.
What exactly had he expected from her? Gratitude? Forgiveness? A clever quip to show she was still herself, that he hadn’t melted her brain completely? No. He knows better than to expect any of that once the truth is in the open. But he supposes he had hoped for anything but silence.
The ache in his chest throbs sharper than the wound on his arm. At least a bullet wound makes sense; of course that would hurt. This, however... This...chasm inside him that feels as if something has been hollowed out and left to rot—this doesn’t make sense at all.
Honesty has always been part of his principles. He doesn’t lie, and he detests liars. He loathes the way humans lie to themselves and to each other. And he’s always prided himself on being utterly unashamed of who and what he is.
But with Chloe, he never wanted to scare her. Now he realizes...he never wanted to lose her.
Lifting his head, he looks into his hand again. The bullet is still there, indifferent to everything it caused today. “Brilliant,” he mutters aloud, disgust lacing each every letter of the word. “Utterly brilliant, Lucifer. She finally believes you, and you go and traumatize the poor woman. Because that’s all she needs right now.”
He doesn’t blame her for her fear. Or for recoiling. He’s spent millennia upon millennia ensuring that face is the last thing guilty souls ever see. It torments the damned in Hell. It makes demons tremble and fall to their knees. But it isn’t meant for good, innocent people like her. He isn’t sure it’s meant for anyone anymore.
He supposes it doesn’t matter that he never meant for her to see. She had, and now he will never be able to take that moment back. For thousands of years, humans have run screaming from him. But Chloe made him believe, if only briefly, that maybe someone could see him and stay.
And now he’ll never see her again.
Perhaps it’s better this way. Just a few days ago, he’d intended to bring an end to their deal—their whole relationship, whatever it was—so he could get back to his life. Sex, drugs, fine liquor, desire, and punishment. That’s what he’d wanted—or at least, it’s what he told himself he wanted. Well, now he has it, like or not. He can get back to the reason he came to Earth in the first place—living his own life, being his own man.
I liked who I was with her.
Growling in frustration, he reaches for the bottle in front of him, taking several large gulps. He curses his celestial metabolism for being unable to get drunk off this one bottle. It would take crates of the stuff, and every narcotic he possesses, to feel more than a few tingles.
That he blames his father for.
When he hears the lift being called, he goes completely still, clutching the bullet tightly and listening as the doors open at the main floor...close again...then as the lift ascends back up to the penthouse. A glance at the clock shows it’s past two in the morning, but he still holds his breath as the chime sounds and the doors slide open—
At least until Maze steps out.
Lucifer slouches against the couch again. Had he really believed Chloe would come all this way, this late at night, so soon after seeing the Devil?
Or at all, for that matter?
This is what he gets for hoping—crushing disappointment. Every bloody time.
Mazikeen strolls in like she owns the place—the way she always does. Her heels click against the marble, tossing a glance towards the bar as if expecting him to be there, then finally sees him on the couch. She stops. And stares.
“The hell happened to your face?” she asks, eyeing the bruising on his jaw and cheekbones.
“Amenadiel,” he mutters flatly without offering further information.
She moves to stand in front of him. “What’d the feathered prick want this time?”
Lucifer shrugs one shoulder, back to staring at the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter.”
He knows the exact moment Maze sees the bandage on his bicep with just enough blood on it to be noticeable. She sucks in a breath. “He do that, too?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t want to talk about it. Or say any of it out loud. Ever.
The demon’s expression darkens as she moves around the coffee table, assessing him with war-trained eyes of one who has seen him walk through fire. Quite literally. “Lucifer.” Her voice is sharp, the tone she uses when she won’t leave without an explanation.
For a moment, he considers blowing her off, telling her it’s none of her damn concern. But he doesn’t have the energy for the fight that would cause. Instead, he lifts his head, staring down at the bullet in his palm. When he does speak, his voice sounds as if it’s been dragged from the bottom of the ocean.
“He shot me.”
She blinks. “The angel shot you?” she says skeptically.
Lucifer shakes his head. “Jimmy Barnes, that mouth-breathing parasite—he hired the drug dealer to shoot Delilah. And he shot me.”
Maze raises an eyebrow. “Okay. And?”
“And I bled,” he says simply, meeting her gaze. Faintly, he knows there should be some feeling behind the words, but right now, there’s nothing. “He shot me, and I bled, Maze.”
It takes her a moment to process the words, as if her brain is rearranging everything she’s ever known to fit the new meaning in. Lucifer sinks back into the couch, rubbing his hands down his face. The bullet between his fingers feels heavier now, as if it not only took his blood but also the weight of the moment everything changed.
Maze is still staring at him. “That—that isn’t possible,” she says quietly.
“I’m aware, and yet, here we are, Maze.”
She steps forward and grabs his arm, far more roughly than the moment calls for, and starts to unwind the bandage.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
There's no answer. Once the bandage is gone, Maze stares at his arm, then looks at him. “You said you got shot! That isn’t funny, Lucifer!”
“What...” He looks down at his arm—his perfectly smooth, unscarred, unblemished arm. “What on Earth?” He looks up at Maze, who looks back, pissed at what she assumes was a prank. “No, Maze, I was shot tonight. By this bullet.” He holds the bullet up for her to see, with his blood.
Maze narrows her eyes, licking one finger, brushing it along the blood on the bullet, then licking it again. Her eyes widen. “That's your blood. You’re serious?”
“Yes, of course I’m serious, Mazikeen. I don’t lie!”
“This isn’t celestial steel or something?”
He laughs tiredly, humorlessly. “No. Just an ordinary man-made bullet found on Earth. Same as any other fired in this Dad-forsaken city. But this one actually hurt. It broke my skin, and I felt it.”
Stumbling back a step, Maze looks more shaken than Lucifer has ever seen her. They’ve stood shoulder to shoulder against demonic hordes and she never blinked. But this, the implication, has physically repelled her. “This can’t happen, Lucifer,” she says sternly, pacing a tight half-circle in front of him. “This place—it’s changing you. You know that. We both knew that.”
Lucifer doesn’t bother to respond. He's quite tired of this particular argument.
Tensing her jaw, she marches closer. “You said this was temporary. That you were going to just...blow off some steam, indulge a little. Not get tangled up with all this...human crap.”
Rather than speaking, he looks down at the bullet, as if it might answer for him.
His right-hand demon crouches down in front of him, lowering her voice imploringly. “Lucifer. This changes everything. You’re vulnerable now. What happens if next time it’s not just a graze? What if that asshole had shot you in the heart? Or in the head? You could have died.”
His mouth twists bitterly. “Yes, well, that’s the idea, isn’t it? Mortality and consequences...humanity.” He looks at her and still feels nothing but empty. “That is what I came here for, Maze.”
She scowls. “This isn’t the time to get poetic. It’s the time to be smart.”
Lucifer’s laugh is sharp and joyless. “Since when have I been either?”
“Lucifer, listen to me, this is serious,” she says, her voice turning hard. “This ends now. All of it. You cannot afford to keep playing house with the humans. It was fun while it lasted, but now you’re bleeding. You’re losing control.” She pauses for a moment, as if really seeing him past the injuries for the first time. “Hang on. She saw you, didn’t she? That’s why you’re all...wallow-y. You punished that prick who killed Delilah, she saw you, and it scared her.”
He doesn’t deny it, but he can’t hide his flinch.
Maze sees the reaction and pushes. “So yes? You showed her?”
“She saw,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean for her to, but...yes, she saw.”
Straightening, Maze nods, clenching her fists. “So that’s that, then. We pack up and go back to Hell. Where you can be safe. Where you belong.”
Lucifer goes still, eyebrows furrowing. “Where I belong?”
“Yes,” she snaps. “Not on Earth. Not...getting shot and stabbed and whatever the hell else could happen. Not over some washed-up pop star and a detective who was never going to stay anyway.”
“Do not speak of them that way,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.
The demon raises an eyebrow, getting to the heart of the matter and twisting the knife. “Why not? She’s human, Lucifer. And she reacted the way they all do when they see what we are—she ran. They always do.”
His jaw tenses, his chest hitching as he replays it again in his mind. “She didn’t run.”
“Oh, please—”
“She didn’t run, Maze!” The sound of his voice cracks through the room like thunder. He’s on his feet before knowing he’s going to move, eyes blazing as rage unfurls in his chest. “She didn’t scream. She didn’t shoot me. She just...stared at me. Like she didn’t know me anymore.”
Maze’s mouth opens and closes, and her expression shifts, just slightly, like she hadn’t expected this depth of pain in his voice. “I told you,” she says, her voice gentler than before. “Look, Earth is weakening you. Making you soft, and you’re not thinking clearly anymore. We can’t be here.”
“No,” he growls. “For the first time in eons, I’m finally thinking honestly. I’m thinking about what I want. Maze, I liked who I was becoming here. I liked working with her. I liked...learning things and—and feeling things.” He takes a step towards his demon. “But let’s get one thing straight, it wasn’t weakness. The Detective—she didn’t make me weak; she made me...more.”
“She made you bleed.”
Lucifer holds the bullet between his fingers. “This made me bleed. Not her. And now I need to find out why.”
“She’s the variable, Lucifer. Nothing else has changed around here—not until her.”
“Then I shall figure it out,” he snaps. “But what I will not do is run away.”
“And what if she is the reason? What if she’s here as some divine weapon against you?” Maze counters. “Or...what if she can’t even look at you the same way now? What if that fear never goes away?”
He hesitates, swallowing at the thought he's tried not to face, then shrugs as if it's inconsequential. “Then I suppose I shall live with that as well.”
Maze stares at him, and for a few tense moments, silence settles heavily between them. She scoffs, breaking eye contact. “This is a mistake, Lucifer. And you’re a damn fool for making it.”
Lucifer watches her walk towards the lift again, anger cooling into emptiness again. “Perhaps. But I’ve been many things, Mazikeen, and a fool is a step up from monster.”
She doesn’t look back. The doors close behind her without a word, and Lucifer is alone again, with his whiskey and the bullet and more regrets than he can count.
Feeling at odds, he moves towards his bedroom and opens the wall safe. For a moment longer, he stares at the bullet, then carefully places it inside, shutting and locking the door. Sitting at the edge of his bed, he stares at the wall for long minutes as adrenaline drains from his muscles until he’s just a man in a penthouse. He looks down at his bare, uninjured arm, frowning. How long ago had it healed? Why had it healed? Why had he bled in the first place?
Worse than all of that, why does he ache so badly for a woman he’s only known for a matter of weeks?
Notes:
Thanks for reading as always! I'll probably post the next chapter of this on Christmas Eve (Wednesday). And I hadn't three more Christmas one-shots to post, too. If I'd been smart, I would've started posting them earlier. Plus, I have an Exit Strategy chapter on Saturday... This is what happens when I don't think things through.
Chapter 16: Biggest Mistake of All
Summary:
Chloe does a deep dive of all things Devil. Lucifer goes to therapy for the first time, and has mixed feelings on it.
Notes:
So slightly early update, since tomorrow is Christmas and I'm posting (yes, another) one-shot. Enjoy! ♥️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Penelope Decker’s beach house is quiet. That sort of fragile, late night kind of quiet where it feels as if the world is suspended in time. The only sounds are the crackle of the fireplace and the faint crashing of waves into the beach.
Chloe sits cross-legged on the couch, her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her and notes scattered around like she’s chasing a cold case no one believes in. Hell, maybe she is. Trixie is asleep in the room behind her—the office hastily turned bedroom—with her stuffed alien. At least she’s blissfully unaware that her mother’s entire world is crashing at her feet to the point she doesn’t know which way is up.
