And There Was Light - Now or Never

Author's Notes:

Thanks again everybody for the lovely feedback :) I really appreciate that you all take time to leave me notes.

So ... here we go. Buckle up. I hope you guys like this.

Title credit goes to Halsey.


He's still asleep, but at least he isn't buck naked, this time. Or, well … he is. She swallows as she follows the curve of his spine with her gaze. The sheet, which comes to an uneven stop at the small of his back, only barely makes him decent. But whatever. It counts as far as preventing this situation from being mortifying (for her, not him).

"Lucifer," she says, the barest whisper.

His breathing hitches like she woke him, but then it evens out again. His fingers scrunch, and he pulls the pillow tighter over his head. He looks like someone who fell asleep while trying to block out the noise of a jackhammer, and it makes her heart hurt. She can't imagine being inundated by so many voices, let alone the voices of humanity's creeps. She hopes this plan helps him stop listening for a little while.

"Lucifer," she repeats. Just a little louder.

He doesn't budge. Maybe, she shouldn't wake him. Maybe, he really needs the sleep. But …. She glances at her watch, frowning. 10:17 a.m. He's had more than fourteen hours to sleep. And it's not like she's trying to drag him out of bed at the crack of dawn. She steps a few inches closer. With a wince, she bypasses his shoulder and reaches for his bicep. His skin is hot like a furnace to the touch, and the little hairs peppering his arm are soft.

"Lucifer," she says in her normal speaking voice as she gives him a gentle shake. He tries to roll away from her, but she keeps hold of his arm. His bicep bulges in her grip, but he doesn't make use of his far greater strength to shake her off. "Lucifer, wake up."

"No," he says, voice muffled by the pillow. And then he sighs as though resigned. "… What is it?"

She swallows. Well, here goes nothing. Operation Get-Lucifer-out-of-His-Penthouse is a go. "Do you own swim trunks?"

That gets his attention. He pulls the pillow away from his face and squints at her, like she just asked if he's decided to give up Lux and move to Kansas to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a wheat farmer. His hair is mussed, and his gaze is cloudy with sleep.

"What are you on about, now?" he says.

She gives him a bright smile. "Good morning."

"It's morning, yes," he replies in an unamused tone as he glances at the clock on his nightstand. "I wouldn't call it good." He sniffs, rubbing his stubbly face with his hands. "What is this about swimming?"

She shrugs. "I'm looking for your swim trunks, and I didn't think you'd like me going through your stuff."

He regards her for a long, long moment. He gestures at his chest of drawers. "What's mine is yours," he says, like it's no big deal, like he gives away his privacy on a regular basis. Does he? she wonders. And then he flops back onto the mattress with a yawn and pulls the pillow over his head again. A muffled voice follows, "Top left drawer."

O … kay. Fine, then.

She steps over to the window and yanks open the blinds, letting sunlight fall into the room. His loud, irritated groan voices his displeasure. She tries not to think about the fact that she's not just visiting, for once, but actively invading his space. Or the fact that she's fully intending to strong-arm him, if necessary. She's never done either, before, and it feels a little like poking a hornet's nest, and should she really be doing this?

Biting her lip, she steps over to his chest of drawers and pulls open the top left drawer. Two tall stacks of black boxers and black boxer-briefs, all pristinely folded, stare back at her, along with a shorter stack of white ones. She can't help but gulp. She's pawing through his underwear. This is not a level of familiarity she'd expected to be granted any time soon, and she's kind of stunned that he just … dumped it on her.

She finds the aforementioned swim trunks in the back of the drawer. Again, black. What a surprise.

"What about a t-shirt?" she says.

"A t-shirt," he parrots, still muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah," she says. "Like do you still have that green one you got from Sol de Javier last year?"

"I used it as a rag."

Of course, he did. Good thing she came prepared, then. She reaches into her beach bag and grabs the crumpled white t-shirt she'd dumped there in her rush to get ready. "Here," she says. She throws the t-shirt in his direction. It hits him in the stomach.

With a grouchy sigh he throws off the pillow and sits up. "What the bloody hell is this?" he grumbles.

"One of Dan's t-shirts," she replies.

He frowns. "And why are you hitting me with it?"

"Because I want you to wear it," she says. "This, too." She tosses the swim trunks at him. He snatches them out of the air with a flicker of movement she can hardly see.

"I don't understand," he replies.

"I want you to put them on," she says slowly. She can't help but laugh at his perplexed look. "What, did you seriously think I came all the way over here and woke you up to borrow swim trunks for someone else?"

His eyes narrow. "I've received stranger requests."

"Well, this request is for you," she says. "Where are your flip-flops?" Maybe, his closet.

