Canto II
Earlier That Day
The squad car pulls up at the side entrance of Lux, Chloe parks, kills the engine, and as she glances into the back seat, allows herself to hope that this is almost over. Charlotte Richards sits with cool dignity, despite the fact that she's cuffed with something that Lucifer says is supposed to blunt her demonic powers. Once they get her upstairs, the plan is for Lucifer and Amenadiel to alert their father that she's here and. . . Chloe isn't sure, the house falls on the Wicked Witch and all the Munchkins do their happy dance? Totally ordinary evening at the office, of course. And while Chloe doesn't know about demonic powers exactly, she can't deny that this woman, whom both the woman herself and Lucifer insist is his mother, an all-powerful cosmic being trapped in a stolen human body, has caused more than enough chaos for everyone. If Scotty is going to beam her up and get her out of their lives for good, Chloe is more than on board.
"Let's go." She sets the parking brake, and she and Lucifer get out of the front of the cruiser, going around the back and hauling Charlotte out. Lucifer pulls especially hard; Chloe knows that he feels responsible for the deaths of Mr. Richards and the kids, since he sent his mother to play out the human life she had borrowed without realizing that she had the full array of her abilities. At least, that's what he's told Chloe, and she's not going to dispute that there is something very wrong with this woman. Putting her in a human prison would be a bloodbath.
"Lucifer, honey," Charlotte says, as the two of them march her into the elevator. "You know it's still not too late to change your mind. I'm sorry about the humans, but they're just so breakable. I can buy you some new toys, if you want. Like good mothers do."
"They weren't toys, Mum." Chloe has rarely seen Lucifer this angry, but in a seething, silent way, lips pressed white, eyes black. "They were people. They were innocent people. And I don't want to hear another word from you. You're going back to hell, and you're never, ever getting out again. That's a bloody promise."
Charlotte shrugs and sighs as the elevator dings shut and they ride up to the penthouse, where Amenadiel and Maze are waiting as the reinforcements. Amenadiel avoids his mother's eyes as Charlotte looks at him significantly, as it's plain that while he might fully agree with the necessity of curtailing her reign of terror and sending her back to the abyss from whence she came, he still really, really does not want to take on the guilt of doing it again. Chloe can't keep up with all the dynamics of their wacky and dysfunctional family, as she's certainly had to accept by now that there are a lot of things about all of them that she can't explain, and that she might see something tonight to make her finally and permanently suspend her disbelief. But as Amenadiel and Maze escort Charlotte off to prepare for. . . whatever they're going to do, her concern is decidedly for one of them. "Lucifer, are you all right?"
He glances up at her, then away. He has been even more impossible to read than usual recently. Always not quite telling her something, trying to keep her away from Charlotte while Chloe thought she might be an old (or new) girlfriend of his and didn't know why that bothered her so much – then, post-visit of someone called Uriel, apparently another brother, going full-on mental. Reverting in an instant to feckless, selfish, playboy Lucifer who can't keep his attention on anything for longer than five seconds, clashing with her, pushing her away, making a spectacle of how much he clearly doesn't care, doesn't care at all. Then when they found out the truth of her father's death, he somehow pulled himself together and was there for her like all that crazy didn't just happen a few days ago. Until finally she started to wonder if he thought he was pushing her away to protect her, that if he could get her to stop caring about him, she'd leave, and be safe. Even if it meant he'd be completely bloody miserable once she did.
"Fine, Detective," he says now, in a voice that sounds scarcely more convincing than when she asked him that question after Father Frank's death, knowing he wasn't. He forces a smile. "It will be quite a relief to have this over. Throw a party or something. Order extra hookers."
"Lucifer," she says again. She isn't going to let him get away this time. "Talk to me."
He rubs a hand across his face. "I. . . really, what's there to say? With minimal thanks to me, we've finally recaptured my bloody mother after she's killed however many humans, including Mr. Richards and the children, and I've been. . . I. . . with you and Ella and Maze and Dan and Amenadiel and everyone else I've had anything to do with recently. . . Detective, why haven't you just given up on me yet? I've provided you ample reason. Why won't you just. . . go?"
"What?" Chloe takes a step. "What are you talking about? We're partners. And more than that, we're friends.I don't know why you've been so off the handle, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to write you off and move on. I've told you before, I like. . . I really like working with you, and it's more than work, it's. . . I trust you. I've told you that. Do you want me to? Leave?"
"No!" It burns out of him almost too fast to control, as he looks as if he wants to bite his tongue off. "No. I just. . . I wanted you to be. . ." He stops. "I wanted you to be safe."
"And how am I not safe with you? You're the one who could supposedly go back to being immortal and bulletproof all the time if you quit hanging out with me." Chloe manages a crooked smile of her own, even as she thinks she can feel a faint crack in her heart, and this time, knows all too well why it is. "So. . . why?"
Lucifer looks up at the ceiling, as if hoping for it to burst open and some very loud distraction (or dead body) to fall out and save them from having this conversation. It doesn't. At long last he says, "Because of Malcolm."
"Malcolm? He's dead, remember? We killed him. You followed me and saved my life." Chloe reaches for his hand. "He can't have anything more to do with us."
