A buzzing sound rouses Chloe from sleep, bursting into her dream and yanking her out of it quite unceremoniously. It's a nice dream, full of kisses in the late afternoon sun, and the lovely feel of cool, clean sheets against her skin; Trixie's laughter in the next room, and the sweet scent of pancakes she can't quite shake off even after she's no longer dreaming. The source of the buzzing is an incoming call. She reaches out a hand towards the nightstand and fumbles for her phone. The alarm clock reads 5:37 a.m.; the caller is Dan.
"Hello, hello?" she mutters breathlessly into the phone, her heart beating erratically at being roused so suddenly, "Dan? What is it? Is Trixie okay?"
"Chlo', hi!" she hears his hurried reply on the other end of the line, "Yes, she's fine, she's with your mother – this is about the case; there's been another murder, Chloe."
Beside her, Lucifer stirs in bed, sighing deeply, but doesn't wake; she turns to the nightstand and cups her palm to her mouth.
"Another murder?" she's suddenly alert, her cop instincts kicking in, "When?"
"Sometime tonight," Dan mutters over the phone, she hears him getting ready in the background; he must have just gotten the call from dispatch, "you and Lucifer didn't notice anything strange yesterday, did you?"
No, they most certainly did not, because they were otherwise occupied. With each other.
Guilt eats away at Chloe's stomach, and she shifts uneasily in her bed of sin.
"Er, no, no," she tries to sound nonchalant, shaking her head vehemently, even though her ex-husband can't see the gesture over the phone, "nothing strange here."
"Right," Dan answers, and if he suspects her in any way, he doesn't let it show in his voice, "Ella and I are heading over to the crime scene now; we'll come to see you afterwards, make it look like an interview. Don't come out."
"Got it," she says, nodding to herself; Dan's got the right Idea, "see you soon, then."
"Bye, Chlo'," he mutters and hangs up. The line goes dead.
She takes a deep breath and places the phone back on the nightstand, already deep in thought.
Was it her fault that the killer acted again, while she was busy making love to the Devil? Would she have been able to prevent this new murder had the evening ended in a different way? Would she have arrested the murderer then and there, if Lucifer had not been so emotionally vulnerable with her last night?
No; what she told Dan was the truth. There was nothing strange or sinister that she'd missed at the bar. Whatever happened that led to the unfortunate murder transpired after she and her diabolical partner left the premises.
And Speaking of the Devil -
She turns to look at the mostly naked, sleeping man in her bed; he rests on his stomach, with his face turned towards her, his cheek adorably smashed into the pillow. His hair is wonderfully mussed – by sleep and by her hands – and she blushes deeply at the recollection of her fingers grasping tightly at his locks in the moment of climax.
It's hard to believe, seeing her partner now – asleep and looking almost cherublike - that he's that dreaded being from the Scriptures, the horrid monster from all the wives' tales; the great Deceiver, the Dark Lord, the instigator of Sin.
But the truth is much more complicated than that.
Yes, she's currently sharing her bed with The Devil, who is defiantly the root of all temptation, can be quite chaotic at times, and has this cruel little streak hiding somewhere behind his eyes. But he is also the fallen archangel who comes to play monopoly with her and her daughter; who died for her twice, and threw her a prom just because she was feeling regretful that she'd missed hers back in the day; a man who can be kind when he wants to be, and very generous –
And the way he looked at her last night – with awe in his timeless eyes…this ageless being that wove the sun and stars into the fabric of the heavens with a golden thread made of light.
She can't help it, she loves him; loves him enough to fall with him, if he ever asked her to, even though she knows that he never will.
Chloe bends to move some strands of loose hair away from his forehead and presses her lips to his left shoulder. He's very hot, almost humanly feverish; she felt it last night as she burned for him - must be the devil thing.
Lucifer stirs awake under her hand, and his eyes flutter open; he blinks owlishly in the semi-dark room.
"Hey, you," she whispers softly, planting another kiss on his shoulder and smoothing a hand over his abdomen, "sleep okay?"
He doesn't answer straight away but flings his arm to the nightstand on his side of the bed, where it gropes around for his phone. He brings the device to his face, frowning and blinking at the screen.
"So bloody early," he mutters darkly, and Chloe smiles at the oozing grumpiness.
"Yes, sorry…Dan called," she explains, running her hand over his chest while he checks his messages, "there's been another murder."
This gets his undivided attention.
He puts away the phone and turns to her, frowning at the news.
"Blimey, has there? When?"
Chloe nods, and leans forward to kiss the spot above his heart; he shivers and flinches a little at the contact. She's not sure what to feel at this reaction, "sometime last night, after we left."
"Fuck," he mutters darkly, and she starts, not used to him using this particular swear word, "so what now?"
