For Who Could Ever Love a Beast

Part Two

Why couldn't he turn it off? The wings, the devil face—he couldn't shut it off. Why? He hadn't wanted her to find out this way, not in the heated aftermath wherein they'd fought for their lives. Not after he'd murdered a man. Not after he'd murdered others because he couldn't stand the thought anything happening to her. And then, when her gaze had finally landed on him... on this...

Why wouldn't she leave?

He froze in her grasp, his breath holding tight in his lungs; his gaze focused on her—really focused on Chloe. He sunk into the endless blue of her eyes, the clearest window to any human soul, and bathed in the threads of color laden there—the slices of ice, sky, and sapphire. The tears that settled on the corners, the stains the painted on her cheeks—he took it all in as her admission finally caught up with him, finally cut through the pain and desire for her to leave him to it.

"…What did you say?" he said in a hushed and urgent whisper.

She paused, her grip on his wrists gentling enough that her skin slid against his own. "I… I said a lot of things."

He moved into her space then, unable to stop himself. And for a moment, when her eyes widened, he nearly stepped back. But she must have realized this because she let go of his wrists and placed her hands on his hips—holding fast; she moved close enough to brush her chest against his, to breathe the air he expelled, to feel the unnatural heat coming off of him in waves.

Again, he couldn't find words. All he could do was will himself to settle. But it seemed impossible. Never in his life had he cared so much about one person's opinion of him. One person's judgement.

Never.

"You said you loved me," he managed next, letting her hold him there.

Another pause, as if she too were registering and processing every moment between them. "I did," she finally whispered back. "Do you need me to say it again?"

He hesitated, swallowed once, and then forced the words to the surface—wondering if he sounded like a selfish stupid idiot. "Can you?" His voice was just as soft as before.

Her arms slid around him slowly—palms smoothing out along his back in what could only be described as caressing; her eyes shut as she pressed her forehead to his. It was impossible not to embrace her in turn, his heart hammering a mile a minute.

"I love you, Lucifer Morningstar," she whispered back. "Now," she went on, "will you please quit fighting me and let me help you?"

If she left he would heal in his own time; it wouldn't take as long, granted, and he wouldn't need the bandages, but… then she wouldn't be here. As much as he hated her seeing him like this, as much as his own self-loathing and shame reverberated through him, he was too selfish to actually make her go. Not now. Not when she'd said…

His chest eased slightly and he nodded. He believed her, and yet…

"Come on," she encouraged him, tugging him back towards the bed. She stepped out of the circle of his arms ever so slowly. One hand moved to grasp his, the other rested on his bare lower back. He followed her, letting her guide him in numb silence. Now that he wasn't focused on hiding from her quite so desperately the pain had returned. He did his best not to wince as she directed him to sit on the edge of the bed. It was awkward; his wings didn't want to lay right at first. And that too made him wince and hiss; but Chloe hastened to help.

She lifted one carefully, helping him spread it out and to the side behind him. "Like this?"

"Yes, that's… that's much better," he exhaled. They felt as though they'd been run through a grinder and spit back out.

He was tense about the other wing, his left, until she gently lifted it and manually spread it like she'd done the other. He allowed his muscles to relax so she could, once again releasing another tight breath. It felt so bloody good to have the weight off his shoulders and back, to not have to fight to keep them up—something he hadn't realized he was doing until they were no longer doing as much.

"Thank you," he breathed out, his hands covering his face as he bent over close to his knees. He fought the urge to throw up as the pain washed over him in one wave before dying down to a tolerable hum.

"You're welcome," she said in quiet reply. Next, he listened as she rummaged through something. He could hear plastic and zippers. After a moment—once he felt good enough to move—he lifted his head to see what she was doing. On the floor she sat, a large unzipped packet opened in front of her with more than a dozen medical supplies. It was splayed like a book, and, he watched as she eyed different boxes and packages before grabbing what she wanted and setting them on the bed next to him.

"I need to get to the cuts on your side and chest. I still need to clean them too," she added after a visible realization. "No, I forgot I still need to wash your whole front."

So he lifted himself straighter without a word and looked away. He shut his eyes and exhaled another painful sigh once he felt the wet cloth on the first of the injuries.

"If you're having a hard time now," she said gently, "you're not going to be happy once I get to the bullets."

