A/N: This chapter contains Sex. If you're uncomfortable with this kind of thing, stop reading after the bar scene.
Chloe sits at a dark, smoky corner of the shabby pub, at a sticky table with beer stains and cigarette burns. Her bottle of Goose Iceland is open but untouched, her eyes focused on the man sitting at the bar, but she brings it to her lips occasionally, pretending to drink. So far, she's managed to rebuff two approaches by hopeful men, who hastened to scatter away with their tails between their legs when she barked at them that she wasn't interested. Back at the bar, Lucifer - ever ready to bask in the results of his magnetic attractiveness - has no such qualms; he's revelling in the freely given attention coming at him from all sides, smiling charmingly at every awe-stricken human that chances to gaze upon him.
Chloe presses the earpiece deeper into her ear as she spies the bartender approaching her partner with a predatory look on her attractive face. She's a natural brunette, about Chloe's height and size, and probably in her early forties; with an air of ease and confidence about her.
"Hiya, handsome," Chloe hears the woman's throaty voice over the static, "what can I get you?"
"Scotch, neat," comes the predictable reply; her partner rarely drinks anything else.
Chloe can see the interest in the woman's eyes all the way from her corner, as she leans over the counter and into Lucifer's space.
"Oh, love me a British man," she leers, and Lucifer smiles cheekily, "where are you from, sugar?"
"Sorry, darling; I'm not available," he purrs, and the bartender's eyes light up, accepting his excuses as a challenge, "I'm here with my partner, we're staying at the motel," he adds, helpingly, "she loves LA, you see, and whatever she wants – she gets."
Chloe snorts humourlessly. If only it were true.
The bartender, who proves to be even more attractive than originally perceived when she moves into the light, scoffs and leans away from her handsome companion.
"And what, you couldn't find something nicer than the shithole across the road?"
Lucifer chuckles enticingly and shrugs.
"We're on a tight budget," he explains – and it is technically not a lie since their room is being paid for by the department, with its very limited funds.
"Saving up for the important stuff, eh?" the bartender asks, leaning in again, "I'm Kirsten, by the way."
"Charming," Lucifer breathes, pouring all his charisma and magnetism into the conversation, "you own this quaint establishment, Kirsten?"
"It's my uncle's," she sighs, dangerously close to his face, "but I run the place, so to speak."
He smiles and leans back a bit, much to the woman's disappointment.
"All by your lonesome?" he asks innocently, and the bartender shakes her head.
"No, I got help," she explains, happy to talk to Lucifer for as long as she's able, "My siblings help me with the place."
"Well done, partner," Chloe breathes under her nose; so, this woman may be an accomplice to murder after all.
"And where would we be without family?" Lucifer asks with a tight smile, making Chloe's heart clench in her chest.
"Very true," Kirsten concurs, not detecting the bitter tone in his voice, and licks her lips suggestively, "so what is it you do, stranger?"
"I'm in show business," Lucifer supplies flawlessly, not even losing a beat, "play the piano, sing a bit- that sort of thing."
Chloe exhales loudly, feeling as if they just dodged a bullet, and pretends to sip her beer. Over at the bar, Kirsten touches the lapel of Lucifer's jacket.
"So, what's your name, handsome?" she purrs, her fingers brushing the leather suggestively, "or do I have to beg for it?"
Chloe stops breathing for a short second.
Lucifer doesn't lie.
Lucifer doesn't lie.
She digs through her brain for any detail from the case in suburbia, the one for which he and Pierce, or rather, Luke and Marc, were a gay married couple. But Lucifer had never referred to himself as Luke, and Marc could just have been a shortened version of Marcus for him. The Devil doesn't lie, even though he does skirt around the truth; but for the life of her, Chloe doesn't know how he'll sidestep it this time.
Back at the bar, Lucifer stills and stays quiet for a moment, stiff and unyielding in his silence. Kirsten, feeling the sudden shift in the flirting atmosphere, takes a step back from him, the impression on her face that of puzzlement.
Then, at last, Lucifer speaks.
"Sam," he says, and his voice is suddenly raw, and haunted, "my name is Sam."
Lucifer leaves the bar first, once he downs a few more drinks that he consumes alone and in relative silence after the bartender slinks away, allowing him to simmer in his juices in peace. About five minutes after that, Chloe follows.