He's distant, almost clinical; Chloe feels a twinge of fear deep down in the bottom of her stomach.
"Well, now we get up and dress for the day," she answers, managing quite nicely to keep the tremor out of her voice, and moves away from him, intent on getting up; she's suddenly very conscious of her nakedness, "Dan and Ella are on their way; they will come over and make it look like they're interviewing us. Dan asked that we stay indoors until they arrive."
She rises from the bed, her back turned to him, and feels her cheeks heating up with the great burden of utter mortification. Has all this been a mistake? It didn't feel like one last night…
He grabs her hand suddenly, and she's forced to turn back to him, the blanket pressed tightly to her chest in a failed attempt to preserve her modesty.
The look he gives her – it is filled with many things, but detachment is certainly not one of them, and it almost looks as if he's pleading with her, as he appears to be struggling to speak. She waits with bated breath for him to say something; do something - but he only sighs mournfully, closes his eyes, and releases her arm, letting it fall listlessly to her side.
"Mind if I pop into the shower first?" he asks quietly, not looking at her, and it is clearly not what he meant to say, but there you have it, "these curls take time to tame, Detective."
"Sure, go ahead," she says flatly and watches as he disappears behind the bathroom door.
So, back to 'Detective', are we?
When last night, tight in his embrace, it was nought but 'Chloe' uttered in her ear in sheer abandonment and devotion.
She doesn't buy it; doesn't believe that this behaviour stems from detachment, or from satisfying a long-lived urge that, having been finally fellfield, is no longer deemed interesting. It's the 'vulnerability' thing all over again; he's overwhelmed, his brain in sensory overload, and he doesn't know how to channel the feelings properly.
Chloe wishes Linda were here; she could sure use some professional help just about now.
The ache comes back with a vengeance, like a jilted lover, and she feels her eyes water; she understands what he's doing, with painfully sober clarity. He's distancing himself, preparing himself for rejection, despite her blurted, honest professions of love last night. With a pang of despair - the ache now moving in her bones like a ravenous worm – she wonders how many people declared their undying love for him right after he'd given them the best orgasm of their lives.
That he would see her like this; that he would think that she –
She's not angry, or disappointed – not at him, at any rate – she's just sad; it's that feeling of grief all over again, that threatens to resurface and drown her under a wave of misery. The ache for him hums in agreement, turns into a malignant tumour, and invades all the cells in her body like a swarm of termites.
She moves almost blindly across the tiny room, on some form of autopilot – boiling the overnight water in the teapot for coffee, dressing up, picking up her discarded clothes off the floor. It's all very clinical, and robotic – she's not present, not really – and she barely even flinches as she stuffs her used underpants and bra into her laundry bag. By the time Lucifer's done and out of the shower, Chloe is dressed and making coffee, and when she feels him behind her back – close, but unapproachable – she stiffens and stills, and waits for the inevitable.
"Chloe – " he mutters, and his voice is soft in the sudden silence. She can feel his hand hovering over her arm as if he is battling with himself to decide whether to touch her or not; and suddenly, it becomes all too much for her, too stifling – this limping dance around each other, the constant tripping on bloody toes - and she's struggling to breathe. She turns around abruptly, and Lucifer almost jumps back in surprise at the sudden movement.
"Help yourself to coffee," Chloe says, not looking up at him, "I'm going to freshen up."
She disappears into the bathroom, locking the door behind her, and slides down to the floor. She doesn't emerge until she hears the positive, excited tones of Ella's voice filling the wretched, adjacent room.
"Chlo', there you are!" Ella greets her enthusiastically, and shoves a deliciously smelling paper bag into her unresisting hands, "sorry to wake you up so early, but I hope this makes up for it!"
Chloe opens the proffered container and smiles softly at the lemon bars inside.
"You shouldn't have, Ella; thank you!"
"Ah, it's nothing!" the other woman waves her hand in dismissal, but her cheeks are blushing attractively with pleasure at the offered gratitude, "There's this nice bakery not too far from my apartment, and I figured you guys would probably be hungry."
"Right as always, my dear Miss Lopez," Lucifer compliments the tiny woman and toasts her with his cup of coffee; Ella's cheeks grow redder as her smile grows wider, and the pit in Chloe's stomach yawns and demands tribute. Dan looks at the display between the three of them and frowns.
"If we're all done kissing up to Ella, there's an active case to solve," he scowls at Lucifer, who just shrugs and leans against the wall with well-practised ease.