"Not directly, Detective. But because of what. . . happened when he shot me." Lucifer's eyes flicker to their hands, her smaller fingers curled around his long ones, as he instinctively tenses but doesn't quite pull back. "I. . . I died. But before I did, I promised – Dad – that I would do as he wanted, go wherever he ordered, if he. . ." He closes his eyes briefly. "If he would keep you safe."
"Wh. . ." Chloe can't even get the entire word out. To say the least, she did not see this coming. She feels winded. One of the things she certainly can't explain was how she saw Malcolm pull the trigger, saw Lucifer on the floor of the hangar bleeding out, and then strolling up as if he hadn't had so much as a paper cut, taking Malcolm out so she could administer the final blow. She feels almost dizzy at the implication of what he's telling her, almost wants to ask if he's joking, but his dark eyes are dead serious, and he wouldn't make up something like this. "So. . . all this time, when you've said you've had an arrangement to catch your mom. . ."
"The consequence if I didn't was that your safety couldn't be guaranteed." Lucifer clearly hates himself for saying it out loud, but he can't stop now. "As I was told several times. And as Mum was getting stronger and. . . I thought that if I could just get you away from me, if I could convince you to leave, you'd be safe. She wouldn't have any motive to go after you if you were out of my life, and nor would anyone else. So I thought. . . I'd just. . . make it easier."
"Lucifer." Chloe's hand tightens around his, as she feels like a lump of ice has frozen in her stomach. It's hard for her to breathe, to focus, and yet she is conscious of something coming over her, like the sun coming up, like the world changing all at once from what she feared it was to what she never dared to hope it could be. She wants to ask why he didn't tell her, but she knows, the same reason she didn't tell him. "So you thought I'd leave you, and that would be that?"
"Yes." His eyes flicker up to hers again. "As long as you were safe. Then, while I'd still have to live with everything I did, at least it wouldn't include your death, and – "
Chloe doesn't know what comes over her, exactly. Just that it suddenly seems ridiculously, perfectly, comically clear, that she has been waiting far too long and has been in some pretty deep denial herself, and when everything finally makes sense (as much as any story can when it involves the Devil giving up his own life to God in exchange for hers), there is really only one thing to do. She steps toward him, raises herself on tiptoes, and kisses him on the lips.
Lucifer almost expires of shock on the spot. His hand raises feebly, as if either trying to gently push her off or alert her to the embarrassing fact that her mouth has accidentally collided into his and he's sure she wants to sort that out. It instead hovers just over her back, then presses flat, as she pulls his head down to her level and his other arm comes around her waist, hoisting her up. It's absurdly and poignantly plain that he has no idea how to kiss like this, with someone you actually like, gentle and slow, rather than just the requisite brief and steamy makeout en route to tumbling another attractive stranger into bed. He's such an amateur at it, in fact, that it's almost adorable, as Chloe pulls back and looks up at him, still blinking like a concussed ox. "Detec. . ." He reaches a hand up to touch his mouth. "Detective, I. . ."
"Thank you." She grips the lapels of his suit jacket. "Thank you. For telling me, and. . . and saving me. And I. . . I know we both have our issues, but I want us to be partners, okay? I want us to be together. Don't ever doubt that. At work, and. . ." She hesitates. "If you're going to flip out on me again, forget I ever said this, but. . . I wouldn't mind if it was. . . more than that."
"Well, you did officially sign the divorce papers with Detective Dou – Dan," Lucifer mutters faintly, as if he's sure this can't possibly be happening. "Free woman and all that. But I can't work out how on earth, after just ridding yourself of him, you'd ever want to – "
Chloe interrupts this by kissing him again. Lucifer has decidedly gotten more of the hang of it this time, possibly because this one, after everything that's built up between them, after how long they've both waited, after everything that has been there from the start and only gotten stronger with time, is downright explosive. In a few instants more, they end up against the wall, Chloe's knee riding up on his hip, grabbing and grinding, his lips starting to explore down her neck and toward the collar of her T-shirt when there is a loud cough in the doorway. They rip apart like high schoolers caught making out in the hallway by the principal, to see Amenadiel clearly not managing to have averted his eyes in time. "Lucifer," he says, determinedly casual. "I needed to ask you something."
"Oh yes. Of course you needed to ask me something." Lucifer smiles through his teeth, straightening his collar. "Don't take this the wrong way, bro, but I'm going to murder you in your sleep."
Amenadiel dignifiedly elects to ignore this, as Lucifer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shoots a quick glance at Chloe, and follows him into the other room. Chloe leans against the wall, breathing hard and feeling heat rushing through her from head to toe. She was, well. She was not expecting that. Didn't plan on it either, but she can't bring herself to want it back. Feels like she's taken a proper breath for the first time in weeks, wants to slap both their past selves and ask what took so damn long. Not that she thinks they'll just jump into a relationship from here, as that's not the way it works with either of them, but they could at least give it a try. She doesn't want it to look as if Lucifer is her cheap rebound guy after the divorce was finalized, but she knows that he's been her guy from the moment they met, and after this, after everything, she doesn't want to go on pretending anymore. She wants him, she wants –
"Chloe?"