She finds him in their room, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, still somewhat intoxicated by her proximity. He rises to his feet the moment she comes in, a haunted look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he apologises immediately, voice hoarse, "I should have tried more, should have been more in the game – "
Chloe takes a few steps towards him; stands close enough to touch.
"Hey, don't worry about it," she says softly, bringing her palm to his flushed cheek, "you okay?"
He shakes his head and leans into her touch, and, somewhere in her belly, warmth spreads at the trusting gesture.
"Lucifer," she whispers, "who is Sam?"
His face crumbles, leaving him bare and shattered. He's swaying on his feet.
"I don't lie," he rasps, "Chloe, I don't lie. "
Her other hand comes to rest on his waist, trying to anchor him to the present; to the here and now.
"I know you don't," she says gently, thumb caressing the stubbled line of his jaw, "I know; so tell me, who is Sam?"
"Me," he admits in a broken voice, "I'm Sam; or at least, I used to be."
She doesn't understand. As far as she knows, 'Sam' is not one of the Devil's names. This entire exchange between them would have made a lot of sense a few months ago when all his eccentricity was perceived by her as delusions and metaphors, but now? Now that she knows?
"I don't understand," she whispers, trying desperately to find some ounce of logic in what he's trying to tell her.
"Samael, "he chokes on the words, and his eyes are swimming with stars, "my name, before; the 'Poison of God', when I…brought light."
And she understands, she finally understands.
The ache - the one that she smothers down with murders and the scent of Trixie's shampoo, the one that comes upon her at night like an insatiable lover – it unfolds deep in her belly and claws its way up through her lungs; it spreads through her bloodstream like cancer and settles in her womb like a child to be nurtured. That ache, all for him.
She's an idiot, a damned fool; months of coping with her thoughts, and ignoring her feelings, when all she needed to do, was really, quite simple.
"Oh Lucifer," she breathes, and takes his face in her hands, "come here."
Rising on tiptoes, she presses her lips to his, not daring to breathe. His mouth is pliant and soft, so she kisses him again – just a quick brush, and no more – and then a third kiss, and a fourth, and by the time she rises again for a fifth, he reciprocates, and crushes her to him desperately, his mouth slanting against hers in tormented urgency, and in perfect alliance.
"I want you," she gasps against his lips, her fingers fisted in his hair, upsetting the coifed strands into curls, "I want you. "
His breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed, as he pulls her into a bone-crushing embrace, not uttering a single word. They stand like this for a while, until Chloe pushes away from him, and he watches her take a few steps backwards, with a puzzled frown.
And there, in the dim light from the street lamp outside their windows, she reaches for the buttons on her shirt and begins to undress slowly before his eyes. The look on his face morphs into anguished reverence, and his eyes follow the movement of her fingers like a parched monk being denied a sip of sacrificial wine.
"What are you doing?" he rasps, when she stands before him bare-breasted, her hands moving to the front of her jeans.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asks, suddenly incredibly bold, as she kicks off her boots, and pushes her jeans and underwear down her thighs, "I thought I was pretty clear; never thought the day would come when I'd have to try and seduce you. "
She tries for flippant, and unassuming, but the tremor in her voice, as she stands completely naked before the Devil, gives her away. She takes a step forward, and Lucifer's arms rise unbidden to her waist, as if out of pure instinct.
"Chloe – " he croaks, and she senses that he'll try and object again, if he's not distracted, so she rises on her tiptoes once more – and this time the climb is higher, because her heeled boots are lying discarded on the floor- and presses her entire body to his, earning herself a stifled gasp from his throat.
His clothes chafe at her sensitive skin, the buttons on his jeans cold against her pubic bone.
"I said I want you, you idiot," she sighs softly, and her fingers rise to tug the leather jacket off his shoulders, "and I meant what I said."
His fingers tighten on her waist, and she knows that she's nearly there, she nearly has him – when suddenly he takes a step back, away from her, his hands flexing into fists.
"I don't think it's a good idea to proceed, darling," he offers with a tight smile and a pained voice, as if the physical distance between them is excruciating to him, "you see, I have nothing on me."