"I'll push through it," was his instinctive response, half defensive. Not that he'd meant to be. But he couldn't help but notice the way her hand seemed to still for a fraction of a second. "It's fine, Chloe," he elaborated.

"You've been through worse." It wasn't a question, but more a statement.

"…Yes."

She didn't ask, and he felt a sense of relief at that. So he sucked in the quiet that wrapped around them like a warm blanket as she worked—as she wiped the rag along his abdomen, his arms and shoulders, his sides, his hips, and then his legs. His gaze shifted to her when she didn't stop at his wounds. They'd clotted well enough that she didn't have to cover them right away. Maybe he healed just as fast regardless of her presence. Maybe it was the initial injury that wasn't preventable; sort of how alcohol still didn't work very well in normal human doses around her. It would be a relief to know her absence didn't make a difference in recovery time. Though, right now his mind was focusing on something entirely unrelated to any of the aforementioned.

At the moment he was mesmerized by the sight of her kneeling at his feet—at the sight of her washing his feet. He couldn't move; couldn't find the will to do so. All of the pain, the ache in his chest, the emotional agony he'd been holding onto released itself in one swoop. By the stars, what was she doing to him?

"Lucifer?" he heard her say, stopping. "What's wrong?" Her voice was urgent. Her hands were on his cheeks, wiping. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry."

He realized he was crying and shook his head, taking in a sharp and shaky breath. "Quite the opposite, actually," he replied.

"I don't understand." Her concerned gaze narrowed on him. Her thumbs wiped at the tears that wouldn't stop falling. He needed to stop, but he couldn't.

So he opted to explain—hoping that getting the words out would make it easier rein in on the reaction he couldn't put a control valve on. "In… I guess what you would call biblical era, it was customary to wash the feet of a guest in a home of another. Not shocking, as feet got quite dirty in those days—what with the desert and all." He paused long enough to let her wipe his face, which only managed to make the mixture of disbelief and gratitude heavier. "However, it was an act that was usually relegated to servants. In the rare case the head of household did it… it was considered a gesture of humility and…" He trailed off, swallowing. "You might compare it to a display of supreme affection and respect." He was staring at his hands there, looking at the way they lay in his lap.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting her to do next.

What he didn't expect was the way she took hold of his chin and forced him to look at her. Nor did he expect the softness of her eyes, the way she caressed a hand down his face—making him ache for the warmth she provided. But what took him by surprise the most—beyond anything else—was the press of her lips to his own.

At first he tensed—inhaling sharply through his nose. But when she opened her mouth to his he relaxed almost immediately, sinking into her in every way possible.

How was you didn't know you needed something until someone came along—and in spite of it all—offered it freely? She gave him compassion like it was something she could suffuse into his veins through will alone; like if she tried hard enough she could suck all of the pain and agony out of him all by just wanting it badly enough.

When she pulled away finally, he was breathless with too many feelings to count. He didn't know which one to process first. But her voice, quiet and just as gentle as ever, cut through him and continued to make him hyperaware of her presence.

"It's gone. Lucifer, your skin..."

He looked down at his hands, his bare legs; pink flesh, not red. The skin he'd been born with, not the skin he'd been damned with. He let out a sigh of relief, another weight lifting immediately. He shut his eyes briefly and wiped a hand down his face—then pushed fingers through his mussed hair as he spoke, "Thank you—again."

Her brow knit and he could tell she was confused. So he offered her a small smile, surprising himself. "My brother recently proved a theory that metaphor can be quite literal for angels—for me. I think; therefore I am. Thus, if I believe myself to be the villain in this tale, then I am."

She scrutinized him carefully, frowning only slightly—still in confusion. "I understand, but… that doesn't explain why—"

"Why I'm thanking you?" The smile remained as he reached out to her slowly, as he smoothed long slender digits across her cheeks and tugged her back towards him; it was easier to do now that he wasn't suffocating under the pressure of his Devil Face. His shut his eyes as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her there—not quite brave enough to meet her gaze as he spoke across her temple in a soft and murmuring voice.

"Your judgement of me is quite valuable; quite valuable to a creature that has far too little value for himself," he admitted. "Despite fear screaming at you otherwise, you brought me home. Despite my best efforts to rid you of me, you have stayed." He didn't like it, but he couldn't help the way his throat tightened when he spoke the next. "No one has ever washed my feet before—certainly not while I was…" He took breath inward, centering himself and pushing onward. "You make me want to be a better man, Detective."

