Chapter 1
Lucifer Morningstar perches wearily in the uncomfortably small, rigid chair at the bedside of his Detective, memorizing her features yet again. It's safe for him to stare now, she's sleeping peacefully as she recovers and can't reproach him for inappropriate behavior. Her delicate hand rests limply in his much larger one, the skin too cool for his comfort but already warmer than it had been as life returns to her.
To an innocent bystander, he looks as though he's had a rough day. His expensive shirt is rumpled and untucked, his previously immaculately styled black hair is a wreck. His artfully sculpted stubble is starting to approach beard territory, and dark circles hug his bloodshot brown eyes, giving him a haunted appearance.
Haunted doesn't cover half of it. His lungs still burn, readjusting to lifegving airflow after his brief foray into death. The skin of his chest under his shirt is tender, burned, and stinging from the repeated exposure to the defibrillator, and his heartrate is only just beginning to slow after his revival and subsequent mad, staggering dash back to her hospital room to deliver the formula for the antidote from that blasted mad scientist. And that's only the physical aftereffects of his little jaunt down to his former domain.
He keeps his vigil through the next day as she imperceptibly recovers, putting his appearance back in order as he works to distract himself from the events of the past 48 hours.
"I've been trying to find the right way to tell you. But there is no right way, because the truth is... this is your Father's doing. Chloe... is His doing. He put her in your path."
He tries not to hear the eerie, hesitating melody his brother had plucked from his piano as he sat waiting for Lucifer to make his appearance in his Loop. Tries not to see the blood shining on the blade, on his hand, as he helplessly thrusts the soul-destroying blade into his brother's unresisting chest, again and again. And again. Tries not to feel his mother struggling desperately in his arms, crying out for her lost son as he breaks the spell of his loop and drags her through the door so his friends can revive them and save the Detective. Above all, he tries not to consider how very close he came to failing to save her, all because he couldn't conquer his own damned guilt.
It was too close. Too bloody close, and after all that… I can't even be with her. Not the way he wants to, not the way she wants to… because it's not really what they want. It's what He wants, and none of it was real. Bloody hell. I should have known better.
But he does want it. He wants her, even more now than before he nearly lost her… again. He shakes his head disgustedly, fury flaring in him at his weakness, at his mother's and father's meddling. She doesn't deserve this mess. I should leave. If I left now, she'd never know I was here, would never know what I did to ensure her safety… would never have to know how I feel. As soon as that thought crosses his mind, she stirs feebly, and his gaze sharpens as her fingers curl loosely around his. His heart climbs into his throat, and he struggles to swallow the wave of unnamed emotion that threatens to drown him in unfamiliar waters. He forces himself to release her hand and sits back a little, clasping his hands loosely in front of him and resting them on the edge of the mattress as she starts to wake.
After a while her eyes flicker open, taking in the room and he firmly smooths his expression, hiding his chaotic thoughts beneath a veneer of nonchalance as she turns to see him sitting beside her.
"Well, look who's back. You didn't die after all. That makes one of us." A warm smile spreads slowly across her sleepy face, and he fights to keep breathing evenly. She's never looked more beautiful. She watches him for a moment, her blue-green eyes glittering in the light filtering through the gauzy curtains over the window behind him. His eyes follow her movement as she lifts her hand and drops it on top of his, squeezing gently.
"I heard you saved me," her voice is soft, full of affection and no small amount of gratitude.
"Well..." he exhales softly, reluctantly extracting one hand from under hers and placing it on top, "much as I'd like to take all the credit, this one was a... a team effort."
"You know, this whole poisoning thing has just...really put a pause on everything that's been going on with you and I," he chuckles wryly at her choice of words as she continues, "so... should we just pick up where we left off?"
How easy it would be, how he wants to, to just say 'yes', and pretend he'd never found out about his father's involvement. But it would be a lie. Worse, it would subvert her free will, and that is something he could never consider. Especially not with her true happiness at stake.
"I think, right now, you just need to focus on feeling better, Detective." He stands smoothly from the tortuous chair—honestly, if Hell had a waiting room, he would fill it with these—and squeezes her hand as he prepares to leave. Her eyes meet his, and her eyebrows draw together as she notices the sadness in his smile.
"Would you have someone bring Trixie in?" she requests hesitantly, trying to hide her disappointment at his speedy departure.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he promises easily, gently lowering her hand back to her side.
"And we'll talk. We'll talk later, yeah?"
Will we? He considers, hesitating briefly. Her eyes are so full of hope, of affection, and he's sucked into them, drowning in their crystalline blue-green depths. His determination to leave, to run and allow her to live her life without his or his father's further interference crumbles into ash, immolated in her fiery belief that what they have –had—was real. He blinks rapidly and backs away.
"We will," he promises, and she smiles up at him as he turns abruptly to flee. He hears her contented sigh, feels her eyes trailing him as he paces quickly through the door and down the hall, cursing his weakness yet again. He meets Daniel's eyes as he swans through the waiting room, gesturing back the way he'd come. The other man nods, prodding his worried daughter to go visit her mother. Lucifer is already out the automatic doors and pacing down the walkway before Trixie even registers his presence.
"How is the detective?" The familiar voice sends a mix of emotions coursing through him, and he turns to face his mother's vessel. Long, honey-blonde hair wafts on the balmy evening breeze, glinting nearly as golden as her true form in the setting sunlight as she approaches. Her slate-blue eyes bore into his, demanding an answer.