Since he gave her free rein - holy shit, he gave her free rein - she wanders toward his walk-in, next, flipping on the light switch as she passes the threshold. Wow. She's never been in here before. She frowns as the smell of cedar tickles her nose. "Has anyone ever told you that your closet is obscene?" Seriously, it's bigger than her bedroom. He seems to own enough zillion dollar suits to, if they were liquidated, surpass the gross domestic product of a small country.

"I'm a great lover of excess," he says behind her, sounding a bit more awake, now. Still not happy, though.

Sheets rustle.

She resists the urge to turn around and stare.

She finds his shoe tree at the back of the sprawling space. He owns more shoes than she does. She didn't think that was possible. The Adidas he'd worn on the beach a few weeks ago are hooked on one of the bottommost rungs, next to some designer cross-trainers. He actually owns cross-trainers. If he refuses to wear t-shirts, what good are the cross-trainers?

Wait.

She shakes her head. This isn't show-and-tell right now. She's on a mission. She grabs the flip-flops and turns around to head back into the bedroom, only to plow right into Lucifer's chest.

He's a wall - a warm wall, with muscles - and he doesn't even wobble on his feet with the impact. The flip-flops fall and land on the floor with a loud smack, and she can't stop the yelp of surprise that flies loose from her lips.

"Apologies," he says with a voice as smooth as syrup, in contrast to her pounding heart. Still, he doesn't sound sorry.

She stumbles backward a step, trying to resist the urge to gape. He's standing there, his top bed sheet wrapped low and loose around his hips. His chest is bare, as are his abs, and she gets a good long look at the dark happy trail leading the way south from his navel. The morning light casts him in perfect relief. He looks … tired. A little strained. But nothing like last night. And, now, in this moment, he might as well be Adonis.

"Uh …," she says, swallowing.

The sheet looks like it's about one small draft away from falling down. Beyond him, she can see the t-shirt and the swim trunks lying discarded on the mattress, which means that the sheet is all that stands between her and the end of that happy trail. But …. She forces her gaze upward, clearing her throat.

"You look good," she says. His lip twitches, but she can't read him at all. "I mean, you look better. I mean. You look …." She swallows again. "How often do you let people go through your underwear drawer?"

Fuck. Did she really just say that? Her face heats. She really, really did. Why?

"You would be the first," he says, looking down at her.

She blinks. "Really?"

His eyes are obsidian. "The bottom drawer is where most of my invitations begin and end."

"Do I want to know what's in the bottom drawer?" she says.

He doesn't reply to that except to fold his arms and direct a pointed glance at said drawer, like he's daring her to go look and see for herself. Which probably means that's where he keeps all his sex toys. She's never seen them before. She's never even asked if he has any. But she's sure he has toys, if Maze's ridiculous collection is any indication of how they kill time in Hell.

"So, that's a big fat no, then," Chloe says with a nervous laugh.

"Hmm," he replies with a nonchalant shrug. "Your choice." He glances at his fallen flip-flops. "Why have you woken me?" He doesn't add foolish mortal to the end of his question, but from his expression, he's thinking it.

Shit. Maybe, she's bitten off more than she can chew …. "You're going to do me a favor," she tells him, heart pounding.

His eyebrows creep toward his hairline. "Am I, now?"

Other than when she took him home from the hospital, she's never once asked him for a favor, let alone demanded one. And he doesn't look like he knows whether to be amused by her audacity or offended. Shit, shit, shit. She clears her throat.

"Yes," she says. "You are."

He leans closer, into her space. He towers over her. "And what is this … favor?" he says in a dangerous tone.

"I want some company today."

Whatever the hell favor he was expecting to be asked, that wasn't it. He blinks, and the air of menace surrounding him drops away in the space of a breath. God, how does he do that? She resists the urge to sigh in relief. Okay. Okay, he's playing ball, now. She thinks.

"I want you to go to the beach with me," she elaborates. "Please."

His eyes narrow. "… Why?"

"Because I like the beach, and I like you, and it seems like a no-brainer to combine the two," she says in a rush before she loses her nerve. She looks up at him. "I mean, don't you think?"

He's silent. For a long, long moment. Please, take the bait, she thinks. Please, just …. This would be so much easier if she could just cuff him and frogmarch him to the car.

"Why do I require swim trunks for a walk?" he says slowly.

"Because we're not going for a walk, this time."

"You expect me to swim?"

"And/or sunbathe, yes," she says with a nod.

"Hmm," he says, a soft rumble. He steps closer. So close she can feel the heat radiating from him. "And how do you propose to repay me for this … favor?"

"You take IOUs, right?" she says.