Even as he said it he realized it was true. Until then he hadn't fully understood, not until the words were leaving his mouth. And in the same breath he said, "I love you too."

She went still a moment and he was worried he'd said something wrong. But when she gently wrapped her arms around him he relaxed and hugged her back.

They stayed that way for good minute before she pulled away and absolutely insisted he left her finish tending to him—promising to leave the worst of it—the bullets that were lodged in his wings and arm—until Maze showed. So he let her, never once allowing his gaze leave her. And when she finished, as if by some kind of magic that predicted the most opportune time, her phone rang.

#

"Is everything alright?" she asked as she stood and held a hand up for Lucifer to wait a moment. He waved her off and Chloe stepped out the room, not quite as stressed about his condition now that she'd managed to make him look less like a horror movie victim. His wings were still heartbreaking to behold, but she wasn't afraid to leave him alone for a few minutes.

"Decker," Maze's voice deadpanned on the other line. "What the hell happened here? I mean, I figured it was bad. But fuck, woman."

So Chloe explained everything and then some for context's sake. She told Maze about how Pierce had killed Charlotte, how they'd been afraid to tell the department, how he'd been the Sinnerman, and about the trap she and Lucifer had walked into. All of it—figuring that if Maze knew about his wings, if she hadn't started interrupting her, that she probably knew about everything else.

"Look," Maze finally said when she was done, "there's a lot there I could address, but I can do that later. Right now I need to figure out how you want this mess cleaned up and set beyond the feather business."

"What do you mean?"

"Cops aren't here yet. Pierce either set something up, or I don't know… Honestly, there's enough ammo on the floor here that someone should have heard. But it doesn't really matter; eventually someone is going to come sniffing. And, Decker, you guys did this off the books. You, Dan, and Ella. Ella could probably get off with a slap on the wrist, but you and Dan already have a record. So if you try to go legit with this? It's gonna be a fucking nightmare."

"…What are you suggesting?"

Maze sighed, and she could hear her pace—the clip of her boots on tile. "You've got enough evidence to plant for Charlotte's murder and the Sinnerman gig—to pin it on Pierce. As for the scene, I can make it look like his hired help decided it was time to take him out. I can pay a few key witnesses to make sure it isn't questioned."

Chloe sighed. Maze wasn't wrong. And while it went against the very fiber of her being to tamper with the truth, she wasn't dealing with normal circumstances at the moment. "You'll have to get Dan and Ella on board."

"Not a problem."

"How are you going to do that without telling them that Lucifer is…"

"What? Lucifer?" Maze finished for her. "I'm not going to tell them anything. All they know is that you went to investigate a lead, right?"

"Yes," Chloe sighed out in frustration as she wiped a hand down her face, pacing herself. "But I think they're going to figure out that something is up when the place they find Pierce and his dead henchmen in is the same place I was supposed to look into. They knew where I was going."

"Ah… yeah, that could be an issue."

"You think?" Chloe let her hand hit her hip in some finalization of this statement.

"I'll just move the crime scene," Maze grumbled. "It'll be a bigger pain in the ass, but I'll manage. It certainly isn't the first time I've had had to clean up after him, trust me." Before Chloe could comment, she went on, "Just call Dan and Ella and tell them—"

"Maybe we should just tell them the truth," she interrupted.

There was silence on the other end of the line at that. But Maze wasn't arguing with her, so that was a good sign. "I… I wouldn't even consider it," she went on, "but it feels bad enough lying to the whole precinct, you know? I get why we have to, but I'd feel belter if we told Dan and Ella the truth."

There was more silence and then a long sigh—as if Maze was resigned. "I'll text you an address. Tell Dan and Ella to meet you there in about an hour and a half as soon as you get off the phone with me."

"Me? Why—"

"You won't actually meet them. I will. I'll handle it, but they're probably going to want to talk to you. Soon."

"How are you going to convince them?"

"I'm going to bring Linda and Amenadiel with me; Linda knows and Amenadiel is Amenadiel. I'll make it work. Then I'll see you after, alright?"

"Ok," she agreed, not knowing what else to say. When Maze hung up without another word, Chloe let out a long sigh. She sent the text to Dan, who asked her if everything was alright. She told him she was ok, but that she didn't have time to get into the details—and not to call her. She wasn't sure she could lie to him over a call. He'd think it was a matter of safety and wouldn't text again. When he didn't, she let out another sigh—grateful.