"She'll be fine," he says shortly as he turns and begins to walk away, leaving her to follow or not. As if he could stop the Goddess of All Creation even if he tried.
"And... what about the two of you?" She catches him up, circling and stopping him in his tracks. He chuffs a humorless laugh.
"Well, it was never real, was it?" He accuses bluntly, hands firmly tucked in his trouser pockets so she can't see them clench into fists.
"Lucifer, I am so sorry." Her eyes glint with sincerity, but he knows better than to trust that, now. Not after what she admitted in his Hell Loop. Her voice echoes unbidden in his mind.
"I am to blame for all of this. Ever since... ever since I returned, I've been... I've been manipulating you. Stoking your anger against your Father in hopes of using you against Him. But... but I've just made things worse. I pushed you and that human closer, knowing it would crush you when you learned the truth."
"Father brought her into existence just to put her in my path." The words burn like Hellfire as they're spoken aloud, but he keeps the mask of anger firmly in place. That, at least, isn't difficult to do. The anger is always there, simmering below the surface, waiting to be unleashed. "The whole thing's been a sham, Mum. Long con. And I fell for it."
"You can't blame yourself." Her eyes narrow as she leans in toward him, persuasive. "This is all His doing. And He should be punished for it."
"Oh, make no mistake, I plan on that." He doesn't know how, but that doesn't mean he can't break out his whiteboard when he gets back to Lux for some therapeutic punishment planning. He should have plenty of time, now that he has to at least stay until the Detective is well enough to talk about why he has to leave. "I mean, how can I trust anything, anyone, now that I know He might be behind it all?"
"Well, you can trust me." The words fall earnestly from her lips, and he manages not to scoff… barely.
"Can I, Mum?" He asks skeptically. Her responding chuckle is more of a nervous tic. "You're as bad as He is. Worse, maybe. At least He doesn't pretend to love me." Admitting that truth is like picking at a half-healed stab wound, it bleeds vitriol and betrayal and no amount of pressure will staunch the flow. He moves around her and tries to escape, but she grabs his elbow as he passes, whirling him abruptly back to face her again.
"Lucifer! I do love you." He coughs a dry laugh to hide his hurt, and her low voice trembles as she continues, "I went back to Hell for you. I helped save the detective, for you. Doesn't that count for anything?"
"It's too little, too late, Mother." He growls, his nearly-black eyes glaring down at her. She shakes her head, barking an exasperated sigh as he continues, fighting to keep himself under control. "You set out to break my heart. Well... mission accomplished." He throws out his arms in a displaying motion, here it is! Care to count the pieces?
"Lucifer..." she reaches out to stroke his cheek, but he throws up his hand before she can touch him, his index finger stabbing viciously into the sky.
"No!" he cries, steadying himself to keep his shaking voice from betraying him, "No more manipulations. This feud that you have with Father, I refuse to be caught in the middle any longer. I am tired of being a pawn. So, no more. I'm done." He spreads his arms again, making a sort of mocking half-bow as he backs away, out of reach before turning again and striding away.
"Lucifer," she calls after him, then more forcefully, "Lucifer!"
He doesn't reply, doesn't look back. This time, she doesn't follow.
He only communicates with the Detective via text for the next week, as sparingly as he can. She asks him repeatedly to visit her in the hospital, and he begs off with various (true) reasons: he doesn't want to disturb her recovery, he has Lux business, it's past visiting hours… always something plausible, but he knows her suspicions are mounting at his continued delays. Her calls go unanswered because he has a sinking suspicion that if he hears her voice—if he has to listen to the pain that he suspects he's causing by placing this necessary distance between them—then his formidable stubbornness will shatter like glass and he'll be haring to her side in an instant, whispering fervent apologies against her soft lips.
His resolution to maintain his distance flares and frays until finally, the message he's been both hoping for and dreading arrives.
They're releasing me this afternoon. Can you pick me up at three? Dan has to get Trixie then.
Of course. I'll be there.
He sends his sparse reply, his heart lighter because she's recovered enough to need no further specialized care, but sinking because there's no more reason to delay the conversation that has to happen. He's had multiple discussions with Linda about how he should handle it, but he's just as conflicted now as he had been while seated at her bedside.
The problem, of course, is that she simply doesn't believe him. He pours himself another tumbler of scotch, glaring at it as he swirls it gently in the glass. Why didn't she just test his blood all those months ago? She had the sample, it would have been so simple! She would have had her proof, and he wouldn't need to terrify her out of her wits by exposing his Devil Face to her undeserving eyes. He growls in frustration and takes a deep drink. Bloody Amenadiel, interfering again.
He moves out onto the balcony, leaning restlessly against the railing as he cradles his glass in his hands and wrestles with his dilemma. She doesn't deserve to be punished by being exposed to his face, she's done nothing wrong, unless you count allowing him into her life. He grimaces at that thought and modifies it: allowing him to insert himself into her life. She'd been very clear in the beginning that she wanted nothing to do with him, but he'd pursued her doggedly anyway, too caught up in the mystery of her indifference to be waylaid. Oh, how Dad must have laughed at that.
His upper lip twitches as he represses a snarl and he glares at the sky above, too mentally exhausted to shout another furious tirade at his oblivious father. What energy he has left is entirely devoted to trying to find a way to explain to the Detective—in a way she'll believe— why she doesn't truly feel what she thinks she does… which only results in his mind chasing its own metaphorical forked tail.
