VII.

STARMAN

Let the children lose it

Let the children use it

Let all the children boogie

Starman, David Bowie

Chloe had tried hard for most of the night not to participate in tourist behavior but the surroundings made it hard not to gawk at the excess, both of the mansion as well as its patrons. Hundreds of glistening bottles of expensive wines and spirits lined the entire length of the main room as dozens of young beautiful servers in nicely pressed black vests scurried back and forth with their silver trays loaded with twinkling glassware. Perfectly shaped miniatures of canapés and hors d'oeuvres lined up on crisp white linens trotted through the room on matching silver dishes. Given the wealth of food that was being passed around, most of it remained untouched. The main room was solely in a state of drink, the servers with glasses on their trays running quickly back and forth between guests and the bar. She had pawed at a few crostini as they wafted by, her stomach knotting in hunger as she took small bites from the wafer thin toasts, secretly wishing she could shove them into her mouth by the monstrous handful.

Her pseudo-husband had introduced her to a few blue-hairs and she had smiled politely, answering generic questions about nothing. It all stank of a diplomatic front to garner judgement on each others clothes, shoes and lifestyles. Chloe wished they would save themselves the dregs of empty exchanges, bypass all the civil niceties and just ask each other to whip 'em out and measure 'em. That's what it came down to, right? A plate of small golden puffs drifted by and she deftly plucked one, not waiting to see what it was before placing it in her mouth.

"Caesar's makes the best tartare, wouldn't you say so?" A tight-faced woman said with a ghostly smile. "It's the only reason I came to this thing."

"My husband said 'chenin blanc' and I had my shoes on, ready to go." Chloe dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a small white napkin then extended her hand. "Miranda Morningstar, longtime lover of historical buildings."

"Nicole Holloway, I head the Board for the Historical Society." A firm, wiry hand met Chloe's and gave it one hard shake—a boardroom handshake if Chloe had ever felt one. "It's a delight that you and your husband," here she flicked her eyes at the turned back of Lucifer who was busily engaged in a conversation with a bug-eyed gentleman, "were able to join us this evening."

"The pleasure is all ours, I assure you. We are so grateful for the last minute addition."

"I'm glad to hear that Mr. Morningstar has finally settled down. With someone so…levelheaded, nonetheless." A thin eyebrow raised at the last few words.

Fuck you. "We make a good team." Chloe forced a smile and had to remind herself that this was all part of the game. "Just as I'm sure you and Mr. Holloway make a great team. I mean," she motioned to the room, "look at this. So darling."

Nicole Holloway ruffled with pride. "This building is such an important part of California history."

"Being here makes me feel like Dale Tremont in Top Hat." And I bet you know exactly who that is, you ancient bitch. But the sentiment had been true. The stark floors and the glowing ambiance reminded her of the famous dance scene: Fred Astaire crooning his way over latticed marble floors while the backdrop of a lush Venetian villa swathed in white pillars watched over them. It had been one of Chloe's favorite Ginger Rogers movies, shot during the "golden age" of Hollywood, before the introduction of full-fledged color films. Midge, her longtime babysitter who at this point had entered the chain-smoking-at-the-dining-room stage of her nannyship, would sway along with the music as Chloe floated around the living room couch. The young girl would imagine herself cheek to cheek with the only man she loved at that point—Daddy Decker. Eventually she had upgraded to the modern television shows that her friends and classmates were watching but the charm and wonder of those old black-and-whites never left her.

"Darling, if I'd have known you were in a Ginger Rogers sort of mood, I would have asked you to wear that feathered number and spun you around on the floor." Lucifer, who had excused himself from the bug-eyed gent after a boring bout of catch-up, wrapped an arm around Chloe's waist. He addressed the thin-lipped lady across from him with his utmost charming smile. "You must be the lovely hostess, only someone so graceful could put together something this grand."

The older woman fluttered a hand to her cheek, obviously pleased with the compliment. A soft glow lit up her face and Chloe could have sworn she saw ten years melt away from her features. She took the hand that Lucifer offered, unable to draw her gaze away from him. "Mrs. Nicole Holloway. But you can call me Nicki."

"Charmed, Nicki." Dark eyes drew into her muddy green ones. "You must be over the moon about the Gala."

She nodded slowly.

"Must be quite a guest list too." He licked his lips then leaned in towards Mrs. Holloway. "Is it everything you wanted? Is it…everything that you desired?"

Something wet wavered in her eyes. A small fight had broken out across her features and she puckered her lips together, forming deep wrinkles around her mouth. Nicole Thompson Holloway may have been a waspy, vain socialite but she was a tough broad. Their family hadn't been rich—just a single income, blue-collared family living in Peoria—her dad had been an electrician for one of the bigger companies that were shouldering their way into the town. Mr. Thompson had taught her, sometimes against her will, how to be a tough little bird. Money and looks are rare bits around here, he would say, mostly while drinking an afterwork Pabst on the covered porch. You don't have either, Nicki, so you gotta get tough. You gotta get smart. He would tap her on the forehead, not in a mean way, but hard enough to highlight what should be her most valuable asset. She had left Peoria after high school, moving halfway across the country to study law at UCLA, much to her father's delight. There, in the fall of 1971, she had found empowerment in the Woman's Liberation Movement which had been growing steadily since the mid-60s and was now finding traction to become the second wave of feminism. Protests had been marched, bras had been burned and in the midst of her studies, she had found Jacob Holloway, a fellow law student. Their courtship had been brief; at this point Nicole Thompson was a full-on tough little bird and it had been easy enough to twist Jacob to her will. They were married (sans pre-nup she always boasted) in less than a year. Here, Lucifer saw that same tough birdie as he tried to bend her to his will. Finally, she relaxed her shoulders, the wetness of her eyes now dull elasticity.

"No." She paused, the rubber band seeming to stretch between them. "This isn't what I wanted."

"Then what is? What is it you truly desire?"

"Le Fleur."

Lucifer drew back slightly, puzzled. "Le Fleur?"

"I wanted Le Fleur to cater the Gala but those uppity French assholes said they were too busy." Nicole Holloway's nose wrinkled in disdain.

Chloe had to choke back a laugh. Just as she thought she was grasping the inner workings of the rich-n-famous and their shadowy lives lived on pedestals of society, something as trivial and tacky as a snuffed catering order sent their worlds spiraling. If this was Nicole's biggest miff—someone telling her to fuck off when all she wanted was a resounding yes—it boggled Chloe's mind to think of all the fulfilled desires that money and power had already afforded her.

