The motel's got a 3.8 rating on .

If you ask Chloe, the people who took the trouble grading the facilities of this establishment, were quite generous in their evaluations.

It takes her and Lucifer about 20 minutes to check in, and then he's is forced to pay cash because the motel's cash register doesn't accept credit cards ('what establishment in the year 2018 doesn't accept cards, Detective'? He whispers exasperatedly in her ear when the jaded clerk at the front desk turns around to look for change in his pockets. She only shrugs apologetically at him, secretly wondering the same thing herself); the vending machines at the reception are out of order, and Chloe spies with her little eye a washed-out stain near the entrance to one of the rooms that looks suspiciously like blood.

But the greatest star of all in this divine comedy is the room that the two partners get to share for the worthwhile cost of 55 dollars a night.

The faded yellow door creaks miserably when she tries to pry it open, flakes of peeling paint falling on her hand. Behind her, the Devil releases a long, suffering breath.

"Well, isn't this a gem?" she hears him mutter bad-temperedly as they shuffle inside the somewhat claustrophobic room. Chloe must admit, there's something to Lucifer's sullenness.

Calling the space, a room is somewhat stretching it; a cell would probably fit the description better, she thinks sarcastically, as she lowers the bag slung over her shoulder to the carpeted floor. The walls are coated in a worn-down layer of green that could once be described as 'vibrant', and apart from one askew framed picture of two kittens hanging by the door, they are bare. There is only one bed - barely big enough to fit two people - two tiny nightstands, one wooden console with a television set that looks like it came straight out of the 70s, a creaking chair, and a rusty looking teapot with two china cups. Chloe takes a step into the room and peaks through the half-open door to the bathroom; white tiles, a tarnished shelf with a plastic toothbrush holder, a cracked tub, and a chipped mirror. Well, this will have to do.

She turns around at the sound of anguish coming from behind her. Lucifer is browsing through the complimentary coffee/tea tray with apparent distaste; the look he's giving the instant coffee is simply priceless.

"Is the castle not to your liking, my Liege?" Chloe asks good-naturedly, and Lucifer drops the tiny packet as if it smells of something vile.

"It does lack some finery, I must admit," he deadpans, but the corners of his lips are twitching, and the glance he casts in her direction tells Chloe he's amused.

This is good. This is…good. They've been due 'good' for a while now.

They're here, in this hell-hole of a motel, for a case. It's not theirs, it's Dan's, but things have seemed to be getting out of hand, and he needed help, and, well… she owes him that much.

They found the first victim, a 37-year-old truck driver named Andy Craig, stashed in an alley outside of a local bar just across the road from the motel. He was tall, dark, and strangled, and he stayed at the decaying, filthy accommodation, of all places under the sun; just resting for the night, and out for a drink – at least that's what he told the bartender at that local bar, a few hours before he died.

The second victim was a 33-year-old engineer named Josh Adams, who was cheating on his wife with her Pilates instructor, who had a good pair of tits and legs for days – all according to the observations of the pimply, barely-out-of-his-teens clerk who checked the necking couple in. Josh too liked a dram before bed, and very much like Andy, was also tall, dark and dead; with the final resting place in the alley, and the ligature marks around his neck to match.

The third victim, 36-year-old Mike Baker, who was trying his luck late in life, wishing to be somebody in the glamorous City of Angels, was no different.

Out of leads, full of dead ends, and with what seemed like a serial killer on the loose, Dan was out of options. The situation was declared all-hands-on-deck, Chloe and Lucifer were roped in, and then somebody just had to point out how much Lucifer fit the serial killer's profile.

Because, apparently, the Devil is tall, dark, and in his thirties. And seemingly, quite benevolent as well, because he agreed to help almost instantly, with nearly no hesitation and just a quick side glance at her.

And so, this is how they find themselves - two weeks after the first victim was discovered - caged in this sorry excuse for a motel room, posing as a couple – sort of; a somewhat hasty development in their relationship –made up as it may be - when one considers that only recently they decided to stop walking on egg-shells around each other.

It doesn't always work.

"Well, it's only for a few days, hopefully," she says and points to the bags, "should we unpack? I could do yours too, if you'd like."

"Yes, thank you, Detective," he says and removes his jacket, flinging it on the bed. Chloe tries not to stare.

He's not dressed as himself for this case; can't, really - because nobody would ever believe that a man who can afford an Armani three-piece suit would stay in this dump of his own free will. No, he's not wearing a tailor-made, God-only-knows the thread count, suit; he's wearing fitting jeans, and a t-shirt and that leather jacket he had back in the early days of their partnership, back when she shot him.

He may not look like the Lucifer Morningstar LA knows, but he still looks good enough to eat. And then some.

Which is not helping matters at all, because things have never been more awkward between them, and the tension alone can be channelled towards weapon manufacturing, and now – of all freaking times – they are stuck in a room with one bed and no escape option.

Chloe drops both bags on the bed, while Lucifer busies himself on his phone.

"Hey," she calls to him without turning, "can you check if the console has drawers, and if so, do they open?"