He gulps the last of the amber liquid in his glass, savoring the taste on his tongue, the warmth of the alcohol as it settles in his stomach. He stands at the railing for another long moment, gazing at the street below as his mind spins. He misses his Pentecostal coin. Spinning it used to give him something to do with his fingers when he didn't have another outlet handy. Now he has to distract himself with whatever is nearby; in this case, he washes and dries his glass, then fiddles with his cuffs until they're perfectly straight. He rearranges his pocket square until he's satisfied, then rearranges it yet again. He peruses his bookshelves and attempts to read but his mind refuses to comprehend the words in front of him, so he finally sighs and gives in, grabbing his keys and making his weary way to the hospital.
He lingers in the parking garage with a cigarette. He's far too early, and he's anxious about coming face to face with her sooner than he has to. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he releases a cloud of smoke in a sigh of relief at the distraction, until he sees who it is. He closes his eyes, debating if he has the patience for this conversation right now before he decides to answer the call.
"Well, brother," he croons caustically into the microphone, "what little quest has our mother set you on today that brings you knocking on my proverbial door?"
"Luci," Amenadiel greets him hesitantly, "Mom's worried about you. She says you're not taking her calls, and you haven't even visited Chloe in the hospital."
"And?" he snarls bitterly, "Since Mum's the one that went out of her way to make me aware that you planted the Detective here as a trap from Father, then made sure I was lured to it, I fail to see why she is concerned. It appears to be going swimmingly for her."
"I was only following orders, Luci," Amenadiel defends himself earnestly, "I had no idea that she was being placed for you! And Mom didn't have anything to do with it either, she was in Hell for Father's sake!"
"Yes, well," he pulls in a deep breath through his cigarette, trying to keep his rage from burning in his eyes as he releases the plume of smoke from his lungs in a low hiss. "as lovely as this little discussion is, now I've got to figure out how to disentangle the Detective from me without causing her undue harm. It's bad enough she's been manipulated along with me, but causing her more pain is out of the question."
"What are you going to do?" his brother asks anxiously, "Brother, what are you going to tell her?"
"The truth, of course," he scoffs, pacing a small square in an empty parking space, "which ought to come off as a real treat after your little chat with her about how crazy I am, you feathery arsehole."
"Luci, I didn't know—"
"I am aware, but that doesn't change the fact that you fed her a lie that she could easily believe, whereas I have to present her with a truth that she cannot." He groans and rubs his palm over his face tiredly, pinching the bridge of his prominent nose in frustration, thanking his stars that celestials don't get stress headaches. "She won't believe me without proof, and I have no evidence to offer that won't also turn her mind to gelatin. She would have to be the one person immune to my powers." There's a long silence on the other end of the line and eventually Lucifer pulls himself back together and sighs, "Was there something else, brother?"
"I've been watching over Chloe, as you asked," his words come hesitantly and Lucifer huffs a laugh.
"That was really only so they didn't move her while I was dead, Amenadiel, she was perfectly safe once she got the antidote—"
"I realize that now, but…" he stammers, "she's been restless, Luci. She mutters your name in her sleep, and she seems sad when she wakes and you're not there."
"Angel or creeper, brother? It's a fine line, I'll admit," he jokes to hide his discomfort. "I'm on my way to pick her up from the hospital now, as it happens, so I'll be telling her about our situation soon. If I'm lucky, it will make her angry enough that perhaps I won't have to worry about her feelings toward me any longer."
"You said she won't believe you?"
"She won't bloody believe me, she thinks I'm insane, or—or hiding a sordid past behind my 'metaphors'," he jeers. "This conversation is going to do nothing more than piss her off, which might do admirably at driving her away… if I'm lucky she'll be angry enough that it will minimize any pain I've managed to cause."
"You don't believe that, Luci," Amenadiel's voice rumbles in his ear, and he freezes in place.
"Of course I don't bloody believe it!" he roars, his voice echoing ominously through the parking structure, "I don't want to hurt her, brother, but I've got no choice! I can't allow this to go on as it has, not… not now that I know."
"We don't know what we know, Lucifer!" Amenadiel argues vehemently, and Lucifer pauses in his tirade to listen. "We don't know that Chloe's a trap, she could be a lesson, or… or a gift!"
"You know, I've just had a new idea," Lucifer says with false cheer, "Meet us at the Detective's house, and you can suggest to her that she's a gift from God to me, and we'll see how she reacts. I'll call Mazikeen and stop for popcorn on the way."
"Do as you like, Luci, I know you will anyway," Amenadiel's exasperated sigh rustles across the line. "But you should be aware that it's entirely likely that you're only going to cause both of you unnecessary pain by telling her the truth without having the full story to share."
"Yes, well, when does Father ever share the full story, hm?" Lucifer grumbles. He pulls the phone away and looks at the time. "It's been a lovely chat, but I need to go pick up the Detective now. Tell Mum I still have no interest in participating in her little plot against Dad, and from here on out you can both keep your concerns to yourselves. Ta, now."
He hangs up the phone before his brother can say anything else and groans quietly as he tosses the stub of his burnt-out cigarette and enters the lift to the hospital. By the time he reaches Chloe's floor he's settled his public mask back in place and tugged his cuffs into alignment. The nurse waiting at the lift as the doors open is visibly flustered by the tall, dark and handsome man she finds leaning against the back wall of the carriage, and he smiles a greeting that doesn't quite reach his expressive eyes. He sidles past her with a murmured excuse, and she gapes after him for so long that the doors close again before she can board.