"Right," Ella drawls, her eyes narrowing at the charged atmosphere between the two men, and reaches for her camera, "So, our vic was found at the same place as the previous ones, same MO; he's 38, goes – well, went – by the name of Greg Forman. From what we gathered, he was staying two doors down to your left and was in town for a shoe salesmen conference. Anybody else getting those 'Marries with Children' vibes?" She chuckles, lifting her head from the crime scene photos; the faces staring back at her blink morosely, "No?" Tough crowd…"
Chloe sighs, already emotionally spent for the day; which is highly inconvenient, considering it's only seven a.m. As if being on the wildest sentimental ride of her life isn't enough, the universe – or rather, her partner's father – decides to throw in another grisly murder in her way. And to top it all, Lucifer – the one who needs to have her back, the one she must rely on – is distant, and frosty, and probably as emotionally drained as she is; perhaps even more, given that he doesn't even have that many feelings, to begin with.
No, that's not fair, she chides herself, sinking into the only chair in the room, and mutely motions to Dan and Ella to take the edge of the bed; he has feelings – of course, he has feelings – he's just not that well acquainted with them as humanity is.
Ella continues to chatter on about the murder, and Chloe lets her mind wonder unintentionally. She sneaks a peek at the man who spent half the night worshipping her like a deity (and isn't that ironic). He's leaning against the wall in his fitted jeans and his leather jacket, looking like a movie star, or a top model; a vision in black, a picture of indifference with poisonous coffee in hand. He doesn't spare a glance at her, doesn't share a sultry stare with hidden meaning; doesn't caress her with his heated eyes as he recalls their night together.
A few hours ago, he was inside of her- as intimately close to her soul as she can offer – but now, he stands miles away from her, leaning against the wall in fake nonchalance.
She resurfaces again to a what looks like a pissed-off pissing contest, bordering on a blown-out-of-proportions-fight between her partner and her ex-husband. Dan is scowling, face mad with fury, and Lucifer – still lounging like he owns the wall – is smirking a little cruelly, his eyes nearly burning with hellfire.
"Stop it, you two," she speaks suddenly, and her voice is a little frail even to her ears – but it serves the purpose; two pairs of concerned eyes turn to regard her with ill-disguised guilt. Good, let them be ashamed of…whatever they were fighting about; she doesn't even want to know.
"Now isn't the time for this, boys," she adds and turns to Ella, who's still holding her camera in her hands, "time of death?"
Ella frowns at her, looking slightly worried. She sneaks a glance at Lucifer, who promptly looks away, suddenly very interested in some unidentified stains on the carpet.
"Chlo', you okay?" she asks quietly, "I already mentioned it, like, ten minutes ago…"
"Sorry," Chloe smiles faintly, feeling wretched; this – whatever this is – is starting to affect her work, and she simply can't allow it to happen, "I just drifted away for a second…or two; can you repeat the TOD for me?"
"Between two and four a.m.," the forensic scientist answers, the concerned look still very vivid on her face, "seriously though, you okay, girl?"
"I'm fine," Chloe says, smiling; she can't help it if it doesn't reach her eyes, "just a little confined, I guess."
"How do you manage to fit in here?" Dan asks suddenly, still scowling, a thoroughly dissatisfied look on his face, "only one bed, I see..."
Chloe's quite aware of what he's insinuating and doesn't really care for his tone or his opinion on the matter. From the corner of her eye, she notices Lucifer straightening up, ready to pick up the previously discarded fight with a vengeance.
"Lucifer's sleeping on the chair, not that it's any of your business, Dan," she mutters hastily before her partner can do some real damage; she's not certain what makes her feel guiltier, the chastised look on her ex's face, or the wounded one on the face of the man she loves.
"Look at you, Luce!" Ella cries suddenly in fake joviality, clearly thinking she's coming to the rescue, bless her heart, "being the proper British gentleman!"
Chloe sinks further into her chair in what she hopes is well-disguised despair. What a nightmare. Maybe sometime during the night she's died and went to Hell, and this is her hell loop? Perhaps this is the price of loving the Devil, both physically and emotionally? If this is indeed the case, Hell must be really crowded.
"Whatever," Dan mutters, pulling her out of her morose musings about the afterlife and the fate of her immortal soul, "I want you two to go to lunch together; you are a couple, after all."
"I beg your pardon?" Lucifer asks, finally detaching himself from the wall, "What has that got to do with anything?"
And something in the centre of her chest twists and cracks, because this argument – of them being a fake couple that simply has to go to lunch together – was made by Lucifer himself only yesterday; it didn't seem to bother him one bit then, before they - before.
Dan rolls his eyes in annoyance, and Lucifer turns red in the face. Ella sneaks a worried glance in Chloe's direction.