Her eyes jerk open. Charlotte is standing across from her, a bit unpleasantly surprisingly, considering she thought Amenadiel and Maze had put Crazy Mama away to await the main event. However, she's still cuffed, and Chloe manages a cool smile. "Excuse me, aren't you supposed to be. . .?"
"I'm sorry." Charlotte glances down. "But I couldn't help but overhear some of that, and, well. . . I know I haven't treated you very well, and if this is how my son is going to make me part with him, I wish it didn't have to be on such bad terms. Can I just. . . ask you something, quickly? Woman to woman, mother to mother?"
That gives Chloe a brief unsettled feeling, as she wasn't aware that Charlotte knew about Trixie, but after a moment, she nods once and consents to step after Charlotte into the study. She maintains a decorous distance, waiting with folded arms; the condemned has the right to a final statement, after all, and this whole situation has been such a clusterfuck that it might be nice if Lucifer could feel as if his life wasn't completely destroyed when it was over. "Well?"
"You care for him, don't you?" Charlotte looks at her levelly. "Very much. My son."
"Lucifer is. . . important to me, yes. I'm still not entirely sure how you're his mother, but you both say you are, so. . ." Chloe shrugs. "That's your business."
"Good," Charlotte says. "That will make what I'm going to ask of you easier. Forget about him."
"I – what?" Chloe tenses, looking over her shoulder at the door. It's shut, and she doesn't remember shutting it. "I'm sorry, but we just had that conversation about how we didn't want to do that. So, obviously, as your opinion isn't going to matter here in another few hours – "
"Is it?" Charlotte seems to find that funny. "Look. We both know that as mothers, we have to make hard choices for our children. Discipline them, not give them everything they want, even if they think it's what they desire most of all. And I'm well aware of how you've treated Lucifer, even outside the fact of you being a human. Never believing him. Never listening to him. Shooting him, even knowing you make him. . . vulnerable. And because he's blinded, he somehow keeps trotting after you and involving himself in your pitiful little problems. I've tried and tried, but I can't get through to him. This is my last chance to do right by him, and I don't intend to waste it."
"I – wait, how did you – the shooting, he told me, he dared me to do it, and that was before either of us knew about my effect on – look, what was I supposed to do, just welcome a crazy man into my life and my cases – " Chloe's flustered, which she doesn't get easily, and babbling, which she also doesn't do easily. "Not that I think he's crazy – well, I do sometimes, but – that's not what I meant. This is our lives, and we're both adults. We make our own choices. That's another part of being a parent. Knowing when to let your kids go."
Charlotte smiles pleasantly, clearly not buying a word of this. She doesn't care what Chloe thinks, any more than she cared that Mr. Richards and the kids were people, and not just toys that she broke and couldn't put back together. "Let's be honest. You don't deserve him."
"Don't deserve him? The last time I checked, you don't get a say on this, or know what we've been through." Chloe is feeling ever more as if she shouldn't have gone off with this woman alone, cuffed or not. "I'm sorry not to grant your last wish and all, but this conversation is over. Sorry." She turns back toward the door. "So I think it's – "
There's a soft click behind her, as she looks around just in time to see Charlotte hold up her wrists, shrug, and snap the heavy chains with no more effort than pulling the tag off a new item of clothing. She lets them fall, clicks her fingers, and the next instant, Chloe is frozen in place, no matter how hard she tries to take a step. She can feel her brain giving the orders, and her limbs trying to respond, but something has gone awry in the normal circuitry. Charlotte turns around, raises both hands, and does something with them as if wriggling her fingers into a tear in the fabric of reality, widening and rending. "I really was hoping you'd say yes," she says, with a disappointed tone in her voice, a mother chastising a child who brought home a C on their report card. "But since you won't see reason, it's up to me to save Lucifer from you after all."
"Ex – " Chloe can't get a word out. A giant iron band is crushing her chest. There's a strange echoing and rushing in the room now, and it's increasing as Charlotte works. Her voice is locked in her throat, as hard as she tries to yell for Lucifer, or Amenadiel, or Maze, or anyone. All she can manage is a tortured whisper. "Y. . . you can't. . ."
"Oh." Charlotte smiles brightly. "Actually, I can. I know I'm going back to hell one way or the other, so why not do it my way? There's plenty more I can accomplish down there than up here, believe me. The human world is so boring and limited. Lucifer would never have stayed so long if he wasn't distracted with you, and now, I'll take care of that. And once he comes after you, he'll remember just what he gave up, and that he shouldn't have. Then we can handle his father."
"You're. . . you're crazy." Chloe still can't get up enough breath to shout. "If he's your son – you can't do that to him, put him between the two of you like that – I know, when you're separated from your kid's father, it can be hard, trust me, but – "
"Look at you. Trying to give me advice. It's adorable, really." Charlotte looks genuinely amused. "And you still don't believe us, do you? If he's my son? Of course he's my son. Always the little skeptic. Always hedging your bets. Always closing your eyes to the truth even when it's right in front of you. I think I'm doing you a favor here, you know. I'm sure you'll come up with some perfectly logical explanation for this too. Or maybe, at last, you won't."