He glances at the clock on the wall as he approaches her room and nods to himself. Right on time, perfect. He opens the door without knocking and breezes inside.
"Hello, Detec—" he cuts off abruptly as she finishes pulling her sweater down over herself, his eyes locked on the bare expanse of bruised torso that had been exposed when he walked in, the area where the poison had been injected. "I thought you were doing better?"
"Lucifer!" She sounds happy to see him, though her fingers tremble nervously as they smooth down the loose knit of the dusky pink sweater. "I am doing better, why—?"
"You're still bruised!" he accuses, crossing the room so his fingers can hover over the offending area. "Shouldn't that have cleared up by now? It's been a bloody week!"
"Not all of us are gifted with freaky fast healing, Lucifer," she smirks at him, trying to lighten his dark mood. "And hello, it's nice to see you too, partner."
"Uh, yes," he stammers quietly, backing away a half-step and trying not to notice how her face falls. "Of course, I'm glad you're feeling better, Detective. Do we need anything else before we leave, or were you merely waiting for your ride?"
"Waiting on my ride," she smiles up at him, "but not you."
"Oh," he says, bemused. "Did I misunderstand?"
"No, no," she reassures him, reaching out and trying to catch his hand. He neatly evades it by sinking down just out of reach into the Hell Chair. "They're waiting for a wheelchair, hospital rules, no one is allowed to walk out."
"Utterly ridiculous," he grumbles, "how long have you been waiting for that?"
"I guess there were a lot of discharges this afternoon, they said it could be another twenty minutes."
"Insupportable," he stands and crosses to the door, throwing it open. "Do you have everything else you need?"
"Yeah, they already gave me my discharge papers, they're in this bag with my other—Lucifer!" She gasps as he darts back to the bed and lifts her in a smooth, swift movement, scooping her up easily with an arm behind her knees and just below her shoulders. She looks up at him with a fiercely flushing face as she hisses, "What are you doing?"
"Why, following the rules, Detective," he replies, easily supporting her slight weight against his chest as he strides evenly toward the door and down the hallway, completely ignoring the staring nurses. "Hospital rules: No one walks out under their own power, therefore, you can walk out under mine, hm?"
"I'm pretty sure this isn't what they had in mind, Lucifer," she starts to argue, but he can feel the moment she just lets it go. Her left arm snakes up around his neck and she relaxes into his grip, hiding her red face against his shoulder as they wait for the elevator. Holding her this way makes his heart take off at a gallop, and he counts himself fortunate that her head is resting against his right shoulder, otherwise he's sure she would be able to feel it against her cheek, even through his jacket.
"But it's following the rules, nonetheless," he murmurs into her hair, "as long as we get you home safely, that's all that matters."
"Dan's got Trix tonight," she offers hopefully, her fingertips playing lightly with the hair at the back of his head and causing a frisson of heat to slide down his spine. "do you have time to stay for a little while and talk?"
"Of course, Detective," he sighs in resignation, "there are some things you need to know."
Chapter 2
The ride back to her apartment passes in somewhat tense silence. Lucifer keeps shooting pensive glances at her, and Chloe pretends to doze against her headrest as she sneaks furtive glances back at him.
She's exhausted—her recovery has been slow and miserable, and she's wanted nothing more than to have Lucifer at her side to distract her and make her smile. But he hadn't been there, at least, not after she woke up. Sure, it had been that way in the beginning, back on their first case together, she'd awakened to find him sitting watchfully beside her, and then he'd left once Trixie had arrived. But now, over a year later… now everything was different, wasn't it? They'd had a moment—several really, even without counting the bold flight attendant's interrupted one– had acknowledged that they have something, and he'd agreed to talk about whatever it is.
They do have something, she's sure of that. When he'd appeared at the top of that staircase unharmed, her pounding heart had taken flight with relief and she'd found herself throwing her arms around him without any conscious decision to do so. He'd been so surprised, sweet and tentative as she's discovered he can be when she catches him off-guard, and with a note of wonder in his voice as he'd asked her,
"This is real, isn't it?"
She'd wanted nothing more than to hold him close and never let him go, but of course real life doesn't allow for that sort of thing. They'd separated far too soon, Chloe straightening her jacket and going to check on the boys, taking their statements as they waited for the ambos and backup to arrive. Then she'd had to deal with leading forensics to Dr. Carlisle's body and by the time she'd finished with that, Lucifer had disappeared. He'd reappeared later that evening, barging into her apartment without knocking as usual, angry and shouting as she'd been quietly panicking about a nosebleed that refused to stop.
The anger had immediately fallen from his face as he'd realized what was happening, and the fear and hopelessness that replaced it had reduced her to tears, because she'd been trying to convince herself that it was something, anything else. He'd bundled her into her cruiser and had torn off toward the hospital with lights and siren wailing without saying anything beyond,
"We'll fix this, Detective."