Again.
Rubbing at her temples, Chloe stares at the computer screen. She thinks for a moment, then types a few words into the search bar. She pauses for a beat, then deletes them and tries again.
Devil. Real?
Can the Devil bleed?
Lucifer Morningstar—myth or metaphor?
God. Hell. Heaven. Truth.
Shocker—the internet is absolutely no help.
Half the articles she’s read tonight contradict themselves, from one extreme to the other. One half is fire-and-brimstone religious rants predicting the apocalypse. The other half insists the Devil is just a symbol, not an actual person. Some make him out to be the root of all evil, while others call him a tragic figure—once the most beautiful of all the angels, cast out for defiance, for desiring free will. A few even argue he isn’t a villain at all; that he punishes the wicked, the guilty, the evil; that he holds others accountable, and that he’s necessary for the balance of the world.
She’s scrolled page after page, and not one has given her what she needs. Because she isn’t looking for the stereotypical Devil; she’s looking for him.
Lucifer.
Leaning back, she reaches to the cushion at the left of her for the file she started earlier: “Lucifer Morningstar – ??” There isn’t much. Just the background checks she did when she first met him—nothing before 2011 when he first showed up in L.A. The nightclub. The cars. The women. The arrogance. The deal.
Shit...the deal. She still doesn't have an answer to that question: Did she sell her soul to the Devil to save her badge? Is she going to Hell when she dies?
Her stomach flips on itself.
He told her then, and she hadn’t believed a word he said. Come on—nobody talks like that and actually means it. Not sane people, anyway. Then again, nobody lifts a car like it’s nothing. Nobody talks people into confessing their innermost desires with just a look and charming smile. Nobody walks into gunfire with just a smirk and a shrug, and survives. And nobody has a face like the one she saw at the recording studio.
Closing her eyes, she presses the heels of her hands against them until she sees stars. That hadn’t been a mask, she’s sure of that. It had been him, stripped bare with a face full of rage and pain, and something that doesn’t belong on Earth. Just the memory sends a chill down her spine.
But the weirdest part? The part that is messing her up more than the crimson eyes and the face? She misses him. Not the face, not the literal Devil.
Him.
The man who stayed at her side when she read those lab results, and helped her save her dream career. The man who brought her coffee and pastries in the hospital like it was a religious offering. Who actually listened to her—well, sometimes anyway. Who asked weird questions about justice and fairness and consequences.
The man who made her laugh more in the last two weeks than anyone had in months. Who pulled her back from the edge when she hadn’t even realized she was standing on it. Who called her ‘Detective’ like it was a title created just for her.
He’d been a total, complete pain in her ass. Not to mention blunt and occasionally rude. And so damn egotistical. But he saved her life. More than once. He saved her daughter from getting suspended from school after a bully got what she deserved—not that she told Trixie that.
She thinks of how he looked when the EMTs were patching up his arm. How quiet and still he’d been. There was no smirking bravado. Just a man bleeding and trying not to look at her like she’d broken something in him.
He bled. For all his talk about immortality and invincibility, Lucifer had bled like any human would. Then there was the sound of his voice when he told her, “If you need time to...process, or if...if you never wish to see me again...well, I would understand.” She knows he meant every word.
And she hadn’t said anything in response. No reassurance. No ‘I’ll call you in a few days’. Nothing.
Leaning forward, she presses her palms to her face, fingers digging into her scalp. What is she even supposed to think? What is she supposed to do? Is she supposed to report this or something? To who? The Vatican?
She scoffs incredulously.
The sound of her phone vibrating across the glass coffee table breaks the silence like a gunshot. She flinches, then reflexively reaches for it.
Dan
Of all the people she really does not want to deal with right now, her ex-husband is at the top of the list. But she’s just tired enough to answer it—maybe it’s actually something important.
A voice in her mind scoffs. Yeah, right.
She agrees.
“Dan?” she mutters, her voice dry and brittle to her own ears.
There’s a pause on the other end just long enough for her to wonder if he hung up. Then he takes a breath. “Hey. You got a minute?”
Closing her eyes, she leans her head back against the couch. “It’s late.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just—look, I heard about the Jimmy Barnes arrest. You were there?”
She rolls her eyes. Of course he knows. Word travels fast around the department, especially when it’s about her. “Yeah. We brought him into custody,” she says evenly. She has a feeling she knows where this is headed. And she really shouldn’t have answered.
“We?” Dan says a little too sharply.
She doesn’t answer.
He lets out a long breath. “Chloe,” he presses, “please tell me you were not working that case off the books with that whackjob.”
Chloe sits straight up.
“It wasn’t even your case,” he continues. “You were on medical leave for a reason. What were you even thinking? What if something had happened to you? Again?”
For a long moment, she remains silent. Then for a few more beats. And then she laughs. Not a kind laugh, either. This laugh is short and incredulous and full of bitter edges. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she says, eyes wide with furious disbelief. “You do not get to lecture me about ethics, Dan. Not after what you did.”
“Chlo,” he says, his voice dipping low and cautioning.
“No,” she snaps, heat rising from her chest to her face. “Don’t ‘Chlo’ me. You don’t get to act like you’re the reasonable one here. Like you’re the responsible one trying to protect me from myself.”
“I am trying to protect you,” he insists. “Look, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t the way—”
“You lied to me,” she hisses, her voice cracking. “You knew what really happened at Palmetto, and you let me walk into that investigation completely blind. You let them drag my name through the mud while you kept your hands clean.”
“Come on, that’s not fair—”
“You really want to talk about fair?” she bites out. “You think I haven’t replayed every second of that case since it happened? Every decision I made, every possible angle? I have been dealing with this on my own for months, Dan! And I’m still sitting on the damn evidence—to protect you. And for what? I almost lost my badge, my job. And you’re mad because I’m working with someone who actually gives a damn about me?”
Dan is quiet for a moment. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he says, conciliatory. “I didn’t think it would get this bad. I just—I thought I could fix it.”
Suddenly restless, Chloe gets up and starts pacing the length of the room, her bare feet silent against hardwood. “No, you didn’t think at all, Dan. You covered your ass. And now you want to pretend like you’re the only adult in the room? Save it.”
He’s quiet for another long beat. “I’m sorry.”
She stops and stares out at the window, at the reflection of the full moon in the ocean waves. “You’re about four months too late for sorry.” She pauses, chewing her lip for a moment. “I talked to a lawyer the other day. You should be getting papers sometime next week. Sign them.”
Silence, then, “And then what?”
Chloe isn’t sure how to respond. The world has never seemed more uncertain to her than it does right now. “I don’t know.”
“Trixie’s still my daughter,” he says eventually.
“She’s asleep. And I’m not dragging her into this mess.” She sighs, running a hand through her loose hair, wincing when her fingers brush the knot on the back of her head. “Look, I’m not taking her away from you. But I’m done, Dan. We are done. You broke my trust completely, and now you need to own up to it. I’m not going to protect you forever. I can’t. That is what's not fair.”
Dan lets out a shaky breath. “Right,” he mumbles. Which isn’t any sort of response to what she said. Just acknowledgement that she did.
Chloe can hear him swallowing at the other end. “Good night, Dan.”
“Chloe—”
She hangs up. For a long time, she stands there with only the light of the fireplace around her, the flames flickering around her. It makes her think of Hell.
Her pulse is racing, her knuckles ache from the tight grip of the phone in her hand. She doesn’t cry or scream, but she feels something in her chest crack open anyway. For the first time since leaving that studio, she finds herself wishing Lucifer were here. If only because, for a little while, he’d made her feel like she wasn’t completely alone in the world.
Self-reflection has never been one of the Devil’s strong suits. Looking within, sharing with others, acknowledging feelings—not his jam. But humans have an entire culture wrapped around it. Some of them go to school for too many years to help others with their pain and suffering. He never thought he’d get anywhere near it, yet here he is, sitting on a couch made specifically for self-reflection. And he feels...cornered. There’s no real ceremony to it. No chains or brimstone or screams echoing through vast caverns of despair. Just soft lighting, warm-toned walls, and this couch that looks like it’s seen as much Hell as he had.
He’s been here for five minutes, and he hates it already.
Across from him sits Dr. Linda Martin looking as pleasant and open as she had when they first met. Human and curious, not in the self-destructive way most mortals gawk at him, but in a quieter, more annoying way that makes him feel like she’s three steps ahead already. Even though this had been entirely his idea, she’d jumped into it eagerly. Now he wonders if this had been a mistake; as if therapy, a bit of conversation, can mend what’s broken inside him.
Still, he’s here. Mostly because the alternative—not being here—means stewing in silence at Lux. It means his thoughts wandering, remembering the times she had been in his home or his club. It means glancing into a mirror and seeing her eyes flash, wide and frightened, as she looked upon his true face. It means admitting that what they might have had...whatever it was...is well and truly over.
So here he is, slouched along this ridiculous couch, legs stretched out in a calculated attempt to seem at ease. He has one hand around a glass—water, since she apparently objects to liquor during session—taking in the room without really seeing it.
“I made a deal with myself, you know,” he says finally, merely to break the silence. “A rather foolish one, it would seem.”
Linda leans forward, just a little. “What was the deal?” she asks softly.
He doesn’t look at her. Instead, his eyes linger on the wall behind her—the row of medical degrees that apparently tell people she does her job well. He sighs. “That I’d try not to make things any worse than they are. That I’d...attempt to understand this utterly absurd situation I’ve found myself in.” Something bitter twists his mouth as he tries to smile. “Turns out, I’m rubbish at it.”
For a moment, he pauses, staring into the clear liquid as he swirls it in the glass. “The Detective...she saw me,” he goes on more quietly. “Really saw me. What I am beneath the handsome, charming exterior. My true face. The one I typically reserved for the guilty and the damned, or even terrifying the occasional would-be assassin.”
Linda doesn’t interrupt. She just waits for him to go on.
As much as he doesn’t want to, the words begin to pour from his lips. “She was afraid. Not confused or skeptical like she had been before. Not even angry. Just...afraid.” He glances at the doctor now, keeping his expression inscrutable. “The thing is, Doctor, I’ve seen that same fear in countless others, and it used to thrill me. It was the whole point. But this time...” He trails off, draining the glass like it’s one of his fine whiskies. “Well, this time it hurt,” he confesses. “And I don’t know why.”
Across from him, Linda watches him for a moment as if analyzing his every word, then nods slowly. “Maybe because you care what she thinks.”
For once, he doesn’t bother to deny. He scoffs. “Well, of course I care. She’s...fascinating and wildly irritating. Cleverer than most and stubborn to a bloody fault. But she’s...the Detective. And I don’t know what that means. Assuming it means anything.” He sits up straighter, brow furrowed as if he can glare his feelings into submission. Into making sense again. “For the first time, I want someone to understand. I want her to understand. To see me and still...well, choose to be near me. Not because of some deal we made, but because she wants to be here. But now...I’ve told her I’d give her space and I’ve not heard from her. She barely even looked at me.”
He tenses his jaw. “And there’s this...ache, right here,” he gestures to his chest, “that will not go away, no matter what I do to numb it. Liquor, narcotics—nothing works. I still think about her constantly, wonder if she’s still terrified or if she’s forgotten about me, and that ache gets worse. I just...want it to go away. Perhaps it’s a punishment for letting someone truly good, truly innocent see me.”
Linda looks almost sympathetic as she folds her hands in her lap. “Lucifer, what you’re describing, it sounds remarkably like heartbreak.”
