VIII.

Aftermath

So tell me why my gods look like you

And tell me why it's wrong

1950, King Princess

He had nearly missed.

Eons of warfare, training and honing…and he had nearly missed.

Amenadiel in his more recent years identified as a pacifist but that hadn't always been the case. Back when their family was whole—or as whole as it could be—their eldest brother had been a fierce and iron-fisted warrior. Before the creation of Dad's great social experiment, angels had existed as God's servants. Executioners and war-wagers. Amenadiel had been the best of the best; God's greatest and most terrifying treasure. He was responsible for shaping and training his siblings in the art of war as well as the art of service to their Almighty. Hand-to-hand combat, weapons training, stealth, strength, tactical and ethereal manipulation, reality bending…there was no end to their lessons. Without the markers of time or need, their existence was fully dedicated to chiseling their minds and beings into weapons for God. Lucifer had excelled, fueled on by the meager morsels of pride and affection from his brother, pushed by the prospect of winning his Father's favor as the best child, the strongest child, the one that deserved his love the most. Eventually, he had honed himself into the sharpest, the strongest, besting even his brother Amenadiel in all areas of combat, physical or otherwise. Lucifer's brain, his greatest asset, worked in ways that his siblings' never could. Because he was willing to think in the dark. He peeked under the covers and stormed into the caverns, allowing himself to become engulfed in the rending emptiness that awaited only to return as victor. His ambition had frightened all of them, his Father included.

Being second only to God had made Lucifer feel endless. Vast. Still, he served his Almighty. Still he sought the love and affection from a Father who now saw him as a threat. When Dad had announced that He was working on the creation of humans—of beings capable of free thought and choice—something he had denied those he called his children…Lucifer had challenged Him. What about us, he had screamed, what about your eternal creations? Do you dare turn away your love from us only to give it to lesser beings unworthy of its splendor? Unworthy of its meaning? His Father had enveloped him then, radiating a purity that filled Lucifer's entire being in a kaleidoscope of light and warmth. Tears had ran rivers in that embrace, bursting forth from Lucifer in waves of delight and fear. It was everything. God had asked if he wanted to help build that world, together.

More than anything, Lucifer had cried. I will build you the stars and moons, the galaxies and universes. I will bring you the sun and the light. For your love. For your embrace.

Lightbringer. Morningstar. His Father's words, given to Lucifer as a stamp of his worthiness.

And he had built them. All of it. For his Creator. For the Ancient of Days. The Alpha and Omega. Lucifer had built Time so that he could fully grasp the entirety of his Father's love. He had created a thousand suns and an endless space so that all creatures could bask in the brilliance of the Everlasting. Monuments of gargantuan size and scope beyond the comprehension of the creatures that his Father wanted to create, all in the name of Abba, Jehovah, Elohim.

Still, it hadn't been enough. Not for God and not for Lucifer. Love still eluded the gaping hole in his heart. So he create black holes and deep voids and places where time and gravity were sucked into the unending depth of non-existence. It ate the light around them. It ate the suns and moons and stars that touched the tendrils of their hunger. It filled itself with its sucking emptiness because he could no longer hold that dying star inside himself.

Amenadiel had tried to stop him. Had pleaded. Had raved. Had shook his brother until his head lolled like a deflated balloon. Had told him over and over that Lucifer couldn't have expectations on the way that God loved. Couldn't try to define and mold it to his own needs. But Amenadiel was wrong. If their Father refused to listen to Lucifer, he would make him listen. The thought, which was then only a grain of sand, had chafed into an obsessive mission that ended in his fall from heaven. The eternal crown of Hell's caretaker bestowed as His final act of punishment.

Lucifer—the Day Star, the Bearer of Light, Son of the Morning and the Ruler of Demons—who had singlehandedly created the unimaginable wonders of a world that no human eyes would ever see, had nearly missed.

He blamed the jarring tear of the Detective's gun being ripped from his back, her stabbing fingers raking haphazardly into the thin flesh. He blamed the uneven weight of the crystal tumbler in his sweaty hands as he launched it forward, his suit jacket tearing at the seam in his shoulder. But mostly he blamed himself and the paralyzing fear that had overtaken him at the sight of the gun locking onto the Detective.

A hollow doom whistled through him like a storm through a cracked window. High-pitched screams of absolution. Devastation. He hadn't cared much for humans beyond the collective goodness he felt as a creature capable of empathy, and he wouldn't go so far as to say he cared deeply for the Detective, but the thought of her being wiped from this plane of existence filled him with dread. Not her. Anyone but her. He didn't believe God was capable of showing mercy to his fallen son but he pleaded nonetheless. Because what else was there?