Had he changed his mind? Maybe the fear of nearly losing her had made him rethink his attachment… She knows he cares for her, anyone with eyes can see that, but he's so skittish when it comes to opening up—like the time he'd ghosted her for weeks after she told him she could be vulnerable around him—maybe he'll just never be able to handle an actual relationship. That thought twists inside her like a thorny snake, because somehow she knows that he would be amazing at being in a committed relationship, if he were ever to really attempt it. Penchant for miscommunications and leaping to wrong conclusions aside, he's proven himself to be reliable in the things that truly matter, and incredibly supportive. He's repeatedly shown that he's willing to listen to other viewpoints, and even if he dismisses them at first, he's been willing to consider them over time and adapt his own approach going forward.
She's lost in thought as he pulls into the parking space in front of her apartment, and his gentle touch to her shoulder startles her out of her reverie.
"Did the hospital say if you were allowed to walk into your home, Detective?" one corner of his mouth quirks up slightly as his eyes search hers, "Or shall I carry you again?"
She scoffs, as he seems to expect, and carefully pulls herself up out of the low-slung passenger seat with a slight groan. She turns to find him hovering anxiously at her elbow, bag of her belongings dangling from his hand. "I'm fine, Lucifer, just stiff, and a little sore. That's going to take some time to go away, that's all."
She steps away from the car, glad to find her feet steady beneath her as Lucifer shadows her movement up the walk. When they near the door he abandons her briefly to open it… without a key. Again.
"You have got to tell me how you do that," she tells him as she passes through the door ahead of him, removing her shoes once she's inside and heading for the couch before her knees give way.
"One of several of my gifts that you refuse to acknowledge, Detective," he says quietly, with a hint of impatience, "as I've told you many, many times before."
She sinks into her couch and closes her eyes. Yes, maybe this is where we should start.
"Lucifer," she begins, already feeling exhaustion starting to lick at her limbs. "why do you insist on hiding behind your Devil story?"
"I haven't hidden anything, Detective," he snaps, stung at her accusation. She can hear him in the kitchen, clinking glasses and pouring liquid. "I always tell you the truth, I can hardly force you to believe it. At least, not without breaking your mind, and I am rather fond of that part of you so I'd much rather avoid it."
"So you're maintaining that you're really, truly, the supernatural being known as Satan, the outcast son of God, and you've just decided to ditch Hell and come solve murders in Los Angeles with little old me," Chloe posits dryly, cracking an eye open to glare up at him as he offers her a glass of water with an amused expression.
"That is indeed the bare bones of who I am," he confirms, just as dryly, "It is good to know you've been listening, even if you refuse to believe me."
"You don't have to hide from me, you know," she sits up and takes the glass from him, "I get that you've probably had a rough time growing up, maybe as a foster kid, or in an abusive home, or, Hell, maybe even homeless. I'm sure you got into some bad situations and probably had to do a lot that you're ashamed of now, but… Lucifer, none of that matters. I want to know you, and I can't do that if you won't let me in."
"You do know me, Detective," Lucifer turns away and pulls a blanket off the back of the chair beside him and drapes it carefully over her before sitting in the chair himself. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Better than anyone save perhaps Dr. Linda. You're the cleverest human I know, darling, and yet you refuse to acknowledge the truth literally right in front of you."
"Because there's no such thing as the Devil," Chloe grits out, her eyes hardening with frustration at the soft amusement he's directing at her. "Or demons, or God, or Hell… and so on. None of it really exists, Lucifer, which I guess is why you feel safe using it as your smokescreen—"
"If I don't exist, my dear, then are you having this conversation with yourself?" he asks sardonically, hiding his own mounting frustration behind casual humor.
"You exist, the Devil does not," she clarifies, and he laughs outright. "What's so funny?"
"I think you just created a new theory… Schrodinger's Satan," he chuckles to himself as he stands and moves into the kitchen to prepare an early dinner. "As long as you don't open the box, the Devil can both exist, and yet not exist at the same time."
"Lucifer…" Pain is starting to eclipse the annoyance in her tone now, and he manages to hide his grimace at the sympathetic twisting in his gut. "If you can't take this seriously, we're never going to be able to move forward."
"I can assure you that I take this very seriously," he concedes, and his voice has lost that underlying humor. She glances over at him, rattling around in her refrigerator as he decides what to make. "And, as to moving forward, that is something that we really should discuss, because I have some news for you that's going to be rather difficult to hear, even if you don't believe a word of it."
"What do you think I've been trying to talk to you about, Lucifer?" Chloe blurts, exasperation plain on her expressive face. "We can't move forward together if you're still wrapped in these… metaphors."
"And now you sound like Dr. Linda before she believed me about who—what—I really am," Lucifer groans. "I can't begin to understand how you can acknowledge that I do not lie, and yet still refuse to believe me when I tell you what I am."
That's another thing Chloe has trouble with—the fact that Linda is still humoring him in his delusions. Admittedly, she isn't a therapist, but it seems to her that a professional of Linda's caliber should really know that indulging a patient in something like that isn't going to be able to help them overcome it. Unless she's letting her attraction to Lucifer get in the way of his therapy…
"Is this…" she sits a little straighter, suspiciously watching him at her stove as the unmistakable mouthwatering aroma of tomato soup and grilled cheese starts to fill the apartment. "Are you making fun of me? Is this just a joke to you?"
"There is nothing less amusing to me than this situation we find ourselves embroiled in, Detective," and his voice is dead serious. His eyes are somber as they meet hers from across the apartment, and he works in silence for a few minutes as her stomach quietly growls. "I've been attempting to find a way to tell you about the new information I've come across all week in a manner that you'll believe… but I don't know that it's even possible. We seem to have reached an impasse."