She moves her hands again, stretching and widening whatever tear in space-time she has created, as the floor begins to rock, as a strange red light suffuses the shelves and the books and the lamps, reflecting and refracting. She no longer looks very human, is changing, metamorphosing before Chloe's horror-struck eyes. "Charlotte," she gasps. "Charlotte, you can't – "
The woman – not the woman, the demon – looks at her almost pityingly. "Oh, my name isn't Charlotte Richards. That's just what they call this useless flesh sack I borrowed. My name – my real name – is – "
At that moment, Chloe manages to suck in a good breath, and screams, "LUCIFER!"
For a horrifying instant, nothing. And then, shouts. Pounding footsteps. Something explodes, something breaks, as she twists away, but not-Charlotte lunges after her, grinning insanely. Gets hold of her wrists, drags her back, as Chloe can feel her flesh bubbling and burning. The demon lifts her without an effort and carries her over to the yawning hellmouth, holding her head over it, eyes burning, even as her flesh continues to shed and melt and distort, as a shadow rises towering above the puny, disfigured remnants of her mortal body, like somebody caught in a terrible explosion. Her voice is a hiss. "I'm terribly sorry, but this is how it has to be. And if I'm going back to hell – if that's what all of this has come to – then my son pays the same price. You're coming with me, little mortal. We go down together. I'll tell Lucifer how the portal just opened up, how I tried to save you but I couldn't, and be there for him in his grief. After all, I do understand how important to him you were. Your sacrifice won't be in vain."
"Lucifer!" Chloe chokes out, clawing for purchase, as small objects start to be sucked into the fiery, roaring abyss. Tears smoke and sizzle on her cheeks. "Lucifer!"
Through the tumult, she can just hear him banging madly on the door – irony of ironies, he can't break it down with angelic strength, because she's just on the other side, and hence he's mortal. He's shouting, screaming, desperate; she's never heard him sound like this. "Detective. Detective! Mother! Mother, don't you dare – I swear I'll tear you apart, eternity of torment doesn't begin to cover it – you won't – you'll never – "
"I'll save her, son!" un-Charlotte screams back. "Hold onto me, Chloe, hold on – no, you can't – I've got you – I've got you, you have to – "
Chloe overbalances, fighting with all her might, kicking out and feeling enough of a ribcage still left for her heel to catch a solid blow. The door shudders one more time, then bursts inward in a spray of splinters, and Lucifer charges through. Is assaulted with the sight of her poised on the brink, of his mother who is barely anything that can be put into human words, and amid the smoke and sulfur and the belching din, his eyes lock onto hers. His mouth shapes two words.
Chloe! No!
And then, she falls.
Lucifer has been driving for half the night.
He has been making a relentless circuit of absolutely every single individual in greater Los Angeles County who could possibly owe him any kind of favor, anyone he has done business with in the past, snorted a line with, slammed a shot (or several), screwed a babe, or otherwise might know anyone anywhere with connections. Someone who has a pawn shop, who is in the antique trade, who collects rare items, who is really into numismatics, who is one of those dreadful New Age "Wiccan" types who puts on a robe and lights candles and gallivants about with the four elements. This being Los Angeles, there are "alternative energy" charlatans on every corner, health food hucksters, tarot card readers, you name it – he's so bloody desperate that he's about to drive up to the Church of bloody Scientology and ask if he can borrow their alien-contacting equipment or whatever it bloody is (even though he is not at all fond of Scientologists in general, like most sane people). Has to be something. Has to be somewhere.
He has loaded up the car with several briefcases containing drugs, money, more drugs, specialty booze, and expensive jewelry, and wherever he stops, he's splashing it out like Naughty Santa Claus. Practically jumping over the furniture to get them to tell him what they really, really want. Has about three open containers in the vehicle, swigging from them at stoplights and all but daring the plebeians to pull him over. He lights up another cigarette as soon as he finishes the previous one, driving with one hand, ruthlessly overtaking anyone going under the speed limit in the fast lane (likewise, there is a special place for them in hell). It's only as he's halfway across a desk in some all-night auction house, unbuttoning his shirt, after having gotten the fat, balding mid-fifties security guard to admit that he is a repressed gay man who has never once been sexually satisfied by his wife, that he abruptly comes to a halt. Not just because the chap isn't much of a looker, but because there is a tiny voice in his head telling him that he can't do this. This isn't helping him find Chloe. And it isn't helping him feel better, either. Just worse.
"I. . ." Lucifer sits up slowly, feeling as if someone has poured cold water over him, as he does up his shirt again. "I'm. . . very sorry, actually. Here." He takes out a roll of cash, licks thumb and forefinger, and hands a few Benjamins to the stunned guard. "Go buy yourself a really pretty rent boy. Upscale, obviously, I don't endorse the cheap stuff. Feel like a new man, I'm sure. Glad we've had this chat. Be yourself, and all that. Ta now. Bye."
