Wasteland

by allmyplantsaredead666

AU / Long / Multi-Chapter Slowburn Lucifer x Chloe x Michael A recent string of homicides leads Detective Chloe Decker to the doors of Lux where she meets annoyingly charming nightclub owner, Lucifer Morningstar and his twin brother, Michael. Her pragmatism is upended by the unexplainable, challenging everything she thought she knew about herself and the people around her.

3. Chapter 3

III.

GONE HUNTING

—

The hand had materialized so suddenly that Lucifer didn't have a moment to react. All he felt was the sting of contact as knuckles drove their way into the side of his brow. Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders as he tried to stand up. A breath swarmed with the scent of alcohol and exertion. Gruff hands slid over his face as a damp rag tried to find a home around his nose.

Lucifer had been in the back storage room to retrieve a new bottle of vodka for the bartender, contemplating grabbing two bottles, just in case. Thursday nights were considerably more chill, giving him reprieve from making his nonstop rounds for VIP groups. Everyone who was anyone filtered their way through the doors, eventually looking for Lucifer's attention. He gave it happily. Thickly. Most came to make their presence known but others, well, they came because they heard that The Devil of Lux granted your Hollywood-sized wishes.

Although others looked at his vocation as an excuse for him to do nothing more than continuously party, which undoubtedly held some truth, he enjoyed the work. He was good at it. It wasn't through sheer luck and looks that he was able to take the rundown building that used to house a mid-scale hotel and transform it into LA's hottest night spot. A few thousand centuries of shrewd successes and failures had molded him into a phenomenal business owner and operator. He understood what he supplied. Desire. Freedom. The here and now. Instant and complete gratification. It had helped him build a life on Earth that mirrored what he felt he deserved. What he knew he deserved. Dad would personally have to drag him back to Hell by the ankles before Lucifer was willing to leave all of this behind.

One of the vodka bottles slipped from his hand and shattered on the concrete floor, filling the room with its acrid stench. He pitched forward and used the momentum to break out of the man's grasp, tilting to the floor and rolling out from under the heaving body. He was a stocky guy, no older than a college student. A splay of stringy black hair hung next to this face as he slumped against the wire shelf of the liquor cage, rattling a few bottles onto the floor. The sharp cry of broken glass rang out in the large room as a vintage Clement tipped over and joined the others.

"I was saving that." Lucifer spat.

The teen jumped forward, the limp rag still in his hand, a beefy arm trying to hook its way around Lucifer's neck. He swerved back, feeling the hot air rush past his chest as he swung around with the remaining bottle of vodka. It missed the kid's head, instead making dull contact with an arm before bouncing out of his grasp. Another lunge forward from Mr. College. This time a fist connected squarely against Lucifer's right ear, a burst of heat shooting down the back of his neck. The beefy assailant gave out a crow of pleasure.

He heard the distant sound of footsteps—a lot of them—coming down the hallway that led into the liquor room. Barks of surprise, the squeaks and shuffles of shoes on tile, a rustle of clothes and bodies as the confusing mass of noise grew louder. Lucifer dodged another swinging fist, managing to deflect it with the back of his wrist. The kid was pushing him closer to one of the walls, looking to trap him between the brick and the shelving. He looked toward the doorway to see if he could weave his way around the rows of wire racks to find a little more room to maneuver. A foot shot out and Lucifer grabbed it by the shin and pulled it towards him, connecting a fist into the soft flesh under the kid's throat. A gagging cough shot from an open mouth as Mr. College fell back to the concrete, grabbing the lapel of Lucifer's shirt on his way down. He stumbled forward awkwardly, releasing the heavy leg as he raised his hands to brace himself, toppling over a small rack of wine bottles (please don't let it be the Melon de Bourgogne). Dark green glass exploded in a firework of amber liquid and jagged edges, biting into the flesh of Lucifer's palms as he skidded to a stop near the doorway. He flicked the pieces of glass from his hands, annoyed at the wine stains on the cuff of his white dress shirt, annoyed that he would have to make an impromptu visit to the dry cleaners this week.

The kid groaned but didn't get up from the heap of glass, wine and shelving. Lucifer could see pinpricks of blood flushing against a sweaty cheek. A few shards of glass had embedded themselves into the spongy flesh of his upper arm.

"Oh, shit, Craig!"

Lucifer whirled around to see two more college-aged faces peering in from the doorway. They nearly toppled over Lucifer as they spilled into the room, a jumble of gangly limbs and surprised faces. The shorter kid met his gaze and Lucifer recognized it as one of the annoying wankers that were thrown out of the club last Friday.

"You." Lucifer's eyes narrowed. He stopped when he saw two more goons appear in the doorway. He was outnumbered, no bother. What he was particularly worried about were his rows of high-end and vintage whiskeys that lined the room. It had taken him almost eight years to track down two bottles of Glengoyne, to think about it being wasted in a trashy college fist fight seemed too tragic an end to something so beautiful.

The four men exchanged a brief glance before fanning out, trying to surround Lucifer. The tallest one, wearing a bleached black shirt and way too many rings on his fingers, deftly jumped forward, his hands making brief contact with Lucifer's shoulder. The older man took a step back and felt another set of hands grab his right arm. He twisted out of the hold, throwing the chav towards the two kids in front of him. A heavy weight on his back reeled him forward, his knees buckling under sudden strain. Red flashes of fireworks burst in his vision as an elbow cuffed the space above his ear. His body smashed into the tangle of shirts, arms and surprised faces of the other three kids and they all tumbled to the ground in a comical display of confusion. Hands, fists, feet and teeth shot out in a violent tornado, some making contact with their intended target, a few yelps of shock from those that didn't. In the writhing mass of body parts, Lucifer had somehow ended up at the bottom of the dogpile, his neck uncomfortably bent against a stranger's thigh.

He needed to get a hold of solid ground. He needed leverage. Managing to turn his body towards the floor, he shot out his hands, feeling the cool concrete beneath his palms. With a growl, he arched his back and sent two of the goons rolling to the side. Another clung to his shin, clawing violently to stand back up. A quick flick of a knee sent his foot crashing into the assailants nose, a gush of blood unfurling in a bright ribbon. Lucifer grinned.

Vintage whiskeys be damned. He was going to fuck these kids up.

Another clunk of footsteps made their way to the door and Lucifer felt delight at the new addition of bodies for his collection.

"Stop! LAPD!" A firm female voice echoed in the liquor room and all five men paused. "Get your hands up! Now!" Chloe Decker stood just inside the doorway, her eyes cold and unyielding. Her right hand hovered above the holster on her belt.

The four college kids exchanged another look and the one closest to the Detective bolted forward, knocking her aside. She let out a yelp as her shoulder struck against a large wire rack. The other three men started after their friend, batting away Chloe's small hands as they tried to run through the door. She caught one of them by the back of his black shirt, the fabric taut as it ate a groove into his neck. With a twist of her hand, she managed to reel him back into the room, his shirt ripping as he toppled backwards. A small nipple winked at her from his chest. Chloe pulled out a set of handcuffs from the back of her jeans and grabbed the suspect by the arm, meaning to turn him around so she could slap the metal clamp around his wrists. Instead, he shot a hand out around her throat, turning and pulling her into his body so that his arm could find a home against her neck. Red spots floated in her vision as he squeezed generously.

She turned her head to the side, trying to free up her airway, her throat giving out a guttural shudder. Lifting her arms as high as she could, she brought both elbows down forcefully into the man's soft middle, a high whinny of air escaping his mouth as he loosened his grip. Taking the lapse to her advantage, she grabbed the wrist near her throat and pulled it down and around, pivoting her body so that his arm was bent awkwardly above her crouched figure. Using the momentum in her legs, she shot up, connecting the base of her flexed hand to the area near his jaw. The contact shook hot sparks down her arms but she balled them again anyways, swinging in a long arc to bring the side of her fist against his left temple. He crumpled to the floor, a vein of red trickling from the corner of his mouth where she was sure he had bit his tongue in the skirmish.

The Detective whirled to find the other half-awake suspect subdued under the uncaring knee of Lucifer Morningstar and she relaxed. The club owner gave her a twisted smirk.

"Not too bad, Detective."

She turned Mr. Choke Hold over and slapped on the cuffs. Another pair emerged from the pouch in her sweatshirt and she threw them to Lucifer.

"Backup is already on their way. I'll be right back."

Wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead, she jogged out the doorway to pursue the other three men who had ran out earlier. She was no more than halfway down the corridor when she found the first body, his pale dress shirt torn at the shoulder. Fingers traced their way under his nose and she felt his light breath. Turning the corner, she was met with a murky swirl of black. Chloe blinked rapidly, wondering if the lights had gone out temporarily but she clearly saw her hands reach out for the brick wall next to her. A hot cyclone of air pushed her sweaty hair away from her forehead, exposing the small bandage she still wore.

The smell that followed reminded her of the hunting trips she had taken with her Dad in the Montana Flatheads, land of the Bitterroot Salish natives before they were forcibly moved to a small reservation near the Wyoming border. The wooden sign for the Flathead Reservation off of 200-West had been a visible marker that their two-day journey from Los Angeles was almost coming to an end. Soon she would be nestled up next to Daddy Decker, the thickets poking through her dull camo jacket as they waited with their crossbows on patient knees. The early morning air was dense with the scent of a world that was half-awake; damp leaves, soft earth, the light sweetness of her father's soap. The golden arms of sunlight were still a few hours away. For now, they existed in the grey and black of silence and hushed breaths clouding in front of their bundled faces. If they were lucky, if fortune comes knock-knockin, baby girl, they would be field dressing a whitetail to bring to a processor in the nearby town of Missoula. She had usually been the one to hold the deer's front legs steady as her father's knife would slide up the belly, the metallic drift of blood and organs streaming into the cold air and affronting her senses. Chloe had hated that smell. Had hated the feeling of heavy limbs clutched in her small gloved hands as she looked away from the squelching pinkness. Whatever lessons in self-sufficiency that John Decker was hoping to pass along to his daughter was lost amidst that pinkness.

A tightness overtook Chloe's throat as she pushed down the acrid liquid that threatened to bubble up. It had been many years since those Montana hunting trips had crossed her memories. Yet, here she smelled them in the hallway. Dirt. Darkness. Blood.

Chloe blinked a few more times to steady herself and the darkness passed. Another rush of hot air blew over her face as she steadied herself against the wall. The corridor seemed to brighten and she made out Michael's figure near the swinging doors that led out to the club. He was standing over the hunched figure of the kid that had pushed her as he had run out of the liquor room. She narrowed her eyes. What concerned her wasn't the limp body at Michael's feet. No, what concerned her, what made her breath come out in heaving pants like an overheated dog, was the way Michael's back seemed to crawl. As though something squirming and much too alive were trying to get out. Or in.

Again her mind turned to those Montana mornings with Daddy Decker from a time when she had just started the sixth grade and had felt like such a big girl. Daddy's big, not-so-baby girl. They had come upon a wounded deer in the afternoon trek back to their rented cabin. A seared hole near its jaw was matted with black-rusted blood, its eyes wild and rolling uncontrollably in their sunken sockets. Daddy had said it was a botched headshot from another hunter most likely from a few days ago. The deer had ran off with an incapacitated jaw and was now dying from hunger and blood poisoning. Her father had pulled out his handgun, trying to soothe his upset daughter, telling her that he would help put it out of its misery but she had to be strong. No, daddy, don't kill it, it's so scared! She hadn't felt like such a big girl by then. Snot had sprung from her left nostril and she clung helplessly to his jacket sleeve.

He had placed a strong hand against her back, turning her into his side, shielding her eyes. It's the right thing to do, monkey, but ya hafta be strong, okay?

The report from the small caliber was loud but Chloe had been thankful that the heavy chuffing noise, the sound of wild-eyed pain and fear, was finally silenced. Later that night she would hear that wet snorting chuff in her dreams, painted in rusty black blood and endlessly lolling eyes. Those eyes had eventually fixed on little Chloe Decker and she had screamed awake, wetting the sleeping bag in the process. No Daddy no, she had screamed, make it stop, it can see me it can see me it can see me it can see me…

"It can see me, it can see me…"

"Detective Decker?" Michael stepped in front of her and took a hold of her shoulders. "Chloe?"

A shuddering noise (a chuffing) warbled out of her throat and she could feel her knees start to buckle. "It can see me." She looked up into Michael's face. Like the wounded deer, she was sure her own eyes were wildly doing their own dance of fear.

He seemed unfazed. "What does it see?"

"Daddy had a gun and he said he had to. Daddy said it's the right thing to do and I hafta be strong." Sixth grade Chloe with the missing back tooth because she was becoming a big girl and all her baby teeth had finally fallen out. Not-so-baby girl Chloe who was too old to wet the bed from make-believe nightmares. Here she was, embodied in a thirty-something cop's body, still blubbering, still scared. Grayness flitted around the edges of her vision. "But it can still see me."

"Are you afraid?" Strong hands held up her leaning frame. His gaze intensified as he pulled her closer. "What are you afraid of, Chloe?"

"Michael!" Lucifer's voice thundered down the hallway.

His brother turned, face twisted into a tree trunk scowl. "Is something the matter, Lucy?" He loosened his grip on Chloe's shoulders, propping her against the cool brick wall.

"It won't work." Lucifer peered into the woman's pale, clammy face. "Detective, are you all right?" Her eyes met his, lucid but hazy. Long scarlet stains radiated from her neck. Marks from where the goon had choked her earlier. "I think you're a bit overexerted, lets have a sit down shall we?"

She pushed him away and shook her head, a few stringy clumps of hair falling into her eyes as she regained some of her composure. "No, no, I'm—I'm okay. I need to meet the squad out front."

Lucifer opened his mouth to interject but she brushed past him and hastily made her way to the end of the corridor. The bump of bass crescendoed and muted as she left through the swinging doors. He reeled towards his brother, hot sulfur flashing across his face. "What was that? She almost saw you with your wings!"

"What do you care? You go around yelling from the mountaintops that you're the Devil and suddenly you want to get sheepish around the Detective?"

"We need her help. We can't have her going batshit in the middle of the investigation and lose our chance at figuring out what's happening. You flashing around your damned wings is going to send our little Detective down a mental spiral." He sneered. "Humans are fragile. I mean, just look at how she reacted."

"Are you trying to…protect her?" Michael chuckled. "Wow, being up here this long has really taken its toll on you."

"Not her. Us."

"No one here needs your protection. Lest you forget, Dad sent us here to protect you."

Anger flared in Lucifer's chest. "And you trying to use your fear-mongering tricks on the Detective won't get us what we need!"

Michael raised his hands and took a step back. "Touchy subject matter, okay. Besides, you said it wouldn't work, right?"

Lucifer had witnessed the interaction between Michael and the Detective. Had seen the intense confusion and fear welling in her eyes as she mumbled nonsense. The pliable panic had rested comfortably in his older brother's hands and for a moment the Devil was filled with self-doubt. Was it him? Were his powers simply not as strong as they used to be? Was Michael right? Maybe the years he had spent surrounded by humans had indeed made him weaker.

A group of uniformed officers came through the swinging doors and eyed the two men. One of them stepped forward. "Are you the owner of the nightclub? We'll need a statement."

Lucifer nodded. "I've been giving quite a few of those lately." He motioned to the slumped body next to the door. "There's another one around the corner and two in the liquor room down the hall. Try not to knock over any more bottles while you're in there. I've already had to mourn the loss of a lifetime's worth of whiskey tonight and I'm in no mood to lose another."

Two of the officers took down Lucifer and Michael's statements as the others corralled and carried the various goonies away. One of them sneered at Lucifer through a swollen face which he observed indifferently. The faster he could call his insurance company and put this night behind him the better.

The arid night air felt stifling against his sticky skin as he walked out into the alley and pulled a cigarette out of a near-empty pack. A listless line of smoke hung in the air as he watched the paper burn down, not bothering to take another drag. Tonight had felt out of control. A sentiment that didn't hit him quite often. The fight had been a surprise but easily manageable. The sudden appearance of the Detective on the other hand…well, that had been the catalyst to his unease. Everything after her arrival had been tinged with noise and frenzy. Michael. Her empty fearful eyes. Daddy had a gun and he said he had to. Like a petulant child.

He watched the brigade of squad cars from his perch in the alleyway. At the loose manners of the other officers. Modern cowboys with their false sense of justice and protection. He flicked the cigarette behind a dumpster. He had come to Earth to live out his desires and exercise his free will, instead he was tangled in the boring bureaucracy of human life. In the minutia of their everyday.

Chloe Decker's face floated above one of the squad car doors as she leaned against the hood to write something down on a piece of paper. Her face was strained as she wrote, a thin line of worry creasing her forehead. Lucifer felt drawn to that face. The face of a woman who was nearing the end of her patience. Edging towards total shut down. He still had questions that needed conclusions and he felt his window for resolution was getting smaller.