"What does that mean?" a trickle of ice spears down her spine at the sadness radiating from him.
"It means, Detective, that you require proof that I am telling the truth," he explains slowly, feeling his way to the words he needs. "And I will not provide it for you, because doing so could destroy you. And… I could not bear it."
"Destroy me?" Chloe snorts derisively, "Lucifer, I'm a cop, not one of your swooning flight attendants. Nothing you could possibly show or tell me could—"
"Ah, now," he interrupts hurriedly, approaching with a platter containing a small bowl of soup and a steaming sandwich, "careful what you say, Detective, you wouldn't want to have to eat crow later, after all. It very nearly destroyed Linda, and she is the ultimate professional in all things relating to the mind. I would say it's a miracle that she's managed to overcome it and continues to see me, but… well. I know better."
"Hey," she says softly as she takes the tray, catching his hand in hers before he can pull away. "Why are you so adamant that you're this evil… thing?"
"I am neither evil nor a thing, Detective," he corrects her stiffly, trying to tug his hand away, but she holds firm. "I punish evil."
"You said a couple months ago that you thought you were a monster," she reminds him gently, trying to get him to open up to her.
"I don't think I am a monster, I know I am one," his dark eyes and desolate words hold an ocean of pain, and her heart clenches in her chest.
"Why do you think that, Lucifer?" she whispers, and his eyes brim with tears that she knows he won't allow to fall. She's reminded suddenly of the sniper incident from a couple months ago.
"You can't understand, Detective. And you never will."
"What are you so afraid to show me?" She tries to tug him down onto the couch beside her but he resists, sitting back in the chair across from her instead. "I know you're not evil, despite what you say about being a monster."
"It is possible to be both," he murmurs, so quietly that she strains to hear him as she tears her sandwich into bite-size pieces and stirs them into her soup. "At least, I hope it is… To not be evil, and yet still be a monster. Because a monster I am and shall always be, but… I don't want to be evil."
"All right, Lucifer," she sighs. She takes a bite of her soup-soaked sandwich and hums contentedly as a smile tugs at his lips. "We'll have to agree to disagree on the whole 'you're the devil-slash-monster' issue, because I'm never going to agree to that. You're too… kind. But you said you have something you need to tell me."
"I do," he confirms, watching her closely. "I'll ask you to suspend your disbelief and let me share it with you without interruption first and then, if you desire, we can discuss."
"Fine," she agrees shortly, lifting another delicious spoonful to her lips. "Tell me what you have to say."
He does. He explains, succinctly and without any of his usual theatrics, that Charlotte Richards is actually his mother, the Goddess, currently escaped from Hell and inhabiting a human form. That Amenadiel had discovered that she, Chloe, was a miracle child placed here on Earth on the order of none other than God himself, Lucifer's father, for reasons not-quite-known, but quite possibly in order to cross paths with Lucifer himself. That it's more than slightly possible that both Chloe and Lucifer's feelings may have been… influenced toward one another. By the time he stops talking, he's staring fixedly down at his hands, clasped tightly in front of him, and Chloe's bowl is empty.
"Is that all?" she asks archly, and his eyes snap up to meet hers narrowly.
"Are you making fun of me, Detective?"
"I'm not making fun of you, Lucifer, but you can't really expect me to believe any of this," she points out reasonably. "That I was, what, made for you? Destined for you? That really doesn't sound funny to you at all?"
"Do I look as though I'm having a laugh?" She evaluates him carefully, and he really doesn't. He appears to be completely serious, not a hint of humor in his open expression at all.
"No," she admits, "But you also can't tell me that you really believe this predestination crap. I had an entire life before I even met you. I had a marriage, I have a kid. You're important to me, but you're not my whole life."
"Very well Detective, you've made your position abundantly clear," he groans, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. He finds himself wondering how this stubborn human had become the center of his whole life without him even noticing. "I've done my duty and warned you, and as usual, you've dismissed my concerns entirely. What did you wish to discuss, then?"
Chloe, who had slouched back into the couch once she'd finished eating, straightens up indignantly at the patronizing tone to his voice.
"What did I— I wanted to discuss us!" she snaps heatedly. "Weather we might be able to move forward with… with whatever it is we have."
"Chloe," he breathes quietly, and she feels a fluttering in her stomach at his rare use of her name, "you don't really believe we can have any kind of… of serious relationship with such a gap between us."
"What gap?" she tilts her head, confused as he huffs a melancholy laugh.
"The one that you seem to have a serious problem acknowledging… the one where I insist that I am the Devil—because I am—and you attempt to negate that fact by firmly denying it," he reveals bluntly. "You either think I'm insane or a liar, darling, and while I'm not an expert in human relationships, I'm fairly certain that Doctor Linda would agree with me that neither of those are a healthy premise for a close, interpersonal relationship."
"All right," she pauses, thinking for a long moment as he continues to stare at the ceiling, avoiding her gaze. "You know I don't believe you, but you said there was something you could show me to prove that you're telling the truth. Show me."
"I won't," he says deliberately, not bothering to look at her, and a wave of anger washes over her at his outright dismissal. "I can't do that to you, darling."
"Can't, or won't, Lucifer?" she asks icily, and he chuckles, infuriating her further.
"Won't, primarily," he admits easily. "I told you, I couldn't bear being responsible for destroying you. Do think of Beatrice and Penelope."