He doesn't answer, but she can hear the screeching noises of wood being manipulated into cooperation after aeons of being stuck into place by substances the nature of which she has no wish of discovering.

"It has, and it does," he answers after some more tugging, and she hums her thanks in reply.

The first bag she opens is his; all his grooming toiletries are there, and she puts them aside in a group destined for the meagre bathroom. Next, come the t-shirts, another pair of pants, some black boxer briefs that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, and –

She pauses when she reaches the socks.

There are five pairs, each one a different colour, and adorned with some geometric design, or a funny cartoon character. And suddenly Chloe can't help herself, and giggles.

"What's so funny?" he asks from behind, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how they get back to them.

She turns around with a pair of socks in her hands and finds him fidgeting with the TV.

"Who knew the Devil had such funky socks," she chuckles, wiggling the pair in her hand before his eyes. Lucifer straightens and fixes her with a look that she can't quite read and her smile falters.

"Well, it can't be pitchforks and horns all the time, Detective," he says with a strange tint to his voice, "not all my clothes are as black as my soul."

He's hurt. This much is obvious. She's an idiot, and she can't catch a break.

So much for not walking on egg-shells.

"No, Lucifer," she stutters, desperately trying to recall the silly high from just a moment before; tries to get back to that lovely minute when she could hear him smiling, "I- I didn't mean it like that – "

"Don't worry, Detective," he tells her, and gives her that sad smile of his that speaks of reconciling oneself with constant judgment and rejection, "it's fine."

But it's not fine. Nothing is.

Not anymore.

"So, we know that all victims stayed in this motel, and all frequented the bar across the road some hours before they died."

She's sitting on the bed, cross-legged, with the case file in her hands. Lucifer is lounging in the only chair in the room, his long legs stretched before him, arms folded behind his head. His eyes are closed, and he appears dead to the world.

"So, it's safe to assume that the killer is one of the bar patrons?" he asks, not bothering to open his eyes.

Chloe frowns and regards the file.

"Maybe," she says, twisting her mouth in frustration, "but Dan asked around…there aren't any regulars – nobody that stayed for the duration of the killing spree – at least not according to the bartender."

Lucifer hums and turns his head in her direction. His eyes are finally open.

"And the bartender?" he asks flatly. Chloe shakes her head.

"She was serving drinks all night on all three occasions, apparently," she says; Lucifer hums again and turns his head from her to stare at the ceiling. Consulting her file once more, Chloe adds, "it seems that the back alley doesn't have any cameras, so that's a bust."

Over in the chair, Lucifer frowns.

"What a pity," he mutters, "and so very convenient for our murderer."

It's Chloe's turn to hum.

"It is," she agrees, and looks up at him, only to find him studying her again.

"So, what's our plan?" he asks, when he's sure he has her undivided attention, "we go in as a cheating couple? Drink the bar dry and wait for the killer to try and strangle me?"

She frowns at him, and he smirks at her. Oh, he's joking. Sort of.

Well, she supposes this is better than nothing. She'll take it.

"Well, as entertaining as it may be for me to watch," she says and cocks her eyebrow; Lucifer's smile widens, "sadly no. You walk in by yourself, I will take a distant table where I may be inconspicuous. I'll have an earpiece, so I'll be able to hear what you are saying. You'll sit at the bar and chat with the bartender; attract attention. You know," she gestures with her hand in his general direction," be you."

"Right," he chuckles and stretches, the hem of his t-shirt riding upwards and revealing a sliver of skin; Chloe buries her nose in the case file.

"Right," she echoes, not daring to lift her head from the papers. Ogling her Devilish partner is out of the question now.

After another five minutes of staring at the file and not seeing a damned thing, she sighs and throws the wretched folder as far away from her as possible; it lands with a satisfying 'thump' on the other side of the bed.

"What's on your mind?" she hears from the direction of the chair and turns to see Lucifer regarding her with interest.

"Nothing," she shrugs and yawns; she's suddenly so tired she could sleep for a week, "just thought it might be a good time to turn in."

Lucifer looks at his watch and frowns.

"It's 22:00, Detective; is it past your curfew already?"

Chloe throws a pillow at him; which he grabs out of thin air. Inhumanly fast. Because he's not- human. She shakes her head to rid herself of these thoughts; best not go down the rabbit hole now.

"Don't be an ass," she says instead, falling back on the bed, "busy day tomorrow, killer to catch and all that."

"And you're knackered," he adds, sitting a bit straighter in the wretched chair. At Chloe's inquiring lift of an eyebrow he shrugs, "you were yawning so widely, I frankly am astounded you managed to keep from dislocating your jaw. Go on, Detective; rest your pretty head."

Chloe waits for a few minutes and then sits up, puzzled, to regards him when it becomes obvious that he's not budging from the chair.

"Well, what about you?" she asks, her brow creasing.

"What about me?"

She looks at the bed; there's enough space for them both if they sleep pressed together. Her face feels incredibly warm at the thought.