"Detective."

She looked up from her report and placed her pen down when she saw it was Lucifer. "Mr. Morningstar. Are you okay? Have the medics checked you out already?"

He sidled up next to her and leaned his back against the door frame. "Good as new. Nothing a little night cap won't fix. You?"

"I—I don't know. I've never felt like that before. I thought I saw something I can't explain and I'm not even sure I saw anything at all. But…" The Detective's face wavered. "But it brought up something…from a long time ago."

He motioned to her neck. "I'm sure that little number didn't help either." The area was splotchy and covered in a greasy smear of salve probably from the medic. It caught the light in a grotesque glimmer.

A hand slid errantly over her throat, as if protecting it from further onslaught. "Right. It seems that whenever you're around I manage to destroy some part of my body."

"And every time you're around I seem to destroy a perfectly good suit." He motioned to his bloodied dress shirt. She smiled weakly. Deflated. Reduced down to working body parts held together by sheer will. "How did you know I was in trouble?"

"I saw the big one follow you through the utility doors. I recognized him as a local arm-twister for one of the syndicates in LA and figured he was up to no good."

"Why were you at the club in the first place?" He gestured to her sweatshirt and jeans. "Surely you weren't there to dance your Thursday night away?"

"Michael invited me in for a drink." The scarlet of her throat spread up to her cheeks.

Lucifer stiffened. "I see."

"Yeah, uh, we had just gotten up to the bar when I saw that dope go in after you. Everything seemed okay, even with the—", she motioned to her neck, "—you know. But then…in the hallway…something happened." She closed her eyes and a grimace passed over her features. "Anyways, those guys…you told Officer Peters you knew them, right? You threw them out of the club a few nights ago."

"Michael asked you to have a drink with him?" He had crossed his arms over his chest. "And you said yes?"

"Lucifer."

"Um, yes. Yes, I kicked them out of the club last week for being pariahs. One of them was wearing the most dreadful shirt."

"Well, half of them work with the Bernards, a small-time syndicate dealing mostly in extortion and white-collar crimes. The kid who got away is the boss' son, Robbie. One of the guys wants to make a deal, says he knows where to find him."

He brightened. "Okay, well, lets go. I've got a few questions for him myself."

Chloe placed a hand on his arm. "These things take time. We have to get the DA involved and make sure that—"

"Bureaucracy!"

"Mr. Morningstar, I've told you before that we have to follow protocol. We have to do things the right way."

"Maybe for you. But I refuse to get slogged down in human etiquettes of 'good and bad'. You all get it so wrong anyways." Shaking her hand off of his arm, he stood and adjusted his suit jacket.

"We're trying to help you." She snapped.

"Then help me by finding the people who decided to turn my liquor room into a makeshift carnival. Help me by finding out who killed Maze." Red reflections from the outdoor neon signs bathed half of his face in a garish mask. To Chloe, this face seemed more authentic than the one he wore in the daytime when the light reflected nothing but an unlined handsome face. The flesh on her arm rippled at his intensity. Crackles of panic skipped their way up her back leaving a buzzing emptiness behind. Her hand shot up to her neck in another gesture of protection.

Lucifer observed that hand and slackened. He wouldn't get far with the currently delicate woman if he continued to push too hard. Honey over vinegar. At least, for now. He pushed his anger down to deal with later and coerced his face to soften. "Detective, I trust you. I do."

Wetness shimmered in the corner or her eyes, threatening to pull the small thread that was holding her emotions together. What had started out as a last minute whim had morphed into a nightmare scape of tangled memories and bruised necks. Add it to the collection, Chloe. She tried to empathize with Lucifer's anger, tried to justify and understand the maze of his personal moral code. Yet here she was doing more mental and emotional gymnastics for the sake of "keeping the peace".

"Detective, are you all right?" Michael approached the two of them and handed Chloe a bottle of water. He saw her flinch at his extended offering before gingerly taking it.

She shot Lucifer another reproachful look before providing Michael with a shaky nod. "Thank you. I'm just…" The wetness around her eyes doubled and she tilted her head back to keep them from spilling over.

Michael placed a reassuring palm on her shoulder, stepping in front of his brother to face the detective. "You're exhausted. It's okay. You did great in there."

Dull eyes still raised to the night sky. "I feel like—"

"—you have to be strong?"

Her body tensed, shaking at the strain. A quaver overtook her lower lip and she bit it so hard that she could taste the metallic tang of blood. Of black blood crusted around a broken jaw. Of Daddy Decker's hand around the grip of his .22 revolver, the other shielding her eleven year-old innocence. Daddy said I hafta be strong. A hot tear ran down her temple and disappeared into her hairline. She lowered her face and another spilled unwillingly down her cheek. Blue eyes swimming in a prism of water, doubling then tripling her vision. Creating too many copies of the two faces that shared the same look of uncertainty. Oh, she was gonna lose it all right. Chloe Decker's face contorted one last time before the grief and confusion of the night finally overtook her. She grabbed blindly at Michael's faded green shirt, pressing her eyes into the soft fabric, allowing a brief sob to break through her downturned mouth.

Michael stood with his arms outstretched, unsure and surprised. He saw the Detective's shoulders hitch with another muffled whimper. Could feel the hot dampness of her tears and her breath against tender flesh. A slithering, crawling sensation pitched deep in his belly at her warm, broken form. Something foreign. Something ancient.

Desire. Wouldn't Lucy be proud.

He delicately wrapped his arms around Chloe, tracing himself over her small body. He watched as Lucifer walked away, muttering, but not before he saw the look of disgust on his brother's face.

—

Narrowed eyes followed the scrawny figure of Robbie Bernard into a well-known crank house near the Convention Center. He rapped on the door and the opening light spilled a slat of white onto the porch. Their muffled conversation was overtaken by the blare of a television that was turned to what seemed its maximum capacity. A commercial for dish detergent screamed out the revelation of its formulated scrubbing bubble technology. Robbie slunk into the house and the sidewalk was once again bathed in the dark hues of the night.

Lucifer quickened his pace, making his way through the patchy lawn and around empty broken planters that dotted the withering grass. The front of the house looked identical to all the others along this stretch of 8th Street, beige and nondescipt. He kicked over a plastic bag that contained a soggy newspaper, giving out a wet thud as it hit the walkway leading up to the front porch. The television had moved on to a re-run of some 90s sitcom, their chunky sweaters and ultra white tennis shoes giving way to canned pre-recorded laughter. It's blue glow cascaded out of a small window and Lucifer peeked in to find an empty room. He tried the front door and found it unlocked.

The hallway was narrow and crowded with backpacks, shoes and plastic bags filled with more plastic bags. A low, ripe stench of cigarette smoke that had embedded itself into every fabric, wall and surface clung heavily in the air. He imagined being able to scrape it off of the baby blue wallpaper in flittering brown chunks.

"Hello?" He peeked into the empty tv room. "Robbie?"

The clipped noise of heels on hardwood echoed as he moved further up the hallway. The next door revealed an outdated powder room with a dingy mirror. His reflection watched diligently as he craned his neck inside. From the end of the corridor he could hear the soft murmur of voices.

"Well, there you are, Robbie." Lucifer smiled. "I've been looking all over this god awful house for you."

Two pairs of ghostly eyes shot up from the makeshift laboratory they had been rigging on the floor. Vitamin C packs, alcohol swabs and needles littered a folded towel next to a bottle of water.

"Who the fuck'r you?" The owner of the house shot up, a spoon still in his right hand. "Get the hell outta here! This is private property!"

Lucifer ignored him and focused on the huddled figure of Robbie. "You're a hard one to find, you know?"

Realization slid into the slim man's features as he dropped a half-open packet of Emergen-C. "What're you doing here, man?" He fell back on his ass as Lucifer took another step into the room. "What're you doing here, man! Get away from me!"

The man Lucifer thought of as Spoons lunged at the sound of Robbie's screams, wielding his sad weapon towards the intruder's throat. Lucifer deftly smacked it out of the way, grabbing hold of a sweaty arm and pushing him to the ground. Spoons cried out in indignation and scrambled back onto his feet. "I said this is private property! We don't wanna share our Ice with you, man! This is our Ice!" He danced from side to side in a manic jig, his hands shaking in rhythm.

Robbie held onto his friend by the shoulder. "Fred, it's him! It's the guy, the Devil guy!"

"It's Lucifer and I'm here because you paid me a visit last night so I thought it only appropriate that I return the favor."