The words surprise him. He blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
“The ache in your chest that won’t go away. Thinking about her constantly. The way everything feels a little more difficult, a little less joyful than it did in the past. It isn’t a punishment. Or some sort of...divine retribution. It’s a broken heart. You let yourself become emotionally vulnerable with Detective Decker, and sometimes, that comes with pain.”
Lucifer stares at her. He understands the words, and yet they make no sense. Because that isn’t—it can’t... “That’s absurd,” he says flatly.
“It’s human,” she corrects him gently.
“Oh, well, that’s even worse.” He drops the glass on the table, leaps to his feet and begins to pace the room like a lion trapped behind glass. “I don’t have a heart to break, Doctor. I’m not human. I’m not...like her. Believe me, I’ve known torment beyond comprehension, and it never—not once—felt like this.”
Linda doesn’t admonish him or follow him, or even try to stop him. She simply lets him rant and rave.
“She was different,” he says, lowering his voice as he stares at another wall. “From the very start. Even when she stomped into Lux with that stubborn jaw that could cut glass and ridiculous leather jacket, and wanted the same as all the others—a deal—I knew she was different. I should have known then.” He pauses, pressing the heel of his palm to his chest absently, like he’s expecting to find something physical to account for the pain. “She looked at me without fear or lust in her eyes. She called me out constantly, challenged me in ways no one ever has, refused to let me be anything less than honest. Granted, she thought I was insane, but she’s skeptical; it’s literally her job. But now...” Again, he trails off, this time closing his eyes.
“I didn’t mean to show her the truth—not like that,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly. “And it terrified her.”
“You think she’s afraid of you now?” Linda asks in that gentle tone.
Lucifer laughs sharply. “Well, it certainly wasn’t the lighting,” he scoffs.
The doctor shifts slightly, tilting her head as she observes him. “But what I’m saying is, maybe she wasn’t scared of you. Maybe she’s scared of what it means. Of the implications. Or her own feelings.”
His next scoffs lacks its usual strength. “You know, before all of this happened, she told me she didn’t think I was evil.” He looks over at Linda now, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “And then I showed her something truly evil.”
Linda’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Is that what you think? That your...true face is evil?”
“Oh, I know it is,” he says darkly.
Silence falls over the room for long moments. Then Linda stands, walking over to the small, glass table to pour another glass of water, offering it to him. He takes it without a word, watching as she returns to her seat.
“Lucifer,” she says once she’s settled again, “I don’t believe you’re the Devil. Not literally. But I believe that you believe it, and I’m willing to work within your metaphor.” He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. “I believe this is all real to you. And if you’re right—if that other face is who you truly are—then maybe what scared her wasn’t the face itself. Maybe it’s the possibility that she’s falling for someone who she doesn’t entirely understand. Someone who thinks himself incapable of love.”
He blinks.
Linda leans forward, her voice soft but certain in her assertions. “You say you don’t have a heart. I don’t believe that. You’re hurting, and you’re angry. You care deeply for someone, possibly for the first time, and you don’t know how to handle it. That...sounds a lot like a heart to me.”
Lucifer looks down at the water, pretending not to see the way the liquid trembles slightly in his hand. “But she didn’t...say anything,” he murmurs. “When I left afterwards, to give her time. There was...nothing. Not a single word.”
“Maybe she needed space,” Linda says reasonably. “Maybe she’s trying to process something she didn’t think was possible, that she never believed in in the first place. You said yourself—she challenges everything.”
He swallows hard, words falling from his lips without registering in his mind. “She...centered me,” he whispers. “And now...well, I don’t know where that center is anymore.”
There isn’t an immediate response. Linda simply sits there, letting the words hang in the air between them. Lucifer hates it. How exposed he feels. That he’d said those words out loud at all. Most of all, he hates the part of himself that meant it.
He sets the glass on the table without drinking. “Well,” he says, adjusting his suit, his voice cold. “This has been delightful. Talking about feelings, poking around in wounds that refuse to scar, et cetera. But I think I’ve reached my quota for emotional constipation for the day.”
Linda stands again. Not to stop him, but to see him out. “Lucifer,” she says, opening the door for him, “you can lie to everyone else, but don’t lie to yourself.”
He lets out a breath, turning to her slightly and feeling a flicker of his usual arrogance flash in his eyes. “I don’t lie at all,” he says coolly. “I...reveal the truth to others. That is the difference, Doctor.”
The smile on her face looks a bit sad. “Then reveal the truth to yourself, and come back whenever you’re ready.”
Pausing in the doorway, his hand grips the frame, careful not to break it. “Perhaps I’m not meant to be ready. Perhaps some of us are just...broken.”
Lucifer stalks through the waiting room, almost out of earshot when he hears Linda softly say, “I hope you come back.” He doesn’t stop until he’s in the sunlight. Unlike normal, it doesn’t warm him or chase away the darkness he feels in him. It hasn’t done that in days.
Standing at the balcony overlooking Los Angeles as night settles in over the skyline, Lucifer finds he hates how quiet his home has gotten. Several stories below, Lux is still teeming with life, but up here, it feels like the world has abandoned him. Or perhaps he abandoned it. And he isn’t even sure which is worse.
Despite his efforts, he’s lingered on Doctor Martin’s words far more than he’d meant to. Her voice continues to whisper in his mind on a loop, certain and persistent. Broken heart. Emotionally vulnerable. Truth. Each word scrapes against his pride like sandpaper.
The entire concept is patently absurd. He’s the Devil, for Dad’s sake. He doesn’t do heartbreak. Vengeance, fire, delightful punishments for terrible people—that’s far more him. He’s a former archangel, desire incarnate, not some pathetic, tragic romantic figure pining over a not-quite-single woman with trust issues and a badge. Who didn’t fall for his charms or even want sex with him. Who called him her friend without laughing or flinching.
And yet...
Sighing, Lucifer rubs at his temples, his mind drawn once again—entirely unwillingly, traitorously even—to the echo of her. The memory of Chloe Decker's voice, the way her head tilted when she didn’t quite believe him, how she’d press her lips against a smile when she was trying not to be amused by his antics. He wonders if she’s asleep. Or perhaps curled up on the couch in that hideous blanket with her spawn, all the while trying to pretend she hadn’t seen the impossible. Pretending he isn’t what he is. He wonders whether she hates him now. Or even worse, if she’s still afraid of him.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters to himself, turning on his heel and striding back inside towards a decanter waiting for him at the bar.
He snatches up the crystal bottle, but the moment the scotch begins to pour, he realizes the problem. The liquid moves slower than molasses, practically suspended in the air and taking ages to fall.
Lucifer narrows his eyes. “Oh, for the love of—” He drops the decanter onto the marble bar top with a clatter, whirling back towards the balcony. “Amenadiel!” he snaps sharply, not in the mood for this. “Really? Again with the time-slowing theatrics? And they call me dramatic. Couldn’t you send a text like everyone else?”
The balcony remains empty. The curtains stir, but no angelic brother emerges from the shadows.
Irritation rises rapidly. Lucifer’s jaw clenches. “And now you expect me to play hide-and-seek with you?” he mutters.
Fine. Ready or not, you sanctimonious bastard.
With the lift out of order for the moment, he storms out of the penthouse through the private stairwell, skipping steps two at a time as silence feels louder than ever. When he reaches the mezzanine above Lux, the music is distorted, slowed into some surreal echo of itself, and it annoys him further, reminding him too much of Hell.
Patrons move in agonizingly slow motion, laughter stretches into soundless shapes, dancers glide through the molasses-thickened air. Every movement around him is a ghost of what it should be. Behind the bar, one of the bartender’s shaker arcs through the air as if it’s falling through honey, droplets of ice glittering mid-fall, suspended like stars caught in a syrupy descent.
Lucifer weaves through them with practiced ease, seemingly the only thing moving as he approaches the railing overlooking the entire floor. Which is when he realizes he isn’t the sole unfrozen being in the club. Near the farthest end of the bar, nearly cloaked in shadows, two figures lean close together. Fully animated and in regular motion, unaffected by the temporal distortion. Both of whom he recognizes instantly.
Mazikeen.
And Amenadiel.
Shifting back reflexively into the shadows before they can spot him, obscured by a half-wall, Lucifer listens, focusing his preternatural hearing on the conversation. Did they think he wouldn’t notice? Or is Amenadiel making use of his ability to control which parts of the universe he slows down? Maze might not have noticed his return for once.
He can hear the scowl in his demon's voice, picturing her arms crossed in irritation. “This is taking too long,” she hisses, her voice low and hard.
“I’ve told you,” Amenadiel says calmly, “everything is in motion. All you have to do is play your part.”
“I have been, but he’s slipping, Amenadiel. He’s gotten...sentimental and weak.” Her lip curls in disgust. “You’re the one who wanted him back in Hell to begin with, remember? If you don’t pick up the pace, he’s going to dig his heels in.”
Amenadiel sighs. “You think I don’t know that? I have known him eons longer than you have, and I also know that if we push too hard, he will resist. He has to feel as if it’s his choice to return. We’re getting close. You said that human detective saw his Devil face—that it shook him. He’ll continue to spiral. All you need to do is keep reminding him of what he is.”
Maze scoffs. “You mean the Devil? The monster?”
“He isn’t one of them, Maze,” Amenadiel says, something inscrutable in his tone. “No matter how much he likes to pretend to be. Earth is dangerous for him. He’s changing, becoming vulnerable, and that is a problem for all of us.”
Lucifer feels the hollowness in his chest grow cold. Not his usual fiery rage. Not even the sting of betrayal. This feels deeper and far more ancient. He could storm out there right now, appear behind them in a flash of righteous fury, then fling them both across the club and demand answers with fire in his eyes. But he doesn’t. Because in this moment, he isn’t entirely sure he can trust anything that comes out of his mouth.
Instead, he silently turns away and ascends the stairs, his footfalls quieter than a ghost’s. Behind him, he leaves the distorted music and the oblivious humans moving slower than a snail’s pace. He leaves the brother who hasn’t been that in eons, and the demon who spent billions of years watching his back. He steps back into the penthouse, closing the door with deliberate calm. At the bar, his scotch glass still sits abandoned, but now when he pours from the decanter, the flow has resumed normally. It sloshes up the sides of the crystal, almost mocking him.
For a moment, he stares at it, a plan unfolding in his mind. He’ll allow them a bit longer to think they have the upperhand. To let them think he’s broken beyond repair. Lucifer can be patient when he desires. Soon enough, Maze will come to him. When she does, she will undoubtedly try to lie.
And that will be her biggest mistake of all.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been playing piano. He isn’t thinking about where his fingers are going next as they glide over the keys in low, deliberate chords and minor progressions. Every tune he plays is dark and melancholic. He doesn’t even know what he’s playing, only that the silence hurts too much. The lights have been dimmed low, and the city lights bleed in through the windows like a halo around his silhouette. Quite possibly the closest to angelic as he’ll ever be again. His scotch glass remains untouched on top of the piano, the ice long since melted.
At long last, the lift chimes, announcing a visitor. He doesn’t flinch or look around. He already knows who it is. Even as leather heels click across the marble floor, he continues to play.
“Oh, come on,” Maze’s voice rings out like a crash in a cathedral. “This place is dead. We need to throw a real party for a change. Get some blood and glitter flying. Ooh, we can invite those twins from that one time with the tiger—remember them?”
Not once do Lucifer’s hands falter.
Huffing, Maze strides past him towards the bar. “Orgies, wild sex parties, public nudity—you used to have standards, Lucifer. Remember?” She helps herself to his liquor, not bothering with a glass. “We could bring it all back with just a few calls, you know. Get back to basics, just you and me.”
