Canto VII
Amenadiel wakes up feeling like – excuse his language – total crap. More precisely, like crap that fell off the garbage truck, got run over, and then the truck backed up and ran over it again. Copious consumption of his little brother's extensive liquor cabinet has not helped at all in this regard, after he left Chloe and Maze's place last night and came back here to Lux, thus to sit alone in the empty tower gazing down at the world so far away below, like toys or ants skittering about on their insignificant business. It makes him wonder if that's what Dad feels like, up there on His solitary throne, and then he remembers Dad's little bathroom ambush, and then he groans out loud and puts his head back down on his arms. Even with supernatural metabolism in his corner, he is still a total rookie at anything booze-related, and he was definitely sampling most of what Lucifer has to offer. Which, knowing Lucifer, probably includes some things that aren't meant for angels to safely drink, let alone humans.
After a further moment of lying prostrate and feeling sorry for himself fails to improve the situation in any measurable particular, Amenadiel groans again and sits up, fumbling for his phone. It's a new acquisition, which he doesn't know how to use very well, and he angrily thumbs at the slick screen (would it kill the humans to make these things with buttons?) past all the cat videos and porn popups he can't figure out how to get rid of, hoping to see a message from Maze. Something about how she's worked out what to do (look at him, a voice jeers savagely, still waiting for a demon to solve his problems) or how she was thinking of him and hoping he was all right, or. . . he doesn't know, anything. A brief pang of longing for his mother crosses his mind. At least she listened. At least she cared. To nearly lead him into fall and failure and damnation, yes. . . but now that she's gone, he can't help but miss her. It's maddening.
Amenadiel shuffles into the shower and freshens up, changes his clothes, and otherwise does his best not to look like a homeless hobo squatting in this fancy place while the owner is away. He's just wondering if he dares to venture breakfast when the door buzzer goes off. Someone is below at the staff entrance to Lux, asking to be let in.
He frowns. This is outside normal operation for the club; they just had last call a few hours ago. One of Lucifer's employees would surely have their own key card, though he can't fathom why they'd be dropping in so early, but then it occurs to him that it must be the people from the airline returning their lost bags – this was the address he put down on the claim forms. Good, and not a moment too soon. Maze needs her daggers back. He hops in the elevator, rides down, and strides through the quiet, empty club to the door, pulling it open. "Yes, can I help – ?"
"Mr. Morningstar?" The voice comes from considerably below his eye level, and gives him a terrible start of wanting to turn around and look for Lucifer, before he remembers that that is now, officially at least, also him. It's not an airport employee or a cab driver, but a little old guy who looks about eighty, wearing a Sun City Golf Club mesh hat, a loud floral shirt, khaki shorts, and support socks pulled up to the knee, leaning on a cane. "Mr. – Amenadoodie Morningstar?"
Amenadiel winces. "Er. Hello. Yes. That's me. Are you sure you have the right – "
"Yessirree. Sure do." The geezer sticks out his hand. He smells strongly of prunes and Geritol. Amenadiel devoutly thanks his lucky stars that he is immortal and will never end up like this (barring, of course, something truly drastic). "I'm Earl, Earl Horton. I've got your bags here, my wife grabbed 'em off the carousel instead of ours. Told Prudy ours had a blasted tag on 'em, but you know. Women. Well, they're down in my car, sonny boy, if you'll come and fetch 'em, I can't carry 'em myself."
The old man beckons with his cane and turns to hobble away, and Amenadiel follows him out into the cool, pale morning, down the steps to the side alley. A Buick the size of a boat is occupying all the available space, and he makes his way around to the trunk, bending over to haul out his black duffel, Maze's bombproof titanium carrying case that probably doubles as a lethal throwing discus, and Trixie's little Disney-princess wheelie bag. "Thanks, sir, thanks a lot. I'll be happy to pay you back for anything else you – "
At that, as he straightens up and turns around, he sees Earl Horton, harmless old coot-turned-patron saint of lost baggage, holding Maze's daggers. One in each hand, and he's dropped the cane. "Found these in there. Funny lookin' things. You sure you should be keeping these around?"
"Sir." Amenadiel lunges at him, but Horton takes a quick step back. Awfully spryly, considering. "Sir, you have no idea what those are, and you'd better put them down before – "
"Someone gets hurt?" Horton grins. "Actually, pal. Happens I know exactly what they are. Didja like my whole old-guy act? Fooled you, didn't I? And I stabbed you with these once before. What happens if I do it again? How'd you even survive in the first place, by the way? Not as much juice as you promised, or I just didn't get you enough?"
Amenadiel's brain is completely numb with horror. Can't be seeing what he's seeing, hearing what he's hearing. As something clicks over in his head – if he had his powers, he would have sensed this right away, but in his current state, he is no better than a blind child, to stumble straight into any waiting snare. This can't be happening, it can't be. "Mal – Malcolm?"