A gentle squeeze of Lucifer's hand stilled the Detective. The link between him and Mrs. Holloway was shaky at best and he didn't want the old broad to get distracted. "Right. Le Fleur does make the best rillettes in Los Angeles but I'd say Caesar's tartare is one of the best in the country. I think you did a lovely job." He offered her a sympathetic shrug. "And what about the guest list, Nicki? Any names I'd recognize?"

"Like who?" The fogginess in her eyes was starting to clear and Nicole Holloway seemed a little more in control of herself.

"Maybe Joel Bernard, I'd like to give him a chat." He pushed on. "Or Gio, don't know his last name, I'm afraid, but I've heard quite a lot about him."

The older woman pursed her lips in thought. "No Bernards. His wife fell ill last night and they're staying in while she weathers the storm. Poor thing." Fingers fidgeted at a small diamond that dangled on a white chain around her neck. "Gio…yes, I think he was on the list, at Bono's request. Just the one invitation, said he'd come alone. Isn't that quaint?"

Chloe leaned forward. "Do you know if he arrived yet?"

Mrs. Holloway shook her head. "I don't know." Her green eyes had returned to their natural muddy shade and any signs of vulnerability had been wiped away. The tough bird from Peoria had returned, severing the link with Lucifer. "Now, I must excuse myself to go speak with the caterers. I hope you both have a lovely rest of your evening." She left behind a waft of whatever brand of Eau de Richfuck she had spritz on herself earlier.

"Well, I'll take that as a step in the right direction." Chloe looked up at Lucifer, who still had his hand clamped around the small of her waist. "You can let go now." She whispered.

"Not on your life, Miranda." He gazed around at the tight pack of bodies. "Maybe we should try one of the other rooms? See if our mate Gio has made an appearance?"

They wandered through the few rooms on the main floor that were open for the event, making quick stops here and there to pay their niceties to people that Lucifer knew only in passing. Whether Lucifer actually enjoyed these palavers, Chloe couldn't get a good read but his deep social battery astounded her. She was already feeling drained, having to laugh at terrible jokes and answer the same seven questions over and over again. How did you two meet when did you get married which designer did you wear did you sell the house in Malibu are you thinking of joining the Historical Society when do you think you'll welcome your first child how much do you think he spent on that ring my god. Being an introvert had never been an issue with Chloe's police work—the rules and rigidity of law enforcement gave her a set of guidelines to follow—and she found comfort in the introspective nature of the job. It also catered to her natural ability as an adept observer of anyone and everyone. Well, almost everyone. The man she was currently linking arms with still remained a complicated mystery. Was this whole playboy bachelor persona an act? What did it have to do with his self-identifying Devil obsession? The two ideas felt linked somehow.

"Are you doing all right, De—Miranda?" Lucifer saw the ashen shade of her face and leaned in close to her ear. He understood that these types of events were an overwhelming practice in putting up with bullshit, but he hadn't considered the effects on those who didn't have to attend regularly. He supposed that there were only so many veneered smiles and thousand dollar ties that a person could look at before wanting to jump out of the nearest window. "I think we've had enough chin wagging for the night. How about we find something more fun to do?"

"Fun? We're here to do a job, not have fun." The plastic smile she had been wearing all night wavered, allowing her exhaustion to crack through.

"We can certainly do both. C'mon." Lucifer gently took her by the arm and led her towards a large, bright square of light at the end of a checkered hallway. "A change of pace might do us some good."

They squeezed through a small doorway set into the wall and emerged into a cozy wood-paneled alcove, offset by three richly carved archways that acted as large eyes into the room beyond. The intimacy of the low-ceilinged nook exploded into the cavernous living room which had been cleared out to serve as the ballroom for the night. Music and laughter and warm amber light flooded the walls reaching all the way up to the vaulted ceilings some fifteen feet above. The rigidity of the other rooms seemed to dissipate as she saw people genuinely laughing and dancing throughout the space, lending Chloe a sense of normalcy. This was the way that everyday people enjoyed everyday things like parties, minus the million dollar net worths. They walked through the wooden archways hand in hand, the color already returning to Chloe's ashy cheeks, and her ears nearly popped as they were swallowed by the voluminousness of the ballroom.

A tender smirk touched full lips as she watched couples at the far end of the room dancing to the live music of big band swing. Above the alcove they had just crossed under, she looked up and saw that the top half was fitted with a plush stage where at least ten men and women in sharp black suits were playing instruments, most of them brass. They were belting out a high paced version of "I've Got You Under My Skin", most of their faces glistening with sweat as their cheeks blew out in rhythm. Here she could feel the real pulse of the old Hollywood glamour and glitz that ran like thunder through these walls in the Los Angeles of a bygone era.

"Thought you'd get a kick out of it." Lucifer said with a measure of smugness. She could only nod in reply, her eyes still drinking in the small details of the room. While she was distracted, Lucifer turned to one of the caterers and whispered something in their ear, slipping them a twenty. "Shall we have a drink to take in with the sights?" Again, a nod in reply. Her eyes were busy cataloguing and categorizing everything around them, a fact he found both endearing and maddening. As much as she was trying her best tonight, some parts of the Detective would always be rooted in deep analytics.

He led them to a small marble-countered bar that had been carted in for the night and asked for two sazeracs. Not a drink that he was particularly fond of but it seemed befitting given the company and the backdrop of deco glam that the Detective seemed so fond of. It had been one of his favorite decades as well, although he had actually been around to see it for himself. Desires of Los Angeleans had run rampant with the rise of motion pictures. Business had been exceptionally good for the Devil in those years. He had partied with some of the best: Greta Garbo, Katharine Hepburn, even Fred Astaire, although Lucifer had always thought his sister Adele as the better performer.

Two ample tumblers slid across the bar, a voluptuous curl of lemon peel on each rim.

Chloe timidly took her glass, taking a cursory sip. "Absinthe? We've upgraded to that time of night, hm?"

"I thought you could use a little loosening up."

"I'm plenty loose." She quickly raised her finger, stopping the words she knew Lucifer wanted to add. "Um…you know…figuratively."

"You're quite adorable when you're flustered."

Some of that hard steel came back into her eyes but he could see the start of a smile pull at the corner of her rouged lips. "Let me make this clear, I would never, ever, ever, ever sleep with you. Never." She whispered.

"Playing hard to get? I like it."