She catches his meaning almost instantly, and she finds herself suddenly overwhelmed by her feelings for him.
Lucifer, who's always ready to participate in any proffered lewd activity in a moment's notice, who practices safe-sex on an iron-cast principal, who had more bed-mates than she could possibly count – this Lucifer arrived at their can of sardines, one-bed-only, hovel with absolutely no contraceptives and no presumptions.
Not because he didn't want her, but because he thought she'd never want him.
She thinks she finally understands his reluctance to get into bed with her. Her happiness, her free will, these little things that define her, and make her what she is – they are more important to him than the things that he may want and desire. Her so-called choices at the cost of his own happiness.
With surprisingly steady feat, Chloe takes a step forward and takes one of his fisted hands and brings it to her lips.
"Don't worry about it," she whispers and almost sighs in gratitude when she notices his eyes widen, "I got it covered."
She does. She still has the IUD she decided to get when things with Marcus – Cain – became serious. After all, with all the things that happened in her life since the moment of his overdue death, she never got around to taking it out.
How did that phrase about small mercies go?
Determined and unwavering, Chloe pulls at Lucifer's hand, leading him to the bed, and he, completely stupefied and definitely outwitted, follows her in an almost religious stupor. She climbs unto the mattress and shuffles on her knees to the edge where he stands, silent and immobile. Her hands make quick work of his belt, and pull the t-shirt off over his head, revealing his toned torso, pale in the drifting light. Chloe wonders at the number of Renaissance artists who sighed and moaned at the sight of his body, as he -no doubt- modelled for them, unabashed and proud.
Lucifer is still silent and unmoving when her hands smooth the warm skin above his heart, but when her fingers dip down to unbutton his jeans, he suddenly comes to life and bends down to kiss her lips, as if only now arriving at the moment.
He nudges her over, encouraging her to lie back against the pillows, as he rests, sprawled on his side, pressed to her hip, the warmth of his body seeping into her skin. He kisses her temple, and mouth and neck, as his clever fingers run over the pattern of her body; Chloe gasps against his lips when Lucifer's thumb brushes her ribs and the underside of her breast. He smiles against her mouth, and bites at her lower lip, as he flattens the arch of his palm against her lower belly, the tips of his fingers brushing against the golden curls at the apex of her thighs. Her breath hitches and she decides to reciprocate, sliding her left hand down Lucifer's taut abdomen and into his open jeans. He almost jumps at the touch, choking on a delighted, deliciously breathless chuckle.
"Detective, " he moans against the column of her neck, and Chloe shivers at the feeling of his breath on her heated skin; but when her fingers slip past the band of his boxer briefs, he steadies her wrist, and presses his lips to her ear, "wait, allow me to take care of you first."
"But- "she whimpers, flexing her fingers around him, earning yet another sinful moan.
"Please," he breathes and plants a kiss below her ear, and his hand glides down the slope of her belly, past the stretch marks below her navel, where Trixie once grew, "let me do this."
Chloe nods and her hand falls away from inside his briefs to rest on his thigh instead. Lucifer hums against her skin approvingly and leans further into her.
His fingers dip down, past her curls, to press into her, and find her almost dry. Chloe stiffens in horrified mortification. She's not as wet as she'd like to be; not because she doesn't want him – nothing can be farther from the truth – but because that's just how her system operates. Always had, really. So, afraid of how Lucifer might take this entire situation, no doubt imagining this to stem from lack of desire, she stutters and begins to apologise.
"It's not you!" she gasps, as he removes his hand; if this is how it ends between them, she may very well die of disappointment and regret, "because I really want this, really! It's just how I am – "
"Darling," he interrupts her, and to her great astonishment he's smiling softly, "never apologise for this sort of thing; especially when this is a situation that I can remedy quite easily."
His smile turns wicked as he brings up his middle finger to his mouth and licks it in a way that probably had women – and men, no doubt – spontaneously combust. Gauging her reaction with parted lips, he slides his wet finger down her body and into her in one fluid motion, smiling open-mouthed when she gasps and clutches at him. Soon, she's slick with his spittle, and she parts her thighs for him, throwing one of her legs over his bent knee, her blushes and modesty discarded with her boots on the floor, as he adds another finger into her. It doesn't take very long for his wonderful hands to coax an orgasm out of her, and she climaxes with a breathless, botched version of his name on her lips.