"Surprise! Betcha thought you'd seen the last of me, huh?" Earl-Malcolm grins wider, eyes briefly turning black. The strength of the demonic entity inside this frail, used mortal body is overwhelming – it's not going to be able to contain it for long. "Your brother said he was gonna give me Wesley Cabot, so I'm kinda pissed that he didn't, but hey, Prince of Lies, right? Besides, I'll get an upgrade soon enough anyway, and I've got a message for you from baby bro. He says you've got something of your sister's, and he wants you to bring it to Rome and get flushed down the crapper to hell with it. See? Did my job. Delivered it like a good boy."
"Lucifer sent – ?" No. Amenadiel doesn't know what's going on, but there is no way on heaven, earth, or hell that Lucifer would use Malcolm Graham, of all damned souls, as his trusted courier. And this – asking him to bring Azrael's blade to hell? Azrael's blade? Where Mom can get hold of it – where any of the worst people who ever lived might also theoretically be able to get their hands on it? Where the very fabric of the cosmos could potentially be undone? Either Lucifer has gone completely insane after only a few days back in his old haunts, or Malcolm is just lying his butt off, or – whatever it is, there is absolutely no good option. At least Malcolm doesn't seem to realize – yet – what exactly he's asking Amenadiel to retrieve, but he has the demon daggers, he knows about Lux, he knows about Lucifer's human job and contacts – obviously, he used to work there. And he's clearly not planning to spend unnecessary time constrained inside gimpy-kneed, fanny-packed, prune-smelling Earl Horton, for which at least Amenadiel cannot blame him. But this – but this –
At that moment, the standoff is broken by the crunching of tires, a LAPD squad car turns into the alley, and parks. While Amenadiel is still panicking, the doors slam, and two people step out, one of whom he recognizes as Chloe Decker's ex-husband, the one he and Lucifer did the sting at the sex club with, who looks so indisputably like a cop. The other is a petite black-haired woman in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, a small silver cross around her neck. They take in the scene, and Daniel Espinoza strides forward. "Anything going on here, gentlemen?"
"Hey, buddy." Earl-Malcolm waves, flashing a leering grin. "Just who I wanted to see, to make this a real party. Good to catch up, isn't it? You know, out of frame jobs and all?"
Dan is completely blank for half a second – and then, despite everything, this seemingly ordinary human can in fact be remarkably perceptive, and he somehow figures it out in the next heartbeat. He goes madly for his gun, as the woman yells in shock at seeing him apparently preparing to cap an innocent octogenarian in the ass, and Amenadiel bellows, "Don't! Don't shoot! You'll just free him from that body and he could – I don't know, take over one of you!"
"What the – ?" The woman stares wildly between all three of them, utterly lost and considerably shaken. "Is this some other acting thing?"
"Haven't met this cute little tidbit." Earl-Malcolm waggles his fingers. "New hire at the department, Danny? You married this one and then lied to her about something important yet?"
Dan puts out an arm. "Stay behind me, Ella."
The woman – Ella, apparently – looks like she'll need no telling to do that, even as her eyes keep flicking over Earl-Malcolm, the curved black daggers in his hands, and the way Amenadiel and Dan both seem to know and totally hate Grandpa Bernie tootling up from Sun City. The silence is hideous, nobody entirely sure what to do, until Earl-Malcolm, knowing they can't shoot him and risk fully unleashing him, that he has the dangerous weapons, and that his point is made, shrugs and opens the door of the Buick, swinging behind the wheel. "Well. I got some living to catch up on, and a better vessel to find. I'll be around, amigos. See you soon."
With that, he revs backwards as Dan and Ella dive to either side to avoid being hit, lays rubber, and burns out down Hollywood Boulevard at a velocity that no one actually of that age has ever driven – a literal speed demon, Amenadiel thinks, and then hates himself. He looks up to find the cop and the other cop (or whatever she is) staring at him. "Okay," Dan says, raising a hand to his face and then dropping it. "You want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"
"It's – " Oh Dad, how does he even begin to explain it? "You wouldn't understand."
"Yeah?" Dan's jaw clenches. "Try me."
"Look, you – what are you two even doing here?"
"Lucifer and Chloe are our friends." It's Ella who answers. "You think we aren't looking for any way to help them?"
"Yes, but you're hu – you don't – "
"Lucifer told me what happened." Dan looks at him levelly. "That Chloe, that she. . . that she got dragged into hell. Actual hell. I volunteered to go with him, but he wouldn't let me."
"Same," Amenadiel says automatically, and then wants to bite his tongue. "Wait. Lucifer told you?"
"Yeah," Dan says again, folding his arms. "And it sounds completely crazy, sure, but you know what? I actually do believe him."
"And you?" Amenadiel turns to Ella, desperate for an out. "You don't really buy this, do you?"
"Dude," Ella says. "I'm Catholic. I'm asked to buy plenty of crazy stuff on a daily basis, and I. . . well, I obviously don't know for sure either, but Dan says that's what's going on, and I'm choosing to believe him. It's not something out of the realm of possibility for what could happen. So, yeah. I'll play ball. It might be a little out of my usual league, but at least I know the rules."