"Aw, man. No. You see, it was my dad, he wanted you gone, you know? It wasn't anything personal, yeah?" He cowered behind Spoons who was still doing his back and forth dance, jazz hands and all.

"Why?" Lucifer took another step forward.

"I dunno! I'm just a button! My dad thinks I'm a fuckup so he doesn't tell me nuffin!"

Fred started to moan in the back of his throat, a soft sound that climaxed into a guttural tornado siren. "This is our Ice!" He lunged towards Lucifer again, both hands extended into eagle talons full of grime and soot. A gnarled finger looped around a lapel as the others tried to find traction. Stale breathe and hardened skin squirmed against Lucifer as he snatched the hand and snapped it away. The sharp crack of breaking bone sparked the air as a howl escaped Spoons' mouth. Hopefully his dancing days were over.

"Oh, no! Fred, no!" Robbie palmed the sides of his face. "Aw, man! What the fuck?"

Lucifer closed the distance between them and grabbed Robbie by the front of his jacket. "If you're done being a proper melt, I need you to tell me why the Bernards want me dead." He flung the kid against a wall, rattling a framed picture of a dopey-looking cat.

"I—I don't know! I told you, my dad doesn't tell me shit!"

"And why is that, Robbie? Is it because you're a skivvy little asshole? A shit-stain on the family's trousers, hm?" He tightened his grip on the jacket and started to lift him up against the wall. "So what is it then? What do you get out of it?" Another firm shake. "What is it you desire, Robbie Bernard?"

"I—I just—" A shuddering breath. A slow vacancy of the eyes. "I just want my dad to love me." He hung his head, going limp in Lucifer's hands.

"Touching, really. So how was killing me going to win dear ole dad's love?"

"Someone came to him. Someone who says they don't want'cha around anymore. Asked to snuff you in exchange for some properties or something like that. I swear, I don't know squat other than—"

"Mr. Morningstar?" The click of a gun.

Lucifer closed his eyes and sighed. " Detective. If I'm not mistaken, I'd say you're following me." His head turned towards the shadowy figure in the doorway. "As chuffed as I am to be the object of your affection, I'm afraid it's really not a good time."

"Lucifer. Put him down." Chloe lowered the gun.

"I'd be more than happy to take you on a date afterwards though." He gave Robbie another firm shake.

The kid gave out a soft whimper. "Please, man. That's all I know." Eyes shot over to Chloe. "You gotta stop him, he's gonna kill me. He already decked Fred."

The Detective glanced over at the rocking mass of snivels and shakes otherwise known as Fred. He was curled up on the floor, clutching his hand and muttering quietly to himself. "Lucifer. I need you to drop Robbie and walk away."

"So who was it, hm? Who wanted me dead? Franklin? The Mendez Sisters? WHO WAS IT!" Lucifer's face started to shift and crack. A chameleon attempting to shed its skin. It activated the dormant part of Robbie's caveman brain, sending up his fight-or-flight emergency bell in a torrent of noise. Like a feral dog, he was willing and ready to bite every moving thing around him to get away.

Robbie started to squirm violently as he let out a shrill wail, tears now streaming down his sallow face. "I dunno, man! I swear, I swear, I swear!" Bubbles of spittle popped at the corners of his lips. The whites of his eyes much too large for their sockets. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you, man! What the fuck are yooouuuuuu—"

His howl was cut short by the flick of Lucifer's wrists, propelling his small body across the room and into the opposite wall. Thundering rains of glass exploded on the grimy floorboards as his body careened in a sloppy half-roll, a broken mirror puzzle-pieced around him like an artistic interpretation of a body chalk outline. Robbie gave out a final low yip then fell quiet. Chloe could see the fog of his breath against a shard of glass near his nose.

She quickly holstered her gun and stormed towards Lucifer. "I told you to drop him." Fervent hands twisted his arm and pressed his chest against the wall. The cold click of handcuffs.

"Oh, I see. Skip the date and get right to the good part."

Chloe spun him around. "This isn't a joke, Mr. Morningstar." A finger poked violently into his shoulder. "What are you doing here? How did you know where to find Robert Bernard?"

He smirked. "I just did a little detective work of my own. How did you know to find me here?"

"I didn't. The kid from last night gave us a list of Robbie's haunts. This was one of 'em. What are you doing here?"

"Like I said, I had a few questions of my own."

Blue eyes narrowed. "You're impeding an investigation, Lucifer. I asked you to let us handle this and here you are stalking and assaulting a suspect." Fred groaned from the floor. "Two suspects." She took another step towards him, the finger now digging deep beneath his collarbone. "What is your fucking deal?"

"My deal is that I can help you, Detective."

"Help me? How?"

"You've seen what I can do." A low snick behind his back as he brought his hands forward and dangled the open cuffs between them. "I can help you get what you want."

The blonde took a half-step back and grabbed the handcuffs. "What…how did…" She turned them over but failed to see any broken latches or missing pieces. Anger subsided into unease. "How can you…"

"Help? By speeding along the process of your investigation. I don't stand behind the same red tape that you or the law are required to follow. I possess skills, resources, access."

"Skills? Like that…that…mojo thing." She shot up an eyebrow.

"Mojo." He rolled the word around his tongue. "Yes, I quite like that."

She thought back to the interview room with Dan and his hollow eyes. His confession. How the same slackness had come over Robbie as he willingly gave up his own secrets. Whatever parlor tricks Lucifer Morningstar had picked up in his lifetime, he had deftly mastered them. He was, essentially, a walking lie detector test. Who could also maneuver out of handcuffs.

"What you're talking about is a vigilante." The cuffs snapped closed and disappeared into a pouch on her belt. "That doesn't help me one bit."

"No, Detective. What I'm talking about is a…partner." He leaned forward, hands in his pockets. "You heard poor Robbie, someone is looking to snuff me out. If we work together I think we can get what we both want."

She frowned. "I don't want a partner."

"But I think you need one."

—

Papers flitted on Chloe's desk as Dan slapped down a stack of manila folders. "Toxicology came back for Smith."

The blonde looked up from her computer screen. "And?"

"And, it's weird as shit." He pointed to the report. "They found traces of incapacitating agents similar to fentanyl but the structure is…they used the word, 'unclassifiable' and say it's not currently catalogued in any of their files as a known chemical composition."

"Do you think it's homemade?"

"Could be. Or maybe a residual from a mix of drugs she might have taken earlier in the night. Whichever way, they found similar traces in Delaney." He turned the page. "So that further solidifies our theory that this is the same killer. The report also shows that the levels of this stuff was pretty low. Not a lethal dose, at least from what they speculate."

"So, maybe ,what? He used it to knock out his victims? Did the M.E. find any sort of needle marks or residue in the stomach lining? Anything to show us that this was administered?"

Dan shook his head. "Nothing. For all we know it could be unrelated to their murders. Could be that they took it themselves; a new rec drug or opioids cut in with something else."

"Yeah, but both of them with the same toxicology?" She looked at their photos. "They don't strike me as running in the same type of crowds."

"Well, here's the funny thing. One of Stephen Delaney's work acquaintances said he saw Delaney at Lux a few nights before he was murdered. Said he was just standing near the stairs, holding a beer and sort of just…lurking. At the time he didn't think it was that odd because Delaney was kind of an odd guy anyway."

"It's a popular night club. Half of LA goes there over the weekend." She bit the inside of her lip.

"Yeah, but does Delaney strike you as the type of guy to spend his weekend at some posh ass club." Dan raised an eyebrow. "By himself?"

No, of course not. She took in his plain haircut and trimmed mustache, the top of a khaki jacket peeking up from his driver's license photo. He was from the suburb of South Gate, thirty minutes south of LA, a blue collar community surrounded by at least four WalMart Supercenters and a spattering of great mom-n-pop restaurants. During her married years to Dan, they would take a family drive down there once a month to eat at Trixie's favorite Salvadorian restaurant. Pupusas, yuca fritas, pastelitos and chilly tamarind sodas would fill their table to the edges as they spent the better part of the afternoon eating and listening to their daughter's stories about the first grade. Even then Beatrice Espinoza had been a talker, pointing out every billboard they would drive by or recounting the entire plot of whatever cartoon she happened to be watching. Her eyes never missed anything. Neither did her mouth. Her and Dan had always joked that they were the permanent audience of The Trixie Show, ready to applause on cue.

The thought of her daughter, of the man she used to share those moments with now standing at her desk as nothing more than her co-worker, was overwhelming. When would it feel normal again? Ella had suggested therapy a number of times but Chloe had brushed them off. The negative stigma around seeking help had been born and bred through John Decker and then by the LAPD. To admit she was struggling was to admit she was no longer in control.