The look on his face, when she comes to, panting and slick with sweat, can only be described as 'reverential'.
"The sight of you coming undone," he rasps, clinging to words as if they are failing him, "Chloe… I've never seen anything quite like it."
She blushes, turns her face away from him, and presses her burning cheek into the cool pillow. She's not quite sure how to react to his words, because, even if the wording is not entirely clear, she's pretty sure he's just paid her a very sensual compliment.
She feels his lips on her throat and his wet fingers on her belly.
"I've rendered you speechless, darling," he smiles against her skin, "are you embarrassed? Please, don't be."
She squirms against his touch, and the huff of his laughter is warm on her sensitive skin.
"I- I don't know what to say, Lucifer," she mumbles, her entire body on fire. She's not used to the men in her life waxing poetic over the way she looks in bed. Sure, Dan used to say she was gorgeous naked, and Marcus once grunted in her ear something filthy about how tight she was, but this – this is praise on a whole different kind of level.
The brush of his stubble against her jaw and the touch of his lips on her cheek bring her back to the present. She turns to find him hovering over her, his eyes bright in the near-darkness.
"Say nothing," he suggests softly and kisses her with all the intimacy and warmth of an old lover, and something inside her chest blossoms, and embraces the ache in her veins.
"I want you, " she repeats her previously uttered words when the kiss ends, and the meaning of this phrase goes beyond the sexual nature of the moment, beyond the lust and the desire. Her fingers curl into his hair fondly, and she hopes he understands the real sentiment behind the words, now more than ever.
Lucifer doesn't answer, but his eyes glaze over with want. He pushes himself upwards, leans on his right elbow, and, settling firmly between her thighs, shoves his boxer briefs out of the way, not even bothering to take off his jeans. The rough fabric chafes the delicate skin of Chloe's inner thighs as he enters her with very little trouble, but it doesn't really bother her. She finds she likes the urgency that accompanies his actions, and she gasps loudly and clutches at his shoulders at the initial contact between them. He's larger and thicker than the previous man whose bed she shared, but the way he fits inside of her – a bit like a jigsaw puzzle, really – is very pleasant. And then - he starts moving, pressed very tightly to her, his chest sliding against her sensitive skin, and the world stops.
She's not one for being too vocal in bed, never was; she'd give as good as she gets at the final countdown – at the money-time, when the waves crash, and she reaches her peak – but during the act itself, she'd usually just keep to silent gasps and breathless sighs. She's not a prude, or anything, just, well, a bit shy - despite her acting past. Dan used to find it endearing; back in the day when their bed was warm, and the house was full of laughter. He was more experienced than she was back then, and had a bit of a virginal kink going, though he'd never admit to it, not even after all this time. So, all things considered, it comes as a surprise to her that she finds herself uttering these little pleasure noises with every movement that Lucifer makes within her; as she gasps, and exhales, and bites at the skin of his shoulder, earning a delighted hiss for her troubles. When he suddenly shifts, and she understands that he means to move away, Chloe almost whines and clutches at his forearms.
"No, don't," she begs, pulling him back towards her, "I want you close."
"Oh, darling," Lucifer huffs, and curls his arms around her middle, "I'm not going anywhere."
He pulls her upwards with him until they are both sitting, pressed together chest to chest, and he's at eye level, and so deep within her that she almost wishes to embrace him and take him to her womb, closer to her heart. But then he presses a hand to the small of her back, angling her body in a perfect way towards completion, and her breath catches with the new sensation, and all other thoughts are forgotten.
Lucifer's a force of nature – a gale untampered, or an active Volcano – and she holds on to his shoulders, already coiled so tightly, almost unprepared for this out-of-this-world ride. He moves deep within her like a wave, crushing against her shores in precise assurance, and his eyes delve into hers, rendering her soul bare to the metaphorical bone.
And out of breath already, her mouth desperately close to his in their shifting proximity, a single thought suddenly strikes her, and she asks, panting with exertion, "can you tell if Hell has frozen over?"
He frowns at her for a moment, his fluid motions faltering, but then a flare of devious recognition ignites his eyes, and he chuckles smugly as if it didn't take him almost two years to get here.
