Author's Notes:

Thanks so much as always to those who post feedback! Chapter title credit goes to the Rihanna.

Castaway - Disturbia

The following day, Lucifer returns to the precinct, but without his usual pomp and circumstance. Unlike the day before in the alley, the police officers he passes this time give him the same dirty glares and surreptitious head shakes that they've been giving Chloe all morning. But Lucifer seems not to care that the precinct has lumped him in with Chloe as an undesirable somehow responsible for Pierce's death. In fact, it's hard to tell if Lucifer even notices the intense scrutiny he's receiving, because he seems to be directing every ounce of his unblinking, unwavering attention toward Chloe. Kind of like one would act when approaching a scared, frothing dog in an alley. Which, unfortunately, only makes her more self-conscious as he strides closer.

He grabs a chair from an empty neighboring desk, and as he primly lowers his weight onto the seat, he says, "Hello, Detective," in a wary tone that almost seems like a question, but … isn't.

Her heart starts to thump at his proximity. The Devil. A wolf in luxurious human clothing.

"Detective?" he prods, frowning, when she doesn't speak.

She swallows back the sudden onslaught of nerves, bites her lip, and gives him a sort-of-smile — it's all she can manage — in return. "Hey."

He regards her silently for a long moment, eyes narrowing as thoughts tumble behind his dark eyes. "Are you … prepared for another go?" he says gently. "Or … shall I return to Lu—"

"No," she says.

His eyebrows knit. "No, you're not prepared?"

Her legs feel watery, and she thinks, if she were to stand, now, she'd fall into a gangly heap. "No, I mean, I don't want you to go." Her fingers clench. She takes a quick, cleansing breath, licking her lips. "I want you here."

"You're lying."

She blinks. "How can you tell that?"

"Detective, I know a lie when I hear one. You're …." His piercing gaze roves her head to toe. His shoulders hunch, and he rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger like he's getting a headache. "I do scare you." The small, self-flagellating way he says it breaks her heart.

"I'm not scared," she insists. "You don't scare me, Lucifer."

His incredulous expression is also a tired one.

"I'm nervous, which isn't the same," she corrects. "I'm just …." She sighs. "Look. In theory, okay? In theory, I want you here. It's just … going to take some convincing for the rest of me to catch up with my … wishful thinking."

"Wishful thinking," he parrots, incredulity still thick in his words. "Since when are you a masochist?"

"It's not masochism to want to want my partner around," she replies. "I think it's kind of the opposite, isn't it?"

His lip curls, and he directs an unhappy look at the empty space beyond her shoulder, but he doesn't retort. And then his demeanor just … collapses. Like he feels sick to his stomach or something.

"I meant what I said, Lucifer," she tells him quietly, seething, but not at him. "It … it isn't you. It's just …."

"The sudden absence of metaphor that surrounds me." He doesn't quite sound like he believes her. But ….

"Yeah," she says. "And I'm sorry that I can't magically be okay for you." She swallows, eyes watering as she peers across the desk at him. "I really wish I could be."

He scoots his chair a few inches closer. The soft vanilla scent of his cologne fills the space between them. "As I said, Detective, time is something I've an abundance of which to give you." He tilts his head, looking at her with a ghost of his old affection. The way he used to look at her … before. Before this giant fucking mess. "And truth be told, I much prefer the idea of giving you time to giving you space."

"Me, too," she says.

He quirks a small, wan grin at her. "In theory."

She rolls her eyes. "Like I said. I'm working on it. Okay?"

He glances at his ring for a moment, fidgeting. "Am I still to be bound by yesterday's promise?"

She clenches her teeth. She's never going to get used to any of this shit if she doesn't give him a little leeway. She knows it. She can't just la-la-la-didn't-heaaaar-you for the rest of her life. She can't. But ….

"I … need it right now," she says softly. "Okay? It's …. Lucifer, I need it."

He nods, subdued. "All right."

"But if it's …."

"Yes?"