"When Hell freezes over, Lucifer."

"I can arrange that actually."

She laughed so suddenly and so genuinely that the sound swept him by surprise. Maroon crescents split open to reveal a row of perfect teeth and he could see the peek of her tongue between the top and bottom row. The laugh wasn't particularly melodious. Some would even say it was rusty like the low rumble of a rarely used hinge but Lucifer quite enjoyed the scratchy quality of it. Mostly because he felt like he earned it.

The band overhead—some now free of their suffocating black jackets and donning damp white collared shirts with the sleeves rolled up—ended their upbeat swing of "Sing, Sing, Sing" and a tall, lanky woman with a trumpet stepped forward, her face a pallid, glistening balloon above the high cuff of her shirt. The others watched, hands hovering above the shiny valves of their instruments, waiting for her to begin the song that a caterer had requested at the behest of a guest. With a quick lick of the lips, the trumpet found its place against her mouth and the world melded away as she blew the first two notes of "Cheek to Cheek", the sound languid and long in the hot alcove of the second floor orchestra. They floated clearly along the high ceilings of the ballroom: Hea-ven. The next four notes followed. I'm in heaven.

The sweet somberness filled Chloe's skin with pinpricks. Lucifer took the mostly empty glass from her hand and smiled like…well, like the Devil, she thought vacantly. He motioned with his head towards the space where a number of couples were swaying along to the music. "I'm no Jerry Travers, but how about a little spin around the floor, Ms. Tremont?"

"Using my love for Ginger Rogers against me, that's a low blow." Even as she was chiding him, she took his outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her towards the back of the room where a narrow shuffle of people opened out into a well-polished wooden floor. A deep thrumming started up in her ears and she realized that her heart was thu-thumping violently in her chest. Dancing had never come easily to Chloe. After a particularly harrowing memory of a seventh grade dance where a group of mean girls had pointed and laughed at her rendition of "Wannabe" by the Spice Girls, she had written it off in the you'll-embarrass-yourself column.

"My dear, all's fair in love and war." He said with a smirk.

The trumpet wailed out its voluptuous waul. The trombones reverberated through the floorboards and up into Chloe's feet. A deft hand turned her slight frame towards her dance partner. He paused, gauging her reaction. Asking for permission. She smiled and took a tentative step towards him. A rough, blue-collar-working-woman hand—so seemingly out of place in a room full of soft manicures and gleaming polish—landed gently on his shoulder.

"Whisk me away, Fred."

A short gasp of surprise flew between them as he did just that, her feet nearly sweeping off of the floor as he spun them in a looping turn. Another of those sterling laughs exploded from her, albeit a little less rusty this time as if thawing from its long moments of disuse. The dark hem of her gown floated above the floor, eventually swirling around his legs as he two-stepped before settling them down into an amicable shuffle. He felt her relaxing. Whatever anxieties she had brought with her from the bar had started to peel away the deeper they moved into the bodies of other dancers. The fabric under his fingers brushed richly as he slid his hand toward the small of her back, his arm nestled quietly against her waist. He led her deeper still, relishing the feeling of other bodies as they created a hollow cavity for the pair to tuck away inside. They were two children hiding under the blankets, long after the lights had gone out, a flashlight between them as they whispered secrets into the ruffles and folds of a future they couldn't yet grasp. The band was finishing up the second verse as they drifted into the thicket of others; the music was still clear but it sounded far away, as if the volume had been adjusted. Dark red velvet, so richly toned it was edging towards a shade of coal, pressed against him as the pair settled into a light sway.

"I used to watch this movie on repeat when I was little." She offered him a childish smile and in it he could see the Chloe of yesteryears, all hellfire and sweetness, just like her daughter. "My nanny Midge used to say that falling in love was like dancing with Fred Astaire. Your feet never touched the floor."

He firmly grabbed her waist and spun her around in his arms, smiling like a godforsaken kid when she gasped in surprise, both of her arms shooting around his neck. Gently he placed her back down, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floorboards. "So, how'd I do?"

"Not bad."

"I'd like to think that I taught Fred a thing or two." He was pleased to see that she left her hands interlaced behind his neck. "So was it? Falling in love, I mean. Was it like dancing with Fred Astaire?"

"No." She smiled. "It was so much better."

"So, like dancing with me then?"

She snorted. "Even better."

"Travolta?" He feigned indignation. "Now you're just trying to hurt my feelings."

"It wasn't like dancing at all. It really was like falling, you know? I guess that's why they use that term because…one day you're just walking along, minding your own business and the next thing you know, you've stepped off of the edge of a cliff and you're just…weightless. Sometimes you don't even know you've walked over the edge until you see a clump of rock or a tree branch whiz by and suddenly you think, my God, where am I?" Her eyes took on a distant, dreamy quality. "But it's one of the most exciting and exhilarating feelings."

"You're not the type of person to claw at the cliffside trying to stop yourself from plummeting to your doom?"

She shrugged. "I'd like to think I'm too cautious to fall over the side too often. There's a lot of good things for me here on solid ground. But," she shrugged again, "it doesn't mean I never want to."

"And what waits for you at the bottom?" He asked quietly.

"Sometimes the cliff is a hundred feet, sometimes it's a thousand. Sometimes you crash into the deepest, warmest waters and there you find something even better than falling. Sometimes you find home."

He's nearly whispering now, afraid to disrupt the Detective's unusual bout of vulnerability. It was like holding a cracked vase filled with hot water. "Is that what you had with Detective Espinoza?"

"I don't know anymore. Maybe at one point we did." Here, she met his eyes and gave an apologetic smile. "I'm back on solid ground, that's all I know for sure."

"I'd say all of Los Angeles rejoices at the prospect. I know I am." He chuckled at the contemptuous roll of her eyes. "Especially since it seems that you're warming up to me. Just a little?"

"Maybe I don't think you're as bullheaded of an asshole as I first thought you were."

"That feels like a step towards a cliff of some sort, right?" He raised an eyebrow.

"With you? Not a chance." She shook her head playfully. "Have you ever been in love? You know…besides with yourself."

"I don't know if I really understand the human concept of love. What does that word really mean?" They were now comfortably nestled between two couples who were barely dancing except for the imperceptible shuffle of a shoe. "What does it mean to be loved?"

"I think—" she paused to regard her words carefully because it felt like she was on the precipice of realizing something important "—I think being known is being loved."

The phrase dangled between them and he slowly wrinkled his brow in response. "I don't know if I follow, but go on."