"What do they have to do with this? With us?" Chloe blurts angrily, and Lucifer finally lowers his gaze to meet hers. There is pity in his dark eyes.
"Do think for a moment, Detective," he urges her. "You're asking me to show you what Jimmy Barnes and Lindsey Jolson saw. Benny Choi. That oafish biker that threw himself off the roof of that building when my wings were stolen. That is what you are asking me to do to you, and I will not. You are not deserving of such punishment, and nothing you can say will convince me to bestow it upon you."
She opens her mouth to argue, then stops, considering. He's just admitted to doing… or showing something to these people that seemed to drive them insane… some more insane than others, admittedly. "What is it that you do to them, Lucifer? What is it that they see, that you won't show me?"
"A bit of Hell, Detective," there's a hint of a growl in his voice now, and the little hairs on her arms stand on end in response. "They see their own guilt reflected in my face, and it is a terrifying thing." He hesitates, then clarifies, "To be fair, the biker didn't see my face—though I did flash my eyes at him—he actually got an eyeful of my wings, and the divinity they contained had already driven him partly mad."
"Okay," she allows skeptically, "if you won't show me your face, then show me your wings."
"I cut them off—or rather, I had Mazikeen cut them off—just after I decided to stay in Los Angeles, remember? I told you that last year, when you saw my scars."
"But the biker saw them." She shoves away the vulnerable look on her partner's face as he'd caught her wrist and asked her not to touch those scars. She can't think about that… them… now.
"He did, and so did that buffoon of an auctioneer," Lucifer admits, shrugging. "I… kept them. In the storage container that was stolen. A bit of a failsafe, a way back to Hell if I truly needed it. But they're gone now. Once Mazikeen revealed their location to Amenadiel and he arranged to have them stolen to try to trick me into taking my throne back, I realized that even hidden away they were a liability. So I burned them that night after the auction, once I'd gotten them back from that gormless idiot."
Chloe narrows her eyes, trying to decide how best to poke holes in his delusions. "Fine. No wings, and you won't show me your face. Then describe it to me. What does this… face… look like?"
"You remember the Wobble case, with the burned corpse not so very long ago?" She nods, of course she remembers… Lucifer had been fascinated. "A bit like that poor chap, really, only less charring and more… scarring. My skin is deep red and craggy, with a texture of battle-scarred leather. My eyes glow with hellfire—all red and black and orange. My hands are thickened and knobbly, with claws tipping my fingers. It's nightmarish, truly."
"Hmm," she considers. "It sounds like it hurts."
"It doesn't," he says shortly, bitterly aware that she's humoring him. He stands restlessly, collecting the tray and taking it back to the kitchen. She hears running water, the clinking of metal and glass.
The self-proclaimed Devil is doing my dishes. How very evil of him. She smirks, and considers the enigma that is her partner. Despite being aware of how insane it all sounds, she can't just write him off completely, because there are things about him that don't add up. His weird hypnotism thing… what did Amenadiel call it? Neurolinguistic programming. His well-above-average strength—shoving a man through a plate-glass window, lifting another by the throat with a single hand, carrying her all the way from her hospital room down to the Corvette without a breather… all seemingly effortless. The trick with the locks… getting out of her handcuffs, out of the locked car, into her apartment and pretty much anywhere else he wants to be. He even seems to heal quickly, the burns from the restaurant and the bruises from the fight with his brother all vanished completely within a day or two, and that couldn't just be the work of an incredibly expensive concealer. The bullet wound from Malcolm… she still isn't sure if he faked that or not, but he had to.
And… as much as she hates to admit it, she has seen some things that she can't explain. After she'd been shot on the Delilah case, she'd caught a glimpse of a face before she passed out… much like the one he'd just described to her… reflected in the recording booth window. That red flash of light that reflected back from the stainless steel at the warehouse on the Player's Club kidnapping case…
Stop it Decker, he's starting to pull you into his delusions. Goddesses escaping from Hell and possessing people, angels blessing infertile couples to create miracle children… Though she knows that her parents did have trouble getting pregnant… she'd always been disappointed that she'd never had any siblings. But her mother tells everyone that story, so it's not like Lucifer wouldn't already know that. She scowls and sits up again, pulling herself from the couch and dragging her blanket-wrapped body to the breakfast bar, where she sits and watches her partner putter around her kitchen. He lifts a languid eyebrow in her direction –checking to see if she needs anything—and she shakes her head, so he continues humming quietly to himself. She watches him, torn in two. She trusts him, might even love him despite his quirks. If that was all it was, just some harmless delusions and a little mystery, she'd be willing to try a relationship with him. But now, with this new insistence that she was made for him… that's an escalation of his pre-existing issues, and it causes an uneasy feeling in her gut.
Trixie. She can't risk having Trixie around someone that could become obsessed or unbalanced, and even though Lucifer is in therapy, it obviously isn't helping him. At least, not where he needs it most. Or rather, not where she needs it most. She winces inwardly at that, it feels petty and shallow… but her number one priority has to be Trixie. No exceptions.
"Lucifer?" she says quietly, and her voice trembles a little. He folds the rag he was using to wipe down her stovetop and smooths it on the countertop before he approaches the bar. It's obvious to her that he was merely giving himself something to do while she considered.
"Ah, you've made your decision," he observes, and the forced detachedness in his tone drives a hot spike into her stomach. His expressive dark eyes are shuttered, allowing her to read nothing of his thoughts in them. "What's the verdict, Detective?"
