Lucifer showed up at Chloe's home at 6:30 exactly that night, despite his earlier whining and groveling; at this point his reluctance was all for show. He, Father help him, actually liked Beatrice- not that he'd ever admit to it. The child was the perfect mix of charming, clever and conniving - truly, he had to admire her for it. And, even when Chloe hadn't believed, Beatrice had, all quiet, steady and trusting.
Chloe opened the door after his first knock. She looked flustered, almost out of breath and messy; a few strands of her hair covered her face and his traitorous fingers itched to reach out and brush them back behind her ears. She was so beautiful; the thought came, unbidden to his mind, a truth he couldn't take back. He felt that he did an admirable job keeping the words back, holding his tongue.
"Thank you so much for agreeing to watch her for weekend," she said, pulling him into her home, and closing the door behind him, "I'm sorry that it was on such short notice. It's just that Inez cancelled on us at the last minute and -" her words seemed to run into one another, seemingly all spit out in a single breath.
"It's quite alright Detective," he said, internally grimacing at the next words that were to come out of his mouth, "I had no weekend plans to be disrupted darling. And your spawn is quite tolerable." This too was something that it had been his earlier intent to hold inside himself, a truth never to be spoken, but Chloe had a way about her that had his tongue loosening and spilling his secret Truths.
Her face softened, and her lips turned up into a warm smile, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she pulled him into a hug. Against his better judgement, he wrapped his arms around her, running his fingers through her long ponytail, a gesture that was almost foreign to him. She buried her face in his chest and mumbled something completely inaudible to him; he didn't ask her to repeat it, afraid of what it might be. Lucifer could feel her tears wetting his shirt. He should have minded, but, because it was her, he didn't (couldn't). He was filled with warmth in this moment, a warmth that extended beyond the heat of her body pressed tight against his. He couldn't (wouldn't) name it.
Her soul smelt of grief, and, not for the first time, he wished that his own gifts worked on her, so he could more easily find out what she wanted, needed. But that was not the reality of his situation; he was left wondering, desperately scrambling to translate her into a language that he could read, always, frustratingly, a beat behind. He took a leap, and if he had been a man, a praying man he would have made a desperate prayer, begging that his next move was right.
He pulled her even closer to him.
"Sh sh, sh, Darling," he murmured, gently stroking her back, fingers moving in what he hoped were soothing motions, "It's quite alright."
She lifted her head from his chest, but otherwise made no moves to separate herself from him. She had stopped crying, but her eyes were still watery. The bitter smell of grief in her soul was waning.
"It's just," she began, catching her breath, "It's this whole stupid conference."
He waited for her to continue, silent, though it didn't quite come naturally to him.
"I really don't want to go to this stupid conference, but Lieutenant Monroe insisted on sending me," she said, "And normally I'd have Dan or his parents watch her-"
"But Dan's going to the conference too," he said, "and, Dan's parents," he paused for a moment shuffling through everything that Beatrice had said to him lately, "are in Barbados." He was secretly quite pleased that he'd remembered these little tidbits of information.
"Yeah," Chloe said, more breath than word.
"So you're stuck with me," Lucifer said, with a sad smile, "the last person you want spawn-sitting." A knot tightened in his stomach; when she'd called him earlier and asked him to watch her child for the weekend he'd suspected that she was only calling him as a last resort. He wasn't sure why the thought of this was bothering him now. Shouldn't he have been pleased that she had no interest in making him spawn-sit?
Chloe giggled, "Oh, I wouldn't say that," she said, "You're not that bad, you know."
The knot untangled itself, and that strange warmth was rising in him again, like a wave threatening to drown him. He didn't say anything to her, unsure what the next step should be, a place he found himself in constantly with her. He wondered if this frustrated her, that he was always just a bit lost; maybe she needed a better, human friend.
She let go of him, slowly and then, all at once. He immediately felt colder without her body against his own, missing the weight and warmth of it.
She dried her eyes and said, "Come on, Trixie's in the kitchen."
He followed her through her home, suddenly filled with trepidation.
"Her bedtime is eight PM," Chloe said, "and she needs to eat three, full, healthy meals everyday," she added pointedly, "I also made a whole sheet with emergency contact numbers and other things you might need to know. It's on the fridge."