Another long pause as she tried to find words to describe something she had only ever understood by feeling. "Well, everyone has this very Hollywood idea about how love is supposed to look and feel. You know: the boombox on the lawn, chase you through an airport, sweep you off your feet, over-the-top romantic gestures the movies convince you is true love. But…that kind of stuff doesn't exist in real life." The bony shoulder of a passing dancer brushed against her back and she leaned a little closer into her dance partner, now nearly chest to chest. "Love is…", her mind flashed to those cheesy newspaper comics of naked people-babies engaged in what passed as acts of love, "it's having someone who knows the little details of what makes up the whole: how you take your coffee, what songs make you feel like crying because they remind you of a particular memory, that one thing they pickup while at the grocery store that says, hey, I thought of you because I know you like these. Add that in with the bigger parts of being known; the deepest and brightest areas of what makes you so undeniably you…I mean, to be fully known and still fully accepted…that's a one-in-a-million feeling."

"Timothy Keller would say that's a lot like being loved by God."

She smiled softly. "Sure, if you believe in that sort of thing."

Lucifer swore he could feel the steady thrum of her heart as her watchful eyes—still too keen and still full of that Chloe Decker steel even after a few drinks and a night full of incessant hobnobbery—hunted quietly for his reaction. It was an uncomfortable feeling being the target of that gaze. The space around them was soft with the whispers of swishing dresses and stark jackets muted in swathes of beige and black and white. Here she stood, hands still linked around his neck, a vision of crimson like the reflection of a blood moon. She ate up all the color in the room, bathing the two of them in a blush with her stolen light and he wondered briefly what the mortal word for this feeling was.

"Am I…making you nervous, Lucifer?" Chloe couldn't help the vicious playfulness that seeped out, relishing in doling out a spoonful of his own medicine. She pulled away slightly to look him fully in the face. Her eyes, now feline and sharp, peeked out at him from a heavy fall of thick lashes. For the first time tonight…hell, for the first time in a long time, she felt powerful. It also made her feel unfamiliar. The dress, the demure role-play as husband and wife, the upsetting lavishness of everything around them…she was donning on a persona that everyday-Chloe never had a chance to unravel. Not that she wanted to. This was…a sidestep from the truth. A part to try on and stretch out but ultimately not the right fit. Sure, she wanted to dance a little longer, hold on a little tighter but ultimately she knew she wasn't a Chloe that owned vintage couture dresses and drank champagne on Friday nights. She wasn't a Chloe that lived a life to pull men like Lucifer Morningstar.

"Nervous? Um…no." Although he most definitely felt out of sorts.

"You're adorable when you're flustered." The hands interlaced behind his neck tightened, her fingertips snaking into the hairs at the base of his skull. Her recovering pinkie giving out a muted cough. A sly look stole across her face as he felt the weight of her body shift against his. "Why is my husband so unusually quiet all of a sudden?"

Lucifer chuckled anxiously, darting his eyes everywhere in the room except at her. "Mrs. Morningstar, I believe you're being a tease." There was no lilting mischief in his voice. A dense, dreadful feeling had started to lodge itself in the middle of his chest as if he were trying to find breath on a distant, hostile planet.

She inched her face closer to the nape of his neck, her full lips lightly brushing the thin skin under his chin, sending large goosebumps galloping up his arms and down his legs. "If it's upsetting you, I'll stop." She whispered.

The band transitioned into a soulful rendition of "La Vie en Rose" and Lucifer was silently relieved for the distraction, taking a moment to adjust his hands which were currently somewhere between numb and buzzing. "Detec—Miranda." He swallowed hard and tried to give a reassuring smile. "No…of course not."

She rested her head back onto his shoulder, her small frame hanging heavily in his arms and allowing him to lead her across the floor. The idea of her body belonging to his beck and call, to move and control as he pleased, so soft and yielding in his care…a hot, familiar sting unraveled in the deep pit of his stomach. He pushed it away, trying to focus on his steps, willing his mind to look at the Detective's actions as nothing more than a part of the act. He was starting to understand how humans could become so entangled in their emotions. When they were as complex and confusing as what he was starting to feel now, teetering between this shameless sense of hopefulness and crippling inadequacy, he wanted to wash his hands free of it all. He loosened his grip on her waist and started to pull back, hoping to ask for a quick reprieve outside where he could smoke a cigarette or jump in the cooling waters of the fountain.

Small hands tightened as her voice drifted up, dreamy and faraway. "Just a few more minutes?" A sudden sadness permeated her voice. "Please?"

Something in her words, something in that sadness made Lucifer feel as though the lines between mortality and divinity were blurring again in uncontrollable swipes. His own contention with himself, with the Detective, with his celestial existence in the midst of human life…they felt both inconsequential and fully real. It alighted onto a part of him that had lied dormant for centuries: his need for connection. An inkling of a lifeline, any thing to prove that he wasn't meant to exist for the rest of eternity as a singular being marooned on the surface of a sea that was teeming below with life. He clutched her a little closer, like the dangling rope of a passing ship. Like the last vestige of hope. Like the start of a new existence on an alien world. It wasn't the answer. It wasn't salvation. But maybe it was somewhere he could pick up a phone, a walkie-talkie, a goddamn smoke signal to say, I'm here.

His renewed grip around her waist caused her to look up at him in slight surprise. Bright, hooded eyes mild in their question, as if not really caring to know. She was also looking for a lifeline, he could see that now. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, small and unassuming, just a reflection of the overhead lights to most passerbys. But Lucifer saw them and he thought, maybe, he understood them. Just a little. Tender, gentle air blew from between her garnet lips, the slight twinge of alcohol that followed, both comforting and intoxicating. He took in that breath and moved it around in his mouth, into his lungs. The gentle waft of her perfume drew his eyes towards the soft skin of her jaw, his hands clutching the smooth velvet of her dress and the supple skin underneath a little tighter. The memory of a quick, chaste kiss in a bathroom that seemed to belong in another lifetime…the exploratory touch of her fingertips on his bare skin…the fear and knowing in her face at the contact…don't panic, but it seems as though you want to do a lot more than just sleep with the Detective. This was beyond foreplay, beyond role-play, beyond whatever constituted as flirting and wooing and courtship in this century. That deep, comforting feeling of kinship…of tethering…returned.