"Aren't you going to…you know," the blush is threatening to engulf her entire head, ears included, "rest too? Here, with me?"

She expects him to snort and tell her off for daring to assume that he would ever get into bed at such an early hour when sex isn't on the table, she even expects a smug smile, or a naughty remark; what she does not expect, however, is the look of resignation on his face, and the lowered gaze he keeps averting from her.

"Out of the question, darling," he answers so softly, that for a moment she's not even sure she's heard him speak at all.

"W-what?" she matches his quiet tone, not daring to voice her inquiry out loud. For surely, if she were to speak above a whisper, the choking lump accumulating in her throat will swell to a suffocating size.

Lucifer fidgets with his watch in lieu of his absent cufflinks. He's clearly uncomfortable and skittish; no doubt wanting to be as far away from her as inhumanely possible.

Lead settles in her belly, blood drains from her face.

So, this is how he finally breaks her.

"You've…not been sleeping well, have you, Detective?" he offers at last when the silence is too dense and bracing for either of them to bare, "I can see it as plain as day."

He's not wrong, of course. She's not had a proper night of sleep ever since the fiasco with the man who claimed to love her; ever since -

It's not for fear of him, or his Devil face that she loses sleep at night; but rather for the anguish that she suffers on his account, and for the impossible truth that was laid at her door. God is real, Angels are real, and the devil…?

The Devil is a man who has seen too many days, too many sorrows, and not enough light.

Not since the stars, and the moon, and the sun; not since the Fall.

"What of it?" she chokes, already starting to feel the deep stinging behind her eyes; she knows how this ends.

He scoffs and finally looks at her, and the look on his face would send her to her knees, praying if she ever believed in that sort of thing (yes, even now). He looks shattered, devastated, and all she wants to do is cast herself at him and assure him of redemption. But she doesn't. There is no knowing how he might react.

The Devil doesn't want redemption… does he?

"Chloe…" the way her name slips from his lips, the sad smile that accompanies it; she shakes her head desperately, and he moves in his chair as though he means to go to her, "if you were to wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night and see me in bed with you…I don't think I'll live down the look on your face. Selfish of me, I know."

But he stays put, and she finds herself unable to move as well. How can he be so wrong?

"No…" she breathes, tears building in her eyes, "no, you're mistaken, Lucifer…"

"So, you've not been having nightmares lately?" he asks, and the sarcastic tone in his voice, and that almost cruel twist of his mouth, they cut at her like steel.

"No, I have, but - "

But they are not of you.

She is unable to say it; the words are rising in her throat, blocked at the gates of her vocal cords, and she can't cough them out.

How did it all go so wrong between them?

At first, when she sees his face for the first time on that day in that wretched loft, she's frightened out of her wits. Not of him, as such – not of his face – but of the idea that he exists in the world, and with him, the rest of the divine that has claims upon her soul.

But later, when the sheer panic passes, she begins to ache for him.

It's not a sort of throbbing for his presence, or his body, but for him- for his being. She simply aches and feels pain on his behalf.

And she usually manages to suppress it during the day, to throw herself into work, to drown herself in the coconut scent of her daughter's hair; but at night…at night the ache comes, and it lives, and thrives in the cavity of her chest, until all she can to do is weep herself to sleep.

And the dreams?

They are full of his Fall, of his burning flesh and of his pain; they are full of his loneliness, and his rejection.

But no, they are not of him. They are for him.

And the worst part of it all is that she misses him – the him before the truth – she misses him as a friend, misses him as a partner, and, as silly as it may sound, misses him as the lover that he may have become had not –

Had not Cain, had not life, had not this stale air between them that no open window can dispel.

"I'm…" she's almost crying in earnest now, tears crawling down her heated cheeks, "I'm not afraid of you, Lucifer; I'm not..."

He smiles sadly at her but stays firm in his refusal.

"Truth is, darling, I do not need much sleep, as you recall," he says placatingly, reaching for his bag that lies at his feet, "I have my kindle with me - true, I'd have preferred a proper book, but dire circumstances and all – don't worry on my account. Go to sleep, Chloe."

A headache from repressing her tears for so long embraces Chloe like a lover. She closes her eyes, too tired to be. In the background, she hears him moving about, hears running water, and some rummaging in one of the bags. Soon, she feels a weight upon the bed by her side and opens her eyes to darkness.

He turned off the light, to ease the pressure on her irritated eyes. She takes a shuddering breath and looks at him. Lucifer sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to her so that she feels his warmth even though he's not pressed to her. He offers her a glass of water and two advils.

"Here, darling, "he drops the pills into her hand, "drink these."

Chloe does as she's told, rather obediently, and settles against the musty pillows, not bothering to brush her teeth or change into her sleeping wear. She feels drained, fatigued beyond words, exactly as she did after her father's funeral. It's grief, she realises with a broken heart; she grieves.

"Now," Lucifer begins after he's assured of her cooperation, "let me tell you a funny little story about Amenadiel and a certain prank involving some mangos and a rather large pineapple that Azrael and yours truly pulled on him…"

She falls asleep to the sound of his voice.