"With no stipulations?" he replies. A smile oozes onto his face. Finally. Finally, he's playing. Rather than playing with his food. "Living dangerously, are we?"

"I trust you not to take advantage," she says with a shrug. She doesn't miss his surprised blink. She bends over to pick up the Adidas and steps back out into the main room, hoping to draw him out with her. He follows. "So … are you coming with me or not?"

He reaches for the crumpled t-shirt he left on the bed. He holds it away from his body, between his thumb and index finger, like he's afraid he might get cooties from it or something. "Must I wear this … thing?" he says, frowning. "Is this part of the favor?"

"You want to go shirtless?" she says, only to see his eyebrows rise in incredulity. Of course, he doesn't care if he's shirtless. "Wait." He probably doesn't even care if he wears the swim trunks, but he seems at least somewhat willing to work within the bounds of human modesty on most occasions. "That was a stupid question."

"The many benefits of being shameless," he replies with a snicker.

She rolls her eyes. "So, one shirtless Devil for my beach trip in exchange for an IOU?"

"So long as you understand that I will collect, eventually."

Operation Get-Lucifer-out-of-His-Penthouse isn't just a go. It's going. She resists the urge to cheer.

"Yeah," she says with a grin. "I figured as much."


He picks up the chickenpox packet before he eases into her passenger seat.

"Just … um …." She swallows. "Put it on the dash, I guess."

He complies.

"You're staring at me," she says as she turns the key in the ignition.

At least, he found a robe to wear, so she won't have to drive when he's sitting half naked less than a foot away from her. Which is good. Because she thinks, if she had to do that, with the way she's rubbernecking whenever she catches a glimpse of his skin today, she'd get in an accident in less than three blocks.

When he says nothing, she glances at him. A normal person would, having been caught, look away. But not him. All he does is give her a languid blink.

She snorts. Definitely shameless.

"Seriously, what?" she says as she pulls to a red light.

His shrug is leonine. "I'm wondering what prompted this excursion."

She swallows. "Just felt like the beach," she says.

"Right." His tone is noncommittal, unconvinced. But he doesn't press the issue, at least.

He turns to face the road in front of them and lets his eyes drift shut. A thunk follows as he rests his head against the window. She bites her lip at his subdued demeanor. Other than his sunken eyes and his paleness, he doesn't look that sick. But he's certainly acting like it. She hopes this trip helps him. She hopes.

"Now, who's staring?" he grumbles. Fog snakes along the windowpane, away from his lips.

"Guilty as charged," she says as she reaches for the radio dial. She can't resist asking, "Are you gonna punish me?"

"Do you feel guilty?" he says.

She grins. "Nope."

"Well, then, I suppose I'm on holiday."


School is still in session for another couple of weeks in most places, and the beach is relatively empty in comparison to how jam-packed it gets when tourist season opens the floodgates. The weather is gorgeous - not too hot, not too cold, not a single cloud in the bright, azure sky. Seagulls prowl for open picnic baskets and crumbs, accenting the roar of the waves with their caws and cackles. The air smells of salt, and she can't help but stop and inhale as cool ocean water creeps up to her toes, submerging them. She hasn't been to the beach without Trixie in forever. Honestly, she hasn't been to the beach. Not for the sake of being at the beach. Except for that walk with Lucifer.

"You enjoy this scent?" Lucifer says beside her.

"Yes," she says. "It's just so fresh." And the air in Los Angeles is not, so it's a nice change.

She turns to him. He looks … pale. And the sunlight makes the bags under his eyes look almost like bruises. He'd had a bad moment. In the car. Whatever he'd heard had made him look nauseated. But he'd been mostly placid since then.

"Why," she says, "do you not like it?"

He shrugs. "It reminds me of my arrival."

She blinks. "You mean … on Earth?" she says slowly. When he nods, she can't help but gape. Just for a moment. She doesn't get them often, anymore, but every once in a while, the reminder that he isn't natively terrestrial is mind blowing. "You … fell to here? The beach, I mean?"

"Climbed," he replies. "Not fell."

"Huh?" she says.

He makes a pointed look at the wet ground. "Hell is down, darling."

"Oh," she says. Right. She swallows. "Wait, how did you …? Did you poke a hole in the sand or something?"

An amused look crosses his face. "Hell is a dimension situated below this one, not a geographic level within Earth. To get here, I broke through the barrier between Hell and Earth, which coincidentally deposited me at the beach. No displacement of sand was involved."

Just when she thinks she gets it all. Huh. "Well, is your arrival here bad to be reminded of?" she says.