Powerless, he slid the hand around her waist up to her shoulder, then to her neck. A hard pebble had lodged itself in his throat and he thought he would suffocate before he could bring himself to trace the delicate skin behind her ear. He was so fucking lost. In her eyes, in her scent, in the curve of her lips. And—his heart flitted with exhilaration—he could feel her hands pulling him towards her, ready to meet him. Somewhere at the intersection of fate and want and understanding they would meet and maybe afterwards she would cast him aside, as most people in his life tended to do, or she would blush and say that it was all a mistake, but right now, he didn't care about any of it. She would have him and that was enough. She had picked up the ringing line, seen the smoke signals.

hello I hear you.

A hard elbow crashed into Lucifer's back and he stumbled forward. Another hard jostle from a foreign, knobby body part hit his calf and he nearly toppled over with the Detective in his arms. Screams and gasps of surprise invaded their former world as a young couple, properly sloshed, were galloping wildly along the dance floor and had careened into Lucifer and Chloe. The couple was all giggles and bleary apologies as the drunk woman helped up her stumbling partner, both of them snickering in a cloud of vodka-induced gaiety. Lucifer thought to give them a scathing lash but was mildly relieved for the interruption. With the renewed distance between himself and the Detective, he felt much steadier. Clearer. The confusing contradictions and alien feelings of helplessness had subsided and he felt more himself. Control. Control was always good. After checking on the Detective he saw the same measure of relief in her face too. Whatever had been manifesting in those close quarters had dissipated but not before they exchanged a perplexed look.

"I think we can take that as our cue to evacuate the dance floor." He brushed the front of his jacket and adjusted the sleeves so that the starch cuffs of his shirt peeked out.

"Just in time because I think we've got eyes on our jean-shirted friend from the modeling agency." Chloe pointed with her chin at a tall figure near the mouth of the room.

Gio Arretxea, a last name that many were unfamiliar with let alone pronounced to its full glory, towered over most of the guests in the ballroom. He had always existed substantially. The family had been living and working in the village of Ustaritz, deep in Basque Country near the border where France met Spain, for generations. First as farmers and landowners, milking goats and selling the cheese to the stuck-up northerners, then more recently as factory owners and exporters of uneventful things such as circuit modules and manufactured wood products. Gio's life had started during the major upswing of his father's business ventures, affording them a padded lifestyle that would have been considered modest by LA standards but in 1970's Basque Country life, Gregorio Arretxea was the Pyrenees Paris Hilton. Afternoons were spent tearing around the countryside in his imported Alfa, blaring David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album through the tiny speakers. His favorite song had been "Starman", particularly the part about letting the children boogie, a fact he wished his overbearing father would allow him to do once in a while. Antton Arretxea had eventually folded his three sons into the family business, sending his middle child (undeniably his least favorite) to New York to setup the import side of their family's export. Gio had been more than happy to leave the suffocating grasp of simple village life as well as the suffocating grasp of his family who kept asking when the fuck he was going to get married and have some children. After two years of brittle winters and sweltering summers without air conditioning, Gio had dumped the New York offices to an underling and had driven across the impossibly huge country of America—merde, so much flat lands, so much desert!—to setup a new headquarters in Los Angeles. Here he had met Joel Bernard, a small time criminal looking to expand and export his own shady enterprises, and they had formed an amicable mutually-beneficial relationship over the last few years.

Gio was currently engaged in what appeared to be a disinteresting conversation with a group of young, red-faced men. His broad shoulders sloped in boredom as he absently sipped on a tall glass. A smart, white suit enrobed his hulkish frame, his trademark spectacles gleaming under the haloed overhead lights. Their glint reminded Chloe of stumbling across wild animals at night, their eyes sheening menacingly in the pitch black. Warning! They said. Get back!

She pulled Lucifer aside. "So what's the plan here? It's not like we can just go up to him and say, 'hey, why are you trying to kill us?'"

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how we gather evidence, Lucifer!"

"Do you have the camera with you?"

She motioned to a pair of small dangled earrings. Looking closely, he could see the pinprick of a lens on one of the gold disks that hung from her earlobe. "We should just follow him to see who he talks to, where he goes. We shouldn't engage."

"Where's the fun in that?" He balked at the scathing look on Chloe's face but didn't press the issue. Whatever feelings Lucifer may have felt seeing the trollish face of the man who was bent on upending his life paled in comparison to his poor personal track record of keeping the Detective safe. And possibly your own safety. The nearly healed cut on his side seemed to thrum in response. Right. That whole ordeal.

Chloe linked her fingers with Lucifer's and pulled him towards the entrance of the room, hugging the wall on the opposite side of where Gio's group was currently chattering loudly. Puffy, unfocused faces cracked open with rows of glistening whiteness as the three men standing around the silent figure laughed raucously, seemingly unaffected by his solemnity. Gio's muted gaze couldn't hide from Chloe the truth that although he was detached from the conversation, he was not unaware. No. She saw the cold calculation of his eyes as they bounced around at the faces, at the room, at her. A smirk pricked the corner of her mouth at his intense survey, hoping to acknowledge his gaze but not draw attention. Gio wouldn't know her from Adam, but it never hurt to be overly cautious. She hoped she looked like just another rich lady who had one too many drinks on a Friday night.

Lucifer started to turn his head to see who the Detective was making eyes with but she quickly placed a hand on his cheek. Her dusty blue gaze steadied onto his own and she graced him with a conspiratorial smile. "Don't turn around, he's looking right at us." The rough hand holding his cheek slid down to the collar of his jacket and she pretended to smooth out the fabric, the tender smile of a doting wife still plastered on her face. "I'm sure he knows that handsome mug of yours by now."

"So you do think I'm handsome." He said with what Chloe deemed as his shit-gobbling grin. "Detective, I'm flattered."

A flush stole over her cheeks. "Now is not the time, Lucifer. And for the record, it doesn't change the fact that I still think you're a self-centered prick."

"A handsome self-centered prick."

She groaned. "C'mon, he's leaving."

They waited a few beats to put some distance between themselves and their target before slipping into the alcove and out the carved doorway. The noise of partygoers had died down to a comfortable lull and the marbled hallway murmured with the low vibrato from the ballroom behind them and the main foyer a few hundred feet ahead. Gio calmly strolled halfway down, his shiny black shoes echoing thinly as he paused in front of a large painting and seemed to regard it for a few moments. A beefy hand reached out and pushed a panel set into the woodwork. They heard a small snick and a portion of the wall gave way into a small door. He stepped one foot into the doorway then paused before turning towards the ballroom end of the hallway. "You may as well come in for a drink instead of sulking in the shadows. Close the door behind you?" Gio disappeared but the wood paneled door stood ajar. An invitation.