With that, Lucifer lets himself out, walks across the empty parking garage to his car, and sits down heavily in the driver's seat. He's starting a nasty headache; he never used to get affected this fast by human booze. It's ass o'clock in the morning, he feels absolute shit, and he wonders vaguely if there's enough pot on hand to roll himself a doobie and make the pain go away, but someone will definitely notice if he lights up here, and he's not in the mood to deal with it. How can she be gone? How, how? It doesn't make sense. It's almost comical. But she is, and now he's left here, flailing and drowning in the shallow end of the pool without her, because he barely remembers how to function by himself. She does the right thing, he does the ridiculous thing, they get results, repeat. It's never unduly taxed him to try to play by the rules, because he knows she'll handle that part, that's her job. But all his wildness rings hollow without her. He does it because he knows she's his counterbalance, will point him where he needs to go. Now he's suddenly left to be the one to identify the right choices, make the right choices, and pull them off, and heaven quite literally knows he can't do that. And then he looks at his phone, and notices that he has seven missed calls. Not from Maze, but from Dan.
"Dan?" he says aloud, dumbfounded, before it strikes him. Of course. Chloe was supposed to go over to his place once they were done with Mum, pick up Trixie, and head home. It is natural that Dan is now wondering where on earth (actually, not anywhere on earth) she is, hasn't gotten an answer from her after multiple attempts, and is now lowering himself to the last thing he wants to do. Lucifer groans, tosses the phone in the passenger seat, ignores it with all his might for forty-three seconds, and then picks it up again. Gritting his teeth, he redials.
It rings once and a half before Dan answers. "Lucifer, is that you? I've been calling all night. Chloe was supposed to be here hours ago. What the hell is going on?"
He laughs, utterly without humor. "I suppose that's just it, isn't it?"
"I really don't have time for your little shtick right now. Where is she?"
"Wouldn't believe me if I told you, would you?" Lucifer wedges the phone between shoulder and ear and lights another cigarette. "As if the legitimacy of my existence was dictated by whether or not you humans could wrap your tiny brains around the possibility of there being something, anything larger than you and your stupid little problems. I'm tired of you all not believing in me, when I've never lied to any of you, and I don't need to explain a thing. Suck a tit or a dick, Daniel, whichever one you prefer. Good-bloody-bye and don't – "
"Wait." He can hear Dan consciously choosing to swallow the rudeness, to not blaze back. "Lucifer. Please just tell me what's going on with Chloe. I'm sorry about your existential crisis, we can deal with it later, but Trixie and I, we're. . . we're worried sick."
That catches him like a bullet between the eyes (which he has caught a few before, and even if they can't kill him, it's still not particularly enjoyable). After a long moment he says, "Not really something to be discussed over the phone. Give me your address, I'll. . . be by in a bit."
Dan can hear the seriousness in his voice, and doesn't demur. He gives it.
Twenty minutes later, Lucifer pulls up in a nice suburban neighborhood before an utterly average domicile, parks, and gets out. There's a light on in the window, Dan clearly waiting up for him, and he opens the door before Lucifer has even made it up the walk. As he steps inside, he catches a glimpse of Trixie in her Disney pajamas, sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, as Dan musters up an encouraging smile for her. "Hey, monkey, look, I called Lucifer, just like you suggested. That was really smart of you, wasn't it? Now go to bed, and we'll sort out whatever happened to Mommy, okay? She'll probably be home by morning."
Trixie gets up slowly, sniffling. She pads over to Lucifer, then hugs him tightly, not her usual exuberant clutch, but much more urgently. "I'm really happy you came over," she says into his stomach. "Please fix it. I want Mommy."
"Ah. . ." He puts a hand gingerly on her shoulder, trying to disentangle her without being too obvious about it. It is understandable that the small human is in a fragile state. "Ah, yes, child, of course. Do as your dou – dad says and go to bed, why don't you? With chocolate cake, or, er, whatever flavor you like?"
Trixie gives him a watery smile, lets go, and trudges upstairs, both of the men listening to make sure they hear her room door shut before Dan jerks his head tersely at Lucifer. They go around into the kitchen, where Dan is about to offer him something, then sniffs and frowns. "Jesus, you smell like all-night happy hour at a really dive bar. Have you been drinking and driving?"
"That's not your concern, is it?" Lucifer says, his voice sharp and brittle. "Put aside Detective Espinoza, upstanding officer of the law, for two bloody seconds. I came to talk to Dan. For whatever reason, Chloe was, and remains, fond of you. I have no notion why, but she is."
Dan doesn't answer, although his expression is clear enough that he likewise isn't sure what Chloe sees in Lucifer, but is willing to accept the offer of a peace accord in the name of a larger crisis. At last he says, "Okay," and sits down at the table. "Tell me what's going on."
Lucifer almost can't face the idea, but does his best to boil it down to terms that even a douche's mind can fathom. There is a very terrible silence when he finishes, until Dan says, in a voice which clearly can't decide if Lucifer is jerking him around and has to lay out the words to see if they remotely make any sense associated with this planet, "Chloe was dragged to hell."
"Yes. Keep up."
"By your mother, who's a demon, because of course she is, because you're actually the Devil."