She takes a breath. "If it's relevant, I mean. And you're not just saying Satan-y stuff to be your normal flagrant self." Her heart skips. "I mean, not that your normal flagrant self is bad or anything, yeah?" she rushes to add. "It's just … this is like breakfast, and you're like … ghost peppers … and I just need to ease into—" She slumps, pulling her fingers through her hair. "God, what the hell am I saying?" And then she can't help but clap her hands over her mouth. She said God. And hell. And. She said …. "Fuck." Her face heats to molten levels, and she adds, the barest squeak, "I'm sorry. I can't say anything right."

But all he gleans from her embarrassing, tone-deaf verbal diarrhea is, "You trust my judgment?"

Taking a breath, she makes herself look him in the eyes. "Of course, I do." She gives him a watery look. "I'm sorry I got that confused yesterday. I … I really am."

"You're … working on it," he says slowly.

She nods. "I am. I mean it."

He blinks, speechless for a moment, but he doesn't look away. His gaze is weighted down by countless eons. None of his usual joie de vivre is present. Just … surprise. And a little bit of hope. Hope he's not sure what to do with, because he's old enough and jaded enough to know that hope only exists to be crushed. She's human, after all. And this is what humans do. Crush things.

She's not sure how she ever thought he was being metaphorical about his origins.

God, what an idiot she'd been.

"Yes, well," he says. He clears his throat like he's embarrassed, too. He pulls his flask loose from his heather-colored vest and takes one hearty swig and then another. "Coffee?" he offers after he's gulped everything down. He stuffs the flask back into his pocket. "I'll not spike it, I assure you."

She laughs. "I'd love some. Thanks."

"One non-fat almond-milk latte with sugar-free caramel drizzle coming right up," he tells her with a nod. "How you drink that watery swill, I'll never bloody fathom." And on that note, he retreats, presumably to the Starbucks across the street. She watches him sashay up the stairs, a force of nature. No glares this time — his presence, when he commands it, is too stupefying.

She smiles, turning back to her computer monitor. It's nice to have a little bit of normalcy back. Even if things are still very much not normal.

"Get this," Ella is saying as Lucifer returns about twenty minutes later. Her body practically hums with ill-contained excitement, and her eyes are bright, as she reveals a new forensics report, still warm from the printer. "The victim died from asphyxiation, thanks to an elephant-sized dose of curare."

"Well, that's … odd," says Lucifer. He leans forward to look over their shoulders at the thick forensics report, only to wince and recoil at the apex of his extension. The movement is barely more than a blink — Chloe wouldn't have even seen the break in his unbothered facade if she hadn't been staring at him — but ….

"Are you okay?" Chloe says, frowning.

He waves her off without replying. After setting a small beige-colored napkin onto the corner of her desk, he places a still-steaming Starbucks cup on top of it, and then he nudges the cup and the napkin in her direction with two outstretched fingers. "Here you are, darling."

His casual addition of the endearment "darling" makes her feel warm inside, and she can't help but offer him a tiny, hopeful smile. "Thanks," she says, reaching for the cup before turning to Ella. "So, what's curare?"

Ella literally bounces on her feet. "It's an anesthetic compound that paralyzes the diaphragm."

"O … kay?" Chloe says slowly, taking a sip. The coffee is perfect. Exactly how she likes it. And true to Lucifer's word, it isn't spiked. "And why is curare bounce-worthy, exactly?"

"Dude, it's the poison they use in blow darts." Ella looks like a kid in a candy store. "Blow darts!" She shifts from foot to foot, grinning. "This is a new one, even for me, I'll admit."

"Was she hit with an actual dart?" Lucifer says. "Or was the curare administered in some other way?"

"M.E. found a puncture wound in her neck consistent in size with a 16-gauge needle." Ella flips excitedly to the fourth page of the report and shows them the bottom picture. Sure enough, the picture shows flesh marred by a small, telltale red dot. Gloved fingers hold a ruler beside the red dot for scale. The wound is a bare two millimeters, if that. "Genevieve Tate was literally killed by a poison dart. This is like … 007 stuff!"