Well, Amenadiel thinks. That makes one of us. He glances guiltily at Dan. "On behalf of my brother, I apologize for the whole taking your daughter out of the country without permission thing."
"Trixie's a pretty headstrong kid." Dan's mouth quirks dryly. "I imagine she could probably twist Lucifer's arm, especially if her mom's safety is at stake. I'm still a little mad, yeah, but. . . well, as long as she's back safely."
"She is, she's at home with Maze, I'm sure she's fine." For now, yes, but Earl-Malcolm is on the loose with the demon daggers, and already kidnapped Trixie once before, after all. Even Maze is vulnerable to those things, and they need to get Azrael's blade posthaste and end Malcolm for good. . . but if they unleash that thing again, after the chaos it caused last time. . . Dan and Ella can attest that personally. Amenadiel isn't sure if he could even still control it himself. And this insane possibility that Lucifer has actually asked for it down in hell – but what can he need it for? Amenadiel wants to trust his brother, he does, he really does. . . but he doesn't. Not entirely. Not with this, the seed of doubt whispering in his mind. Stop them, Amenadiel.
Great, Dad. You're a real help.
"So?" Ella bounces anxiously on her toes, looking back and forth between them. "Shouldn't we, you know, do detective things? I realize it's different with a case like this, but there has to be a way to help them. And who's Senior Drag Racer? How do you two know him, exactly?"
Amenadiel and Dan exchange a please-tell-her-because-I-don't-want-to look. Neither of them bites the bullet. This is Lucifer and Maze's sordid little hobby, not his. Amenadiel does not know the first thing about human police work, nor has he ever felt the inclination to learn. Isn't this the one that Lucifer semi-affectionately refers to as Detective Douche? What good is he going to do? But heaven knows that Amenadiel desperately needs allies of some, or any, sort. No matter what bizarre form they come in. Beggars and choosers. The struggle is real.
Still, though. Dan knows who Malcolm is. Knows Lucifer and Chloe, and cares about them both, even if obviously one more than the other. And seems to be unavoidably in the loop anyway, so trying to shut him out will just result in him lone-wolfing it, and that will cause even more trouble that will give Amenadiel an even worse headache to deal with. He could do worse. And if he doesn't get his angelic rump in gear, he's about to find out just how bad it can be.
Amenadiel blows out a slow, jagged breath and says, "Why don't you come inside."
One crash course up in the penthouse later, after everything short of a blood oath to get them to promise that they will not breathe a word to anyone anywhere, Dan and Ella are staring back at him with expressions that can't decide whether to be skeptical, stunned, or more stunned. The latter seems to be winning, as they exchange a look, open their mouths, and then shut them. Finally Dan says, "Well. I can't deny it explains the literal hell of a lot about you weirdoes."
"Azrael's blade? As in Angel of Death Azrael?" Ella has latched onto something rather different. "That's what I was helping Lucifer look for? And Azrael's a she? And you have it here?"
"Wait." A look of horror crosses Dan's face. "Is that the thing which got me to almost – "
"Yes." The heavenly cat is out of the bag and up the tree with no firemen in sight, so Amenadiel might as well go for broke. "So you see why Malcolm can't possibly get his hands on it."
"Call Maze," Dan commands, which makes Amenadiel bristle slightly – he does not take marching orders from the likes of Detective Daniel Espinoza, thank you very much. "Call her and tell her what's going on right away."
That is not a conversation which Amenadiel is looking forward to having. Amputating his own arm with a dull pocketknife might be preferable. But he knows it's unforgivably stupid not to, and he gets his phone, pokes in frustration at it until it obeys his wishes, and waits, heart pounding. Maybe she won't –
Maze picks up on the second ring. "Yeah? You know how to do an eight-year-old's hair for school? I'm struggling."
"I. . ." Amenadiel is momentarily distracted by that mental image. "Look. I need to tell you something. It's not good."
There's a pause, which sounds distinctly like Maze moving down the hall so Trixie can't overhear. Then she says again, "Yeah?"
As briefly as he can, Amenadiel acquaints her with the grisly Malcolm situation, not least that he's gotten hold of her daggers and is rocketing around Los Angeles as an elderly fiend in search of a corporeal upgrade – and with all these thin, rich, beautiful people, he'll have plenty of options. Maze is silent for a long and deadly moment, until she bursts out, "Are you kidding me? Someone let your psychotic pet out of the zoo again and he – ? Seriously?"
"It wasn't my fault this time!" Amenadiel wants to make sure they establish that. "He said it was Lucifer!"
"Lucifer would never let him out of hell," Maze declares. "He's lying. Obviously."
"Yes, well, someone did." Amenadiel tries to think how to phrase this. "And if Lucifer – well, if he's decided that rescuing Chloe is not all he wants to do – "
"You mean if he wants to get the blade and start a new war?" Maze's voice has gotten sleek. Dangerously so. "That sounds like something Mommy Dearest wants. Not Lucifer."