"Well, so much for not engaging." Lucifer took Chloe by the arm and quickly walked down the remainder of the hall towards the hidden door. Before he could reach out and step through, Chloe stopped short and held up her hand. She looked both ways before hiking up the hem of her dress to reveal a creamy thigh much to the delight of Lucifer. Strapped to her inner leg was a small holster with a blunt nosed Remington almost too cute to be lethal. The snap holding the top clicked quietly as she unholstered it and made sure the safety was still engaged before taking a deep breath.

"I'm going to do something completely irresponsible but necessary." She clutched the gun to her bare chest and gave Lucifer a grave scowl. "Turn around." He opened his mouth to ask why but she shook her head. No time for questions. No time for playing around. Her hands worked deftly in lifting the back of his jacket before nestling the barrel of the gun into the waistband of his dress pants. For as small as the RM380 was in size, the weight of its responsibility hung heavily and Lucifer wondered if it would anchor his ass to the ground. When he turned back around he could see it's weight hung heavily on her too. "Okay." She said.

A shaky hand slipped silently into his. An act of comfort. Of solidarity. Whether he liked it or not, they were responsible for each other here and now. Again, like two frightened children they opened the door and stepped through together.

The room within the walls was small. Dim, but held a warm intimacy that reminded Chloe of the vintage bookshops in France that she had spent endless hours perusing dusty shelves for books on history. Here, the walls were also lined with books, although any traces of dust or age were nowhere to be seen. It stank of old paper and dark smoke, the bedroom-sized space was sparsely adorned with tasteful furniture and a large polished bar cart loaded with glistening crystal decanters and twinkling glasses. Gio was standing over this cart, his back turned to the arriving pair, running his hands over the cold gleam of barware. "Pardon me for being so direct but why are you two following me?"

Lucifer took a step forward. "Why are you trying to kill us?" Chloe shot her partner an annoyed glance before pulling him back.

"Kill you? What makes you think that, Mr. Morningstar?" A hand the size of a bear paw reached out and plucked a hefty crystal bottle. "May I interest you in some scotch?"

Lucifer, who had firmly believed that being rude was one of the bigger sins of mankind, straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Yes, please."

Gio finally turned around, his round glasses catching the nearby lamplight and again reminding Chloe of wild animals in the dark, to address the Detective. "And you? Miss…"

"Missus. Miranda Morningstar."

"Hm. Funny thing. I don't ever recall Lucifer being married." Gio's accent was pronounced but his words came clearly and calmly. "He's just not the type, am I right?" Humor danced in his voice as if they all shared some obvious secret. "So the question is…who are you?" Silence lapsed between them as Gio poured the brown liquor from the decanter into two rocks glasses.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced, which seems rude on my part since you already seem to be so familiar with who I am." Lucifer said.

"You don't make any effort to hide anything about yourself, do you Mr. Morningstar? Word travels fast but reputation travels faster. Not many people in these circles that don't know who you are." He turned around and approached them with two glasses in his hands. A pause as he regarded them quietly before handing one to Lucifer who lifted his drink in salutation before taking a big gulp.

"And what reputation precedes you?" Chloe asked.

"Me? I run a small import business and make only enough to give myself a comfortable life. I don't want any reputation outside of that."

"And what kind of business do you run for Joel Bernard?" She eyed Gio uneasily as he palmed the bottom of his own glass, still full, as if measuring its weight.

A sneer ripped the corner of his lip. "Joel? Pfft. I don't run anything for Joel. He's a small time grifter with small time dreams. We do a little business together—importing goods from the south of France mostly—but I don't work for anyone but myself."

Bullshit, Chloe thought. I saw you rubbing elbows with about eight of Bernards guys in a conference room not too long ago. What she couldn't figure out was how they were all inter-connected.

Gio gazed at the contents of his glass and finally took a slow sip. "Do you know that feeling, Mr. Morningstar? Of working for no one but yourself. Of serving no one but yourself."

"Sure."

"Are you?" Gio smiled sharply and walked towards a large stolid desk near the other end of the room. "I think you and I are very alike. I used to work for someone who thought they had all the answers, who thought they knew what was best for me." A gargantuan thigh leaned itself against the edge of the desk. "I had to move worlds…I had to make unbelievable sacrifices…to be where I am." Another sip. "The Gregorio Arretxea that existed under a father's thumb is no more. I am slave to no one else but Free Will."

Lucifer shifted uncomfortably. Daddy issues seemed to be a common thread between himself and the patrons in his life, especially lately. "I exist for no one else but myself. Not for fate, not for free will and certainly not for my Father."

"That sounds more like the Lucifer Morningstar I've heard so much about."

"Do you know what else people say about me?" He took a few slick steps forward. "I'm somewhat of an exporter-importer myself. Except I don't deal in olive oils and illegally sourced cheeses." Now he was almost slinking towards Gio, his gaze intensely seeking out the large man's eyes. "I deal in desires."

Gio held up a hand, his face flashing fear before subsiding back into his trademark stoicism. "Stay where you are. Not a step closer. I know what they call you: The Devil on Sunset." The liquid in his glass sloshed as he placed it on the desk top and made a quick sign of the cross in front of his face. "I don't make deals with the Devil. God has provided me with everything I desire in this lifetime."

"And what's that?"

"Freedom. After all, is that not what you desire most?"

Lucifer flinched as if physically struck by the truth of Gio's words. Yes, wasn't his current existence a lifelong punishment for seeking exactly that? To be free to make his own choices. Anger welled in Lucifer's chest. He was losing control of the situation. He was losing his grasp on his own control.

Gio seemed to take delight in the reaction. "Men like you don't deserve freedom. You waste it away on meaningless crusades and self-serving gifts bought on the backs of oppression. Men like you steal the freedom of others to fill your own cups."

Anger boiled over into fury as Lucifer felt the old coals roar inside his chest, burning up into his face and soon his eyes. If rudeness was one of man's bigger sins, pompousness had to be an even bigger one. Leave it to humans to think the "holier-than-thou" mentality also applied in literal situations of dealing with the divine. "I'd choose your next words very carefully Mr. Arretxea or you may not live long enough to enjoy your freedom."

"If God wills it, so shall it be." Another prize-winning smile pulled at Gio's massive face, the spectacles winking jovially.