He doesn’t respond, let alone glance at her.
Maze turns towards him, the bottle dangling lazily from her fingers. Her expression shifts, something more annoyed than concerned. “God, don’t tell me you’re still moping about that human detective.”
The chord he’s playing stops in mid-progress. Lucifer stares at the piano for one beat, then another, and then he rises in a blur. One moment, Maze is smirking, and in the next, he’s slamming her against the ancient Assyrian stone wall. His hand is at her throat, pinning her in place with enough force to snap a human neck.
The demon doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t even flinch, but her eyes widen just a little as if she’s genuinely surprised. “The hell is your problem?” she rasps.
Lucifer’s growl is low and guttural. “You are.”
He lifts her higher against the wall, her feet dangling uselessly, scraping at stone as her breath begins to hitch. Lucifer’s eyes burn crimson at the edges with fire while fury pours off him in waves. He leans closer, not quite touching. “I know what you’ve been up to, Mazikeen of the Lilim.”
Maze bares her teeth in defiance. “You’re paranoid,” she spits. “This is about her—”
Snarling, he tightens his grip, and the wall behind her cracks, stone dust drifting lazily to the floor. “Do not,” he growls, his voice razor-sharp, “blame this on her. Not when I know you’re working with my angelic brother.”
Her expression falters for less than half a second at being caught out, but her lip curls, covering the reaction. “Yeah? So what if Amenadiel and I talked? You are losing yourself, Lucifer. Someone had to step in and do something.”
“Step in?” he echoes, dangerously quiet. “You plotted. Conspired behind my back. You lied to me, Mazikeen. For eons, you stood at my side, and now you’re scheming in your spare time like some back-alley Judas?”
“Oh please—”
“You know the penalty for treachery, Maze,” he snarls furiously. “In Hell.”
She dares meet his gaze. “Yeah. Smiting. But as you so love to remind me, we’re not in Hell, are we?” There is no fear in her voice, no attempt to talk herself out of this.
It pisses him off all the more. Lucifer’s grip trembles, just briefly. He can feel the pulse beating in her throat, belying her defiant attitude. It would be so bloody easy. One twist. One squeeze. One tiny twitch of celestial judgment.
Her eyes don’t drift from his. “Do it,” she says flatly. Daring him. Calling his bluff.
He very nearly does. His muscles tense to finish it the way he’s finished so many of her brethren over the years. Fingers tighten until he can feel her pulse against his palm—not as steady as she wants to pretend she is. He calls upon what little light remains in him, deep in his tattered soul. It would be so simple. One flash of angelic divinity, and no more traitorous demon pretending she gives a damn about his well-being. No more lectures about how he's going soft and caring is weakness.
But at the last second, he shoves her harder into the stone, and then releases her from his hold like something poisonous.
He has a far better punishment for her.
Maze drops—not in a heap but on her feet, in a crouch—and she slowly straightens. She coughs once, her shoulders tense, not rubbing her throat where he can already see marks and bruises forming.
Lucifer takes a pointed step back, hands shaking at his sides as he breathes raggedly. “We’re done,” he says emotionlessly.
The demon blinks as if he spoke a language she doesn’t comprehend. “What?”
“You heard me,” he murmurs, lips barely moving as he stares at her. “Get out.”
Maze stares back, eyebrows furrowing just a touch. “You can’t—you don’t mean that.”
Without responding, Lucifer turns away, moving back towards the piano as if her existence no longer holds any meaning for him. “We’re finished, Mazikeen. No more. I will not be returning to Hell, but if you desire going home, then figure it out yourself.”
She stomps towards him, still keeping her distance, sputtering slightly. “What am I supposed to do now?” she demands.
He shrugs one shoulder, reaching for his drink. “Don’t know. Don’t care,” he bites out. “Why don’t you ask Amenadiel.”
Maze doesn’t move or protest any further. Not at first. Leather creaks as she shifts her weight, her voice quieter now, more lost than he’s ever heard it. Well, now she knows how it feels. “You—you’re serious. You really mean it.”
Lucifer doesn’t respond, retaking his seat on the bench. He’s said all he needs to say. A beat of silence passes between them, then Maze walks past him towards the lift without another word. The doors open immediately, as if they understand the significance of what just transpired. Once they’ve shut, it feels as if the entire world exhales and goes completely still.
In the center of the penthouse, Lucifer sits alone, and it has never felt quieter. Or this cold. Not since his fall from grace into the pits of Hell.
But even then, he’d never felt this lonely.
Notes:
Hope everyone has a safe and happy holiday! Thanks for reading! After tomorrow, I'll be going back to my regularly scheduled posting.
Chapter 17: Fix It
Summary:
Chloe finally returns to work with her entire worldview shaken. A late night knock on her door changes it again.
Notes:
Apologies for the slight delay in the update today. Got thrown off by the holiday and sleeping in way too late. Hope the rest of you are recovered from New Year's Eve!
Enjoy the chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eight days have passed since Delilah’s murder. Seven since the recording studio. Since the gunfire and Jimmy’s screams after he fired a bullet that could have killed Lucifer if it had been a few inches to the left. Since Lucifer bled like any other human.
Except he isn’t human. Not even close. He isn’t another delusional man—or a man at all. The image is still seared into her mind, whether she likes it or not. His face—no, not his face. Or she doesn’t think so. Something that lingers beneath his skin, ancient and terrifying and wrong.
And yet.
Chloe hadn’t screamed or run away. She hadn’t aimed her weapon at him. And even now, she doesn’t know what that means. She hasn’t seen him since. No texts. No phone calls. No showing up unannounced at her door with a smirk she started to find endearing. All she has is the echo of the last thing he’d said to her:
“If you need time to...process, or if...if you never wish to see me again...well, I would understand.”
Only once the shock wore off did she realize how badly she’d wanted to tell him to stay. But she hadn’t. And now he’s gone. Or maybe she’s the one who left, when she didn’t say “don’t leave”.
It took a few days, but her shock had, indeed, worn off. She hadn’t known what to do or say, or even how to act anymore. So she pretended to the best of her ability. She managed to achieve basic functionality, and when Trixie was around to distract her, she was almost herself again.
But she found herself looking forward to the end of her medical leave far more than she normally would have. Getting back to her usual routine might help her regain some semblance of balance. She dealt with the physical exam for both her shoulder and the mild concussion she sustained at the studio—the doctor cleared her. Then she attended the mandatory psych eval with the precinct shrink. That...was a little tougher, but Chloe called on all her acting skills to get through it. No mentions of devils or faces catching fire. Or that her world still felt like it was tilted a little to the left. She was cleared there, too—probably by the skin of her teeth.
Today is her first day back. Nothing about the precinct has changed. Still the same basic, neutral walls. The same humming vending machine that sometimes eats bills being fed into it. The same burned coffee smell wafting from the break room. But Chloe has never felt more out of place than she does right now.
A few heads turn in her direction as she walks in—also nothing new. Low voices break out in whispers she can’t quite hear—and probably doesn’t want to. She keeps her chin up and her eyes forward as she moves towards her desk.
“Detective Decker,” calls a clipped voice.
Chloe stops short, glancing left as Lieutenant Monroe approaches briskly. Not quite a smile on her face, but she doesn’t seem displeased to have Chloe back.
“Lieutenant,” Chloe murmurs respectfully.
“Glad to see you’re back on your feet,” Olivia says. “But do yourself a favor and keep in mind—medical clearance doesn’t mean you’re invincible. No more solo heroics.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Chloe says, not bothering to smile. Or to say there was nothing solo or heroic about her last case.
The Lieutenant dismisses her, and she continues to her desk. A few others stop to talk to her, mostly about casework. No one else bothers. She tries not to let it get to her. They’ve dragged her name through the mud for months now—and even occasionally before Palmetto—and she doesn’t expect it to change now. Not when they still don’t know the truth. Assuming that would change anything.
They hated her for doing her job then, and they hate her now.
As she reaches her desk, exhaling softly in relief, she realizes the whispers aren’t all about her today. They’re about Malcolm, too. Out of the hospital and back on his feet after his miraculous coma recovery. Technically, he isn’t supposed to be here. Not officially, anyway. But he’s here nonetheless, and no one questions it, because he’s the ‘hero’ of the story—Chloe, of course, is the ‘villain’.
Throughout the day, she notices him lurking everywhere. In the hallways, at desks with his buddies, leaning casually against walls he doesn’t quite belong near. He hasn’t been reinstated yet after his coma, but not a single person tells him to leave.
Of course they don’t.
Chloe tries to ignore him—all of them. She keeps her head down as she does her paperwork, hoping futilely she’ll be assigned a new case and can escape the scrutiny. But no matter what she does or where she goes, she can feel eyes on her. A slight prickle at the back of her neck. It isn’t the same feeling she occasionally got with Lucifer around; that was something else entirely. She didn’t mind that. Or the warmth that accompanied it. This is...colder, and sends a trickle down her spine.
When she can’t take it anymore, she glances around. Several heads snap away from her to avoid being caught looking. One doesn’t bother. Malcolm stares at her with what she can only describe as dead eyes. Sometimes he just watches her. Sometimes he smirks before looking away if someone else distracts him.
Sometimes he winks at her. Like he knows something she doesn’t. Like they share some private joke. But Chloe isn’t laughing.
The fourth time she catches him staring, he gives her a little finger wave, then disappears into the stairwell. Her stomach flips and she nearly loses her breakfast. She hasn’t spoken a word to him in months, not since before the shooting. And she can’t even imagine what he might want now.
Nor does she care.
By the time lunch rolls around, she feels like invisible hands are pulling her apart. There’s too much silence surrounding her. Too many ghosts haunting her thoughts. And she has no one to talk to. Or at least, no one she trusts.
Certainly not Dan.
They haven’t spoken since the night of the studio shooting when he called to lecture her about working the case off the books while on medical leave. When she told him the divorce papers were on their way. He hasn’t fought her on anything, like he’s accepted the repercussions for his actions. Even though, really, he hasn’t.
And she’s been fine with that silence. She prefers it, tired of fighting. Tired of being hurt. Just...tired.
That’s what she’s been telling herself anyway.
At the end of her day, when she picks up Trixie from school, Chloe is exhausted in a way she can’t quite name. As if her bones have been scraped clean and she’s been hollowed out. Like some part of her is missing. She lets Trixie chatter on about facts on Mars and space and jungle gym politics. She smiles when she can, nods when she can’t. If her daughter notices, she doesn't let on for once.
At home, she’s lost so deeply in her thoughts that she burns dinner. Trixie stares at her in some mix of dismay and concern. They order pizza and watch a movie to make up for it. Trixie ends up falling asleep in Chloe’s lap halfway through the movie. Chloe doesn’t move for a long time.
A few nights later, Chloe is alone in the beach house again. Trixie is at Dan's, and Chloe’s plan had been to keep busy with paperwork. Instead, she lounges on the couch with cheap wine and some home renovation show marathon she’s barely paying attention to. For the first time in a week and a half, her thoughts are quiet.
That probably should be a warning that her peace is about to be disrupted. She’s too tired to notice the signs.
Restlessness kicks in around midnight out of nowhere, and she can’t stay still. Even with the TV on, the house is too silent. She wanders from room to room like she’s looking for something and can’t remember what. Maybe she’s looking for someone.
More than once this week, she’s had her phone in hand, thumb hovering over his number. She never calls. Or she taps out a text message that she hastily deletes with a muttered curse, shoving her phone away. The phone has stayed silent. Not even her mom or Dan have called in days. But they aren’t the ones she keeps hoping to hear from.