"Bra-vo," Lucifer says nastily. "Child who needed extra help in elementary school, were you?"
"So all this time, this little thing of yours, it's. . ." Dan fumbles for the words. "It's not just been some act or persona or coping mechanism, and now you've gotten her killed because of it."
"Careful." Lucifer's eyes flash with an ugly light, and Dan visibly flinches. Good. He resists the urge to go full-on Red Skull, but barely. "I told you who I was the first time, and many times thereafter. It's not my fault if you didn't bloody believe me. And Chloe is – she's not dead." Maybe if he says it authoritatively enough, he'll make himself believe it, and he has to, because the alternative is unfathomable. "Stuck in. . . in hell, yes, but not dead."
Dan is still shaking his head. "And I'm supposed to tell Trixie – what, exactly?"
"You're her father. You work it out." Lucifer gets to his feet. Headache or no headache, he needs another drink. "Now I've told you, so if you could do me a favor and pour me a – "
There's an unfriendly silence behind him. Then Dan says, "Malcolm. He has something to do with this, doesn't he? Him and his supposed resurrection from the dead. But it wasn't supposed, was it? It was real. He was down there. And he came back a. . ."
"By the sounds of things, he was no saint beforehand." Lucifer leans on the counter with both hands, fighting an unexpected reel beneath his feet. "He died, he received his proper dues, and then my bloody brother brought him back to life and botched everything up. I've yelled at him about it too, believe me."
"So that entire thing with him, with him getting me to steal the gun, setting him up to whack you, was some kind of demented supernatural family feud with you and your brother and this – " Dan is so angry he almost can't get the words out. "This was my family you messed with! This was my life! You two made me into your little puppet, and destroyed me and Chloe and – "
"Amenadiel made Malcolm into his puppet, Daniel, and thus by extension, you. There's a bloody difference. Don't go blaming me for his sins. I take enough flak as it is." Lucifer wheels around to face him, fists clenching. "Nobody forced you to lie to Chloe all that time! Nobody forced you not to admit that it wasn't you who sent the breakup text, and let her go on thinking that was just how little you cared for her! Nobody forced you to decide that you'd just let her think she was crazy, rather than come clean even when she might have understood it was supposedly to protect her! Don't think you get off responsibility! It isn't what it means at all!"
He's almost shouting, towering dark and terrible against the dim kitchen, as Dan stares back at him without a word and he remembers belatedly that he's probably right underneath Trixie's bedroom and if he keeps up, she will definitely come down and see this. The lights are flickering and sputtering again, as he wrestles himself back from the very hair-edge of losing control. "Apologies," he says, cold and curt. "It's been a bad night."
"Yeah," Dan mutters, half under his breath, his own fists clenching on his knees. It is clearly costing him everything he has not to stand up and take a swing at Lucifer – which Lucifer himself would bloody welcome, give him a chance to pop Dan squarely in the douchey mug as he has been so sorely tempted to do all this time. "So I see."
The tension remains crackling for an unbearable moment longer, until Lucifer finally turns away. He has been trying not to think about the fact that even if they do get Chloe back, she might be like Malcolm. Her kindness and her goodness and her selflessness and her brightness destroyed, sullied with the filth of hell, made into that rapacious, insane, devouring black hole that only wants to consume and consume, nothing but raw nerves and shattered edges. He would die himself, again, sooner than see her that way. No mortal has ever gone down there and stayed unchanged, and even as strong as she is, it will work on her, it will get to her, it will prey and play and weigh on her, and there is absolutely no way to say what will survive and what won't. If that's the case, it would be more merciful for everyone if she just died.
"It should have been me," Lucifer says at last. "I know you're thinking it. You're not wrong. She didn't deserve it. She never did. I tried to get her away from me, I tried everything I could think of to keep her safe, even if I was afraid she'd end up bloody hating me. It didn't work. I'm sorry."
Dan starts to answer, then stops. The silence stretches out. Then he says, barely above a whisper, "Okay. I can understand that."
Lucifer has been braced for a scathing retort (well, this is Dan, more like a somewhat-above-lukewarm retort) and this catches him off guard. As he turns around, their eyes meet, and both of them realize, whether they want to or not, that despite their fraught (to say the least) personal relationship, both of them love Chloe, and both of them have made terrible mistakes trying to shield her from the consequences of their own actions, which have snowballed and grown worse and left her to be the one to suffer for them. Dan flinches again, ever so slightly, and looks down at the table. "You know," he says, after another pause. "I'm not a total idiot. I saw the writing on the wall with you two, pretty early on. And if it's something that was going to happen, I just wanted to know, as weird and unbalanced as you might be, that you would keep her safe. But you didn't, huh? Guess that makes two of us after all."
Lucifer is about to indignantly rejoin that this isn't his fault, it's Amenadiel's, as he was explaining to his brother in great detail and with the assistance of a fist earlier, but the words die a cold and shriveled death on his tongue. He feels, for the first time in his life, about two inches tall. Shame. Guilt. Pain. As much as he wants to spin it or explain it away, as much as he wants to lash out, he has failed Chloe, and she's the one bearing the brunt of it right now. "Well then." His voice is caught and rusty in his throat. "Suppose we do have that in common after all."