"Yes, but if they. . ." Amenadiel hesitates. "If they made up. . ."
"You're one to talk."
"I know! I know, all right? How easy it is to forgive her, for both of us! Because at least she was here, she listened to us, she cared! She knows how to work on Lucifer! You know she does! We cannot let either of them get hold of that blade, no matter what it costs us!"
There's a longer, icier pause. "Wow," Maze says. "So you're perfectly fine with leaving Lucifer and Chloe stuck down there. Good to know."
"That – that isn't what I said." Amenadiel has to wrestle with the fact that it, however, might be exactly what he meant. It would certainly solve a number of problems if Lucifer was back there for good, as well noted, and he'd even have his detective to keep him company. The two of them would have no trouble ruling the place side by side, for sure. Keep an eye on Mom, put things back in order. Easy. So easy. Fulfill what Dad asked of him. Stop them.
"Well," Maze goes on, after he doesn't say anything else. "If you think I'm going back and telling Trixie that, oops, her mom is never coming home because Amenadiel's a chickenshit coward with no balls, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought. And trust me, by now, that's a pretty high bar to clear."
"Thanks, Mazikeen. Really."
"Oh, you're welcome. Own it. You've earned it." Her voice is almost vibrating with suppressed rage. And if you know Maze, you know that she doesn't suppress rage well. Or, for that matter, at all. "I told you to forget about whatever stupid non-advice your dad gave you."
"I can't do that."
"Why? You forget everything else quick enough!"
"Mazikeen, I – " Amenadiel, conscious of Dan and Ella's stares burning holes through him, sidles around the corner into the other room. "I want to get them home too, all right? I just don't trust anything Malcolm tells me, ever!"
"You trusted him to kill Lucifer for you," Maze points out, with cool, merciless precision. "And that word. Home. You said you wanted to get them home. Meaning back here. Not in hell."
Amenadiel leans his head against the bookshelf. "I know you miss your roommate, and I'm sure Trixie misses her mother. If we can get Chloe home, since that's obviously here for her, and hell hasn't changed her too much, then – "
"Correction," Maze says. "Friend. I miss my friend. Not that you'd know anything about that, since you have no friends. And yes, we need to get her out of there. I can't believe this is even a debate. You're still so fixated on your warped idea of the greater good, and so afraid of losing it again, that you can't bring yourself to do anything at all. You're paralyzed. Ironic that it takes a demon to manage what an angel's failed at morality, huh?"
"Mazikeen – "
"You know what?" She sounds tired. "I've heard enough. Enough, Amenadiel. If you grow a spine and actually want to pitch in, you know where to find me. But I'm not sitting through another one, a single one, of your pompous, selfish, stupid, cowardly lectures. Send the humans to me. At least I have a chance of helping them."
"Mazikeen – "
"Goodbye, Amenadiel." It's quiet. Soft. Sad. Almost heartbroken. "I'm sorry."
And with that, she hangs up.
Chloe doesn't sleep that night.
She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, as Lucifer is curled up on the far side of the bed from her – nearly as far as he can get, in fact, without ending up on the floor. She can feel the distance like an open wound, even as her pride struggles with the belief that it's not fair for him to be mad at her. He was the one who thought it was a brilliant idea to make deals with Malcolm without telling her, to welcome his mother back under his roof, to try to stop her from doing the job he himself ran out on – yes, she knows she pushed her luck trying to get him to put Charlotte down once and for all, but the woman – demon – is dangerous. Impossibly, unbelievably, incredibly, existentially so, and there's a nice cage here waiting for her. Lucifer can't control her, and he's not himself around her. Someone needs to take this into their own hands. And there's only looking to be one candidate for the job.
Chloe tosses and turns, angry and upset and unhappy, wanting desperately to wake Lucifer up and tell him that she's sorry – but she's still sore at him, and he'll probably just be a snarky, dismissive jerk anyway. Really, what else can she expect from the Devil? All her cute little fantasies of going home to Los Angeles for coffee dates and sunset strolls on the beach – is she crazy? They have no future. And if they do, if there's anything at all, it's going to be down here. Not up there. There's nothing up there.
That thought alarms her enough that she jerks and flips over again. Tries desperately to picture storytime in bed with Trixie, morning coffee and case files at the precinct, or Dan, or Maze saying something totally inappropriate, or Ella giving her a hug, or – or anything from her old life at all. It's there, but in a dreamy and faded and fuzzy way, like a fond old memory, one that you're fine with letting go of, the past which you're content for it to stay that way. Lucifer's right. She's changing. She's forgetting. Sooner rather than later, and far more than she's let herself acknowledge or realize, human Chloe Amelia Decker is going to be entirely gone.
