Chloe's eyes flew open and she listened intently, waiting for the noise that had woken her to be repeated. The digital clock on her nightstand read 04:28 and the apartment should have been silent – Trixie was with Dan for the weekend and Mazikeen was off somewhere enjoying a sleepover of her own, although Chloe harboured no suspicion whatsoever that actual sleeping would form part of her roomie's agenda. Chloe herself had made the most of the rare evening of peace with super-long bath and an early night, tucked under her comforter watching Netflix with a beer in hand.
Her bedroom was still dimly lit by the glow of the TV, the "Are you still watching?" message hovering mid-screen, letting her know that she'd fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of her boxset marathon. The TV hadn't woken her, then. Had she been dreaming, perhaps?
No. There it was again, a dull thunk and a metallic scraping that had no place in an empty apartment in the small hours of the morning. Heart in mouth, brain in overdrive, Chloe fumbled for the service weapon tucked under the mattress, her reactions only steadying once she felt the pistol's reassuring weight in her hand. Creeping out of bed, she quietly opened her bedroom door and peered through the tiny gap. The apartment beyond was in darkness, the only light coming from the arc sodium streetlight outside as it shone dimly through the drawn window blinds, casting staccato orange stripes on the floor of the hall.
Slowly, so slowly, she eased the door wider and slipped through, careful to keep her weight away from the creakier floor boards. She padded silently along to the open plan family area, gun raised, and stopped dead when she heard a definite noise from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse.
"LAPD," she shouted. "Come out with your hands up!"
There was another clatter behind the kitchen counter and two hands appeared above it, clutching a pan apiece, swiftly followed by a thick head of dark hair, two deep brown eyes and a gleaming shark-like grin.
"Hello, Detective! Did I wake you?"
Chloe let out a shaking breath and lowered her weapon. "Dammit, Lucifer, you're lucky I didn't shoot you."
Standing up to his full height and straightening his misappropriated 'Kiss the Cook' apron fastidiously, he quirked an eyebrow. "I'm rather surprised you didn't, given your track record in that department. Besides, if you were less of a sloven in the kitchen and washed up after making whatever disgusting convenience meal you shovelled down yourself last night, I wouldn't have had to go searching through your appallingly stacked cupboards for clean pans and you'd probably still be asleep. Entirely your own fault."
She gazed back at him, deadpan. "What the hell are you doing here, Lucifer? It's 4.30am."
He gestured extravagantly at the milk and flour sitting on the countertop. "Making breakfast, Detective! What does it look like?"
She shook her head in disbelief. "Of course you are. Silly of me to ask."
He beamed at her, oblivious. "There we are, then. Are pancakes to your taste this morning, Detective?"
"You have no idea how much I do not want pancakes right now, Lucifer."
His eyes darkened and the impossible grin widened even further as he flipped that internal switch that seemed to turn him from arrogant but clueless fop to smooth and sinuous seducer in a heartbeat. "Well. If you'd rather have me for breakfast, I'll happily oblige. I'm told I taste rather delicious topped with syrup and cream."
Chloe rolled her eyes, trying not to pay attention to the sudden HD footage of whipping cream, strawberries, and a very naked Civilian Consultant now playing out in her mind's eye. Oh god, these mental images were getting beyond a joke. Where did the strawberries come from?! He hadn't even mentioned fruit.
"So you broke into my apartment – again – to make breakfast. In the middle of the night," she stated, hoping he'd fail to notice the slight strangle in her voice.
"I most certainly did not!" Lucifer looked scandalised. "Breaking and entering is far beneath a man of my means and intelligence, Detective. I simply used my key."
Chloe spluttered. "You used your what, now? You have a key to my apartment? Maze and I need to have some serious words."
"Maze isn't the little demon you should be taking this up with, Detective." He reached into a pocket and produced a pink 'T' keyring, complete with plastic unicorn, from which dangled what was evidently a front door key to the apartment. "Turns out your spawn is very easily swayed to the Dark Side. In fact she's almost as devilish as I am."
Lost for words, Chloe leaned on the counter with her head in her hands. The ability of this man to confound her – not to mention corrupt her eight year old daughter – was almost preternatural. "Just… just tell me what this is about, Lucifer."