She doesn’t call. She hasn’t seen him. But she realizes as she stares out the back windows towards the dark ocean...she misses him. Really, genuinely misses him. It isn’t just about the cases they solved together or his ridiculous one-liners and even more ridiculous $10,000 suits. Or the way he always seems to know when she needs to hear his voice or needs a drink. It’s his presence, his persistence, his refusal to leave her alone.
Because now that he has left her alone, she feels it in every part of her life.
And it’s just...it’s absurd. She hasn’t even known the guy for two months; how did he squirm his way under her skin already? Into her heart, even. It should be impossible, especially now that she knows he was being honest, that his religious metaphors weren't metaphors at all. He really is the literal, actual Devil. A being who has existed since before time was a thing. Who probably spent most of his life in literal, actual Hell. She shouldn’t care this much about someone she really doesn’t know at all.
But she does.
A knock at the door jolts her out of her thoughts. Chloe stares at her startled reflection in the window, her heart leaping with a thud. She glances up at the ceiling—where her gun is locked away in her bedroom closet safe. Too far and too tucked away to be of any comfort. She realizes now that was a stupid decision, to lock it up tonight, but then, she isn’t accustomed to feeling vulnerable in her own home. Lately, though, everything has felt off.
Another knock, sharper this time. Steeling her nerves, Chloe approaches cautiously, brushing aside the curtain over the window. A woman is standing on her porch—dark hair, even darker eyes, not moving or smiling.
Chloe opens the door just enough to speak through the crack. “Can I help you?” she asks in her best ‘don’t fuck with me’ voice.
The woman stares back, her gaze unflinching. Blinking again, Chloe recognizes her. She’s one of the bartenders at Lux. The one who’d glared at her like she was something she wanted to carve up and hang on the wall.
“You’re Maze,” Chloe says slowly. “Lucifer’s friend.”
Maze doesn’t answer. She simply tilts her head slightly like she's studying something interesting. Or that she wants to stab. Then without invitation, she shoves past Chloe, intentionally knocking into her shoulder as she enters the house. The scent of leather, vodka, steel, and something faintly smoky trails behind her like a warning.
Chloe blinks. “Come in, I guess,” she mutters under her breath, closing the door and turning around.
Maze glances around the beach house with a sneer on her face, lifting a photo of Trixie from a side table, then putting it back down like it burned her. “This is where you live, huh?” she says, unimpressed. “Guess I’ve seen worse.”
Huffing an irritated breath, Chloe crosses her arms. “Did Lucifer send you?” she asks evenly.
The other woman scoffs, a flicker of something like discomfort passing through her eyes. It's gone too quickly to identify. “If he knew I was here, I’d be smited where I stand.”
Chloe’s chest tightens, heart beating a little quicker. “He can...do that?”
Maze rolls her eyes, walking to the center of the room and spinning around with her hands on her hips like she’s evaluating a battlefield. “Every night used to be a party,” she says without prompting. “We ruled this city, and it thanked us for it. There were no consequences, no fallout—just uninhibited sin and punishment. And then you came along.” The accusation in the woman’s eyes is plain. “Everything just...stopped. All he cared about was...crime-solving and following you around like a damn puppy.”
“I never asked him to—”
“You didn’t have to,” Maze interrupts. “But he stopped screwing around and started...caring.”
Chloe blinks. “So...what? You’re pissed at me because he made choices and cared about someone?”
“I’m pissed because he’s not who he used to be. I figured it was just the thrill of the chase, a flash in the pan, like all the rest, but there’s something different about you. And it’s more than just your immunity to his charms.” Maze takes a step closer. “Lucifer doesn’t lie. Not because he’s forced to tell the truth, but because he chooses to. That whole ‘Prince of Lies’ shit? False. That’s why he doesn’t lie—to prove them all wrong. He's just him—shamelessly, unapologetically, shouldn't-give-a-shit-about-anything him.”
Shifting on her feet, Chloe replays all the times Lucifer said he doesn’t lie. She never quite bought it. “Yeah, he told me that. Hard to believe.”
“Well, that’s your problem. But ever since you saw the whole truth, he’s been...brooding. Quiet. Playing sad songs on the piano at all hours like some...mopey, wallowing vampire. It’s pathetic, but he’s a wreck.”
“And that’s my fault? I didn’t ask for any of this,” Chloe snaps heatedly.
“No,” Maze agrees, shrugging one shoulder, “but you are the reason.”
Chloe’s arms tighten around herself as she remembers something else Lucifer said. About Maze. “Lucifer told me you’re a demon.”
The woman grins, lifting a scarred eyebrow. “Aw, he told you about me? I’m flattered.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”
The expression on the demon’s face turns cold. “I don’t like you. And I probably never will. You’re boring, and good, and moral—and you’re dangerous to him.”
Chloe shakes her head, breath catching in her chest. “What does that mean? How am I dangerous? I’m just...me.”
But Maze only shrugs in response. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that, for some reason I will never fathom, he likes you.” She spits the words like they’re a curse, her lip curling in a disgusted sneer. “You make him...happy.”
Frowning, Chloe glances around, wondering if she fell, cracked her head, and landed in some Bizarro world. “And...that’s a bad thing?”
Ignoring her, Maze paces from the living room to the kitchen and back, fingers twitching like she’s itching to reach for her knives. “Like I said, he’s been off since you saw him. Hasn’t slept. Hasn’t eaten. Christ, the moping and the brooding...” She huffs an irritated breath through her nose. “When he was speaking to me, it was just snapping and growling. It’s like you reached in with a knife and hollowed him out. And now you’re going to fix it.”
Chloe takes a step back, bumping into the door like she’d been shoved. “Fix it? You know, this hasn’t exactly been easy on me either. A week and a half a ago, I didn’t believe in angels or demons or—” She swallows, looking away. “—or Devils. Not until I saw one, and it turned out to be someone I trusted with everything. Someone I—” She cuts herself off, tensing her jaw.
“Yeah, well,” Maze says carelessly. “Again, that's a you problem, isn’t it?”
Staring at the other woman—demon...from Hell—Chloe scoffs an indignant laugh. “So you just expect me to snap my fingers and figure it all out overnight?”
“No,” Maze says lazily. “But I do think you need to figure it out, one way or another. Either deal with it...or don’t. Put an end to it. Put him out of his damn misery. He thinks you’re terrified of him, that he’s never going to see you again. Confirm his assumptions, or put them to rest.”
Looking down at her bare feet, toes curling into cold wood, Chloe can’t even look around the familiar house. It feels foreign to her, like she’s out of place. Something in her chest tightens at the thought of Lucifer alone and miserable—because of her.
She glances back at Maze. “Why are you doing this? You don’t like me, probably want to stab me with those knives of yours,” she says quietly. “So why do you care?”
Maze doesn’t answer, and her glaring expression doesn’t change. But something in her eyes that looks almost ancient flickers. Then without a word, she walks towards the door. Chloe moves out of her way, ready to fight back if those knives come out. They don’t. She just opens the door and walks out without a goodbye—and without closing it behind her.
Chloe watches her move down the porch steps, then the darkness seems to swallow her whole. No sound of an engine, just silence. Locking the door behind her, she slides down the wood until she hits the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Silence creeps in again, thick and loud somehow. She thinks about Lucifer. Not the Devil—Lucifer. The man who had her back and believed in her. Who delivered breakfast one day, and brought it to the hospital the next. The man who makes her laugh when she doesn’t want to, and offers silent comfort when it’s needed the most. Who stayed at the hospital when she got shot while she slept, and told her he’d wait however long she needed him to when she was afraid.
She thinks about the first night they met, when she first saw him in person. He was playing the piano. You Can’t Always Get What You Want. There’d been a moment as he sang the chorus when their eyes met, “But if you try sometimes...you just might find...you get what you need...” At the time, she thought the song was coincidental but it resonated with her. She hadn’t realized just how much it would.
Because she sure as hell wasn't looking for someone like Lucifer in her life. She wasn't looking for a friend, but she found one.
Although she isn’t sure how, exactly, she also thinks Lucifer had something to do with saving her badge and her job. He saved her life, and ensured Trixie wouldn’t get suspended for fighting. He didn’t have to do any of that—the terms of their deal were to help her figure out Palmetto, and he did. Then he went above and beyond.
Because he cares, according to Maze. Chloe knows it’s true, she’d seen it in Lucifer’s expression more than once.
She stares at the living room, not really seeing it, and tries to figure out what scares her the most—that the Devil exists, or that the Devil is Lucifer. That God and Heaven and Hell and all the rest are real, or that she doesn’t know what any of it means.
Or maybe it’s that, despite everything she learned, everything she saw, she misses Lucifer anyway. Irrational as it is.
By the time she pushes off the cold floor, she still doesn’t have an answer. She falls into bed, stares at the ceiling, and hopes that maybe tomorrow she will.
Lucifer doesn’t want to get out of bed. Not because there’s a beautiful, naked woman beside him—there isn’t. Or because his bed is comfortable—it is. Or because he doesn’t have anything else to do—he doesn’t. Really, it’s a fairly pathetic thought for the former King of Hell, but there it is.
He doesn’t want to get up because...what’s the point?
There hasn’t been a party in the penthouse in weeks. His sheets smell like smoke, scotch, and stale dreams. Maze is gone, and if she knows what’s good for her, she won’t be back for a while. Amenadiel hasn’t shown his bald head either, probably vanished to whichever holier-than-thou corner he sulks and plots in. Linda hasn’t called to coerce him into another session.
And Chloe—the Detective—well, he hasn’t heard a single word from her in a week and a half. Not a peep. And he doesn’t expect to.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Lucifer covers his head with one pillow and groans into another. His limbs feel like stones. His mind is a hollowed-out, fog-filled graveyard. And for the first time in the five years that he’s been on Earth, he considers going back. Voluntarily.
Back to Hell and the throne that awaits him. At least there, no one expects anything of him. Not really. They bug him anyway with their demonic politics, but for the most part, he’s left alone to wander ash-filled corridors. There, the only thing that can hurt him is Hell-forged steel.
It would solve many of his problems. His brother wouldn’t be hounding him all the time, bombarding him with lectures and fists. Maze could get what she desires. Chloe wouldn’t have to be terrified. And Lucifer...well, he never gets his desires, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Sitting up slowly at the edge of the bed, he stares out through the window at what must be mid-morning—he doesn’t know which day, doesn’t care—and scrubs his hands through his tangled curls. His muscles ache with lethargy he isn’t used to but ignores. Not bothering to cover himself, he pushes up and pads across the marble in bare feet and silk sleep pants he doesn’t remember putting on.
The penthouse is quiet, the way it always is lately, and he doesn’t imagine that changing. He descends the short staircase, gaze set on the bar—and stops cold.
Because for once, there’s somebody standing just outside the lift he hadn’t heard chime. But not just any somebody—her. She’s just...there, inside his home, looking around while her fingers knot together like some dream he hadn’t had the courage to imagine.
Lucifer blinks. Hard.
No, this—he had dreamed this. Just last night, actually. Dreamed that she’d willingly stepped foot into his domain and tucked her hair behind her ear, exactly as she’s doing now. Dreamed her awkward stance, like she didn’t know what to say or do. Whether to stay or bolt.
Then she’d met his gaze, her eyes lighting up, and she smiled at him. He hadn’t been able to believe his luck, but then he’d taken a step in her direction, and she vanished right before his eyes. And that’s where the dream ended, the way they always do.