She shifts again, rolling closer to Lucifer. Maybe she's being too hard on him. He did come down here after her, now he's seeing her succumbing so swiftly to the countless centuries of pain and darkness he fought so hard to get away from, and furthermore, she tastes it as pleasure, not poison. Killed his brother for her, for Christ's sake (is Christ another one of his brothers? Or half-brother, that is? Never mind). She can't just ask him to go down the line offing the rest of his family, no matter how much he cares for her. But nothing about this is ordinary.
Her hands are still burning with the desire to touch him. To wake him up right now, in the soft depths of the night, and see what he would do. The need to taste the forbidden fruit, so to speak, just keeps getting stronger, and it's well established that he's not exactly going to say no. She keeps telling herself that she won't. Keeps denying herself the pleasure. And isn't quite sure anymore, frankly, if she's protecting herself from him, or him from her.
Chloe hesitates a moment longer, then scoots across the cold expanse that separates them. Puts a hand on his arm, rolling him over toward her, as his eyelashes flutter. "Hey," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I just – I didn't want us to be mad at each other anymore. It doesn't feel right."
Lucifer regards her sleepily, but a faint smile manages to fight its way through. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, so she can tell there are still hurt feelings on his end, but he doesn't blame her for rousing him at ass o'clock in the hell-morning, at least. "Mmm, Detective?"
"I'm sorry. I'm just. . . I've been thinking about everything you said, and. . ." Chloe looks down. His big hand has curled around her arm, almost unconsciously, and it is rather distracting. Not to mention warm, despite the chill of the room. "You're right."
"Say that louder." His voice is deep and low, a rumble in his chest that makes her want to put her head against it and feel it. "Didn't catch it."
"Don't push your luck." She manages a crooked grin of her own. "Okay. You can go back to sleep now."
He raises an eyebrow, as if to say he could, that is definitely an option, and one he has duly considered. "You woke me up just for an apology, Detective?"
"What else do you want?"
A thumb traces the inside of her forearm. "Oh, I suppose I could content myself with that."
Chloe swallows, breath hitching. God, he looks good underneath her, gazing up at her with eyes like pools of ink, dark hair just-so disheveled, lips slightly parted. She's proved a point about her resistance and immunity to him, hasn't she? Does she keep having to do it? God, does she?
"I had an idea," she says instead, trying to distract herself. "There are two doors in the office, aren't there? One leads to eternal damnation, and the other leads to Purgatory. If you and I try to get through that one and into Purgatory, we might be able to, I don't know, catch somebody's attention from heaven, or somewhere higher up the food chain. You have to have other siblings who aren't total assholes, right? Could one of them help?"
"Oh, I doubt that." Lucifer's voice is cool. "They would never risk ending up on Dad's permanent bad side by giving me a hand. Angels don't question. They don't have free will – or rather, it simply never occurs to them to use it. They – at least usually – do what they are bloody told. And I thought for the longest time after I came here that my siblings might decide to break ranks and come down to get me out. One of them. Any of them. Obviously, none of them did."
"That's no way to treat your kids," Chloe says quietly. "I don't care if you literally are God. It's not fair."
Lucifer snorts an unconscionably bitter laugh. "Take it up with him, darling."
"Maybe. But what do you think? Do you think we could get into Purgatory, at least?"
Lucifer hesitates. It's clear to both of them that this plan will involve leaving his mother here by herself, and while it might be an unavoidable risk, it is by no means a small one. Especially if, God forbid, Malcolm gets back while they're gone, with whatever Lucifer sent him to fetch; she still hasn't asked. If it even works that way. It's not like there's an actual Get Out of Hell Free card, or this would be much easier. The souls she's spared have used their Pentecostal coins to travel to Purgatory, and neither she nor Lucifer have one of those; he burned his with Malcolm in the hangar, and she isn't dead, nor (at least hopefully) bad enough to merit a trip down here even if she was. Maybe the Morrigan can arrange some kind of cheat code, but fate doesn't really go for cheat codes. Nor does Chloe get the sense that they'd be thrilled to let her go.
Still. It's something. "Well?" she presses. "Could we try?"
"We could try." The tone of his voice makes clear that he's extremely doubtful that this would lead anywhere good. "But I've never been to the bloody place myself. I have no idea what I'd find there, or how it would react to me. It's where souls go to expiate their sins, and I. . . well, you can be sure I have plenty of those. I might just evaporate in a puff of brimstone on the spot."
"Isn't it also supposed to be the place where you get to work toward redemption?" Chloe leans over him, hair tumbling loose around her face in shadowed waves. "You've changed. I know you have. I've seen it. I know you're not who you used to be, by a long shot. Yes, you still make bad decisions – "
"It's the devil's prerogative to make bad decisions, my dear." His fingers thread through the fall of her hair. "Surely that doesn't surprise you?"
"See, you always say that, but I – know – it's – not – true." Chloe pokes him in the chest with every word, for emphasis. "I know that's not who you ultimately are. Look at what you've done for me. That alone is – "
"Doing something for someone because you care about them is different from being a good person, you know." He looks tired. "Even bloody awful people can have someone in their life who is important to them. You don't spare a despotic and power-mad king who slaughtered his subjects, just because he picked flowers for his daughter every Monday. Believe me, I know. Outside you, I'm. . ." He hesitates. "Not much to recommend me."