He's silent for a long, long moment. A wave rolls over their feet, and he looks down with distaste as the receding water yanks the sand out from underneath them. He steps back a bit to where the ground is dryer. "I don't know how to answer that," he says. He tips his head back and inhales. "It was the first time in quite a long while that I couldn't detect the scent of brimstone, which was lovely." His smile is a wistful one, but then it fades. "It was also when I asked Maze to cut off my wings, which was … unpleasant." He shrugs. "The end results were desirable, though. I suppose one could call it a tossup."

Hmm. "What's your favorite smell?" she says.

"I can't say that I've thought about it," he replies.

She grins. "Well, we have time. Come on."

She marches out into the water, until her ankles are submerged. The water is chilly, but not cold. It'll be tolerable once she gets used to it. She takes another step. "Do you …?" she begins to say. And then she realizes he hasn't followed.

He's still standing back. At the edge. Where some of the waves spill far enough up the slope of the shore to touch, but most of them don't. She frowns, expecting to see him rubbing his temples again when she turns to face him, but he isn't. He's just standing there. Watching her.

"Come on," she urges.

He folds his arms. "I don't understand the point of this."

She shrugs. "To relax."

"And how is this relaxing?" he says.

She marches back up to him and reaches for his hand with an expectant look. When he doesn't offer his palm in response, she sighs. Fine, then. She leans, and she closes her fingers around his wrist, tightly enough to feel his radius and ulna jutting into her palm. He doesn't pull away, at least. She takes that as a positive sign and steps back toward the water. He doesn't budge, at first, not even to counterweight her applied force. He's just rock, immovable.

Until she frowns at him and says, "This is my favor. Do you want a reputation for not paying up?"

That gets him wading out to his knees, but then he digs in his heels again.

"This is quite far enough," he says.

"You can't swim in knee-deep water," she replies.

He gives her an unimpressed look, and he sighs. "Why do you insist on swimming?"

"Because it's fun," she says with a shrug.

His expression not one of agreement. A wave tumbles into them, briefly raising the water level to his mid-thigh, and he flinches. Actually flinches. A piece of seaweed drags past her leg, tickling her. He traces the movement with his eyes, for all the world looking like he wishes he could smite the poor plant into oblivion. Except … he can smite it. So, he's mostly just trying to restrain himself.

"Haven't you ever gone swimming?" she says, incredulous.

He glowers. "I'm not a fish."

She can't help but laugh at him. "I bet that never stopped you from using your hot tub."

"That is not swimming," he counters.

"It's still submerging yourself in water," she says.

"Hot water," he counters. "With a partner."

She raises her eyebrows. "I'm not a partner?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "Not the kind that I meant," he admits.

"What if I said I could be?" she says. "The kind that you meant, I mean."

She's not sure what possessed her to open her mouth. And once she's made the offer, she gets that sinking feeling in her stomach, particularly at Lucifer's stunned look. She just propositioned the Devil. What in the hell is she doing?

He regards her for a long, silent moment, lips parted. Like … she's rendered him unable to think, let alone speak. Probably because you've spent the past two years telling him no, and now he's trying to figure out what you're smoking, her irritating, tiny voice says.

Why is she propositioning him?

Except ….

You love him. Don't you, Dan said.

She steps closer to Lucifer. Though his nipples are pert, he's a long line of radiating warmth. His dark eyes are like traps, and she can't help but swallow, looking up at him, as she slides her hands low around his waist. Her fingers hover against the waistband of his shorts.

"Detective," he says, looking down at her with a carnal sort of hunger. "What are you doing?"

She gives him an innocent shrug and pulls him forward. He moves with her, this time. Until the frothing water is even with his groin, and the waves swiping past them raise the water to his waistline, soaking his shorts in the process.

Dan is echoing in her head. Make it less complicated.

She steps even closer, until she's pressed up against Lucifer's body, and she can feel him breathing. She splays her fingers against his chest, and a soft, unintelligible noise of desire gets caught in his throat. He leans into her. Like he wants to kiss her. Like he's going to kiss her.

She wants him to, she realizes.

Her lower body tightens, and her mouth goes dry just thinking about it.

Forget about all the reasons you know it won't work, Dan said.

And then a wave smacks into them, submerging them to the height of Lucifer's lowest rib, and he flinches away with a displeased shout.

She laughs.

He grimaces.

"This isn't bloody relaxing," he snaps, looking in disgust at his dripping, wet skin. "It's like taking a bath in a bloody icebox."

But at his righteous, aggrieved expression, she can only laugh harder. The idea that Lucifer the Morning Star, the archangel who strung up all the lights in the subzero temperatures of space, could be cowed by a bit of coldish ocean water, is ridiculous. He looks ridiculous. And it's made more ridiculous by the idea that he could, if he wanted, part the water like Moses with a snap of his divine-but-pruning fingers.