He repeated her instructions back to her, making sure to commit them to memory. The Detective was trusting him with something huge, important. Under Linda's unfailingly patient tutelage Lucifer had come to understand that the child was always going to be the Detective's top priority. He knew that he couldn't mess this up; if he did, she could retract her trust, and he had no intention of letting that happen. Lucifer couldn't pinpoint when her opinion of him, and her trust in him had become so vital to his life, but someway or other it had. Worst of all, he hadn't been able to muster up the strength to care that it had.
Beatrice was seated at the breakfast bar, and had armed herself with coloured pencils and paper. The child was so absorbed in her artwork that she didn't jump up and fling herself at him in greeting, as she was wont to do.
"Trixie babe," Chloe said, coming up behind her daughter, "I'm leaving now. You and Lucifer better behave." Her voice was gentle and that soft smile remained; it seemed that she wasn't expecting any misbehaviour from either of them, that she was giving the warning as a formality.
The child really was enraptured by her drawing, because even this didn't manage to elicit much of a response from her, "Okay Mommy," she said without once looking up, "I love you!"
Chloe pressed a kiss to the crown of her daughter's head and swept out of the room. As she passed him she gave a warm look and mouthed, "Thank you," at him. He shifted slightly, discomfited. Her gratitude for his actions, though he'd been on the receiving end of it for the better part of year, still made him uncomfortable; truthfully, he felt undeserving of her gratitude.
The sound of Chloe closing the front door as she left startled him from his thoughts. She was gone and he was alone in the room with the child. He kept his distance at first, standing board-stiff, watching. But, as she was wont to, Beatrice found a way to draw him in — much like her mother. Lucifer wondered sometimes if this unexplainable pull he felt around the Decker women, this boundless, uncontrollable desire to be near them was how humans felt under his thrall. But he didn't ponder it too much, because that would mean that he would have to consider the full truth of his feelings for them, a warmth he pushed away, certain he was undeserving of it.
Beatrice was drawing the stars. It wasn't a particularly good looking depiction— it was a child's drawing after all, but it was recognisable enough.
"You know the real thing is far more beautiful," he said almost stiffly. He was fairly certain that Beatrice, who had lived in LA for the whole of her miniscule life had not really seen stars. His stars were covered from view by human lights and smog; some days he found himself missing the sight of them too.
Beatrice laughed, warm and right — the sound felt like, like... light. He didn't think too closely about it.
"Of course they are," she said when she'd finished giggling.
She set her coloured pencil down and looked at him for a moment as though she thought he was being intentionally thick. He didn't know how to respond to her, at a loss with the child — a way he constantly found himself feeling when faced with her.
Then, a beat, a pause, "We could go see the real stars," he said, "If you want," he added quickly the three words escaping his mouth in a single breath. Father, he was never this awkward around anyone else; at least Beatrice wouldn't be holding it against him, or worse telling others about it.
She smiled radiantly, setting down her gold coloured pencil. Her soul was warm and light; the heat of it soaked into him as he looked at it.
"Could we?" she asked.
"I did offer child," he said.
Suddenly (though he should have expected it), she jumped up and flung herself at him, hugging him tightly. He stiffened at first, but as she tightened her hold, he found the tension in his body dropping. He didn't want to examine his feelings on the matter, so he did his novel best to ignore them, and disentangle himself from the child so the unnamed, heavy, heavy, feeling would leave him be.
"Child," he said, low, warning.
She giggled, and leaned closer in to him, evaporating the meager distance he'd managed to put between their bodies. At the very least, he was thankful that she was not sticky, or drooling or otherwise afflicted with whatever other gross things came along with small humans.
"You need to learn how to do hugs Lucifer," Beatrice said, looking up at him.
He made a face of distaste, which only sent Beatrice into another fit of giggles. The worst part of this whole situation was the tiny, buried part of himself that had taken a great fancy to the idea of Beatrice's particular tutelage in the art of hugging. He ruthlessly shoved this small, inner self down, smothering it so he could no longer hear it.
"It's okay," she said, "I'll teach you."
He suddenly felt as though he was at some kind of precipice, looking over the edge of a cliff into a running river. Leap, leap, leap came an all too human whisper. He put one foot forward, for a single moment, and then, turned away. Not yet. Coward.
Lucifer managed to pry the child off of him finally. He made for the door, car keys in hand.
"Come on child," he said, "We should get going if we're going to go see the stars."
For dramatic effect, he jangled the car keys loudly. Beatrice sprinted at him. They settled into the Corvette, and before he took off he texted Chloe telling her their plans. (He would later mention this particular development of his, this affliction of consideration to Linda.)