Chloe, who up until this point had been intensely studying the two men, quickly stepped forward and placed a bracing hand on the seething Lucifer's arm. Gio was goading him that much was evident. Towards what, Chloe didn't want to find out. The situation was already dangerous to begin with and adding intense emotions into the equation could only end with the cold metal that rested in the waistband of Lucifer's pants. After a tense moment, he allowed Chloe to pull him back a half-step.

The smile, now one of triumph, didn't waver from Gio's full lips. "She's a good one, I see. Pretty. Smart. I can see it in her eyes." She lifted her chin at his regard and he chuckled. "Strong too."

Lucifer stepped in front of her. "Leave her out of it."

A sly realization crept onto the man's round face, creasing his ruddy cheeks into high slopes. "Oh, protective of her, are we? I've always read that the Devil holds nothing sacred except himself and chaos." He reached slowly into his pressed white suit jacket and pulled out a soft pack of cigarettes. "Is that what she is? Your chaos?"

Lucifer remained still but his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Leave her alone."

A thin cigarette shuffled out of the paper and plastic packaging and Gio plucked it expertly. His hands may have been massive but they operated with surgical brilliance and speed. A fat tongue flicked out to wet his dry lips before clamping onto the filter end of the Marlboro, which wagged as if in agreement as he talked. "Or maybe she is your Persephone. Stolen away by your darkness." He flicked his eyes over to Chloe. "Have you been swallowed up by the Earth because of this sad excuse for Hades?"

She squared her shoulders in response. "I'm not here to talk mythology with you."

"Then tell me, sweet daughter of Demeter, what are you here to talk about?"

"We believe you have information or involvement with the disappearance and murder of a young woman in—"

Gio clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Oh, no, no. This won't do." His hand disappeared again into the front of his jacket for his lighter. "That sounds like cop speak and I do not speak with the law. So tell me," his hand slid out of his jacket and instead of a lighter he pulled out a small revolver, "are you a cop?"

The detective took a step back and raised her hands. "Hey. I'm just here to talk."

"Mr. Morningstar, I never would have pegged you as the type to work alongside the police." He slowly raised the gun and aimed it at Lucifer's chest. "It takes the fun out of everything."

Claw-like fingers dug into the soft flesh of Lucifer's bicep as Chloe braced herself at the sight of the gleaming silver gun. The pain that followed the pinched flesh gave Lucifer a moment to consider the levity of their situation. He had bled once before. Would he bleed yet again if the room suddenly filled with the acrid powder and thunder of a gunshot? Where would he wake up if he lost his mortal body at the hands of this lunatic? For the first time in his long life, Lucifer felt genuine fear. This is what they must feel everyday. He looked out the corner of his eyes at the wavering face of the Detective. How do you wake up and live with this fragility day after day?

The towering frame of Gio Arretxea unfolded to its full size, his thick legs pulsing as he stood up. He shook the revolver in his hand, demanding their full attention. "Do you know what it's like to lose something dear to you? What it's like to have something ripped away? No, of course not. You have to be able to love in order to lose."

Lucifer's mind turned to the glowing but distant memories of a home he once knew. To a peace he had lost early on in his existence. Were they taken or were they given up? He had always been too angry to give his exile much thought beyond the scathing hate he had felt at his Father and at himself. But was it entirely possible that he was always destined to leave? There had existed in him a wheedling desire beyond what Heaven had offered, even before the Great War had been a full comprehensive thought. Had he won the war—and he had come fairly close—what then? A choice, he had told his brother Amenadiel. To stay or go. But had Lucifer unknowingly made a choice long before he had unsheathed his sword on top of the mountain and pointed it at God?

"You took something from me, Mr. Morningstar. You left a pocket of grief in its place."

"I don't know who you are, Mr. Arretxea but if I've done something wrong to you, I'm willing to make it right. Let's just…put down the gun and talk about it, yes?" Lucifer raised his hands, the nearly empty tumbler winking in the dim lights.

Gio smiled. "If it all burned down, Mr. Morningstar. Everything you have, everything that connects you to this place. What would you have left here for you on this Earth?" The click of the hammer caused the talons in his arm to tighten. "Where would you go? Back from whence you came? Back to Hell?"

"Is that what this is all about? Making me pay?"

Gio shook his head. "Just punishing you wouldn't be enough. Even death isn't enough. I want to make sure you never get to taste the sweet, cleansing waters of freedom."

"And what did I take away from you? What crime have I committed?" A symbol flashed in Lucifer's mind. Ancient. Familiar.

A chuckled tumbled out of Gio's mouth. "Do you recognize it?"

"How…"

"It doesn't matter. Soon, none of it will matter." Somewhere in the hallway, where a party was still underway, they could hear the high pitched laughter as people walked by, completely unaware that lives were in balance behind the walls. What other secrets did they hold?

Chloe had thankfully released the eagle claw that had been digging into his arm and Lucifer considered it a small reprieve as he awaited a larger possible problem. The steady hand slowly crawled down his back, edging towards the split in his jacket. A sinking, sludgy gob of fear sat heavy in his stomach. What the Detective was proposing would surely end in bloodshed. Mechanical fingers were working their way around the waistband and even in their dire predicament, he couldn't stop the shiver that ran down his raised arms at the sharp nails that dug around on his lower back. They finally found the cold handle of the Remington, her small knuckles now digging into his shirt as she gripped it tightly, waiting for the right moment to rip it out of its makeshift holster. It felt like a five-hundred pound predator poised on Lucifer's back, wound up and ready to explode out of its hiding place to chase down its next kill.

"Miss, I'm not liking what's happening over there." Gio floated the mouth of the gun towards Chloe who doubled down the grip on her own. "If you value your life or the life of your friend here, I'd stop whatever bad thoughts you're thinking."

"No bad thoughts. Just trying to get out of this alive." She met his gaze. All-steel Chloe. Cool, calm and definitely collected Chloe. Iceberged out, as Dan would have said, nothing but penguin popsicles and Chilly Willy ice cubes. Her ex-husband had laughed as he had said it but he had meant it whole-heartedly because it had scared him. When the shit got a little too close to the fan, Chloe Decker knew how to strap it up. If dancing around in a much too expensive dress and sipping hundred dollar bottles of champagne had made the detective feel like she was living a sidestep from the truth…this Chloe…this metal-spined, grit toothed, battle fevered Chloe was nothing but the truth. So help us God.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible. Lucifer's end is nigh but it's not tonight. I'm afraid that's been reserved for you." Gio shrugged as if to say you know how it is.