"Yeah." Dan doesn't sound triumphant, gloating, doesn't appear to want to rub it in his face. After a moment, Lucifer turns, goes back to the table, and sits down across from him. The silence remains, until Dan says, not as a question, "You're going after her, aren't you."
"If I can find a way – and I won't stop until I do – then yes, I am." Lucifer looks down at his hands. "I don't know how just yet, but I'm not giving up."
Dan nods, as if to say that he expected that. Then he says, utterly astonishingly, "Well, if so, then. . . I'll come with you."
"Come with me? Into hell?" Lucifer can't help but be impressed by this offer, even if it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. "You have no idea what you're signing yourself up for, Daniel, and frankly, I wouldn't have time to babysit you. Not to mention, it would be criminally bloody irresponsible of me if I ended up getting both of Trixie's parents stuck down there, not least because then I'd have to adopt her, and we all know that would go terribly. Stay here and take care of her. I'm sure that's what Chloe would want."
"You're. . ." Dan looks as if he can't believe these words are about to come out of his mouth, but as they are all discovering in various and painful ways, there is a first time for everything. "Yeah. You're right. But surely you'll take that ninja bartender of yours or something, won't you? Not just throwing caution to the wind and charging down there by yourself?
"No," Lucifer lies. "Of course not."
Dan's expression flickers, as if he's not sure whether to believe this. After all, his own instinct was to go it alone and fix it single-handed, rather than asking anyone else for help, even while the proverbial shit got deeper and deeper. Finally he says, "You know, Lucifer, you're an immature, pompous, self-absorbed, totally inappropriate jackass, but I don't think you're completely a terrible person, no matter how much you pretend to be. Maybe you could stand to let that side of you out more often."
"I'm not sure if that was a compliment disguised as an insult or an insult disguised as a compliment, but likewise, while you are a wooden, patronizing, insufferable, vastly boring Douche von Douchelord, you're certainly not the worst man I've ever met, and you can take it from the Devil, I have some authority on the subject." Lucifer pauses, then gets to his feet. "Tell Trixie that I'm handling it. Tell her that her mother is. . ." He coughs. Something feels oddly stuck in his throat. "Tell her that her mother is perfectly fine, and I'll have her home soon."
"And?" Dan looks up at him. "Is she? Will you?"
"It's part of being a parent, isn't it?" Lucifer's voice is soft. "A little white lie now and again?"
For a long moment, Dan says nothing. Then he nods.
The last thing (well, there may have been others, but they aren't coming to mind just now) that Chloe ever expected was to be a celebrity in hell. Which is what, if she's not mistaken, she appears to be now, and she isn't in the least sure that that's a good thing. The people who have the literally warmest welcome down here are the ones who have led the worst lives up above, and maybe she's not Mother Teresa or anything, but she likes to think she's been somewhat decent. Not that there is any time to point this out, or that she'd know how, or really to do anything except allow herself to be led by the front-desk soul down a hallway to some kind of ballroom at the back. It is crowded with more of them, some more identifiable than others – those ones must have not been here as long, but all of them make a communal "oooh" sound when she walks in. It's more than a bit creepy, like they're aliens who have just marched off the flying saucer and asked to be taken to your leader, and mistook her for the main attraction instead. She remains rooted in place as they all look up at her with those blank faces. What the hell is she supposed to do, literally? Give a speech? Teach them the electric boogaloo?
"Uh," she says faintly, looking around. "Is Lucifer Morningstar here?"
"Lucifer?" One of the souls turns toward her. "They say he hasn't been here in ages."
"Ages," another one agrees. Are they actually speaking English, which seems unlikely, or is that just how she's hearing it? "You came from him, didn't you?"
"I. . . yeah. Sort of. It's a long story. But. . . who are you?"
"They are the souls who have arrived since he left." Thank you, front desk minion, for actually saying something useful. It appears to be a first. "There are more. You saw them entering. It has gotten most unclear, which ones belong here and which do not. Without him, there is less. . . clarity. That is why you are here, my lady, is it not? To sort them out?"
"What?" Chloe wishes she had a better response, but she's still completely baffled. "You think Lucifer sent me as his proxy to fix his staffing problems, or his. . ." She waves a hand at the waiting souls, who have crowded nearer. For a place that is supposed to be abandoning all of it, ye who enter here, they seem almost. . . hopeful. As if even if they're about to get a sentence of damnation, at least they will know their fate, rather than being stuck permanently between. "To what, clear out his in-tray?"
"Didn't he?"
She opens her mouth to say that no, she is not here to judge all the potentially bad people who have kicked the bucket since Lucifer quit his day job, and decide whether or not they merit eternal hellfire. She considers asking how they know that she knows Lucifer, then remembers. Oh, right. The deal. If the Devil Himself considers her life important enough to bargain with God, the news must have trickled down the celestial grapevine somehow. If that's the reason he didn't come back, after all, they must know why. They have just stayed in that line forever, waiting but never processed, because the CEO has shut down the office. Gone up to Los Angeles to run a fancy nightclub and solve crimes with her, among other exotic occupations. Totally inexplicably, she feels a twinge of resentment at him for it. Look what he's stuck her with, down here. Not that he could have known his mother was going to go full Norma Bates on her, but. . . didn't he even care? She couldn't have just ducked out of her responsibilities at the precinct like that, no matter how badly she wanted a vacation. Not that Responsibility is Lucifer Morningstar's middle name (actually, she's fairly sure that it's Melodrama) but still.