They drove on, not exchanging any words. When they hit the highway and he sped up, Beatrice let out a loud whoop, startling him for a moment - a reaction he did his damndest to hide. Fortunately for him, the child was too excited about high speed driving in an open convertible to pay attention to much else.
"I love your car!" she said.
He wasn't sure how to respond so he remained silent, focused on the road. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure where he was taking them to look at the stars. As always, he jumped into this adventure without thinking ahead. He had always been a free-flowing, energetic child with no sense of future. Samael, what did I tell you about jumping without thinking? His father's frequent lecture remained, persistent to the last, rattling around in his head eons after the last time he'd heard it - the lesson still unlearnt. He decided that he wanted to go to a beach, far outside the city, far from the human created light that the city was composed of, that light that wasn't quite his own.
For being a sticky, energetic little spawn, Beatrice remained impressively quiet and patient for the remainder of the forty minute drive, another, reluctantly given point in her favour.
They stood side by side on the beach, looking up at the stars, her impossibly tiny body leaning into him, her human warmth leaching into his body. There were tears in her eyes. Had he made a mistake in taking her here?
"They're even prettier than I thought they'd be," said Beatrice, sniffling.
This had been the right course of action, he told himself.
Before he could stop himself, close his mouth, words came tumbling out, messy and uncoordinated, "I- Thank you."
He hadn't fully anticipated how this excursion might make him feel, caught up in the idea of showing off his most treasured Creations to the child, intent only on dazzling her. Samael, what did I tell you about jumping without thinking?
She looked up at him then, giving him a puzzled look, waiting patiently for him to explain himself. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely registered her look.
It was silent for a moment, two, before he collected himself and spoke, "I created the stars, you know," he said with a tiny, pompous sniff.
Her eyes were wide as saucers, "Woaaahhhh," she said.
She was still innocent enough, young enough that she took things on faith alone. Looking down at her face in that moment he missed his own naivety. He felt empty inside, sick with longing; the feeling became too much, so he looked away and it abetted, washing away, to be swallowed by the darkness. They shared a few more minutes in silence just staring up into the night sky at his lovely, lovely creations. The aching emptiness returned with a vengeance. Desire, was after all, his gift and his curse.
"What was it like?" Beatrice asked, voice soft, barely there. The moment carried a feeling of solemnity to it, a calm they both seemed afraid to break.
"What was what like child?" he said, his own voice just as soft.
"Being up there, flying in the stars," she said, voice filled with bright, breathless wonder.
The wonder in her soul burned like newborn star and smelt like springtime in Paradise.
His stomach felt heavy, remembering. In this moment, wingless, grounded, he was farther from the stars than he'd been in Hell. Looking upwards only made his body tingle, remembering that he was more heavens than earth; he was a creature of sky, stardust and light. He could remember in exacting detail, unwavering clarity, flying high above this tiny earth, being half-joined to the infinite cosmos. In missing it, he had never felt smaller, more scooped out and empty. Desire was, after all his gift and his curse.
He remembered the warmth of an infant star between his palms and his mind, and he remembered his all consuming love for his Father. The memory was bittersweet now, half bliss, half agony. He shivered, feeling cold.
All the while Beatrice stood, silent, waiting for his answer. She could be like this sometimes he knew — quiet and more grown-up than her age. She was perceptive, knowing. They had been staring upwards, standing in silence for so long that his throat had begun to feel sticky, closed up.
"I-" he began, voice low and hoarse, "It was bliss."
This time he felt certain that his voice spoke of nothing but agonizing longing.
Beatrice remained silent, waiting.
"There aren't-" he began again, "Human language doesn't have the right words."
He looked down then, just now noticing that his shoes had become covered in sand.
"But you speak another language," Beatrice said, looking at him earnestly, face full of genuine curiosity, "Right?" she added on, softer, unsure.
"Yes child," he said. The heavenly tongue, he thought but did not speak.
She looked at him expectantly. Maybe the Detective — Chloe, Chloe, was right; Beatrice had her own God-given gift. Samael what did I tell you about jumping without thinking?
He lept.
He spoke the words then, words he knew she would have no understanding of; she could, at least feel them. He spoke his longing, his joy, boundless, loud, unwavering.
Beatrice's face light up. Her soul smelt of joy and wonder and awe and terror.
His skin was glowing, eyes almost white; he didn't notice his own light, but she did. She took in his light and the ghostly sight of his long gone wings, and she was not afraid of him.