"The question is … which 007?" Lucifer licks his upper lip suggestively before purring, "I'm a Connery man, myself. Love me a sexy Scotsman."

"No way," Ella replies, shaking her head vehemently. "Daniel Craig. He's sooo—"

"Decker," calls an austere voice from across the bullpen, before Ella can elaborate on what exactly Daniel Craig is "sooo."

Chloe sighs, looking up. Acting-Lieutenant Don't-Ever-Call-Him-Jim McDowell is standing there in full uniform, arms folded, by Pierce's office door. For lack of anyone else to promote, the Chief of Police had sent in not-actually-a-Lieutenant McDowell from the 3rd precinct. And as far as she can tell, McDowell is the only person in the precinct less popular than Chloe herself.

"Yes, sir?" she says.

"Body." He unclasps his arms and waves a new case folder at her. "Go." He slaps the folder onto the desk nearest to him, leaving her to pick it up, and then disappears back inside his office.

"He's quite laconic, isn't he?" Lucifer says, frowning.

Ella snorts. "Bet you never thought you'd call Pierce wordy, huh."

"Pierce is dead, Ms. Lopez," Lucifer says, expression flattening as a cold snap frosts through the air. "I wouldn't call him anything."

The crime scene lies along the L.A. River under a bridge, almost buried amongst the piles of refuse left behind by vagrants and drug addicts. This time of year, during dry season, the river flows at the barest trickle, not even audible at this distance. The corpse lies next to the bridge's concrete support strut, partially concealed under a police tarp. The area smells faintly of human waste and decay. Along the ground near the support strut, Chloe spies four dirty syringes without even searching, along with crumpled up, empty chip bags and scattered beef jerky wrappers. Traffic rumbles overhead on the bridge, drowning out any other potential ambient noise.

Lucifer's nose wrinkles as he gives the filthy area a look of distaste. "Lovely."

"John Doe," Ella says, crouching over the body. "Couldn't find any identification on him. And no identifying marks, either. No scars. No tattoos. His skin is perfect."

Chloe sighs as she lowers herself to her haunches beside Ella. "Drug overdose?"

"I don't think so," Ella says, glancing at the syringes littering the ground. "Not in the sense that you mean."

"But in another sense?" Chloe prods.

Ella pulls back the tarp, revealing the sightless brown eyes of a young, black-haired man. She presses her gloved fingers against his carotid. Chloe leans closer to see. Sure enough, there's a telltale puncture mark on his skin. Just like the M.E. found on Genevieve.

"Can we call him the Curare Killer?" Ella says.

Chloe gives Ella a grim look. "Let's … wait for the autopsy results, first, before we start making too many assumptions." Just to be sure. She doesn't want to jump from A to B to serial killer without doing the proper legwork.

"Right," says Ella, slumping. She glances at the corpse. "Sorry, buddy. That was kind of insensitive, I guess. But we'll find the guy who did this. Promise."

"Anything else you can tell me about the body?" Chloe says.

With a nod, Ella points at the victim's hands. Chloe frowns. The man's fingertips are missing. Each finger, thumb to pinky, is amputated at the top knuckle. And from the bloody, swollen look of the guy's fingers, from the exposed bone, this is a brand new injury.

What in the world?

"Some kind of torture?" Ella guesses.

"No," Lucifer says. "That's … not what we're looking at."

Chloe's frown deepens. He'd been silent since Ella started talking. Which is uncharacteristic. And, despite everything, Chloe had almost forgotten he was standing there, hovering over them.

"Not torture?" Chloe says dumbly.

His grim look speaks for him. Her mouth goes dry as realization sinks in like a wave-enveloped stone. Of course, he would know what torture looks like, wouldn't he? He's probably seen more methods in practice than she even knows exist. He's probably perpetrated more atrocities against humankind than the entirety of Guantanamo Bay's "administrative staff." And not even in the name of seeking vital information that would promote the safety of other humans. Just in the name of meting punishment. He …. She bites her lip, trembling as she peers at him. At the Devil, who's been her friend for three years, now. The world seems to be dropping out from under her.