"This water is fed by melting glaciers in Alaska," Lucifer says unhappily as she tries to catch her breath, but the hilarity is all-encompassing. "How is this amusing to you?"

She rolls her eyes, panting as she wipes tears away. "The water is like 63 degrees right now."

"Precisely," he says with an indignant sniff. "I'm not built for arctic temperatures."

"Lucifer, you're invincible. And 63 degrees is hardly arctic."

He clears his throat. "That's … beside the point."

"What's your point, then?" she says, staring up at him.

He looks down at her and licks his lips. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and the water sloshes. "I'm … not sure that I had one," he admits.

"Uh huh," she says with a grin. "Do you not know how to swim or something?"

"Of course, I know how to swim," he says. And then he adds primly, "There's very little novelty left in my life."

"Uh huh," she repeats, unable to stop smiling. She takes another step. The slope at her feet abruptly becomes steep, and, now, she's in the water up to her neck. She reaches forward and tugs on his swim trunks, trying to coax him forward. She doesn't miss the way he seems to press against her hand. "Show me."

He glares. "I don't lie."

"Uh huh," she repeats once again. "Pay up on my favor, and show me."

He regards her for a long moment. At first, he's merely scowling, frigid like the melted glaciers he claims he's wading in. But then the temperature in his expression shifts, and what was anger becomes a bit of a mischievous gleam.

"This is not relaxing," he insists.

And then, with a smirk, he grabs hold of her and drags her under the waves with him.


"So, now that you've frozen me solid, you wish to bake me?" he grumbles as they trudge back to where she'd set up the umbrella and the chairs.

She gives him a long, considering glance as he ambles to a halt next to the towels. His hair is plastered to his head, and his shorts, which stick to his skin in all the right places, seem barely able to hold onto his hips. They've slid down an alarming degree, to the point that the happy trail she so admired earlier is widening like an arrow, like, hey, yank down on the waistband here for a show. A lone water droplet slides down his left pectoral, and she's struck with the intense urge to lick it off.

And he's staring at her with raised eyebrows.

She was blatantly ogling him, and he caught her, and …. She shakes her head, clearing her throat once, twice, again. "Sorry," she croaks.

"Are you?" he replies without amusement.

Holy shit, what is wrong with her right now? This trip was supposed to be therapeutic for him. Not … whatever the hell she's turning it into.

She looks away. Sand has blown onto the towels, and she grabs one to shake it out. He follows suit quietly beside her. When she resettles her towel, she drops onto it and lies flat on her back. The sun is blissfully warm against her face, and she sighs. Think about the waves, she tells herself. Waves. Not the curve of his-

Something eclipses the sun, and she squints up to find him standing there. Looking down at her. The sun's corona gives him an actual halo, and the surreality is almost too much to bear.

An angel came to the beach with her.

How is this real life?

"You're standing in my light," she says.

"It's technically my light," he replies with wan smirk. "I did put it there, after all."

She rolls her eyes and gestures to the empty towel next to her. "So reap the benefits," she says. "Soak some of it up."

He gives the towel an unimpressed look. "Very well," he says with a sigh, and he drops to his knees beside her, and then onto his back.

They lie side by side, shoulder to shoulder. The sky is a brilliant cerulean that stretches into eternity. The breeze billows against her wet skin. The smell of salt tickles her nose, and the gulls scream above the crack and crash of the waves. She couldn't not relax, even if she were trying. But when she tips her head to peer at him, he looks for all the world like he's wishing the sky would fall on him, if only for a distraction.

"You're seriously telling me sunbathing holds no appeal to you?" she says.

He glances at her. "Why would it?"

"It's purely self-indulgence," she says, frowning. "Isn't self-indulgence kind of your wheelhouse?"

He rolls onto his side and props his head on his elbow. He looks like a goddamned supermodel, and it isn't fair at all. He gazes at her with his dark eyes, and he smiles. It's a predatory smile. Not a happy one. "I prefer my self-indulgences to be more … sinful," he admits in a velvet tone that makes her shiver despite the balmy air.

She licks her lips. He's doing this on purpose, she thinks. Oozing sex appeal. He has to be. Right? Or, maybe he's not. Maybe, it's so ingrained at this point, he can't turn it off. The thing is ….

Make it less complicated.

"So, if I'd offered you sex on the beach, I wouldn't have had to drag you here?" she says.

This time, her proposition doesn't feel so much like it's flying in from left field. She kind of likes the sound of it. Chloe Decker is propositioning the Devil because she wants him, and what's so wrong with that?

He regards her for a long, unreadable moment. "Are we discussing the cocktail, or the act of copulation?" he says, tone strangely wary.