"What about Dan? You've made friends with him. In a way, I mean. And I would not have bet on that in a thousand years."
"Neither would I, for what it's worth." Lucifer's mouth twitches. "But likewise, Daniel bloody Espinoza is not nearly enough to buy me, I suppose one would call it, street cred. I just. . ." He trails off. "Well, that's it, really."
"No." Chloe cocks her head. "No, it's not. What else aren't you telling me?"
Lucifer hesitates for a long moment. Then he says, as determinedly offhandedly as possible, "Maybe it's better if I don't come back with you, Detective."
"What?" That rocks Chloe to the core. She knows he doesn't lie to her, but she still wants to ask if he's making some even worse joke than usual, and she's almost frightened of the vehemence of the reaction it provokes in her. She bends over him, gripping his silken pajama shirt with both fists. "No. No, no, no. That's ridiculous. I can't believe you would even say that. You're coming back to Earth with me, that's final. I am not leaving my partner behind. No good cop would do that. No good person would do that. Unless – " A horrible thought occurs to her. "Unless you don't want – "
"Bloody hell, of course I want to leave this miserable cesspit!" He looks surprised that that should even have to be clarified. "Of course I want to go home with you! I just. . . I've been doing some thinking, and. . . I just haven't worked out how it would. . .well. It might just be better for everyone if I. . . if I stay."
"No. No, it is not better for everyone if you stay." Chloe is almost in tears. "It is not better for anyone. It's – it's not better for me. I said once that what I believed didn't matter, and you told me it was the only thing that mattered. Is that still true?"
He looks up at her wearily. "Detective – "
Chloe is out of words. Out of explanations, out of excuses, out of deflections, out of heart, out of strength. Knows all the damn good reasons not to, to wait for any other night, any other place. But it's this night, and it's this place, and she's so tired, she's so tired, she's so tired. Without another word, she lowers herself onto his chest, finds his mouth tentatively, fumblingly, clumsily in the dark, and kisses him.
Lucifer jerks, making a startled noise through his nose, even as his hand floats up to rest on her back, shifting her atop him as his other arm wraps around her. His mouth opens beneath hers, deep and soft and slow, as she gets a better grip on him and dives in for a second round. Holds him so hard, in fact, that she half wonders if she's hurting him, since she alone seems to possess that power. His hand moves to the back of her head, turning her just so, until they are practically part of each other, musing, dreaming. They part fractionally for breath, but don't pull away, and keep going back in once they have it. Over and over, over and over, until she barely remembers what life was like before they started. It certainly does not seem particularly important. This is the best thing she's done since she came here. Maybe ever. Maybe always.
At last, they break apart, both thoroughly flushed and hot. Chloe is lying full on top of him, she can feel his body roused against hers and then some, but instead of him making some suggestive remark at this point (frankly, he wouldn't need to do much suggesting) he seems oddly reticent, holding her off. As if the kiss was them acknowledging (or at least not being able to run away as vigorously as usual) the depth of their connection to each other, but this would make it irreversible. The word, after all, is consummate. The point of no return, where in ye olden days, a marriage became a real marriage, more than just a legal arrangement, but a lived truth, indissoluble. Not that she's thinking about marrying him, God, no, but this. . . it feels the same, somehow. And for all his bravado about sleeping with her, it's become perfectly clear to both of them that when they do, it's crossing the Rubicon. They won't be able to go back. And despite everything, he's terrified of that. Possibly even more than she is.
Realizing that, Chloe rolls off him, even as she aches at the loss of contact, of connection. "Hey," she whispers. "Hey, it's okay. Let's just – let's just sleep, all right? Let's just sleep."
He hesitates, then nods. They roll over, pulling the covers up, as she does her best to modulate her breathing, force down the heat in her stomach, the need to touch one more time, just to be sure. Instead, somehow, she sleeps.
They're both rather jumpy at breakfast the next morning, which at least they manage to have without Charlotte barging in in hopes of catching them in flagrante delicto, or whatever she was pulling with the waffle trick the other day. By unspoken agreement, neither of them mention the Purgatory gambit. Indeed, Lucifer makes breezy, disarming conversation, keeping her off the scent, until he finally mentions that he and the detective have a little errand to run, be back in a jiffy, and why doesn't she stay here and have a nice quiet day in? There's a thermal spa down in the basement, and the sulfur springs are very good for the skin. Rejuvenate the ol' mortal vessel. Maybe give herself a pedicure with the black pumice. Nap. All good options.
Charlotte seems pleased by this, which is hopefully just because she thinks Lucifer is being a good son and looking out for her well-being and comfort. She gracefully agrees that some relaxation does sound nice, and once she's gone downstairs, Lucifer and Chloe head out to his car, which looks far less like a vintage Corvette convertible than it did yesterday and instead like something much. . . spikier. Not quite a dread chariot of hell with bladed wheels, drawn by pitch-black horses with fire in their eyes, but still not very car-like. The air is bluer and darker and ashier than ever, and the buildings are almost lost in the fog.