"What the hell," she says wearily, wondering if she's going to have to stop saying that. "It's not like I have anything better to do. Can I at least get some sleep first, though?"
The front-desk soul (she really has to learn its name) hurries to agree, recognizing that she is of course still human (something about that still disturbs her, but not any more than the rest of this godforsaken ridiculous situation) and insists that she won't stay at the Hotel California tonight, that she can have Lucifer's own home. It's clear that they think she's pretty much his wife, which is, well, weird, but if all she knew about her was that this is the woman the Devil nearly returned to God for, she might draw that conclusion too. Some old human impulse tells her she can't just waltz into someone's house and stay there while they're not home, but she's already realizing that she's going to have to stop acting as if any of this is bound to play by any ordinary rules whatsoever. Frankly, she'd rather stay at Lucifer's place, even if he's not there, than at the Overlook Hotel. That at least might be remotely familiar, as well as lessening her chances of getting axe-murdered by some rogue soul who knows exactly what they have done and what fate they merit, and doesn't intend to let her stay around long enough to dish it out.
That is how, whatever length of time later, Chloe finds herself in an expansive, luxurious apartment that isn't much different, to all appearances, from Lucifer's penthouse back home. Everything is done in shades of black, and her footsteps echo endlessly when she walks, and none of the furniture looks remotely comfortable, all stiff corners and sharp angles. The lighting is low and red, and she can't find where exactly it comes from, or if it shuts off at night, or if it's just part of the general hellish ambiance. It's all glass and steel and mirrors, utterly cold and impersonal, looking out over the strange dark city beyond. Is that why he came to L.A., because it was familiar? Shouldn't the Devil go to Las Vegas or something? Or is it possible that none of it actually looks like this, that she sees hell as Los Angeles because that's where she's from, that she sees Lucifer's house as resembling the one she knows already for the same reason? Maybe this is really some gloomy cavern with rivers of blood and the distant howling of the damned and horned demons with pitchforks. In which case, creepy as it is, she prefers it this way.
She finds the kitchen, which is huge and eerily clean and empty, and wonders if she can imagine up some dinner, since it seems to be her perceptions which are driving this whole thing. True, the caveat about underworld food might still apply, but she's so hungry that it feels as if her entire body is turning inside out, and she's going to have to risk it. Feeling like a kid playing magic-trick games, she closes her eyes, stands by the fridge, and thinks very hard about what it would look like if it was filled with regular human food. Maybe a pizza, because frankly, a pizza sounds really good right now. Is she supposed to say Alakazam? Abracadabra? Would that help?
It takes her a few tries, but on the third, she feels something shift, and she opens her eyes and there it all is. She lets out a triumphant whoop, pumping the air; sure, it's in literal hell, but it's definitely the coolest thing she's ever done, and after she has put the pizza in the oven to bake, she wanders around and starts trying it with the apartment. Keeps it looking like Lucifer's place in L.A., because that's comforting, but she manages to twiddle with the lighting, get it less electric-dance-hall-of-the-dead and more homey, make the furniture possible to sit on, and some curtains for the endless windows. It gets easier as she goes, until she's managed to make it as comfortable and familiar as she can, the pizza smells heavenly (or, um, hellish?) and she's feeling almost restored. Yes, she's somehow signed herself up for a few days of sorting out the backlog of dead possible-baddies, but that's not as bad as it could be.
Chloe sits down and eats the pizza, wonders if she has to wash up by hand or can just think the dishes back to clean, and when she succeeds, is even more pleased with herself. Catches herself thinking she really could get used to this, when everything is as easy as a little concentration and willpower and knowing what you want, and with that, realizes exactly why Lucifer is the way he is, expecting the world to literally bend over backwards and conform itself to his every whim and desire. If she lived like this for a few weeks, never mind a few millennia, it could become second nature pretty damn easily.
She shakes her head, telling herself not to abuse it. She's still plenty able to do things the old-fashioned way, and she can just save the power for special occasions. She finds the bathroom and takes a long hot shower, dries off, and thinks that hell isn't really that bad. At least, not for her. Maybe being the Devil's boo (oh god, she is not the Devil's boo) has its perks.
Chloe pads into the master bedroom, shuts the curtains, and climbs into Lucifer's bed. It has black silk sheets and a thick comforter that weighs her down delightfully, and she stretches her arms and legs out to either side, barely feeling bad about enjoying it. She's sure he won't begrudge her the use, though he'll doubtless have a few smart remarks about how it would be much better if he was sharing it with her. But she's clean and comfortable and well-fed, and when she buries her nose into the pillows, they smell, ever so faintly, like him.
She closes her eyes, and falls asleep.