"Chloe." Dan leaned down and fanned his hand in front of her face.

"Right. Well, I'm headed over to Lux this afternoon and I can take a look through their security footage. See if I can find the date that Delaney was hanging around the club." She shook her head. "You know, the deeper we dig, the more roads that lead to the doors of Lux."

"I mean, that Morningstar guy isn't exactly a model citizen." A sneer touched the corner of his mouth. "Doesn't surprise me that someone's trying to smoke him."

She gave him a pointed look. "Also doesn't mean that we allow someone to smoke him just because you don't like him. He could be the link to all of this."

"Ugh. Just be careful. You have a tendency to…" Dan clamped his lips, a regretful look passing through his features.

"To what, Dan?"

"Nothing. Just…a tendency to get too deep."

"That's what makes me a good cop."

He turned around. "Just, don't get too fixated, that's all. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"I can take—"

"I know, Chlo." He walked away.

—

The afternoon sun blazed unforgiving through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lucifer's penthouse, bathing the large walnut desk in a golden glow. Lux's bookkeeper had piled it high with ledgers and booklets from the last year. Stacks of folders containing tax returns, payroll, and P&L statements wobbled precariously as Zeke from security placed a heavy laptop alongside the paper spires. Lucifer fussed with everything, annoyed at the clutter on his otherwise pristine work space. He had always been particular: about his clothes, his appearance, his cars, his living spaces. Eons of executing refined and exacting punishments had created a lifelong obsession with the small details. The lines between suffering and torture were razor thin and Lucifer prided himself on his ability to push his prisoner's over that narrow edge. He may not have misery on the agenda for today but that was no excuse to let the details slide.

The private elevator announced the arrival of his guest. With one last finicky bout of straightening, he turned around to greet her with a wide smile. "Good afternoon, Detective Decker. Ready whenever you are." He motioned to the neat rows of binders and folders.

She gave him a curt nod, sharp eyes itemizing his desk. "Okay, thank you. I'll let you know when I'm done."

"Don't be silly…partner. I can help you slog through the employee files and get you what you need faster." He lifted a white cup from the corner of the desk. "I've already made you an espresso to help you get started. A peace offering, if you will." He raised an eyebrow mischievously.

A frown touched her face. The last time she had seen Lucifer was a few nights ago at the crank house on 8th. He had asked her to think about his offer before slipping out of the room while she tended to Robbie and Fred. The younger suspect had woken up during the ambulance ride to the hospital, clawing wildly in the air while screaming unintelligibly. He had been sullen during her questioning the next morning, avoiding eye contact and shrugging his shoulders when she asked him to recount the events of last night.

"I don't wanna talk about it." He had mumbled. "I don't wanna talk about him."

"Who? Lucifer Morningstar?"

He had flinched at the name but remained quiet.

"You wanna talk about why you were at Lux a few nights ago? Why you attacked Lucifer?"

Another shrug. "He threw us outta there last week. We just wanted to mess him up a little bit. Scare him."

"That isn't what you said at Fred Mancini's house last night. You said your dad, Joel Bernard, had put the hit on Mr. Morningstar." A hand went to her slim hip. "You said you were a button."

"I—I was pretty messed up last night, lady. We were just fooling around, trying to have a good time at the club when we saw that Lucifer guy and thought it would be funny to rough him up a little bit." He had looked down and fidgeted with the hospital bed sheets. "I don't know anything about no hit."

Chloe sighed. "You're being charged with aggravated assault and attempted kidnapping. We can bump that up to attempted manslaughter given the testimony of your friends. Tack on an obstruction of justice, illegal drug use, possession of a deadly weapon. Put you away for a while."

"What! That's bullshit!" He eyes had shot up, afraid. "You saw what that crazy asshole did to me last night! If anyone was trying to murder someone, it was him!"

It was Chloe who shrugged that time. "I can help you, Robbie. But you gotta tell me the truth."

"Doesn't really feel like help. More like extortion." He sighed. "Fine."

"Tell me what you said about your dad last night."

"Someone came to my dad looking to make a deal. That Lucifer guy in exchange for a few properties my pops had his eye on. Nothin' big: a few dry cleaners, mid-sized strip malls, stuff like that. Fly under the radar, wouldn't raise eyebrows."

"So you went to the club on Thursday night to collect Mr. Morningstar?"

"I mean, kinda. We didn't plan it or anything. Just went there to party and scope it out. We weren't really expecting him to be there on a slow night but when Craig spotted him, we figured we'd do dad a favor." Robbie rubbed the back of his neck with a bandaged hand. "Things went to shit."

"Who was this 'someone' that came to Joel Bernard? When did they meet?"

"Don't know. I overheard Gio and dad talking about it a few weeks ago."

"Gio?" Chloe pulled out her notebook and looked through the names on her page of arrestees from Thursday. "Who is Gio?"

Robbie's face had tightened. "I don't wanna say nothin' else without a lawyer."

The clink of porcelain brought Chloe back to the penthouse. She sighed and took the small cup from Lucifer. "Fine. But we have to do this the right way, okay?" The bitter sting of caffeine slid down her throat as she took a measured sip. "No vigilante bullshit."

He laughed and raised two fingers in a salute. "Devil's Honor." Broad shoulders shirked their way out of its gray suit jacket and hung neatly behind a chair back. Sharp eyes scanned her face, expectant and slightly impatient. "Well," he motioned to the orderly piles of office work, "where do we begin?"

There was something about being stuck in a darkening room as afternoon gave way to the dusky yellows of the evening; the soft lights, the manila folders splayed in abstract patterns, the hushed clacking of the keyboard. It all seemed…familiar. As if this reality had existed in another lifetime; a house of mirrors that reflected a thousand copy images, each one a wormhole that brought them back to the same place. Lucifer was a firm believer in free will but some things in life were static no matter what choices were made. No matter how much you dipped and dived into the alternatives hoping for a new outcome or a sense of control. Some things were touched by the Hand of God. He glanced over at the stoic face of Detective Chloe Decker and felt a twinge of kinship. Partners. Harbingers of Justice and Punishment.

Once the bristles of annoyance and the past hurts of the previous nights were firmly behind them, they had fallen into an amicable silence while they dug through the paperwork. It had surprised Lucifer how much he was starting to enjoy the act of investigating. Of searching for the truth. He had always been the executor. The punisher. To now fill the role that his Dad would typically take on had felt like a thumb to the nose. An utterly ironic delight.

What she lacked in everyday warmth, she released as fervent heat in her work. The indifference of her face gave way to bright bursts of pleasure when she would pry out a small clue from the jumble. Her pale fingers moved endlessly; rifling through papers while muttering to herself, grabbing frantically for her phone to retrace a connection, absently pulling at her bottom lip in thought. They were the windows to her otherwise reserved emotions, like an orchestra conductor, her hands dictated the ebb and flow of her psyche. Lucifer, ever the music lover, watched in detached fascination at the composition that was currently being played.

He had never found a particular desire to get to know any humans beyond the carnal. They currently existed as vessels for leisure but beyond that, well, he had never considered it. Playthings and pawns, just as dear old Dad had created them. Still. He studied her stooped shoulders as she hovered over the laptop screen. There was something unsettling about this one in the way that car accidents seemed to be a morbid attraction for humans. One couldn't drive by without craning their necks, trying to make sense of the three second mental snapshot before speeding away. Lucifer was also trying to make sense of the Detective. Or at least, understand her in some way. The tough cop part he could easily grasp. He had roamed the earth long enough to recognize the stereotypes of machismo and authority. It had a long, boring and bloody history. Underneath that. Deeper beneath the everyday workings of the Detective laid a complexity that challenged and, frankly, confused Lucifer. Let's be honest, it scares you, doesn't it?

"This is a sight I never would have imagined." Amenadiel's strong voice called from the sitting area. "Lucy, does this make you an honorary detective now?"

Michael's lilting laugh broke out as he followed behind his brother. "Now, now. It's better than walking in on a full-blown orgy like last time."

Lucifer scowled. "I was polite enough to ask if you wanted to join."

His two brothers scanned the study and nodded their heads. Took in Lucifer's rolled up sleeves and the coffee-stained cups dotted along the tabletop. Amenadiel raised an eyebrow. "Have you been here all day?"

"Yes, and we'd like some privacy, please." He gestured to the bar. "Why don't you go and have a drink while we work. Amuse yourselves elsewhere."