"Well, kissing, at least," she says.

His Adam's apple bobbles along his throat as he swallows. Hmm. Maybe, she's doing to him what he's doing to her. That's a fun thought. She drapes her arm against her hip, accentuating the curve. She watches his gaze shift as he follows the movement. His stare lingers. On her hip. Shamelessly. She thinks she sees his tongue as it briefly parts his lips.

The sight of her actually makes him lick his lips.

Wow.

"A shag on the beach … isn't as fun as it sounds, you know," he says, sounding flustered.

She hadn't even known he could get flustered. Not like this. Not about sex.

She gives him a sheepish grin. "I sadly do know."

"Do you, now?" he says, almost a purr as he recovers. He smiles. "Oh, you must tell me."

"It was with Dan."

"Poor Detective Douche," Lucifer says with a cluck of his tongue and a roll of his eyes. "Did the sand chafe his unmentionables?"

"Well, it certainly chafed mine," she says.

He smirks. "You have my deepest sympathies."

He stretches, his body forming a long luscious line as he flops onto his back. He gives the sky a perplexed look that wrinkles his forehead and gives him crow's feet. "Really, you just … lie here and roast? And this is fun for you?"

She snorts. "You have no idea how to relax, do you."

"What can I say?" he replies. "I prefer lust to laziness. It's a much more enjoyable vice."

"Okay," she replies with an easy shrug.

His eyes narrow. "… Okay?"

She scoots closer. "I want us to do what you think is fun and relaxing," she says with a pointed look. This whole beach trip was for him, after all. "So, I'm open to suggestions." Even if his suggestion is snogging on a beach towel. She wouldn't mind. Actually, she kind of hopes it is.

She reaches across the space between them, intending to touch his arm. He strikes like a snake, grabbing her wrist and holding it away at arm's length. "Careful, darling," he says with a dark look. He seems … almost angry.

She frowns. "What's wrong?"

"This makes three times, now, that you've tempted me."

"Does this mean I have to try again?" she says with a grin. "I was hoping the third time was the charm."

His eyes blaze. "You will cease toying with me," he snaps imperiously, shrugging away from her.

He stands like he intends to leave. He thinks she's teasing him, she realizes. Her heart sinks. He thinks she's been teasing him this whole time. All day. And not teasing in a good way, but plucking at desires he's made plain to her like they're a guitar meant for playing. Of course, he thought that, her irritating voice says. He's the Devil. He's conditioned himself to believe that nothing fortuitous ever happens for free. That's how his brain works.

"Who says I'm toying with you?" she says evenly, rising with him.

He gives her a seething look. "I'm not here for your pity, either."

She shakes her head. "It's not pity, Lucifer."

"What, then?" he snaps. He's stopped walking away, at least.

She swallows. She can't afford to screw this up, or their whole friendship is probably going to go nuclear. She steps into his space, looking up at him. His eyes are fire and wrath.

Make it less complicated.

"Well, isn't flirting kinda the natural followup when your friend kisses you unexpectedly, and you like it?" she says.

His gaze crumples like she struck him. "Stop," he says, almost a stutter. He takes a step back. "Stop."

She frowns. Stop … what? She isn't doing anything. "What do you want me to stop?"

But all he says is, "… Why?" in a pained tone.

"We never talked about it," she says, pressing onward, since he's not really helping in the clarity department. "We never talked about when you kissed me. That's what I came to discuss last night, but we never did. You weren't exactly in a good headspace for it. But I … I liked it."

He folds his arms. "You … liked it," he parrots, shaking his head. "You …." Like he thinks he's in some sort of waking dream and has to verify everything. A barbed, upset breath spills from his lips. "Why are you …?"

She takes a deep breath. "Look, Lucifer," she says. He isn't human. He's older than all her direct ancestors' ages combined. They have a great friendship, and this could easily ruin it. Their personalities are almost exact opposites of each other. Children perplex him at best, but she's a single mom. He's an addict. He's depressed and going nowhere good. She'll grow old and die someday, but he … won't. "There are about a zillion reasons why this - us, I mean - is a terrible idea."

"Yes, I know that," Lucifer snaps. He sighs. "I had an unfortunate lapse last week." His gaze shifts to a point in space beyond her shoulder. To the water and the waves. His eyes get a bit of a sheen to them, and he sounds like someone yanked his heart out and stomped on it when he adds in a quiet, strained voice, "Though I quite understand your ire at me for it, I wish you wouldn't punish me. I'm …." He exhales roughly, and adds, even quieter, "Please. Stop."

She gapes. He really thinks that she'd wield affection like a weapon? Or, maybe, he's not thinking that much at all right now. He just knows his own context. And he resided over Hell. For millennia.