"Detective?" Lucifer prods, sounding far away.

Order off menu for once, she can hear him saying. Maze and I certainly won't judge. "You know how to torture," she blurts, only to clap her hands over her mouth for the second time that day.

"Whoa," Ella says, gaping. "This conversation went dark."

Lucifer's eyes are cold obsidian. "I was the unwilling warden for the worst of humanity for millennia, Detective," he says, the words defensive. "What precisely did you expect?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. The idea that she's going to have to stop looking at things through a black-and-white lens of human morals is almost strangulating at this point. She shakes her head. Humans aren't the only perspective, anymore. They might not even be the majority perspective.

"N-no," she says shakily. "No, you're right. I'm … I'm sorry."

His gaze is bleak and black and unblinking. His feelings are hurt. Again.

"What do you think these wounds are, if not the result of torture?" Chloe says slowly, gesturing to the body.

But he's still not quite recovered from her latest slip-n-slide into the deep end. He gives her a pained look. "Perhaps … it would best be mentioned another time." When you're not acting like a xenophobic lunatic, he doesn't say. Probably wouldn't ever say. She's maybe making that up.

She closes her eyes and takes a breath, bracing herself. "It's okay, Lucifer. I can hear it."

His doubt is crushing.

"No, really," she assures him, swallowing. "Please, just say it. I … want you to."

"Someone declawed him."

Chloe's eyebrows knit. "De … d-declawed." On Lucifer's nod, she adds, "You mean like a goddamned cat? That's what you're saying?"

"Well, he isn't a feline, and I can't comment on this man's status with the almighty," Lucifer says wryly. "But, yes. This … man … isn't a man. Or I suppose I should say that he's male. But he isn't human."

Chloe blinks. O … kay. That's not quite what she expected to hear. Her breaths tighten in her chest.

"Um. Dude," Ella says. "He looks human to me."

Well, so do I, and yet I'm bloody well not, Chloe can imagine Lucifer retorting, and yet … he doesn't. Instead, he gives Chloe a sidelong glance that's full of guilt and skittishness, and he says nothing, like he regrets even mentioning the bit about the declawing.

"Ella, will you excuse us?" Chloe grinds her teeth as she rises to her feet. She grabs Lucifer's sleeve and pulls him to the side, and he allows himself to be pulled. Away from prying eyes and ears, closer to the trickling river.

"Apologies, Detective," he says as soon as they're out of earshot. "I thought it … potentially relevant. I'm …." He sighs like he's flustered. Panicked. "Apologies. I'll not speak of it again."

"You're serious?" she says, heart pounding. "The victim isn't human?"

"Of course, I'm serious," he says. "This victim wears the guise of a human, but he isn't one."

She folds her arms. "You mean … like you?"

"I've no guise," Lucifer snaps, scowling. "This isn't a bloody glamour." He gestures to himself. His face. "This is me, Detective. This is the face I was born with. I've another face, which you've now unfortunately seen, but that's my bloody punishment. Not my …." He shakes his head. "It's what bloody happened to me after the Fall. What I did to mys—" He swallows and doesn't finish whatever he was going to say. "And I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm the Devil from you. It's how I bloody introduced myself to you."

A lump forms in her throat, and she looks at the ground for a moment, trying to blink away tears. Well, that bear's been thoroughly fucking poked. "Lucifer, I didn't mean what I said as an insult. I'm not saying you're hiding things, or that you lied. I'm just trying to understand the mechanics of what you say we're looking at, here, because I can't see anything, and I …. I …." She frowns as the rest of what he said sinks in. "Your punishment?"

He sniffs and directs a subzero gaze at her. "That, Detective, is not relevant."

"But—"

"Not. Relevant."

"Right," she says tiredly. She holds up her hands in the universal sign of surrender. "So, if the victim isn't human, what is he?"