They drive to the warehouse, which also looks much less like a warehouse and more like a great open-air maze, forbidding black walls of an endless labyrinth instead of industrial steel and glaring fluorescent lights. The souls also look less human, like wisps of ethereal matter, some with more distinction than others and some, well, monstrous. Chloe can also see what she couldn't before: the underling demons prowling along the line and making sure nobody tries to escape or make a run for it, administering a few jabs with the pitchfork for emphasis. The air is cold and cracked and sour, and the wind is raw and blistering. Chloe can barely walk straight against the force of it; she needs Lucifer to break it so she can be pulled along in his slipstream. It is a downright battle to get into the office, and she is decidedly shaken by the time they do. "Yeah. Okay. Like you said. This place isn't Los Angeles."
"No. No, it decidedly is not." He is examining the two doors, both of which are ornate and old and framed in carved, leering gargoyles. The office itself now looks like Vlad Dracula's remote tower keep, rather than the stylish modern setup Chloe first encountered, dank and drafty and dark. He's doing something with a key, testing to see if he can turn it, as she hugs herself and shivers and hops from foot to foot. For such a legendarily hot place, Hell is in fact colder than Siberia. (Well, the Cubs did win the World Series. Maybe that explains it.)
At last, with a bump and a screech, Lucifer gets the key to turn, and the door to Purgatory grates open. He looks at her. "This is a test run only, Detective. If we can't get through, we'll go back to Plan A. If we can, and I don't have something disagreeable happen to me. . ." He pauses. "There's also the fact that souls don't go back to hell, after they've made it to Purgatory. There might not be any way for us to get back, either. Are you sure about this?"
"Why would we need to get back here?" Chloe hugs herself harder. "You're the one saying I need to go. And trust me, I get it now."
"Yes, but. . ." Lucifer hesitates. "I sent Malcolm to tell Amenadiel to bring something that I would really rather not fall into the wrong hands. Mind, that's assuming Amenadiel doesn't disappoint me horribly, which he has a track record of doing, so. . . bloody hell, I don't know which one is more likely. If I go for one, I can't do the other. Or you go alone, Detective."
"I'm not going through that door unless you come with me." Chloe folds her arms. "What did you send Malcolm to tell Amenadiel to get? I didn't ask, but – "
Lucifer looks hounded. "My sister's knife. Azrael's."
It takes Chloe a moment to connect the relevant pieces. Then she says, "That?"
"Yes. That. Hence why if I go through that door, I don't know if I can get back, and if it ends up in someone's nasty little paws – "
"You said Amenadiel was supposed to bring it," Chloe points out. "Wouldn't he be a safe person to keep hold of it, until your. . . sister arrived to pick it up for herself? Or. . ." She looks at his face. "You don't quite trust Amenadiel to handle it, do you?"
"I already had to pry him from Mum's clutches once. Pardon me if I'm not entirely confident that he won't arse up a second – well, second millionth – time, really."
"Are you just making excuses to stay behind?" Chloe cocks her head. "Lucifer, I said we – "
"Bloody hell!" He whirls on her. "Detective, you – you know who I am. And who you are, and at last, where we are. You have to go. If you can get any kind of communication with heaven, ask for my other sister. Gabriel. Of all my siblings, she's the only one who might care at all about a human woman. I'll stay here, and if Amenadiel arrives with the knife, we'll handle things and I'll come back to join you. That's how it has to be."
"No." Chloe doesn't budge. "No, it's not."
Lucifer is exasperated. "Go through the door. This was your bloody idea."
"Only if you promise me we'll see each other again."
He looks at her wearily. "You know I don't lie to you, Chloe."
That rocks her again, as badly as when he suggested staying behind last night. She bites her lip, glancing away, reminding herself that she has a duty to do as he says, and go home. She can't leave Trixie without her mother, she can't just walk away from her life, just on the vain hope of saving something that might already be long gone. She should be grateful for the time she's had with Lucifer, and accept that there won't be any more of it. Or at best, maybe there will be. If. If. If. And for someone as innately pessimistic and cautious as her, that is a bad bet to take.
"Please," she says. Her voice cracks. "I don't want to go alone."
He considers her for a long, weighty moment. Then he says, "I might be able to go with you a short way. Not as far as you need to go, but some. There will be a point where I have to turn back, but I can at least see that you make it over."
"All right." Chloe swallows. "Let's do that. Please, Lucifer."
He thinks about it another moment, then nods, once and tersely. Pries the door open further, with a scrape and a screech, and stands there facing it. Then without looking over at her, silently holds out his hand. She steps up, and takes it.
They back up, take a running start, and hurl themselves through.