"Lucifer, I'm not punishing you, and I'm not mad," she rushes to say. "It wasn't unfortunate." She feels like she's about to jump off a cliff. How in the hell did she get here from hey-how-about-we-go-to-the-beach? "There's a really good reason why it wasn't unfortunate." She swallows. "There's a really good reason why we're a good idea."

"I don't bloody understand what you're trying to tell me," he snaps, upset as he shifts from foot to foot in the sand.

Her heart is thumping in her ears, and she sees the cliff, and she can't breathe. She can't breathe. But …. She looks down at her feet. At the edge of the cliff. The precipice. The fall. She's not ready to say this out loud. She's not. But this is a mess. She's messing everything up. She didn't count on him balking, of all people. And nothing good will happen here unless she makes it happen. She looks up at him, trembling.

Make it less complicated.

And she leaps.

"I'm trying to tell you that I love you," she says as the ground drops out beneath her.

He blinks, shocked for a moment. And then his eyes go arctic, and all his turmoil falls away behind a wall of frost.

"No, you bloody don't," he says, the words dark and ugly and cold.

Her landing is merciless. "Yes, I do," she says, trying to stay calm as she feels things breaking.

"You're infatuated," he says, folding his arms. "It's understandable. You saw the divine."

She gapes. He's actually attaching her confession of love to her weeks-ago meltdown? Seriously? He's that hard up to believe that someone could like him? "Lucifer, I am not infatuated," she snaps. So much for calm. "This is not some crush. It has nothing to do with your stupid wings." She hasn't even thought of them in weeks, except in the context of grasping fruitlessly for ways to help him cut the fucking things off. "And how dare you presume to know more about what I feel than I do."

"I'm an object of desire, not love."

"You're not an object at all," she says. God, how can he be so … damaged? "You're a person."

His eyes narrow. "No, I am not."

"You know what I meant," she says. "Don't be pedantic."

He arches an eyebrow. "It is not pedantry to remind you of my origin when you require reminding."

"Do you have any idea how contradictory you're being right now?" she exclaims. "First, you think I'm infatuated with your wings, and then you think I need to be reminded that you have them in the first place?" She wipes angry tears out of her eyes. How in the hell did this go so wrong so quickly? "You're that determined not to believe me?"

His glare is the Abyss, black and bleak, and she's so upset she's shaking.

"You make me want to scream, sometimes," she says.

"So, scream," he replies. His words slide around her neck like a noose and pull tight. "No one is stopping you."

And then he walks away. He's walking away. He can't walk away like this. Maybe after, when he actually gets it, if he still doesn't like what she has to say. But not before. Not when he's so triggered that he seems categorically unable to believe her declaration. No fucking way.

"Lucifer," she says, dashing after him. At least, he doesn't disappear in a rustle of feathers. But he could. And that makes getting him to understand even more urgent. "Lucifer, wait." She grabs his arm. "Lucifer."

His grimace is a rictus of hurt as he whips around to face her. "Why must you torment me?" he says, almost a hiss as he snatches his arm away from her. "Leave me be."

"God, damn it; will you listen to me?" she snaps. "I'm not tormenting you; I love you."

"No, you do not," he says with a sneer. "What you love is the idea of a mind-blowing shag. The idea that you could literally come to God. Well, I can't deliver you God, darling. You can only come to me."

His words are a knife, and he's gutting her with it.

"You can be such a bastard, sometimes," she says.

"I'm the Devil," he replies. "What the bloody hell did you expect?"

"Right now? In this moment?" she says, glaring through a wall of tears. She folds her arms. "Definitely not sex with a conceited dick."

"Oh, you bite, now, do you?" he says, leering.

"Putting aside the fact that you're being a giant asshole with all the sex appeal of a troglodyte," she says, "I haven't slept with anyone but Dan in years."

A dangerous glint slips into Lucifer's gaze. He steps closer, crowding her, looming over her. Her heart starts to race. "All the more reason to desire my services," he says in that velvet tone of his.

"Your 'services' scare the shit out of me, Lucifer," she snaps, putting the word services in little air quotes. "Would you come off it?" She stares up at him, defiant, refusing to be cowed. "And stop crowding me, you dick."

He blinks. His lips part. He takes a step back, as requested. Regret consumes the ice in his gaze like a flame. And then all his nasty swagger drains away.

"I … scare you?" he says softly. He looks … crushed.

"Your 'services' do," she says, again using air quotes. She watches a man throw a frisbee to a child, many yards the distance. The kid is laughing and laughing, and it's so incongruous with the mess over here. She glances back at Lucifer with a sigh. "Not you. You just piss me off."