He cracked a couple of eggs and expertly whisked them into the milk and flour mixture. "Road trip, Detective!" he announced gaily. "Two days in Sin City. So run along and pack, there's a good girl; we fly at 7am."
Chloe's head was spinning. What the hell? Was this guy for real? He'd pulled some stunts in the time she'd known him, but this...? She was so busy trying to digest the sheer gall of the man that it was several seconds before she realised he was still speaking.
"…at the MGM Grand this evening. The occasion calls for a little refinement, darling, so none of your usual plebeian workaday jeans and t-shirt combos, hmm? Adorable as they are, obviously," he added hastily as he noticed her seething expression. He looked her up and down as he deftly flipped the pancakes. "And as sultry as you look with that bed-head, Detective, those penguin-patterned pyjamas are a sartorial sin worthy of hellfire itself and should definitely stay at home. In fact," he smirked, "I'd suggest you forego the pyjamas altogether. Travelling light, you know. Carry-on baggage only. More space for toys if you leave those monstrosities behind."
Chloe rolled her eyes so hard that she could practically see the back of her own head. "Whatever, Lucifer. First off, it's not a road trip if a plane is involved. And secondly, I'm not packing pyjamas," his face lit up at this, only to drop again as she continued, "Because I'm not packing anything at all. Because I'm. Not. Going. Anywhere."
"But Detective," he cajoled, drawing out the last syllable until she felt like slapping it out of his handsome mouth. She glared at him, ire rising even further as he slid a plate of perfectly fluffy, strawberry-topped pancakes in front of her on the counter. Strawberries. Seriously? Could he read her goddamn mind?
"You can't just do things like this, Lucifer. Turning up all, I dunno, Lucifery in the middle of the night, demanding God knows what –"
He looked nonplussed by her exasperation. "Come now, Detective. I can let the Dad reference slide just this once, but I think we both know that 'Lucifery' isn't really an adjective, don't we? Mustn't let grammatical standards slip just because we're overtired."
"I'm not over tired," she emphasised. "I'm over this. Get out. Now."
She picked up his jacket from where he'd hung it over the kitchen stool and shoved it into his arms, keeping her hands on his chest as she pushed him bodily towards the front door.
Surprised, he let her steer him backwards over the threshold, mesmerised by her strength of will and purpose. He stood at least a head taller than her, had held all the demons of Hell in thrall for eons, and yet this petite human with her huge blue eyes and her soul made of steel and light… she wielded a power over him that he was at a loss to explain. He was damned – literally – if he knew how she did it, and his mind raced as he tried to process the situation. He'd surprised her with breakfast and an expenses-paid trip to Vegas; quite the romantic gesture, he'd thought, if one happened to be that way inclined. Which he wasn't. Obviously. And yet here she was, guns blazing and all but throwing him out on his arse.
"Detective, I –"
"Can it, Lucifer. I'm not playing this game anymore. I'm going back to bed, and you, before you say it, are not gonna be anywhere in the vicinity when I do."
He grasped her hand in the hope that he could get her to stop prodding him ferociously in the chest – it was bloody uncomfortable, not to mention undignified – and held her palm over his heart. He genuinely didn't understand how they'd ended up at such cross-purposes, but he knew he had to fix it. On some level he also knew that it wasn't just because he needed her help. Nope, he told himself, absolutely not going there. He closed his eyes briefly and took a steadying lung-full of air, noticing how it seemed to get wrapped around something in his chest. Something that made it difficult to breathe. Emphysema, maybe? Bloody mortality. Might be time to give up the smokes.
"Detective," he said gently. "Chloe. I'm… sorry."
She stilled, startled as much by his apology as by his unaccustomed use of her given name, and disarmed by the pained, unguarded expression on his face. He looked… defeated.
"I've done this all wrong, haven't I?"
"You think?!"
To his credit, he looked somewhat abashed. "Let's start this again, shall we?"
She started to object, but he cut across her.
"Please, Detective. I really need your help."
So! What could possibly be so important in Vegas? Will Lucifer be able to convince Chloe to go with him? I'd love to know what you think of this so far and where you think it might be going, so hit me up with your comments and constructive criticism. Please bear in mind that it's my first attempt at writing, though, and go easy on me! :)