"I'd say you seem a little embarrassed, Lucy." Michael brushed past him and fingered a black binder. "Investigative work doesn't really fit in with your brand, hm?" He smiled at Chloe. "Although being able to work alongside the best and the brightest seems to be a great perk."

A flush crept up the Detective's face as recollection brought up the way she had broken open in front of Michael, sniveling into his shirt like a child. Pockets of dampness had smeared parts of the olive green fabric into a dark map. Oh, here lies sadness and over here is the land of repressed emotions. The emotional bout had only lasted a few minutes although she silently commended Michael for being able to stand still and allow her to fall apart even for that long. They were practically strangers. To ask someone you barely knew to hold you up while you ugly cried into their favorite shirt seemed irresponsible. Emotions, aside from the usual stock of anger or happiness, were discouraged in the Decker household. Neither Penelope nor John had been equipped—by their own parents, peers or friends—to deal with the complicated emotions outside of that binary. They were loving, caring and attentive parents, just ill-fitted to fully grasp and express what lied inside them or their only daughter. This generational trait was gifted down to Chloe who was currently contending with her own complicated inner workings. Deal with it later, babygirl. You got more important things to do. But that later would never come. It never did. There were too many dirty clothes stuffed behind that door.

"Still digging through the employee roster?" Michael pushed the edge of the laptop back to take a look at the screen. "Oh, surveillance."

"Michael, will you please give us some space? The Detective doesn't need you hovering about." Lucifer stepped forward ready to grab his brother's arm.

Chloe shot out a hand. "It's okay. I need a bit of a breather anyways. Do you mind if I use your balcony to make a phone call?" She left before he could reply.

The clock on her phone showed it was nearing seven. Sighing, she scrolled to Dan's name and pressed the button. It rang a few times before he picked up, the sound of running water overtaking his voice. "Hey Dan, sorry for calling during dinner. I just wanted to check in with Trixie." She could hear the sound of dishes moving around in the sink.

"Oh, hey, Chlo. Yeah, we were just finishing up. Or I should say I'm finishing up while Trix is watching Spongebob."

"You lost the bet!" Their daughter yelled in the background.

"You're a cheat, that's why!" Dan scolded back.

A smile crept along Chloe's mouth. "What was it this time?"

"She bet she could make an egg stand on the table which is why I'm washing the dishes by myself. Now I know why we nicknamed her Trixie, cause she's full of tricks!" He yelled towards the television room. Their daughter laughed roguishly, her hoots mingling with the squeaky voice of the cartoon she was watching.

Chloe laughed along, happy to find a moment rooted in reality today. Grateful to be able to hear the happiness in her daughter's voice. As tough and tumble as their divorce had been, Dan had never faltered in his love for Trixie. He was a great father, something she appreciated even more as they learned how to co-parent successfully. Everything else may have gone to shit, but the bright beacon of their child outshone the ruins of their union. They did one really great thing together.

"Want me to put her on?" The sound of the water stopped. "I'm about to get her butt upstairs to get some homework done."

"No. No, I don't want to distract her. It sounds like you're having a good time. I just," she turned to look through the windows at the three men standing around the study, "I just wanted to hear her voice."

"Okay. I'll tell her you called to say hi and good night. Don't forget you have that PTA thing at her school tomorrow."

She nodded. "Yeah, I got those dumb cupcakes the other mom's are always going on about. Sandy's."

"Sandy's? Yuck. Those ladies have the worst taste in sweets." He scoffed.

"I know. Always too much frosting." A pause. "I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you, Dan." For being the good parent, she should have finished.

Amenadiel and Lucifer were in the midst of a small argument when she returned. They were throwing around what seemed to be an old family disagreement related to—surprise—their father. Freund may have been onto something with the whole dad complex. Although the brothers had yet to make mention of their mother, she didn't think it was too far off to throw an Oedipal complex into the mix as well.

"Detective." Michael motioned to her from behind the laptop. "I may have found something interesting."

She stood alongside him, arm to arm, and watched him pull up a black and white video. "From the security footage?"

"Yeah, I was going through a few of them from last month. Just absently looking through, trying to spot anything weird." He started the footage.

Nothing jumped out to Chloe's trained eye, just a heaving mass of bodies swaying to the music as strobes flashed and hands waved drinks in the air. Groups of beautiful faces laughed and mouthed along to whatever had been blaring through the speakers that evening. Michael pulled up another tab and played the video. Same scene but with different bodies. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be looking for."

He held up a finger and pulled up another tab. "Wait, it's more noticeable when you have a few of them open."

Another scene shot from the same angle, more dancing bodies and smiling faces. Different clothes, different nights but always the same scene. She was about to shoot another confused look to Michael but something about the idea of different clothes snagged her mind. Narrowing her eyes, she noticed the same black and white checkered blob in the left corner of each window. "Wait, pause it." A distinct pattern of a shirt. "Is there a different angle?"

"Um, I'm not familiar with all the different cameras in the club. I'd have to look around the files." He pulled up a folder with multiple icons.

Lucifer shouldered his way next to the Detective, the three of them wedged tightly in front of the glowing screen. "Give it here. What are you trying to see?"

Chloe pointed to the corner of the last still.

"Okay. That's camera eight next to the main bar." He clicked on a folder and opened the date they were looking for. "Around midnight." He tracked the timeline slider and pressed play.

After a few moments, she pointed at a black and white patterned shirt. "Him."

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. "Okay, so who is Mister Balenciaga-Knock-Off and why do we care?" He watched the small figure on the screen bob to the music and periodically taking a sip from his cocktail glass.

His brother leaned forward and pointed at the other three stills. "Same shirt, same guy, a few nights apart."

She looked at the dates and saw that they were a week before Steven Delaney's murder. "Shit, that's amazing. How did you see that?" Chloe placed her hands on the table and dipped towards the screen, bewildered. "That's like a one-in-a-thousand chance."

"One-in-ten-thousand, actually." Michael smirked. "My brother and I used to play this, um, pattern game all the time. I guess it came in handy."

"Which brother? Uriel?"

Amenadiel gave out a startled grunt, shooting Lucifer a concerned look. "You know about our brother, Uriel?"

"Yeah, he came up briefly. Why?" The Detective didn't look up, too engrossed with the screen.

"I, uh, nothing." Amenadiel then twisted his face at Michael. "Just surprise to hear his name, that's all."

"Well, the good news is the footage looks clean so it should be easy to get a possible ID through facial recognition." She clicked on the keyboard and took a few screenshots and sent them to her phone. "Someone at the department should hopefully have something for us in a few minutes."

Michael leaned in close, their arms brushing as he pointed at the image. "This poor plod has, like, one good shirt, huh?"

The Detective gave him a soft smile. "Some of us working folks only have the one."

Michael lowered his voice causing the blonde to lean in closer, their shoulders touching. A conspiratorial whisper loud enough for Lucifer to hear. "Don't let my brother find out, he'll lose his shit."

"Maybe he'll lose his shirt instead; we could lend it to 'Mr. Balenciaga-Knock-Off'." She said this last part in a mocking British tone.

They share a stifled laugh, Michael gently nudging her arm with his own. "Detective." Chiding, playful.

What the actual fuck? Lucifer gaped at them. At their chummy smiles and connected shoulders. At their little two-person bubble full of jokes and stories of a family he was no longer a part of. Was this no-nonsense, work-all-day-play-all-never member of the LAPD, who had methodically spent the last four hours digging through paperwork and ignoring his absolutely charming self actually flirting with his brother?

She let out a brief laugh. "This may be a huge lead." She pulled up the other stills and pointed at the dates. "These were taken a few days before our first victim's murder but the real clincher," she pulled up another tab, "is this footage of Delaney himself at the club on the same night as Ole Checkered Shirt." She straightened and ran a nervous hand through her ponytail.

"So, you think there's a correlation between Checkers and the murders?" Michael zoomed in on the image of the unnamed suspect.

"There's no such thing as happenstance…"

"…or coincidence."

"Right." The smile on her face started to widen. "Or lucky accidents."

"Cosmic bout of karma." He started to laugh.

Something bright and light overtook her features. Relief. Elation. Lucifer studied the way she was looking at his brother. Like he was her knight in shining fucking armor. There was a palpable excitement between them as they talked in their hooded dialect. In the language of their friendship.

Her phone lit up in her hand and gave out a brief chime. She opened the email alert and smiled. "Gotcha."

Michael leaned over her shoulder, his chin grazing her shirt. "What's it looking like?"

"Facial came back as a possible hit. Bruce Polivey. Not an unfamiliar face to local cops apparently." The phone scrolled down to his priors. "Looks like he's a low level crony for the Bernards."