"A basilisk, if I'm not mistaken."

"A basilisk."

"Yes. Though I can't be 100 percent certain." He looks back over his shoulder at the victim, who's barely visible from here, thanks to the tarp, and the swarm of L.A.P.D. staff hovering around the body like flies. "His human guise isn't fully transparent to me, so that muddles things just a bit."

"But you can see a …." She sighs, trying to stay calm. "A glamour, you called it?"

"Yes."

"And you're saying that the victim … is a lizard."

"Well," Lucifer replies, hedging, "more of a dragon, really."

She can't help but snort with disbelief. "A dragon." Dragons are a fucking thing, now, too?

"Yes." Lucifer's eyes narrow, calculating.

"What is it?" she says.

"The killer took the eyes of a woman with Sight, and the claws of a basilisk."

"You're saying the claws are special like the eyes?" she says, trying not to think too hard about the insanity falling from her lips.

"Quite special, yes. They're coated in a poison that will petrify anything short of celestials."

"Petrify … as in … turn to stone?" she says slowly.

Lucifer nods.

"Literal stone."

"Right."

"Like fucking Medusa."

"Yes," he says.

"… Was Medusa real?" she can't help but ask weakly.

He regards her for a long moment, his earlier fury replaced by concern. "She was … an amalgamation of real things. But, no, Detective. There is no such thing as a gorgon."

"Oh."

How in the hell has this become her life? In barely more than a week, she's gone from metaphors about the Devil to the actual fucking Devil, a psychic, and a goddamned dragon. It's like somebody stuck her in a walked-into-a-bar joke without telling her. Where is the punchline? She could really use a punchline right about now.

"I know this is … quite overwhelming," he offers into the tense silence.

But she shakes her head. "No. No, I'm fine." Not. Not fine. She swallows, looking up at him. "So … it wouldn't work on you."

He frowns. "Pardon?"

"You said the venom doesn't work on celestials. Does that mean it won't work on you?"

"Yes, under normal circumstances," he says. He glances at her, frown deepening. "But it's lethally effective for wrangling Hell denizens like Maze, humans, and just about anything else."

"Hell denizens like Maze."

"Right. Lilim, incubi, succubi, et cetera."

"So, you're suggesting … what?" she says, giving him an expectant look. "Somebody is collecting special body parts?"

"So it would seem," Lucifer concedes. "Though I feel inclined to mention that all we have now is a coincidence. It would take a third body to make a legitimate pattern."

He speaks so matter-of-factly that she can't help but laugh out loud, but the sound is not a happy one.

"Detective?"

"God, this is ridiculous," she says, almost hypoxic as she starts to hyperventilate. "You're saying … that my vic is a reptile … and someone … is collecting shit … like unicorn horns."

"Dragons aren't reptiles, and unicorns are extinct."

"I don't fucking care!" she snaps so loudly that even Ella turns to look, frowning.

Everyone is staring. All the hateful, judging cops. Chloe's face heats. She claws uselessly at her collar, trying to breathe. She can't fucking breathe.

Lucifer gives her an unblinking, fathomless look, and if this were any other moment on any other day, she might capsize, and fall into the depths. But this isn't any other day. And she's falling apart, and it's clear he has no idea what the fuck to do with her when she's falling apart, and why should he? He's the fucking Devil. He isn't human. He doesn't understand human things except sin.

"I need some air," she gasps, suddenly desperate to get away.

Just away.

She runs for the car like it's her life raft, leaving Lucifer behind to get a ride with someone else.

Linda's office door is open, and quiet fills the small hallway outside. Chloe pokes her head around the doorframe, peering into the sunny space. Linda's sitting behind her desk, munching on a granola bar, telltale white earbuds placed in both ears, while staring down at something in her hand. Her phone, perhaps. Or an iPad.