She trembles in his arms, that chuckle resonating deep in her innards, and suddenly he presses her harder to him, ardent in his renewed attention, his stubble rubbing against the skin of her cheek.
"Chloe," he breathes, reverent as if in prayer, "Chloe."
And struck with this uncontrollable need, she touches the mouth that pleads with her, tracing the delicate arch of his upper lip with her fingers. When he opens said mouth and takes her fingers inside, and brushes his tongue over them, Chloe can't help the breathless moan that escapes her throat, and she feels, rather than sees, the satisfied smile against her skin. And then, when they slip from his mouth, she drags the fingers down her body and touches herself under his concupiscent eyes, shivering with lust when he groans sinfully at the display.
This, she thinks as he kisses her ravenously and without restrains, has got to be the most erotic thing she's ever seen.
Their rhythm changes and hastens, and he can't take his eyes off her as they move as one. She feels herself teetering on the brink of bliss, ready to fall over the edge – the feel of Lucifer's jeans rubbing at her bottom as she shifts in his lap only heightens all other sensations - and she looks into his beautiful, fathomless eyes only to find the heart-breaking glimpse of real devotion in them; and suddenly she's falling, and spinning out of reality, and she gasps and cries in his ear as she comes undone.
"I love you," she breathes tightly, quite unable to stop herself, "I love you; I love you. "
And something in his expression change; he takes a shuddering breath, buries his face in the crook of her neck, and tightens his arms around her, spending himself deep into her womb.
They still, breathing harshly against each other's ears, and Chloe realises what she blurted out in the height of her passion. Colour rises in her cheeks, and her heart stops beating for a few precious seconds. Too soon, she spoke too soon.
Lucifer tightens his arms around her and falls backwards with her on the bed. They dive to the mattress with a little "oof" squeezed out of him when Chloe lands on his chest. He's still somewhat hard inside her and were she emotionally stable and not overwhelmed by the whole situation between them, she'd have probably started moving against him again to try and prolong their lovemaking.
"Alright, darling?" he asks softly, tucking some of her hair behind her ear, "you look flushed."
The smug bastard.
She hits him on the arm playfully, and he attempts to pull off laughing lightly, but the expression on his face is not one of happiness; no, he looks sad, almost forlorn, and Chloe's heart clenches painfully in her chest.
Does he regret their actions? Or is he spooked by what she cried in his ear in the moment of her orgasm?
She doesn't dare ask. There are some things you just don't inquire of a man who doesn't lie.
"And you?" she asks instead, "are you alright?"
He spreads his arms wide on the bed, in a fashion that reminds her painfully of the crucified Jesus statue in the church where they had Trixie baptised, and smiles up at her.
"Just savouring the feeling of you around me," he sighs and closes his eyes, "for the times to come."
Something in his voice, or rather, the way he structures the sentence, makes her uneasy; as if he doesn't believe that this will happen again, as if he –
"No need to savour anything," she almost chokes on her words in the haste to get them out of her slowly closing throat, "you and I – we're - "
"Darling," he interrupts her, and raises his head to plant a kiss on her forehead, "being with you was a religious experience, if you pardon my French."
She can't help herself; she laughs. And as some quite undignified guffaws leave her body, and Lucifer's arms lace and tighten around her, she understands that he achieved what he wanted. He distracted her; enough for her to forgo the subject of their hazy future.
They lie embraced for a few additional minutes until Chloe can no longer ignore her body's needs and condition and she squirms in his arms.
"I have to get up," she explains apologetically at his inquisitive look, and motions with her head in the direction of the bathroom "but you'll stay here, in bed – right?"
Lucifer smiles softly at her and nods.
"Whatever you want, Chloe."
I want you, she thinks, but she doesn't say it. She's tired of this emotional rollercoaster – fatigued, really – and she wants to fall under the covers and wrap herself in him and wake up tomorrow to a day when they are both happy and in love. But she'd settle for just having him in bed with her tonight. And when she emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, she's happy to find him propped against the pillows, his jeans lying on the back of the chair. He wraps his arms around her as she slips into bed, and kisses her lips softly, lingering there for a short while.
"Sleep, Chloe," he whispers in her ear, and she sighs tiredly against his chest.
She's lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his beating heart.