It occurred to her a few moments later that Amenadiel—when she mentally reviewed Maze's plan—was Lucifer's brother; that Lucifer was fallen angel. So that meant…

…Wait, what was Maze?

Chloe echoed this question, and asked about Amenadiel once she returned to Lucifer's bedroom. He was in nearly the same place, but he'd pulled a blanket over his legs and part of his hips.

"Yes, he's an angel. I believe I've said something about that before."

"And Maze?"

"Demon." He was looking at her then, brows slightly raised—eyes cautiously guarded. "Are you alright, Detective?"

She nodded. Demon. Ok, she could process that. It was easier to when compared to revelation of the man in front of her. Demon was par for course at this point; she could deal with the details later. "I just got off the phone with Maze. She's going to make it look like Pierce's hired guns killed him in some kind power play and plant evidence so Charlotte's murder and the Sinnerman identity are pinned on him."

"And she's going to tell Dan and Ella the truth," he finished for her. "Yes, I know. I have excellent hearing. But are you alright? This has been a rather trying day for both of us… to put it mildly."

She nodded, deciding it was also par for course that he had supernatural hearing. "I'm better. I think you and I still have some things to discuss, but that can wait a bit. Are you hungry?"

"I don't actually need to eat," he admitted, shifting slightly—wincing once as his wings moved. "What do you want to discuss, Detective? Maze won't be here for a while to help either of us, so you might as well save me the frustration of agonizing over what's bothering you and simply tell me."

Once again, her heart went out to him—to the pain he must be in. She stepped forward. "Do you want to lie down?" she asked, ignoring his question. "I think we can get the bullet out of your arm even if you're lying on your stomach."

He frowned at her, giving her a 'look' that—despite the frown—caused a warmth to blossom in her chest. "I'll lie down once you explain to me what's bothering you."

She shouldn't have said anything, but now that he was pushing for it she supposed there was nothing to be done. She just hadn't wanted to surprise him when she brought it up later. "Why did you almost let me almost marry him? A murderer. Why? You knew what he was for months and you let him make me think he was a good person. We're partners. We're supposed to have each other's backs. Why would you do that?"

"That's… that's a difficult question to answer, Detective."

"Try to. Please."

He sighed, wiping a hand down his face. "In fairness, I believe I tried to tell you the truth. I told you he was Cain, but you didn't believe me—just as you didn't believe me every time I told you I wasn't just a character in some asinine fantasy in order to get laid by every beautiful thing on two legs."

"Fine," she agreed. "Then why not tell me he was the Sinnerman? You couldn't have found a way to convince me of that?"

"Why should I have had to?" he shot back, his gaze heavy on hers all of a sudden.

It made her defensive as well, but she did her best to temper it down. They had to have this conversation. It was ugly, but necessary. "Lucifer, that's not fair. How could you have expected me to choose between believing the man I was going to marry and—"

"Exactly," he cut her off. "You would have thought me a bloody jealous fool. And I was, even if it was for all the right reasons. And despite your faith in me, Cain has spent centuries covering his tracks and hiding evidence. I doubt I would have been able to find anything. Beyond that…" he trailed off, his features softening, his gaze shifting away. "…You said you were happy."

"Yes, but he's killed people, Lucifer. In cold blood. I…"

"And you think I haven't?" He asked next, voice tight. "I've killed Cain haven't I? I killed his men."

"That's not the same," she argued, stepped towards him—moving to kneel between his legs even as he kept his gaze turned from her. "You killed him to protect me—to protect yourself. He wasn't going to stop."

"You were happy," he repeated. "And he was changing. I wanted you to be happy, even if that happiness was achieved in my absence."

She didn't know if she fully accepted his rationale, but… the intent had been selfless; completely selfless, actually. There wasn't a clearer definition of unconditional love. Regardless. it was difficult to be angry with him in the aftermath—especially when he'd suffered for it already.

"Ok," she said softly, squeezing his thighs once. "I'm sorry. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt."

"Thank you, Detective." His whole body seemed to relax at that.

AN :: Second update, as promised. And before midnight! Hope you enjoyed it. If you like it, you should check out my Lucifer/Buffy crossover story on Elysian Fields, the Spuffy fanfiction archive. I won't be posting it on FF, and I've been told it's hilarious.

Thanks for reading. Reviews are love, but not required.

—Blade