"Bernards?" Lucifer straightened. "As in Robbie Bernard and his vindictive little father?"

"Exactly." She looked up at him, a sly grin eating at her mouth. It was the face of a hunter.

He couldn't help in matching her gleefulness, pawing excitedly at his suit jacket and throwing it over his shoulders. "Well, lets get going and find this Polivey fellow. See what he was doing sulking around the club all those nights."

Chloe nodded fervently. "Okay, yeah. Last know address is in Chinatown, we can start there." She grabbed her own jacket. "They're pulling—"

"Whoa, wait a minute you two." Michael stepped in front of them with his hands up. "Lucy, you've got to be downstairs in an hour to greet and host that huge bachelorette party. They're gonna be crushed if you don't show. You and Amenadiel stay here and keep up appearances, I can go with the Detective and watch her back."

Lucifer scowled. "No, I need to be wherever this Polivey is. Besides, the Detective needs me." He gave her a pointed look. "She needs me to help her get information from him." He grabbed Chloe's arm and rushed past Michael. "You seem to have a grand time playing dress-up as the Devil anyways so why don't you put on a suit and go down yourself. Have a little fun in your life. Take Amenadiel with you, Dad knows he needs it."

The elevator doors closed on Michael's angry face, an image that Lucifer would relish for the next few hours.

The night was edging towards the cusp of midnight by the time they made it to Chinatown. Chloe's rented champagne sedan rolled quietly up the row of gift shops and grocery stores to stop at a squat ranch house near the end of the block. Lucifer had balked at the hand crank windows and squeaky leather interior, wondering how his tax dollars were paying for transportation that shook violently when the dial passed cruising speed. He kicked a wad of brown paper away from his shoe as she shifted the gear to park.

"For someone so meticulous, your car is a mess." Lucifer made a show of brushing a few stale crumbs from the middle inset into the molded cupholders. "It's frightening, really."

The detective ignored him and pulled out her phone to double check the address. "This is the place." She unholstered her gun and checked the chamber and the safety.

"Do I get one of those?"

She gave him a sideways glance.

"What if I need to protect myself?"

"You're staying here, Lucifer. I'll go in there and bring him out." The gun found its way back into her holster. "I can't stress this enough: under no circumstances are you to go inside that residence."

He sighed. "Well—"

"Mr. Morningstar." She scooted forward in her seat so that she could meet his eyes.

"All right, all right. I hear you. No need to be such a Nagatha."

With one last errant pass of her hand over the butt of her gun, she exited the car and jogged up the short cement walkway to the front door. A cursory knock was met with silence. She tried the plastic doorbell but couldn't hear its ring, most likely busted. A harder, louder knock. Silence. She glanced around at the cloudy windows on either side and could see the slight movement of shadows on walls.

"LAPD, open up!" She banged the side of her fist on the thin wooden door. "I'm looking for Bruce Polivey!"

The muffled sounds of footsteps approached the door and Chloe stiffened. Sliding metal of a latch being pulled. Her hand drifted towards the piece on her hip. The door cracked open, enough for the sliver of a face to peer out at the detective. "He's not here. Hasn't been for a while." A husky female voice floated out of the sliver. "I've got kids sleeping in the other room and you're gonna wake them with all that banging."

"Polivey has this listed as his last known address. Any idea where I can find him?" Chloe tried to make out any shapes in the darkness behind the door.

"Like I said, he hasn't been around for a while. I'll be glad if he never shows his face here again."

"Does this residence belong to you?"

"Yeah. I'm his girlfriend. Or I should say, I was his girlfriend. Piece of shit hasn't been around for a few weeks and now I gotta look after these kids by myself."

Chloe loosened her stance to show the figure behind the door that she was there as a diplomat and not a police officer. "Yeah, I know a little something about that myself. May I come in for a few quick questions? I promise I'll be quiet so I don't wake your kids."

The figure of the Bruce Polivey's ex stood still for quite some time before cracking the door open another six inches. "Fine, but make it quick. And quiet."

A hallway light flicked on as Chloe stepped through the doorway, bathing both women in a soft glow. Polivey's girlfriend was tall and slim, enmeshed in a pair of high end yoga pants tucked into those sheepskin boots all the younger kids were wearing nowadays. She wore a tired, bored expression as she pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her housecoat pocket. "I'm Marie. I own the house. I've been with Bruce for three years. We have two kids together and I haven't seen him since the beginning of the month when I kicked him out for being a bad father and a bad fuck." Deft hands placed a cigarette between her lips. "Couldn't make me cum worth a damn. Anything else?"

"I see you've done this before."

"Bruce works for the Bernards. He gets his dumb ass into trouble enough for me to know how this goes."

"Any idea on where he'd be staying since leaving this residence? Friends, family, colleagues?"

Marie shrugged. "Who knows. My best guess would be with one of his idiot lackeys. My hope is that he flew back to France and out of our lives for good." A flick of her thumb brought a plastic lighter to her face as she took a long drag from her cigarette. "Let him be someone else's problem."

"Do you know why—" Chloe snapped her mouth shut and shot Marie a disappointed look. From further back in the house she heard the loud crash of something hitting the floor and heavy footsteps running over carpet. Rushing past the slim woman, the detective unholstered her gun and slid into the darkness of the living room. Pulling her flashlight from her jacket pocket, she shone it into the corner where the floor was littered with plaster and glass. The beam traced its way against the walls and carpet, looking for tracks. A sudden burst of shadows raced across the doorway into the kitchen and she chased after it with her flashlight.

"LAPD! Bruce Polivey, stop!" She slunk into the kitchen, shifting her eyes to the dark corners of the room. A pantry door hung partway open near the refrigerator. Reaching out with a steady foot, she grabbed the edge of the door with the toe of her boots and swung it open. The half-empty shelves stared back at her.

Suddenly from the floor, she saw a burst of movement. Before she could respond, Polivey's body was on top of hers, wrestling her hand to dislodge the gun. His weight rocked them haphazardly into the middle of the room, the flashlight wildly shooting its small beam every which way before clattering to the floor. She could hear the distant screams of Marie from somewhere behind them but Chloe's focus remained intently on the miniature world that had formed between her and her assailant. Large hands were twisting her wrist in a clumsy Snakebite—a childish game she used to play with other kids where they would use their hands to twist and create "burns" on each other's arms. His hot breath was blowing the stench of fear and hours-old beer into her face. They careened around the linoleum like a pair of drunk dancers and she had a moment to let the image of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers floating across the polished floors in Swing Time superimpose itself onto her current situation before she flung it away.

Chloe managed to twist her way out of Polivey's meaty hands, trying to swing her body behind his writhing frame, their feet entangling in a garish flirtation. Her breathing came out in great bursts, caking the inside of her mouth as she pushed his chest with her shoulder. Arms cartwheeled as he fumbled a few steps backwards. She doubled over as a sharp pain ran up her side, trying to use her eyes to track him in the dark kitchen.

Heavy footfalls thundered near the sink as Polivey ran towards the back porch door. The hinges giveing out a tremendous screech as he shoved through the outside screen, the plastic frame rattling as it snapped shut. Chloe scrambled for the still-lit flashlight that had clattered under the small dining room table and sprinted after the man, already trying to formulate where she could cut him off.

As her arm slammed against the screen door, she heard the muted but identifiable shuffling of a skirmish from the narrow space between Polivey's house and their neighbor's. Turning the corner, she saw a tall figure standing over another. Fists rained down hard onto the slumped man's arms which were attempting to shield his reddening face. She reached them just as the standing figure of Lucifer shot out a long leg, sending the cowering man tumbling against the brick siding of the neighbor's house. Polivey looked up at the detective and a line of spit ran down from his protruding lip. He pleaded with his eyes.

"Thought you could slink away, hm?" Lucifer stalked over to Polivey, his hands balled into tight fists. He pulled one back to strike but Chloe wrapped a firm hand around his arm.

"Lucifer. Stop."

He allowed himself to hang in her grasp, his eyes still fixed intently on the other man. "Lets get what we came for, Detective."

Her hand remained firm. "Wait." She pulled him closer and met his gaze. "I need you to cool down for a minute before you do that mojo thing." The raw anger she saw on his features sent a coldness down her back like snowfall.

He blinked his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm calm. I promise." A half-grin cut a crease above his chin. The Detective loosened her grip and wrapped her arms in front of her. She contended with feelings of doubt and excitement before giving him a slight nod of her head towards Polivey.