This time, though, even if she doesn’t smile and her eyes don’t light up, she also doesn’t vanish. Lucifer remains frozen, one foot on the step, the other on the floor.
Her gaze sweeps across the penthouse slowly, likely taking in the mess of empty liquor bottles, traces of cocaine on glass surfaces, and clothes strewn everywhere. And that gaze finally stops on him. She meets his eyes, just for a second, before resuming knotting her fingers.
“Hi,” she says, her voice soft and uncertain. Barely above a whisper. As if she isn't sure she's welcome.
Lucifer’s heart jolts to a stop. Quite literally, just for a beat. When it resumes, it beats almost double time. He swallows thickly, mouth moving soundlessly, searching for something to say. “Detective,” he murmurs, his own voice croaky and raw and more vulnerable than he’s ever been. “I wasn’t...expecting you.”
She raises an eyebrow, a flicker of almost-amusement in her eyes. “Yeah, I kinda figured.” Her gaze sweeps down his chest.
He follows her gaze. Right. He’s currently shirtless, disheveled, and probably looks as if he’s been chewed up and spat out by regret itself. “Apologies,” he mumbles, ducking back into his bedroom. Fumbling fingers reach for a robe, he quickly slips it on and ties it closed. When he returns to the doorway, she’s still there. She hadn’t taken the opportunity to run while his back was turned.
Clearing his throat, he gestures vaguely towards the bar. “I, uh...” He stumbles in that direction. “I think I need a drink. Care to join?”
Chloe follows him without answering. He busies himself pouring a drink while the silence between them turns electric and fragile. Like they’re standing at opposite ends of a precipice, waiting to see which of them jumps first. He gestures at his glass and she shakes her head.
He pauses, holding his breath when she takes one of her own.
“Am I going to Hell?”
Lucifer damn near drops his glass as he stares at her. Clearly he hadn’t heard that right. “I...beg your pardon?”
Crossing her arms, her posture turns defensive. “I mean, I made that deal with you—you told me that night—a deal with the Devil, binding and unbreakable. To help with Palmetto, and I said I’d give you whatever you wanted. So does that mean—?”
It is far from the first time someone has asked him that question. Hell, Delilah asked the night she was gunned down. But it sounds...different coming from Chloe’s mouth. Wrong. He holds up a hand, irritation creeping in, though not at her. The whole wretched situation. The rumors that have plagued him since humanity began roaming the Earth.
“Oh, for—no, Detective. That isn’t how it works. You haven’t sold your soul to me. I don’t trade in souls. Never bloody have.”
She looks at him, eyes wide and uncertain. “But...you’re the Devil.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m well aware of the title. But I don’t traffic in damned souls. That was an unfounded, slanderous rumor, likely spread by one of my feathered, angelic siblings.” He never had proof, of course, but he suspects Amenadiel or Michael—the latter would have better means to ruin his reputation, being twins and all. “If every person who made a deal with me owed their soul, Hell would be far more populated than it already is. Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do with one. Can barely make heads or tails of my own.”
Some of the tension bleeds out of her shoulders.
He watches her over the rim of his glass, his jaw tensing. “Is that...” he begins carefully. “Is that why you’re here? You’ve spent the last week thinking you’re going to Hell?”
She hesitates. “I wouldn’t say the whole week. A quarter, maybe,” she mutters. “But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”
A strange warmth flickers in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or perhaps it’s merely pain in a different sort of mask.
Biting her lip, she takes a step closer, flattening her fingers on the bar top as if she’s trying to ground herself. “I, um, I have questions.”
Lucifer lifts an eyebrow. “Questions,” he echoes slowly.
She nods jerkily. “Yeah.” She leans a bit closer. The warmth flickers again. “And if I ask them, I want the full, unvarnished truth.”
A dry laugh falls from his lips. “Yes, well, as I’ve said many times, truth is my speciality, darling.” He takes a sip of his drink, frowning slightly at the burn as it goes down. “Would you care to sit and be comfortable for your interrogation, Detective?”
Again, she hesitates, but nods, turning and marching towards the couch where she finds a clean cushion and sits. Lucifer follows a bit more leisurely, unsure what to expect. He sits across from her in one of the armchairs.
Chloe’s questions start out slow, one at a time. Tentatively, as if she’s testing him. “Is Heaven real?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he shoots a reflexive glare to the ceiling. “Yes,” he murmurs, meeting her gaze again.
“And people...they really go there?”
“If they feel that they deserve to.”
“What about Hell?”
“Unfortunately, very real,” he says, his voice flat.
“Is it...full of fire and brimstone?”
Lucifer makes a face, cursing Dante and every other wretched poet who wrote about Hell in his mind. “Tacky myth, actually. There is fire and brimstone, but it’s far more...complex than that. If you’re asking what it’s like for the souls who go there...well, it depends on them. It’s different for everyone—a prison of their own making.”
She swallows hard. “And you were there?”
“For eon after eon,” he says through a heavy exhale.
“Recently?”
“Not in the last five years, no.” He pauses for a long moment. She wanted the unvarnished truth... “That doesn’t mean I don’t see it every bloody time I close my eyes.”
Chloe stops for a beat, eyes narrowing on him. “What are you? Exactly?”
The smirk on his lips doesn’t reach his eyes. “Former archangel. Technically, present King of Hell and warden of the damned, despite my retirement. Eternal disappointment to my family.”
She doesn’t laugh. “Do you have wings?”
His gaze averts, darting towards the window. “Not anymore.”
That seems to surprise her, but she doesn’t press. “Do you sleep?”
He blinks at the nonsequitur. “Barely.”
“Do you dream?”
Lucifer hesitates for a long moment, looking down into his drink. “Lately...yes.”
She stares at him a beat too long. “Can you lie?”
“I am capable, yes. But I choose not to of my own free will. I don’t lie. Point of pride for me, Detective.”
Chloe exhales, glancing down. “Good. That’s...good.”
Finishing off his drink, Lucifer leans back in the chair, studying her intently. The way she sits, ramrod straight, with her fingers braided in her lap. Like a nervous habit. His curiosity gets the better of him. The need for an answer of his own.
“Why are you here, Detective?”
Her mouth opens. Closes again. Her throat bobs around words that can’t quite escape. She sighs and tries again. “I...don’t know,” she admits quietly.
Lucifer waits, sensing there’s more to it than that.
“I just...I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. Everything you’ve done. Everything you are. You saved my life twice. You protected my daughter from suspension after a fight. You—” She breaks off, swallowing again. “And I can’t...stop thinking about your face. What I saw. But more than that...I keep thinking about you. And how you didn’t lie. Not once. You never...never lied to me.”
He suddenly feels like he’s drowning.
She goes on, “And I needed to see for myself. I needed to know if you were really...real or just another illusion.”
Lucifer leans forward, elbows on his knees. “And what do you think?”
Chloe looks at him like she’s really seeing him for the first time. “Honestly? I’m not sure I know anything anymore,” she whispers. She exhales slowly. “But...I want to understand.”
For a moment, Lucifer just stares, trying to remember if he’s ever heard those words from anyone. His siblings. His parents. The demons. Any of the humans he’s known over millennia. He’s sure he hasn’t. “You’re not...afraid?”
She blinks a few times. “I’m terrified.”
Closing his eyes, Lucifer feels the pain in his chest burst into a wildfire. When he opens them, she’s still here, scared and uncertain, but she isn’t running. And he doesn’t understand why.
“But here’s the thing,” she says quietly. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I’ve been on my own. Once in a while, I’d have someone at my side, but it never lasts. The last few months especially have been...” She shakes her head.
“Hell?” he quips.
She nods, huffing a humorless laugh. “Yeah, it has been. I felt like I was hanging out to dry, like I had to choose between my pride and morals or my dream job. And then you came along—this smug, arrogant, insufferable, ridiculous—”
“Oh, do go on,” he purrs, smirking into his glass.
Her expression softens. “—weird guy in an expensive suit who told me he’d help me. And you did. Yeah, the information turned my world upside-down, but that wasn’t your fault. You had my back when no one else did. You believed me—believed in me—when everyone turned against me. You didn’t have to do any of the things you did beyond our deal—breakfast, or helping me with my case, being there when I needed someone, staying at the hospital after I got shot and coming back the next day... I mean...” She shakes her head. “You didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t try to hurry it along so you could move on. You were just...my friend.”
Lucifer’s lips part in surprise at the amazement in her voice.
“And I don’t have friends—not really. I don’t know what it says about me that the Devil himself has somehow become my best friend, but I’m not sure I care either. My point is, Devil or not, you did more for me in a few weeks than anyone has in years, and...I don’t think I want to give that up.”
The ache in his chest spreads far and wide, lighting him up from the inside, brighter than he ever was as an angel. He doesn’t know what to say. This is far more than he could have hoped for. After a minute, he finally finds his voice again. “I don’t want to give it up, either,” he murmurs softly, afraid that if he speaks any louder the moment will shatter. He’ll find out it’s all been another dream.
But Chloe just smiles at him and settles slightly against the couch, as if she’s planning on staying for a while.
He feels like he can breathe again for the first time in more than a week.
Notes:
There we go. Chloe and Lucifer back together and starting back down the right path. More talking coming in the next chapter. Thanks for reading! Drop a comment, if you feel so inclined, and let me know what you think of the story so far.
Happy New Year!! 🍾🥂
Chapter 18: Be Not Afraid
Summary:
Chloe and Lucifer have a much needed talk about life, the universe, and how to properly punish Dan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Just a couple months ago, Chloe lived a fairly normal life. She raised her daughter to the best of her ability, did her job to the best of her ability—and in spite of most of her colleagues who would rather see her fail miserably. She thought she understood well enough about how the world around her worked, and never believed in anything supernatural. Her family never went to church except for funerals or special occasions; in fact, the closest she came to being surrounded by religion was when she and Dan met. His family are Catholic, and even though he drifted away from that stuff, he was still expected to practice when his parents were around.
But there was nothing...abnormal about her life.
Until she walked into Lux and met Lucifer Morningstar.
Until she saw the Devil’s face as he held Jimmy Barnes against that glass.
And everything in her world changed.
Part of her had wanted to just pretend she never saw it. That she never even met Lucifer. But the rest of her...well. Somehow, in just a matter of weeks, he’d become a big part of her life—a big enough part that she hadn’t wanted to walk away.
So now, here she is, sitting across from the Devil himself in his luxury penthouse apartment. The place looks like he threw a raging party at some point; she suspects this is just a result of his apparent depression. She wonders how it’s possible for someone so plain and ordinary as herself to have this much of an impact on a being who’s been alive for...she isn’t sure how long. Before the Earth existed? Before time?
And yet, the evidence is in front of her that she has. He’s perked up considerably from when they first started talking, and while he still seems wary that she’ll run, he’s happily answering every one of her inane questions.
“Here you are, Detective,” he murmurs, handing her a cup of coffee from his fancy latte machine at the bar.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling, watching him retreat back to his armchair. One of the questions she hasn’t asked yet is shoving its way forward. One of the mysteries she couldn’t figure out. And she only hesitates a moment before glancing at him. “So...something’s been bothering me.”
Raising an eyebrow as he sips from his own coffee—that’s probably more scotch than actual coffee—Lucifer smirks. “Only one thing?”
“For now.” She pauses, trying to work out how to phrase it. “So you’re the Devil. You’ve told me so many times that you’re immortal and invincible. But Jimmy shot you. I saw the blood, watched the EMTs patch you up.”
The amusement fades from his eyes as he glances down at his robed arm as if remembering. “Is there a question there, Detective?” he murmurs, guarded.