"I… you're right," she confesses in a small, trembling voice that sounds nothing like her own. He flinches almost imperceptibly, and she fights the urge to round the bar and pull him into a comforting hug. "We can't… move forward like this. I can't… Lucifer, I'm sorry, you're my best friend and… but I won't have Trixie around someone that could become unstable, and this… this whole I'm-made-for-you thing you've come up with feels like it could devolve into an unhealthy obsession. I… I want you to talk with Linda about this, okay?"
"Oh, I have," he waves off the suggestion, leaning his elbows on the counter as he continues blandly, "we spent a good part of the last week trying to come up with ideas on how to present it to you so you'd believe it. I admit I didn't quite anticipate this particular interpretation, but it seems like it's heading roughly the direction I thought it would, so please do continue."
"Continue?" she settles back on her stool, perplexed. "Continue what?"
"I assumed you had more to say," his eyes are pointing in her direction, but seem to be directed just above her left shoulder. A flare of annoyance flickers in her at his blatant avoidance. "You're typically much more detailed in your explanations, Detective. Do you want me gone from your life entirely, or merely the personal parts?"
"Wh-what?" The perfect neutrality in his tone is throwing her off balance, sending her mind into a tailspin. Even after all his efforts to tell her why he wasn't deserving of her, she hadn't expected him to merely… accept her decision to end them before they'd even begun.
He sighs heavily, then enunciates clearly. "Do you wish to continue solving cases together, or would you prefer I disappear?"
"What, that's it?" She sputters indignantly, "Do I mean so little to you, then, that you could just walk away and not look back?"
"On the contrary, Detective," his voice is soft, tender even, and now the shutters over his eyes crack and fly open. For a brief moment she can see the deep welling of anguish flaring in their depths before he slams them closed again, and it steals her breath away. "You mean everything to me, but you are right— you and your offspring should certainly not be exposed to me. Which is exactly why I must walk away… since you refuse to run."
He stands to his full height and rolls his sleeves down, delicately fastening his cuffs as Chloe gapes wordlessly at his unexpected words. He rounds the bar and finds his jacket carefully folded on the back of the couch, giving it a gentle shake and sliding it onto his shoulders as he turns to face her.
"I am glad your recovery has gone smoothly, Detective," he offers tentatively, apparently unsure how to say goodbye to a year-long partnership. "You know where to find me, should you require anything, but it may be best if you leave me as a last resort. I'll not encroach on your forbearance any longer."
"You're leaving?" she squeaks, the blanket tumbling from her shoulders as she stands abruptly from her stool. "We're not even going to talk about this?"
"What more is there to discuss?" His placid façade is starting to crack, and it gives her a sort of vicious satisfaction to see that this is affecting him as well. "You've decided that I am potentially unstable, and therefore am unsuitable to be in proximity with your offspring. I cannot disagree with your assessment. What would you have me do?"
"Just… just drop the metaphors, Lucifer!" she pleads, taking a step closer to him, hands outstretched. "I know you don't want to walk away from this. I don't want to lose you, but… you have to give me something real. What we have is worth fighting for, but I can't do it by myself."
"I've tried to fight my father once before, Detective," his voice is burning with rage as he stalks back toward her, but she doesn't back away. She's not afraid of him. "You are worthy of any effort I could expend on your behalf, but nothing will change the fact that whatever it is that we have… it isn't real." The fury bleeds away and leaves desolation in its wake, his dark eyes wide, wild and wet. His voice wavers and cracks as he continues, advancing on her until he stands directly before her. "You were planted here by my Father, and there is a real chance that your feelings have been manufactured. And if I tried to fight for you, to be with you now, there is a very real chance that this time when I fall, I could drag you down with me. And that," he spits tiredly, "I could never forgive myself for."
"I never thought I'd see the day that Lucifer Morningstar would admit to being afraid of his dear old Dad," Chloe sneers as her temper overrides her sense for a fleeting moment. Lucifer reels back as though she's slapped him, and she instantly knows she's gone too far. She starts to stammer an apology, but he lifts a hand, palm out and facing her in an imperious gesture and she falls silent, tears welling in her eyes. Why had she said that?
"Right. Well, seeing as my father is slightly almighty, and I've already suffered one very big fall at His hands, I'm sure you'd thank me for wanting to avoid that particular Hell for you, Detective," he snarls, leaning forward and for a moment she could almost swear his eyes had a red reflection to them. "I have after all cut a deal with Him as I lay dying to ensure your safety in that hangar just a few months ago. Oh, but wait, that would require you to actually believe me, which we both are now well aware will never happen. So. Thank you for the partnership, darling, but now I really must be going… for both our sakes."
He spins on his heel and stalks to the door and out. She gathers herself and rushes after him, reaching the door only seconds later, calling loudly,
"Lucifer, wait! I didn't mean…" But he's already in his Corvette and peeling away.
"Hey Decker," Maze is sauntering up the walk with a battered leather duffel, looking over her shoulder at the receding Corvette. She stops in front of Chloe, her leather-clad form still managing to exude a kind of languid menace even in stillness. Her nearly-black hair is a little mussed, and she has a satisfied glint in her deep brown eyes that she usually carries home with her after a challenging bounty, her scarred eyebrow arching high on her brow. "Lucifer seemed like he was in a mood. What did I miss? Did you guys finally bone?"