Chloe bites her lip, debating, but the debate is lost in moments. Linda's on break. She doesn't want to hear about Chloe's ridiculous dragon problems. Who the hell would? Chloe's not even sure Linda knows the appropriate context. It just stands to reason. And how is any of this reasonable? Nerve lost, she turns back toward the—

"Chloe?"

Shit. Shit, shit. Wincing, she turns back in time to see Linda yanking the earbuds from her ears and setting the maybe-an-iPad onto her desk.

"I'm sorry," Chloe says. "I'm interrupting."

But Linda just shakes her head and gestures to her couch. "What's wrong? Sit down."

Chloe hesitates, peering dubiously at the couch.

"Sit," Linda says again.

Chloe collapses onto the sofa with a sigh and clasps her hands over her knees. "Everything's wrong. I …." She trails away, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. Circumspect? Direct? By the by, did you happen to know your longtime "delusional" Devil patient has been serious this entire time? No? Well, never mind, then. Don't mind me. I'll just be go—

"Lucifer … mentioned yesterday … that you know, now," Linda says slowly, her expression dripping with concern. "Like … know, know. Is that what this is about?"

Chloe slumps, blowing out a relieved breath. "So … you do know."

Linda nods. "I do."

"And you've been seeing Lucifer about this whole post-revelatory horror show, too?"

Linda offers an apologetic look, but doesn't answer, and Chloe slumps further. "Right," she says. Of course Linda is seeing him. Linda is his freaking therapist, and he's just as upset as Chloe is. "Doctor-patient confidentiality. Sorry."

"It's not a problem."

"When did …." Chloe takes a breath. "When did you find out, anyway?"

"Hmm. Right around Halloween. About a year and a half ago."

I think I've broken my therapist, Chloe remembers Lucifer saying. And now she's somewhere to the left of totally useless and to the right of babbling lunatic. Which … wow. New context tumbles into place. So much new context. Her hands tremble.

Afternoon sun cuts into the office at a slant, bisecting the room. The coffee table and some of Linda's bookshelves are bathed in light. Chloe watches the dust motes lazily floating in the air until everything blurs behind a wall of tears again.

"I'm trying to be okay with this," she rasps. "I'm trying. But, now, I'm not just dealing with Lucifer. All this otherworldly stuff is creeping into my work, too, and it's everywhere else, and I can't go three seconds without—"

"Wait," Linda says, holding up her hand. "What do you mean, it's in your work? Hasn't it always been in your work? I mean, Lucifer does work with you."

Chloe rubs her eyes and grabs a tissue. "No, I mean, now, I'm solving a murder where one of the victims isn't even human."

"Oh." Linda frowns. "Well, that's new. Even for me. Is the victim like … Maze or something? A demon?"

Chloe tells Linda about her murder investigation, narrating quickly from the dead woman outside the pizza parlor to the dead man — no, the dragon — under the bridge.

"That … does sound pretty insane," Linda says in a boggled tone.

"Really?" Chloe says with a snort. "That's your professional opinion?"

Linda regards her for a long moment. "Chloe, sometimes … things are just crazy. I know from experience that the stuff that happens around Lucifer … well, it gives you a whole new perspective on reality. And with that new perspective, even as a therapist, I can't do much more than tell you that your feelings, while I know they're incredibly distressing, are also completely valid. That shit is cray."

"I just …." Chloe sighs. "I don't know what to do."

Linda nods and scoots out from behind her desk, resettling on the chair across from the couch. "Do you want to solve the case?" she says gently.

"Of course, I want to solve it," Chloe replies. "Someone was killed. Two people were killed."

"So … the fact that the second victim isn't human … doesn't bother you."

Chloe shakes her head. "He was a living thing — a sentient thing. A sentient … d-dragon, I mean." At least, she thinks dragons are sentient. It would stand to reason. Not that any of this is reasonable. And she's still not sure how to wrap her head around her vic being a dragon in the first place. "But someone stole his life from him. Someone took his choices away. I don't care whether he was human or not. That's wrong, and he deserves justice."

"That point of view sounds very familiar."

"Hmm?"