His eyebrows knit. "Why would the prospect of shagging me scare you?"

"You're … well." She swallows. At least, this is more like an actual conversation, now. "You're you."

He gives her a questioning look like, When it comes to a fantastic shag, isn't my me-ness rather ideal?

"Lucifer, I've only had like four sexual partners in my whole life," she says. She'd never been much for the one night stand. She licks her lips nervously. "Don't you think that kind of imbalance with you might be a little intimidating to me?"

Lucifer frowns. "Intimidating."

"Yes, intimidating," she says, exasperated. "I'm intimidated." While she's not bad at sex, she's under no illusions that she's some kind of prodigy at it, either. What can she possibly give back to him that he wouldn't have received already in sixteen zillion different ways from sixteen zillion other people? "It's what normal people feel when they're worried they won't deliver as much satisfaction as they're given. I mean, for God's sake, you have a toy drawer." Meanwhile, her idea of something unusual is, perhaps, the inclusion of whipped cream.

His frown is only deepening. "You care if I'm satisfied," he says slowly. Like she just presented him with an impossible calculus problem or something. Solve for x, y, z, and q.

She sighs. "Yes, because I love you."

He shifts from foot to foot in the sand. "You're … not lying," he says in a low voice.

She throws her hands up in the air. "Finally, he gets it," she says, unable to keep her tone from bleeding frustration. It figures that she'd punch through the wall in his denial fort with sex as a visual aid.

"You're not …," he says, staring at her. Well, through her, anyway. He blinks. "I'm … … sorry."

He sounds dumbfounded.

Like he's not sure how he's existing in a world where this apology is required, and did he miss the exit ramp back to reality somewhere? Is he lost? Where is the Google Maps edition for dimension-hopping archangels? She can practically see the little cartoon birdies circling his head.

If she weren't so rubbed raw and exhausted, she'd laugh. "It's okay."

It's hard to be mad at him when he's this confused.

"And you don't have to say it back, by the way," she rushes to assure him before the conversation destabilizes again. She figures he's going to need about a metric ton of therapy with Linda before he can even admit to residing in the same zip code as love, no matter what the hell he feels. And … that's okay. She doesn't need his words.

"I …," he says vacantly.

Well, okay, she does need some words. Preferably more than a lone pronoun.

"Lucifer?" she prods.

But he's speechless. Like blue-screen-of-death speechless. The lights are on, but no one's home.

She frowns. "… Lucifer?"

The sound of his name a second time makes him blink, and a little substance returns to his gaze. He makes noise, deep in his throat - a strange, flummoxed syllable that says nothing. His eyes are wet and almost spilling. He swipes at them with his fingers. "Huh," he says, an overwrought bark that sounds sort of like a laugh.

He's laughing?

But before she can take offense, his gaze shifts to her.

"You're … not lying," he says quietly. Like a stuck record, he can't seem to get the track to advance.

She frowns. "Of course, I'm not lying."

"No, I suppose not," he admits. "You have my sincerest apologies." This time, his regret is directed. Less, Why in the hell am I saying this? More, I really should be saying this.

"It's okay," she repeats. "Lucifer … what happened?" She sighs. "I mean, I said …." She still can't quite believe what she said. "I said …." Multiple times, even, thanks to a righteous helping of outrage. "And you just … snapped."

He stares out over the waves. "The weight of memory is sometimes crushing, I suppose."

"You've had … a bad experience?" she hazards.

"I'm old, Chloe," he replies. "Older than you can possibly conceive."

"… So?" she says, stepping closer.

He shakes his head. "So, I've encountered no one but liars who see me as a means to an end. And it's been quite a long time." He scowls. "I suppose you could say I've nothing but bad experience."

"Well, I don't want anything from you but you," she says softly.

He blinks and turns to her, his ire at the past draining away. He regards her first with warmth and then with awe. Like she's holy, and he's come to her altar to pray. He presses his palm against the side of her face, stroking her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

"Yes, you're … outside of my realm of experience," he says with stars in his eyes. Every star he's ever lit. "You're … unpredictable." He sighs. "I'm sorry I forgot."

She has never in her life been looked at the way he's looking at her now.

She's never in her life been this special, not even to Dan.

His rapture over her makes complicated things so simple.

Her heart starts to pound, and her stomach is filled with butterflies. "I love you," she repeats, now that he seems willing to hear it. The words come easier, this time, and the landing after the cliff is far less brutal. She can't help but laugh as she regains her footing, because she said it, and it's out, and wow.

The stars in his eyes only brighten at her felicity.

"It seems I've still some novelty left in life, after all," he says.

His smile is divine.