“How?”
Lucifer is quiet for a few long moments, staring into his coffee like it might answer for him, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “That has never happened before. In all of humanity’s history, I’ve never been harmed by anything short of celestial weapons—not on Earth, anyway. Bullets bounced off me. Blades shattered upon impact. Fire had no effect. And yet...”
Chloe frowns, leaning forward, intrigued. “So...what changed?”
He hesitates, his gaze on her. “I’m not sure,” he says quietly. “Have I been on Earth too long? Is there some sort of...glitch in the universe? Or perhaps it’s something else entirely.”
She takes a slow sip of her coffee, eyebrows shooting up at how amazing it is. It was worth coming here just for this... “So, um, Maze visited me.”
Gaze sharpening, Lucifer straightens as he scans her from head to toe. “She what?” he growls. “Did she harm you?”
Startled, Chloe shakes her head. “No! No, not at all,” she reassures him. He lets out a breath, raising an eyebrow in question. “She just...showed up the other night. I’d never even spoken to her before. She said some weird stuff about you, how you’ve changed, how she doesn’t like me and thinks I’m dangerous, but I needed to come see you.”
He blinks. “That’s why you’re here?” he says, barely above a murmur. She thinks she hears disappointment in his voice.
“No. I want to be here, Lucifer. It was my choice.”
He doesn’t look convinced. ”And what did you say?”
“Not much. Just that this hasn’t been easy for me either. I asked why she bothered coming to see me if she hates me so much, and she didn’t answer. But...now I’m wondering. That whole ‘I’m dangerous’ thing... What if...I’m the one making you bleed?”
He scoffs. “She certainly thinks so,” he mutters bitterly. “I wouldn’t put much stock into what Mazikeen says, Detective.” The amount of animosity and resentment in his voice surprises her. The few times he’s mentioned Maze in the past, it was with amusement or his own brand of fondness.
“I take it you two aren’t getting along?”
“We are not,” he says with a sigh. “I found out recently that she’s been in cahoots with my angelic brother. It’s been Amenadiel’s task to return me back to Hell whenever I pop up to Earth for a break. When I abdicated my throne five years ago, he and I struck a deal—I assisted him with something in return for an IOU. That IOU came in the form of him leaving me be to live my life. He can’t force me back, but that doesn’t stop him looking for other means.”
“So Maze betrayed you.”
“Indeed. My loyal right-hand for eons, and she turned on me. You see, Maze has wanted to return to Hell since we arrived. She assumed this would be like my other vacations and would come to an end sooner or later. But since you and I met, she’s been more...tenacious about returning.”
“And you don’t want to?” Chloe guesses.
“Certainly not. I never wanted to be in Hell to begin with; it was my punishment. A job I was forced into by my father. So when Amenadiel came along with some plan of his, she joined forces with him.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs sincerely. She might not understand all of this Heaven, Hell, Devil stuff, but she does understand the sting of learning someone you trust has betrayed you.
He shakes his head. “It isn’t your fault.”
“I mean, it kind of sounds like it is—since this is happening because we met.”
Lucifer sighs, considering his words carefully. “Every decision I’ve made has been my own, Detective. Free will. That is why I’m on Earth—to be my own man away from my father’s plan. I chose to continue working with you. To...well, to be your friend. I’m not about to let anything come between that. Especially not now,” he adds under his breath.
Chloe hears him anyway and hides a smile.
“But in regards to you being the reason I’m...vulnerable... I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible. Doctor Linda tells me I’m...emotionally vulnerable, whatever that means. Even if I’m no longer bulletproof, well, I don’t see how that makes a difference. You humans seem to deal with it well enough.”
“It doesn’t bother you? That you could get hurt? Die, even?” Her heart twists at the thought. Especially if it could possibly be her fault.
Lucifer looks away. “Even if I ‘die’, it isn’t forever—I imagine I’d just return to Hell, and I’ve enough contingencies in place to come back to Earth. It would only be temporary.”
Chloe doesn’t entirely feel reassured.
He notices. “Detective. I’m still the Devil,” he says gently. “I’m far sturdier than the average human, not to mention far more powerful.” He pauses, looking down briefly. “Besides...it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
She hears what he isn’t saying—assuming she is the cause of his vulnerability, it’s a risk he’s willing to take to be around her. She wants to tell him she isn’t worth that, but it’s his choice, isn’t it? His free will?
Taking another sip of coffee, she changes the subject. “I went back to work this week,” she tells him. “Malcolm’s been hanging around the precinct. A lot.”
Lucifer frowns slightly. “Coma boy?”
She nods. “Yeah. Like, he hasn’t been reinstated yet or anything. He’s just...loitering. But there’s something...off about him.”
Tilting his head, he straightens, watching her closely. “What do you mean, ‘off’?”
“I don’t know, I can’t explain it. It’s like...he’s a different person than he was before his coma. Nothing obvious, but there’s this look in his eyes sometimes. And he stares at me from across the office. I’ll feel his eyes on me and turn to look, and he just smirks or winks. Like he and I are best friends, in on some secret. Or he knows something I don’t.”
Lucifer’s eyes narrow in thought for a few seconds. “When you say something about his eyes, what does that mean? A sort of...dead-eyed look?”
Chloe blinks in surprise. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly that.”
He nods slowly. “Well, I can’t be sure without actually speaking to him personally,” he says slowly, “but I suppose it’s possible that— Didn’t you say they pulled the plug on him?” Chloe nods. “So he died before coming back.”
“Yeah... So what? That kind of stuff happens.”
Leaning forward slightly, Lucifer sets his drink down. “When a human dies, no matter how long, their soul goes to either Heaven or Hell, depending. Even if Malkie was only dead here on Earth for a few seconds, in Hell it’s...much longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Well, time works differently there—it’s faster, but it’s also...slower. Quite difficult to explain. There isn’t a standard conversion; it fluctuates, you see. But if Malcolm was only dead for a minute or less, it could be anywhere from a week to a month in Hell. Not to mention, for souls, it would feel even longer than that; it could feel like years.”
His eyes darken slightly before he masks the expression. “That’s why humans who have gone through life perfectly sane and law-abiding, then have near death experiences can sometimes be...changed. What you’re describing, it sounds as if Malcolm was in his Hell loop for quite some time, and that can have an effect. That may be what you’re seeing.” He frowns slightly, eyes back on Chloe, watching her intently. “He bothers you.”
“He scares me,” she confesses, the words falling out before she realizes that’s what she even feels. “He was dangerous before, and now...”
“Well, you could always shoot him again. Aim a little lower.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to shoot him.”
Lucifer’s grin fades after a second. “Though I do wonder... You say he smirks as if you’ve a secret between you. Do you think he knows it was Detective Douche who shot him at Palmetto?”
“I’m not sure. From his angle, he might have had a clear enough line of sight, but I'm not sure.” She pauses, staring into her coffee. “I haven’t...done anything about Dan yet. Either turning him in or dropping it. And the worst thing? I’m not even sure why I’m hesitating anymore. That isn’t the sort of cop I want to be—picking and choosing who faces justice, and yet...”
Lucifer sits back slowly, his eyes a little darker than before. “I could punish him if you like.”
Something in his tone sends a cold shiver down her spine. “What?”
“Well, he lied to you, betrayed you, nearly cost you your job...and he hurt you. It would be my honor to punish him for his transgressions.”
Chloe watches him warily. “What...does that mean, exactly?”
For a moment, he considers the question with a level of seriousness that makes her even more nervous. And she remembers—the Devil punishes evil. According to Lucifer, it was a job, but that job entails torturing damned souls.
“Well,” he finally says, drawing out the word, “I could rig his car so that every time he starts it, the radio blares Nickleback at high volume—for starters.”
She stares at him for a second, then blurts a surprised laugh. “What?” she sputters.
He cracks a grin, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “No? That’s a time-honored torture in Hell, Detective,” he says with mock affront. “Very well. If you don’t like that, I could replace his shampoo with hair removal cream. Or even fill his air vents with glitter. I swear, that stuff is the herpes of craft supplies; it never goes away.” He shudders theatrically.
Chloe falls back into the cushions, laughing harder as she imagines a bald Dan walking around covered in glitter he can't get rid of. “Lucifer!”
There’s an immensely pleased expression on his face. “Poetic justice, Detective! Let the severity of punishment fit the betrayal!”
She narrows her eyes in thought. “Oh, how about this? Move all the furniture in his apartment an inch or two to the left, just enough to confuse him and have him constantly bumping his shins.”
Lucifer laughs in delight. “Ooh, good one, Detective! For an added bonus, program his Alexa to play creepy children laughing in the middle of the night.”
Snickering, Chloe settles into ‘punishment ideas’. “What if we filled his car with live crickets?”
One of his hands presses to his chest, his grin widening. “Be still my heart,” he purrs. “That is delightfully diabolical, Detective.”
“I mean, I was going with annoying.”
“Same difference.”
Leaning forward, Chloe grins, unable to remember when she last laughed like this. “What’s worse—crickets or slipping sardines in the back of all his desk drawers at work?”
“Why not both? If we’re going for retribution, you want the full scope, darling,” he says, beaming now.
She tilts her head to the side. “You know, Dan’s favorite snack is pudding. And he hates butterscotch. We could fill every cup with butterscotch flavoring and reseal it.”
“Throw in some laxatives and we’ve a perfect torment.”
For a few minutes, they go back and forth, stacking hypothetical vengeance on top of petty sabotage until Chloe is breathless and doubled up in laughter. The whole thing is ridiculous and juvenile, and it seems to be exactly what she needed. Count on the Devil to have such creative strategies for punishing someone. It doesn’t even occur to her that punishments in Hell are probably much more severe.
Eventually, the momentum ebbs and she leans back against the couch, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “You do know none of this is actually happening, don’t you?”
Still grinning, Lucifer salutes her with his drink. “Of course. That is unless you change your mind and come to the dark side.”
“Hmm, I seriously doubt I will, but I do thank you for the creative outlet.”
“But think of the added benefits, Detective! The coffee, and I’m certain I could rustle up some biscuits—sorry, cookies—if you prefer.”
She chuckles. “Well, the coffee is pretty good,” she says with mock consideration.
Lucifer leans back in his chair, looking more content than he has since she arrived, and quieter now. There's a softness in his eyes that makes him look younger. “You know,” he murmurs, “you really ought to smile and laugh more. You’re quite lovely when you do.”
Her own amusement fades as she blinks in surprise. Then she swallows, that tightness returning to her chest. “Not so bad yourself when you’re not talking glitter warfare.”
He scoffs. “I’m always charming, Detective,” he says, giving her a wounded look.
She gives him a look of her own.
His response is to shrug and grin. “So what other questions has that clever mind of yours been coming up with?”
Sighing, she thinks, and wishes she’d thought to bring her notebook. The decision to come here had been a bit last minute and she barely remembered to grab her keys. “You said something when we were talking about Malcolm—about souls going to Heaven or Hell ‘depending’. What does it depend on? Like, what do you base the criteria on? Is there some sort of scale or weights or something?”
“Well, first of all, I don’t base it off anything. My father designed the universe, and therefore, the system. Secondly, it’s decided by humans individually. What they feel they deserve. So say someone like Malcolm, or even Daniel—if they feel even a modicum of guilt, it’s down to Hell they go where they are tortured for eternity by themselves. Whatever that guilt is or whatever will punish them worse is their loop.
Chloe blinks. “Guilt. You’re telling me the system is designed based on something as widespread and arbitrary as feeling guilty?”