Linda smiles. "You sound a lot like Lucifer."

"I do," Chloe admits, looking at the floor. "Don't I."

"Maybe … that's why you work so well together?" Linda suggests.

Chloe gives Linda a humoring look. "I know what you're trying to do."

Linda's grin widens. "Well, is it working?"

Chloe sighs. "I realized today that he's the former— current?" On Linda's head shake, Chloe amends herself back to, "—former ruler of Hell. Like really, really realized."

"Yes. Well, he is the Devil."

"I mean, I knew that before, once I'd seen his other face, but I didn't know," Chloe says. "I mean, it didn't sink in. And now …."

"And, now, your friend is a man who knows Hitler personally."

Chloe blinks. Wait. Back up. "Lucifer … knows Hitler?"

"Where do you think Hitler went when he died?"

"That's … that's …." Chloe swallows. "Wow." Talk about perspective changes.

"Yeah," Linda says, nodding. "Like I said. This shit's cray."

Chloe pulls her fingers through her hair, offering Linda a tired smile. "It's so nice to vent to someone who gets it."

Linda's eyes twinkle. "Feeling a little better, now?"

"Yeah," Chloe says. She takes a breath and blows it out slowly. For once, she doesn't feel the urge to immediately gasp again as the world proceeds to drown her. "Yeah, I …." She's … treading water, not sucking down seawater. "Yeah, I am."

"Well, my door is always open." Linda glances at her watch. "But I do have an appointment in a few minutes, so I'm going to have to ask that we wrap this up, now."

"Thanks. Sure. Of course." Chloe rises to her feet.

"May I suggest something?" Linda says as Chloe gathers up her purse.

"What?"

"Well, it seems like this new case at work has been your tipping point," Linda says. She pauses, expression growing thoughtful. "If you're having trouble dealing with Lucifer within the context of work … why not spend some time together outside of work? Remind yourself why you're friends. Find some equilibrium with him on a purely social level."

Chloe frowns. "I … don't know." Frankly, that sounds like a recipe for disaster right now.

"He's still Lucifer," Linda says gently. "He's still the exact same person you knew before. 100 percent. Just … now you know a little more about him. Hold onto that, okay? And, maybe, go meet him for a drink with that in mind."

"That's … maybe."

Linda smiles. "It's just a suggestion."

"Thanks," Chloe says, fingers tightening around her purse straps.

Just a suggestion, but …. Chloe sighs as she heads back out to the parking lot. Is she really ready to be doing devilish social calls when she can barely look him in the eye without hyperventilating? She's … not sure.

She keeps staring at her phone as she heads back to her cruiser, which is parked on the street outside. She … could message him. She could. She could invite him over to watch a movie or something, or she could offer to meet him for drinks, as Linda suggested. Going over to Lux for drinks would certainly be less … less. She wouldn't be on her turf. She could leave at any time.

Do you want to meet up for a cocktail or something? she could text.

Except she ditched him earlier. She ditched him, and she insulted him, and he'll reply, Thanks, but I'm rather not in the mood to be made the villain again today.

And she'll have nothing to say to that except, I'm sorry. But she's said that so many times already that she feels like apologies have lost their meaning. Instead, they're code for, I'm sorry, but I'll do the bad thing again in a few minutes, anyway, and that's not really being sorry, is it?

So, she'll type, I'm sorry, and he'll stop answering altogether because he's sick of her, and he's sick of her lies.

The Prince of Lies is fond of truth, after all — irony of all ironies.

She thinks … perhaps it's best just not to ask at all. She prefers the idea of optionally not talking to him, rather than having a state of silence forced on her. She prefers ….

She sighs, as she reaches the car. The harsh afternoon sun beats against her face. She fumbles with her key fob until she hears a familiar beep, and the door locks disengage.

She prefers their "friendship" in a state like Schrödinger's cat, where it can still be alive and thriving, because she hasn't opened the box, yet, to discover it very much dead.

A lump forms in her throat as she climbs into the car.

She doesn't text him.