"No!" Lucifer jerked forward but was held steadfast by Chloe's hand around the Remington which was still firmly lodged in his waistband. "This is between you and me. Leave her out of it."

"I'm afraid not, Lucy. She's the key, don't you see that?" Merriment danced in his cold eyes. "I'm sorry miss, but this is where we part ways."

Chloe hoiked the butt of the RM380 from its resting place, nearly tearing the seams of Lucifer's pants as the front sight caught on the fabric for a moment before ripping loose. Her recovering finger screamed at the sudden grip of cold metal. She already knew she was too late. That she had waited a second too long, had wasted too much time getting her finger onto the comma-shaped metal of the trigger. It would take too long to push Lucifer to the ground and clear a shot but she had to try anyways. What else was there to do? If she was going to die here tonight, she wanted to make this asshole work for it.

The small room tore open with a roar as Gio's gun came alive in his hands. Halcyon smells of summer and firecrackers filled her lungs as the spent gunpowder sprayed its scent into the air. Time refused to acknowledge itself for a moment as she waited for the sharp teeth of metal to meet flesh. Her mind had enough clarity to will her finger to pull, pull goddamn you!, before grasping for a mental picture of her daughter. Gap-toothed, sunny-faced Trixie sitting with Chloe on the couch, a thin ray of sun casting a spotlight on their intertwined legs as they watched a noisy cartoon. As the languid day of summer started to stretch its legs, beckoning in a day with no commitments, just the two of them left alone in their own microcosm of a vast world. Being enveloped in the smell of coffee and kid's shampoo and golden rays of laughter. Yes, that was the one. That was the last memory she wanted to place on her heart before she was carried off into whatever came next.

A deep weight bit into her chest as she closed her eyes, its numbness spreading all the way down to the smallest parts of her body. Static filled her fingers and toes. Iron and smoke filled her mouth and lungs. Inside her skin, inside her blood, she could feel it all swell with the numbing reality of her scarcity. Holding on would only cause her to split open like a bloated, overripe fig. There was nothing left to hold on to. The dark heavy thing in her chest had given her no choice. If this was the end, then she had to face it with open arms. Release weaved its way through her body as she had a brief moment to think about how freeing it was to let it all go, before she crashed to the floor, the golden perfect memory of Trixie still pressed to her heart.

—

Dan Espinoza's legs pumped rhythmically towards the mansion at the top of the grassy hill it sat on. There wasn't much thought in his mind other than counting the seconds since Chloe had disappeared into the hidden room with Gio and Dan had busted out the back door of the surveillance van. It had been completely against protocol for Chloe to follow him in there, with a civilian no less, although Dan couldn't give one absolute flying shit about Lucifer's well-being right now. Why hadn't he fought harder against the idea of sending the mother of his child into a dangerous situation? Keeping the peace had always been Dan's job, even as a youngster he was the one who would try to bridge the love between his siblings, particularly after big walloping fights over any number of sibling warfare credos. Food, money, television programs, bathroom privileges…the list was endless in a household of four kids. His oldest sister, Margaret had always said Dan was single-handedly the glue to their parent's happy blissful marriage. Dan the Diplomat, she had teased. It had carried into his work, his marriage and his overall outlook on himself. He was the great uniter, the see-all-sides-hear-them-out moderator to all things that threatened to bubble over into the choppy waters of war. Fighting for what he believed in was sometimes overshadowed by his innate need to stay out of ill will. It had cost him during the Palmetto case and it was costing him now.

Shoving away the intruding thoughts of life as a single dad, life without Chloe, a life beyond heartache and loss, he willed his burning lungs to press on for a little longer. Just another quarter mile.

They had parked the van near the maintenance housing behind a service road that shot off from the main property, hoping to find some privacy from the never-ending traffic on Loma Vista Drive and the jam-packed parking lot full of luxury cars and limousines with sleepy-eyed drivers eating sandwiches and watching movies on their phones. Dan cursed himself at not parking in the lot like Michael had suggested. Somehow the surety of Chloe's abilities had outweighed the need to hover; again, he was more concerned with keeping the peace than getting a possible earful from his ex-wife.

Never again. Never again never again never again.

Slick grass squelched under his boots as he cleared a grove of trees, his foot finding the comfort of asphalt as he turned onto the main road and shot up towards the back end of the property, knowing he would find a service entrance.

A few kids in white dress shirts, their buttons undone at the collars and pressed black vests slung neatly over a patio chair, were smoking cigarettes by a half open white door. One of the servers, a tall handsome guy with waves in his hair, was holding an empty coffee cup that they were tapping their ash into. He straightened at Dan's arrival, unconsciously hiding the cup behind his back as if what they were doing somehow warranted reprimand. Cops always looked like cops and this dude looked like he stepped straight out of a tv show. Had Moe tricked on them for cutting out for a smoke? Did one of the people at the party see a group of out-of-work actors, assistants and screenwriters having a breather and mistook them as a bunch of hooligans? Was that really worth calling the fucking cops? The guy looked like he had just run a marathon. Sweat was gathering in the spaces where hair met skin all the way down to the back of his ears. A frantic helplessness pulled at the muscles in his face almost as if he were running on nothing but electric current. And, judging by the empty panic in the cop's eyes, maybe he was. Logic didn't have much room to navigate in situations that warranted such looks.

"That the service door?" The cop's feet were doing a weird shuffling dance as if they were afraid to stop moving.

"Yeah man, leads into the kitchen." The coffee cup slowly emerged from behind his back and he tapped the end of his cigarette into it. "You good?"

Without a word, the cop's feet honed in on the white wooden door and almost tore away without waiting for the top half to catch up, Road Runner-style. It would have been hilarious if not for that dazed-n-glazed fear in his eyes. The servers all watched silently as Dan Espinoza burst through the back door of the kitchen, his hands clutching for something under his jacket. Roger thought it was one of the weirder experiences he had undergone since taking the catering job to supplement his seasonal writing gig. A few years later he would remember that moment and write a pilot about a time-jumping detective on the hunt for an inter-dimensional criminal organization (which would win him a few Golden Globes and a nice house not too far from where he was currently slinging drinks) but today, he was just Roger Thompson, struggling writer, who watched the ash grow in an empty coffee cup as he pondered just what the hell was going on at the party.