Lucifer hums. “Quite cruel, if you think about it. And it isn’t merely severe guilt. Any spot of guilt that touches the soul will land one in Hell. Say you’re, Dad-forbid, in the car with your offspring and a drunk driver hits you. Your child doesn’t survive, but you do. Survivor’s guilt—there are countless souls in Hell torturing themselves with that as we speak.”
Her heart skips a beat. “But it wouldn’t have even been my fault,” she argues. “I can’t control what someone else does.”
“No, but you still feel that guilt. And it’s enough.”
Chloe sputters. “But that’s...that’s not fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agrees quietly. She sees that ancient look in his eyes again, as if he's spent countless years ruminating on this very subject. “That’s my father for you, Detective. Oh, and the best part? The doors are unlocked. A soul can leave any time—providing, of course, that they can overcome their guilt. It says quite a lot that nobody ever has.”
“Nobody? Not ever?”
“Nope,” Lucifer says, popping the P. “Sadistic, no? And I’m the one humanity blames their problems on. Who they call ‘Evil Incarnate’.” He scoffs. “Not once have I made a single one of them do a thing. I don’t whisper on their shoulders or drag their souls to Hell. Dad is the mastermind behind everything. Not me.”
She gives him a sympathetic look. “I know what that feels like—to be...vilified. Maybe not to your extent, but...it sucks.”
He pauses in his rant, getting more and more worked up, and blinks at her. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he murmurs. “And yes, it does suck.” He holds her gaze for a long moment, opening his mouth like he wants to say something else, but shakes his head. “Well, I don’t know about you, Detective, but I’m rather peckish. Were you planning on sticking around for lunch? I could order us something.” His tone is light, but she hears something beneath it, like he’s expecting her to run or leave once she has her questions answered.
“I could eat,” she says lightly, smiling.
Lucifer blinks in surprise, confirming her theory. Clearing his throat, he gets to his feet. “Well then, I’ll just...get my phone. Anything in particular?”
“Surprise me.”
He gives her one more look, his eyes shining with something she can’t read, then he retreats to his bedroom.
Chloe sits back against the cushions. This is the first time in more than a week that she feels relaxed. Maybe it’s because the fear she felt almost constantly was completely unfounded. Or because she reached a decision on at least one thing in her life.
Or maybe it’s Lucifer himself. Sure, she thinks it’s a little odd that she’s only known him a few weeks, and he’s this entwined with her life. But no one else has ever bothered to know her the way he seems to. No one else sees her the way he does. And she thinks it might be the same for him.
Maybe this will all work out.
After lunch, delivered from an amazing Thai place Lucifer knows, they drifted out to the balcony. The conversation flits between Chloe’s questions—varying in severity from what Heaven and Hell are like, to less serious ones like whether Lucifer saw the dinosaurs (he did, and spent nearly twenty minutes waxing poetic about his favorites). And it’s been...nice. More than nice. They laugh and tease and even flirt. She calls him out on his crap, and he reminds her not to take things so seriously.
Hours later, the sun is dipping low over the horizon, casting golden streaks across the city spread out in front of them. They’re mostly quiet, having more or less exhausted words for now, and there’s a sort of contentment sitting comfortably between them. Chloe has her legs curled beneath her on a lounge chair, a half-empty glass of wine balanced on the armrest next to her.
Lucifer is lounged out next to her, now dressed in dark slacks and a midnight blue shirt that’s mostly unbuttoned. His hair is still a mess of curls on his head that he hadn’t bothered to tame and he’s barefoot. Chloe has a feeling that if she were anyone else, he’d have showered, groomed, and put on a full three-piece suit, and she likes that he seems so comfortable with her.
At some point, she realized he balances her out—and vice versa. They might be opposites from the outside, but there are just enough similarities that they don’t clash completely. She can’t remember the last time, if ever, when she had a friend like this, who doesn’t judge her, or expect her to be something else because that’s who they are, or demands anything of her. From what he’s said, reading between the lines, most of his relationships have been one-night stands and flings, or people he parties with, or ones seeking deals. They don’t want him for him, but what they can get from him.
Chloe realizes suddenly that’s how their relationship started—she came to him for a deal and it evolved from there. She wonders if he still thinks that’s why she’s sticking around. Which is something she should probably acknowledge. She takes a breath and he immediately drags his gaze from the skyline to look at her.
“Can I ask you about our deal?”
The reaction is nearly imperceptible, but she sees it—he stiffens. Just briefly before masking his expression. “Well, as I said earlier, Detective, your soul is not on the line,” he says smoothly with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
She rolls her own eyes. “No, that’s not...what I meant,” she says, sipping her wine.
He tilts his head curiously.
Turning towards him slightly, she thinks for a second. “So the whole thing was, you’d help me with Palmetto and I’d owe you, right?”
“Ah,” he says in realization. “You’re wondering about your IOU.”
“Yeah, a little bit.”
“Worried about what I might ask?”
Chloe hums in consideration. “No, not really. I trust you not to ask anything...illicit or untoward.”
He blinks at her. “You do?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, of course. I mean, you said yourself you wouldn’t ask me for anything...twisted. And you don’t lie, right?”
“Right,” he says slowly, brows furrowed a little. He shakes himself slightly, then clears his throat, lifting his glass to his lips. “Well, as it is, Detective, I...well, I’ve no intention on collecting upon your debt.”
For a second, the words don’t quite process. “Wait, what?”
Licking his lips, he turns to her, though it takes a few seconds for him to meet her gaze. She can’t quite read his expression, but it’s considerably softer than she’s ever seen it. “Quite frankly, Detective, I’ve already gotten more from that deal than I could have ever hoped for,” he murmurs softly. “You’ve discovered the mystery of Palmetto, you get to keep your badge and your job. And...well, I get to keep you in my life. I’d rather call that a draw.”
Chloe’s heart does an odd flip in her chest, which is suddenly tighter than usual. Another question, one she hasn’t thought about since before the studio with Jimmy, pops into her mind. “Do you remember what you said when we were sitting in Lux? Before we figured out Jimmy was our suspect? About being partners?”
Lucifer blinks at her, nodding just enough for her to notice.
“Were you serious about that?”
His gaze doesn’t shift away, but his jaw tenses a little and eyes narrow a fraction. He sips his drink, then stares down at it, swirling the liquid in the glass like he’s considering the question—and his answer.
But when he doesn’t answer right away, or jump on the chance the way she thought he would, Chloe looks down and lets out a short, awkward laugh. “You know what? Never mind. That was...a dumb question. Blame it on the wine.”
He blinks, then sets down his drink slowly as he turns more fully to her. “Detective—”
“No, it’s okay,” she says a bit too hastily. “You...probably didn’t mean it. Or it sounded better in your head, or whatever. I just—forget it. Really.”
Lucifer lets out a breath like he’d been holding it. “Chloe,” he says, getting her attention. She looks up slowly. “Whilst I wouldn’t force the issue if it isn’t something you desire, especially since you now know the truth about me...” He trails off, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Well, I’d rather assumed you would make the practical, rational decision and...sever ties.”
Chloe’s gaze snaps to him sharply. “What?”
Though he is meeting her eyes, there’s something behind his expression that’s too careful and guarded. “You’ve seen what I am, Detective. The monster that lives inside me, and not all that deeply either. Anyone else would walk away. It would be foolish not to. And...I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
For a moment, she’s speechless. She thought after spending all day here, talking and laughing, she got the point across that she has no intention of leaving him behind. It occurs to her that he’s been doing this for thousands upon thousands of years—meeting people, having them find out the truth, and watching them run scared. And if she’s right about his relationships, he’s accustomed to spending time with people and then seeing them move on quickly, forgetting about him.
He thinks she’s going to be the same.
“Do you really think I could just...bail on you like that?” she asks, her tone incredulous and a little hurt. “You think I’d throw away everything we’ve been through because you’re...” she waves vaguely at him, “celestial?”
When his gaze turns back to the skyline, she knows she’s right. Her heart breaks for him a little. How lonely must it be to constantly watch people walk—or run—away?
“Well, I’m not,” she says firmly. “I’m not like other people, Lucifer. That isn’t who I am. I don’t ditch the people I care about when things get complicated. Or at least, I make the best effort to not do that. Yes, I needed some time to get used to this, but now that I am... God or no God, Devil or not, I’m not going anywhere.”
Lucifer turns back to her slowly, something flickering in his eyes that she can’t read.
“And for the record,” she adds, leaning towards him, “I do want a partner. And if you think you might be up for the challenge...well, I want that partner to be you.”
The moment stretches on between them like the world is holding its breath. There’s a brief second when his eyes drop to her lips, and she thinks he might kiss her—and she isn’t sure if she wants that or not. But the look on his face says the entire world has narrowed down to her voice and her heartbeat. Her belief in him.
He lets out a short breath, his eyes bright. “Yes,” he murmurs so softly she nearly misses it.
Chloe smiles at him. “Good. Glad we settled that.”
Without another word, they both turn back to the view, silence settling between them. It feels like something has shifted, and while they haven’t physically moved, they feel...closer. The air is a bit warmer between them.
That all changes a moment later, almost out of nowhere. Chloe can’t even pinpoint what changes, but before she can figure it out, the warm air shifts. At first, it’s subtle—a strange pressure she can’t account for, like in an airplane during takeoff. Next, a gust of wind sweeps across the balcony, cold and sharp and sudden, making her shiver despite the leather jacket she has on. Her wine glass tips over and shatters on the marble floor, red liquid spreading rapidly.
Lucifer is on his feet in a blink, blocking her from the breeze that she sees now isn’t just a breeze.
Chloe looks past him and feels her breath catch. Because a man has just appeared on the balcony—and she doesn’t think he’s a man at all, not in the human sense. He’s tall, maybe an inch shorter than Lucifer, and dark-skinned. He’s wearing some sort of silver robes with elaborate black designs. Somehow, she doesn’t think the material is from Earth. What with the wings spread wide behind him—silver-grey and massive.
She scrambles to her feet, staying behind Lucifer for now as she stares at the newcomer. “Is—is that—?”
“Yes,” Lucifer growls, his eyes also locked on the other man. Angel? His posture is rigid, muscles tight as fury rolls off him in waves. “This is Amenadiel.” Chloe looks down in time to see his hands tighten into fists. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he adds to his brother.
“I didn’t slow time,” Amenadiel says calmly. “Because she deserves to see. She deserves to know.”
Chloe stares at him. “So you’re—he’s—?”
Lucifer remains mostly in front of her like a barrier. “An angel, yes. Wings, judgment, disappointing family dinners—the whole shebang, Detective.”
Pulling his wings close to his spine—Chloe lets out a breath—Amenadiel takes a step forward. “I haven’t come to fight, Luci. I only wish to talk.”
Lucifer doesn’t move, barking out a laugh. “Quite the strange way you have of initiating a conversation. Haven’t you ever heard of calling ahead?”
“I need you to hear me out, brother. Both of you,” Amenadiel says, his gaze flicking to Chloe. “It’s imperative.”
For a moment, nobody moves. The two celestials stare at one another—one earnest, the other furious. Chloe doesn’t take her eyes off Amenadiel either, but she wonders if Lucifer is about to launch himself at his brother.
Slowly, she moves to stand at Lucifer’s side. He doesn’t move in front of her again, but his jaw tenses so tight she can almost hear his teeth grinding. “Then talk,” she says quietly.
Amenadiel looks between them, a smile growing on his lips. “Be not afraid, Chloe Decker,” he says softly. “I come in peace.”
Notes:
You didn't think I'd just let them reunite without something interrupting them, did you? 😈
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