The other man was still huddled against the wall, clutching his cheek and darting his eyes between the two. His shoes scuffled against the grass as Lucifer approached, attempting to backpedal away. "Get away from me. I'm gonna file a complaint with the LAPD for excessive force! What's your badge number!" His feet shuffled faster the closer Lucifer got, clumps of grass and dirt flinging in between his shoes.

Lucifer crouched down and laid a firm hand on Polivey's shoulder. "Go ahead and make your complaint, but I want you to hear me out first. I need something from you."

"You're…you're not a cop, are you?" Panic welled in the man's eyes as he shot Chloe a frightened look. "This is illegal. You can't do this." She tightened her arms and turned away, again that seesawing feeling of doubt and excitement.

"Polivey." Lucifer's voice guided the man's attention back between them. "I don't give a shit about what illegal devices you get up to or what you do to put money in those filthy little hands. What I want to know is what you desire, Bruce."

"Huh?" His eyes rolled wildly between Lucifer and Chloe's turned back. "What are you talking about?"

"Bruce." Again, his voice re-drew the man's attention and he slackened slightly. "Tell me. What is it you truly desire?" The internal switch popped up and he could feel Polivey's flittering will give way.

"I desire?" A shaky breath. "I-I want to—I want to take over the Bernards' operation. I wanna be the top dog."

Lucifer smirked and nodded. "Good. Good, Bruce. I can help you with that, actually."

"Yeah?" Stupor gleamed in Polivey's eyes. "You can?"

"Sure. But I need you to tell me what you were doing at Lux a few weeks ago. Three nights in a row to be exact. You were wearing a tacky Balenciaga knock-off, remember?"

"Got it at the outlet store." Bruce giggled.

"Of course you did. What were you doing there? Who sent you?" He shook the slumped figure. "Why?"

"Gio sent me. Said I needed to keep tabs on our 'investments'. Make sure you and Delaney didn't fuck up the deal."

Chloe spun around at the mention of the name. It had been the second time she heard it this week, even though preliminary searches had turned up nothing so far. "Who is Gio?"

He ignored her, his gaze still intent on Lucifer's face. "We were keeping tabs on you and the girl for weeks. Gio said he had something good working. Something that'd get us into the bigs. Get us respect."

"The girl." He brought his face closer. "Maze?"

"Dunno. Pretty thing. Spiteful."

Lucifer pulled his lips back, giving his face a wolfish countenance. "Her death is on your hands, you filthy mongrel. You and your shifty, everlasting eyes."

"We were following you for weeks, mon mec. You and the girl. Where you go, who you see." Bruce shrugged. "Gio asked me to, told me to keep my mouth shut about it. It's not like I pulled the trigger. I was just the watchdog. A filthy mongrel, like you say."

"A filthy watchful pet who told Robbie and his Merry Mentals exactly where to find me a few nights ago, hm? Give me a right bashing, eh?"

The crumpled figure shook his head. "No. Those kids that went Rambo on you…that was all Robbie." He turned his head and spat on the grass. "Fucking junkie ass kids, you know? Gio was fuckin pissed. Like, full-on throwing chairs through a window pissed."

Gio had indeed broken his branded stoic demeanor to pick up a steel swivel chair and thrown it like a Roman-Greco shot-putter through the small window of his office. His best and only friend Louis Auch, currently acting as the stand-in accountant for the Bernards, had slunk into his office during the Arsenal match to whisper about Robbie's fuck up. Gio—a hulking tower of a man stuffed into a pair of white linen trousers and a plain black t-shirt—had calmly turned off the television, grabbed the nearest chair by the back and had flung it violently across the small room. It had cartwheeled drunkenly in the air, the rubber wheels careening back and forth, before smashing into the half-open window where a glass ashtray smoldered with a freshly lit cigarette. The cigarette had belonged to Bruce Polivey, who had shot out of his seat next to the now-shattered window, watching in dismay as his crumpled Marlboro listed out into the street. Gio had observed the arch of destruction with indifference before unfolding a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his back pocket. They floated like small, gleaming islands in the giant expanse of his face. He then sat back down behind his office desk and turned the match back on. Louis Auch, who at this point hadn't moved from his original post next to Gio's chair, had motioned to Bruce towards the window. Clean it up. Bruce had immediately started to collect the larger pieces of glass that showered the hardwood thinking that he had never seen something so utterly untethered in his life.

Lucifer watched Polivey's face closely, the misty memories not so much playing directly in his head, but he had inferred enough to get the point. The man's fear of this Gio was immediate and Lucifer could feel that at the forefront of Bruce's mind. "Where do I find Gio?"

Bruce shook his head in wide back and forths. "Uh-uh, man. He'll kill me." Whatever mental vice that Lucifer had created with Bruce was starting to come unclamped as the fear inside Polivey rose to terror. "You can take me in, you can put me in jail. But I'm not gonna fuck around with Gio. He's gone real mental lately."

Lucifer could feel Bruce slipping. He tightened the grips, pulling Polivey back just enough to keep his focus. "Bruce." The man in his hands slackened. "What can you tell me then?"

"The Historic Society Benefit. That's all I'm saying." He hung his head, defeated. Soft, dark hair hung over his brow as he mumbled into his chest. "Take me in, beat me up, I don't care. But that's all I'm saying."

Lucifer released his hand from Bruce's shoulder and wiped it against the leg of his pants. "Do you know this Gio fella?" He turned towards Chloe.

She shook her head. "The Bernards run a small gambit. I'd have to check in with someone from the DEA to see if they have any specifics."

"What would you like to do about him?" He cocked his head toward the crumpled figure sitting in the grass.

The detective studied his slumped shoulders and his mumbling mouth then turned away disgusted. "I'll take him in. Doubt there's anything to make it stick though. Especially since…", she motioned between them, especially since we're doing this. Cold metal flashed in the streetlights as she took out her cuffs.

The Historical Society Benefit. Lucifer rolled the words around in his head. He was familiar with the Historical Society; his building was petitioned a number of times to be included as part of a historical preservation project and the Society had pushed hard for him to consider joining. Lucifer had no interest in participating, particularly after seeing the stock of WASPs that had come through in their gaudy flashes of wealth and turned up noses. They had blathered about the importance of safeguarding LA's stories and histories. How buildings such as his were important reminders of this city's rich and glamorous past. Lucifer had sipped his wine, listening with bored amusement. These soft sods may not have been around when this building was first erected, but he was, and as he recalled there had been very little glamour trolling in this part of LA back then. Before the studios were built and young stars were born, LA was just another dusty, overcrowded city stolen from the original Mexican and Native settlers who had set up their homestead in the late 1700s. Lucifer had first visited Los Angeles in the 1870s, a few years before the streets would see its first electric streetcars and Hollywood was nothing more than fig orchards. He had watched the horse-drawn buggies and mills of people with detachment, just another sea of human life struggling to both crawl up and pull down. Still, there had been something thrumming in the city even back then. Something that called to him, told him to come back. The call that it would become something worth loving and would be waiting for him when the time was right. So to have to sit and listen to new money drone on about the splendors of an LA they have never known was enough to mark them as the kind of people he had no interest in supporting, no matter what they offered.

Now his interests had crossed their paths and he thought that maybe he could revisit a few of those old wasps, listen to a little more of their buzzing if it meant getting what he needed. Perhaps it was time to show them a slice of the Los Angeles they never got to experience. The cold glimmer of a city built in blood and tears.

The Detective walked past him with Polivey's cuffed hands in tow. He watched her stolid face and slumped shoulders: the wears of a job that was too big for any human to control. She was strong, yes. Strong enough to be able to handle something as big as the balance of light and dark, heaven and hell? He doubted any human could hold something so grand in the palm of their hands but a wheedling feeling of hope sprung in a place he hadn't touched in a long time. As ridiculous as it seemed, he was starting to believe her as his partner in crime and punishment. That the divine had interceded his blindly gluttonous time on Earth towards a cosmic crossing of lives meant to—what?—give him a sense of purpose? He wasn't sure what it was supposed to mean but he suffered another yawing bout of deja vu as he opened the door to the sedan, sliding into the smell of old coffee, sun-bleached leather and whatever brand of shampoo she used. Yes, it had felt right. Just as that feeling had pervaded in the study, he felt it still rang true. The Hand of his Father had imparted itself into his life yet again, much to his dismay, but he didn't want to dive too deep into the why. Not yet.

"You ready?" Chloe turned to him and offered a weak smile.

"Yes, I think I am."

She pulled the car out away from the curb and pushed them into the mouth of the night.