"Well, it's a bit odd that you two checked in as a couple, but only you are seen out and about, Lucifer," Dan explains slowly, as if talking to a five-year-old; he's clearly angry, and not a fan of this arrangement, but his frustration and irritation do not stem from jealousy – at least not entirely. He still clearly blames her partner for Charlotte's death, not wishing to acknowledge that he's directing his rage towards the wrong person; and Lucifer, being Lucifer, doesn't deflect this wrath in any way, no doubt feeling the heavy guilt for the lawyer's death himself.
"Dan's right," Chloe sighs, pressing her fingers to her eyes; she seems to be developing quite an epic headache, "it does look strange."
"And later," her ex-husband supplies, emboldened by her support, "I want you to head to the bar and talk to the bartender and tell her you're leaving tomorrow; maybe the killer will hear and get antsy to take you out. That way we may just finally catch him, or her."
"You'd like that, won't you," Lucifer mutters under his nose, and Dan gears up for another round, and the headache does great battle in Chloe's skull.
"Shut up, both of you!" she cries suddenly, and opens her eyes to see three sets of startled eyes staring at her like she's grown a second head, "Just – shut up …Dan, Ella; anything else? If not, I think we'll better be done here; this 'interview' is taking too much time already."
Ella jumps to her feet and drags a bewildered Dan upwards with her.
"Chloe's right, peeps," she agrees urgently, shoving the still flabbergasted man towards the door; Lucifer is following their exit with a bemused expression on his face, "enjoy lunch you love birds, er – bye!"
The door slams behind the two and both Lucifer and Chloe jump a little at the loud 'thud' . A pregnant silence ensues in which Chloe vaguely considers shooting herself with her handgun just to get any sort of a reaction out of her partner when the man in question turns to her with a wary look.
And just like that, Chloe has enough of emotionally-constipated men. At least for the moment.
"Detective- " he begins tentatively, but she raises her palm up to stop him.
"Wake me up before lunch," she orders and, not waiting for his response, crawls into the bed that still smells like him; like them.
He's silent for a few moments, and then she hears him shuffling his feet, and the creak of the wretched chair as it accepts Lucifer's weight.
"Alright," he agrees, silently, and he sounds just as tired and just as pained as she is, "Alright."
Remorse washes over her as she closes her eyes, and the ache rears its anguished head in her chest and cries her a river. She doesn't sleep, but she doesn't open her eyes either, instead opting for lying still in a silent, gloomy room, with the man for whom she aches sitting dejectedly in the corner.
The diner is nothing fancy – not by a long shot – but the atmosphere is homely, and the food is deep fried and comforting.
They sit face to face, looking nothing but happy and in love to the rest of the world; a basket of fries sitting between them on the table. Lucifer holds her hand, and her arm is getting cold at the spot of skin that is pressed to her cutlery, but she doesn't dare move her appendage away. The atmosphere between them is tense as it is, and the forced-upon outing is not helping matters.
"Here you go, cuties!" the cooing waitress arrives at the table with their drinks, looking starry-eyed and dazzled, "it's so nice to see a couple so much in love; enjoy yourselves, now!"
And as Lucifer smiles charmingly at the retreating woman, Chloe can't take this charade and the tension that accompanies it any more.
"Do you regret last night?" she blurts out, removing her hand from his grasp and dropping it to her lap, where it joins her other hand in nervous fidgeting. The look on Lucifer's face shifts from staggered to stricken in an instant.
"Never," he says with such vehemence that it takes Chloe completely off guard, but before she has a chance to reply, his countenance changes and the look in his eyes freezes her innards, "but I rather think you do – or will, at any rate."
So that's what it is; she's had a feeling it was. The ache grows in her womb like a child conceived of her and him, and her eyes fill with tears.
"I – "she tries, her voice catching in her throat, and she shakes her head hopelessly, "I would never…"
He only regards her with that soft, sad smile that he seems to reserve only for her, and the tears finally take their suicide jump down the slopes of her cheeks.
"I'm abominably good in bed, darling," he says softly, reaching out to brush away her tears with his thumb, "but I am the Devil, and nobody wants to introduce the Devil to their mother. Don't cry, Chloe, please," he adds, his brow creasing in a way that makes him look almost tragically beautiful," Good Old Mephistopheles doesn't deserve your tears."
She shakes her head again, quite unable to speak, and he drops his hand from her face. The corners of his lips lift slightly as if the blow he's just landed will go down more smoothly with a quivering, half-hearted smile.
They sit wretchedly in utter silence, while the diner around them continues to bustle with activity and mayhem. A crying child shrieks at his mother's insistence that he cannot possibly have more cake, a group of teenagers at the corner booth exchange excited opinions about an upcoming homecoming dance, a waitress drops a tray full of empty glasses to the floor. Lucifer looks at her wearily, resolved in his belief that he could never be worthy of true affection.
Chloe stares out of the window and wishes for rain.