It feels like being stuck in an industrial washing machine, tumbling around and around, or being caught in a ship as it's breaking up and sinking, cold black water blasting everywhere, choking, drowning. She has lost hold of Lucifer, and flails out, trying not to panic, until she whirls around once more, does an inelegant somersault, and sprawls out on something that tastes of mud and pine and sand. Spits and spits, soaking and shivering, as she raises her head and sees that she's washed up on a long, empty stretch of beach, with a thick forest above her. The light is grey, neither dark nor light, just that steady steel color. It's the same to every direction.
Chloe sits up slowly, grimacing. "Lucifer?"
No answer. She can see something dark further down the beach, which might be some rotten log, or which might be someone else. She gets up and jogs toward it, breaking into a full-out run when she realizes that it is in fact him. She kneels at his side, rolling him onto his back; he's unconscious, blood trickling down his face from a nasty gash on his temple. "Lucifer?" Oh god. He's breathing, right? Yes, all right, he's breathing. "Lucifer!"
It takes some increasingly panicked shaking and shouting, but he finally comes around, dazed and woozy. His eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus on her, and he grimaces. "Well. I do sincerely hope I never have to do that again."
"You're okay. You're okay." Chloe slides an arm beneath his back and carefully helps him sit upright, as they survey their surroundings. "So, this is Purgatory?"
"I take it. As I said, I haven't been." Lucifer pushes himself to his feet with a grimace, brushing sand off his impeccably cut trousers. "Not doing any favors for my wardrobe, either. Miserable bloody place. What do they all do, sit in ashrams in the woods and contemplate their poor life choices? Actually sounds worse than hell, if you ask me."
"I don't know. Come on, let's go." Chloe's instinct is to take charge, to do something, to lead the way, even if she has absolutely no idea whatsoever what that currently is. They traipse up the beach, wet and shivering, and duck in among the trees. It's eerily quiet, no birds or animals or distant cracks or even the sigh of the wind, and they look at each other for a long moment. Then, with no other apparent option, they start to walk.
Time is already a slippery concept down here, but Chloe soon loses it entirely. The woods never change in the slightest degree, just identical stands of ash-grey trunks with that grey light slanting through. The ground is perfectly flat, if rather squashy and boggy. It never goes up and it never goes down. You could walk for miles like this, and maybe they do, maybe that's the point, the souls have to cross it for as many years of sins as they have to make up. Limbo is apparently an incredibly suitable description. At least things happen in hell. Nothing happens here.
Chloe is fairly fit, but she's still a police detective, not an endurance athlete, and after God knows how long of monotonous, endless trudging, she can feel herself starting to flag. No use waiting for day or night, as those clearly don't exist here either. No way to tell if they're making progress, or how much further they might have to go in order to send up a flare to heaven. She's freezing and hungry and tired and she's starting to shiver so hard her teeth clatter, biting her tongue until she tastes blood. "Lucifer, c-can we stop?"
He turns around, takes one look at her, and practically runs to her side, pulling off his suit jacket and wrapping it around her, tugging her against his chest. She buries herself into him, too cold to care about decorum or distance, until she can finally speak somewhat normally again. "Do we stay here for a little while, or do we. . . do we go on?"
"I think we should go back." A sharp frown creases Lucifer's dark brows. "Either that, or we won't be able to make any more progress while I'm with you – I've hit my limit. You're a much better person than me, you can go further. But there is no way to know unless we split up."
Chloe doesn't like that at all. "Maybe we should just both go back. We've tried the Purgatory plan, we know we can't get out this way. Return to hell and wait for Amenadiel."
"We know we can't get out this way," Lucifer agrees. "Maybe you can."
"Lucifer – "
"Detective." He steps back from her, holding her by the shoulders. "You have to bloody try, all right? Think of Trixie. Maze. Dan. Ella. Linda. They're all waiting for you. They'll take care of you. Not that you need it, of course, but they'll, well. They'll be there for you. Whether or not Amenadiel comes through, we don't need to risk your fate on it. Please. Please go on."
Chloe's eyes sting traitorously. She raises a hand and rubs them, but it won't stop. "This sounds an awful lot like goodbye, Lucifer."
He opens, then shuts, his mouth. "Well," he says hoarsely. "Maybe it is."
They stand there staring at each other for a moment longer, until she throws herself into his arms and hugs him as hard and fiercely and desperately as she can, as they rock back and forth on the spot, as his breathing is none too steady either as he rests his chin on her head. Finally he steps back again, gives her a little shake, then turns her around, facing forward into the trees. "Go," he says. "Go on, Chloe. Don't look back. Don't you bloody dare look back."
It takes all her strength not to do it right then, for one more glimpse of his face, just one more moment to burn on her soul. She gulps an unsteady breath, clutching his jacket around herself. There could be a change in the light ahead, as if it might be slightly brighter and stronger, but she can't be sure. After the same monotony for so long, it might be just her brain playing tricks. Oh god. Oh god, she can't, she can't, she can't –
Lucifer gives her a gentle push from behind. His voice is a whisper.
"Go."
And at last, as he asks, Chloe Decker does.