So he had sent out a prayer. And he had thrown the heavy-bottomed glass as hard as he could at Gio's towering frame. Let my aim be true. Let it not be too late. Outside the walls, he could hear the dim murmur of people talking and laughing as the party continued on. Inside the walls, nothing moved. The three of them stood in statuesque prose as a snapshot of Fate's best work, capturing last moments and first breaths. Lucifer's eyes traced the engraved patterns on the crystal as it seemed to float in mid-air: a makeshift disco ball at the dance between life and death. It caught the lamplight in gorgeous prisms of warm orange and soft purples as it rotated end-over-end, silent and brilliant much like the stars he had spent so much time creating in the name of his Father. The gun in Gio's hand hitched for a moment. Seemed to suck the air into its dead mouth before exploding open in a bright burst of fire and electricity. The tumbler winked once in a final farewell before clunking heavily against Gio's temple, his eyes pressing into indiscernible wrinkles at the contact. Lucifer was already airborne by then.

Ever since Maze had cut off his wings—a metaphorical flag-planting of his decision to leave Hell—they had never crossed his mind except in passing celebration. He was glad to be rid of the physical link to his heritage and made him feel a step closer towards complete liberation. Now, he wanted them more than anything.

The small room filled with the tremendous sound of the revolver as Lucifer made contact with the Detective. She was already poised with her own Remington, her legs wide and her finger halfway pulled on the trigger. There was nothing in her eyes. No fear, no anger, nothing. It made Lucifer feel uncomfortable just looking at them.

I wonder what Gio sees.

He thought it may look something like a black hole.

Her gun spat out in response, a small cough compared to the huge revolver's report but it surprised Lucifer just the same. Every gun sounded loud when your face was inches away from it. He flung his arm up and over her extended hands, wrapping his body around her small frame as he lurched them towards the far end of the room. Somewhere between flight and floor he felt her slacken. Doll arms and limp noodles all the way down. They crashed in a sprawling, heaping mess behind a delicately brocaded chaise and he heard the wind fly out of her lungs in a long wheezing bubble. One of his arms was twisted uncomfortably beneath her unmoving body but he couldn't find the strength to prop himself up. Something had gone wrong in the last ten seconds, whether to him or to the Detective he wasn't sure. They laid there for another few moments, his burdensome body on top of hers, his painfully twisted arm pinned under her back. Bright pinpricks of light started to dance behind his closed eyes and he felt he may actually pass out for the first time in his life, allowing Gio to storm over and finish what he intended. If he hadn't already.

A groan from the Detective snapped his eyes open. He propped himself up on his free hand and managed to wrestle out the other. Crouching behind the chaise, he quickly scanned the room for Gio but was met with the eerie muted hum of silence after gunfire. Another hidden door next to a bookshelf, this one much smaller than the one leading into the room, was ajar. A few books had been knocked askew and now sat splayed against the dark blue carpeting. There was commotion and confusion outside the walls. Alarmed voices echoed up and down the hallway asking each other what the loud noises were and did they think they were gunshots and who would bring a gun to a party and should they call the police. There was no urgency in their queries and Lucifer supposed that this demographic of Los Angeleans had never been familiar with the concept of imminent danger. Money had a way of making you immortal.

Shallow panting brought his attention back to the room and their own imminent danger. The Detective's eyes were now open although glossy and faraway. Her chest hitched in irregular bursts, giving her throat a wavering quality that unnerved Lucifer.

"Did he get me?" She managed to croak.

Lucifer gruffly ran his hands over her body, checking for any signs of trauma. "I don't know. I don't think so." His eyes settled on a small patch of blood near her neck and he frantically palmed the area, looking for an entry wound but couldn't find one.

"Where is he?" She tried to bolt upright, her hand clutching weakly for a weapon but Lucifer grabbed her shoulders and gave her a stern shake.

"Stop it. He's gone." The struggling subsided. "I think he missed." A relieved laugh barked from his throat. Lucifer felt like crying. Felt like dancing. Felt like doing both while smoking a cigarette. No, ten cigarettes. Or a really fat joint.

The Detective's face paled into a frightening shade of white as she leaned the top half of her body on the cushions of the chaise, her legs still sprawled out on the floor. Dark smears of mascara clung under eyes that currently looked much too big for her face, giving her the appearance of a Halloween corpse. He almost laughed at the ridiculous juxtaposition but bit his bottom lip to stifle the crazy notion. Now was not the time to celebrate his relief.

"Oh God, Lucifer. I don't think he did." A large tear spilled slowly out the corner of an eye, pooling with the smudged makeup and finishing its run in a grey-streaked rivulet. A shaky finger reached out and slowly pulled open the lapel of his jacket. Underneath, on his perfectly white shirt, was a blackened hole encased by a bright crimson halo.

Thought left him in that moment, enraptured and consumed by nothing other than the unnatural color of his own blood. Did angels even bleed? The more important question should be are you even an angel anymore? A guttural, strangulated noise escaped his mouth as he pawed the left side of his chest, trying to get a better look at the mess. He felt a yawing sense of vertigo and he was backpedalling frantically, as if he could somehow distance himself from the wound that was now starting to gnaw into his flesh.

Chloe jumped forward and grabbed the wild-eyed Lucifer by the shoulders, much as he had done to her a few minutes before, heaving him back-first again the edge of the chaise. She straddled his kicking legs with her thighs, pushing him further into the firm cushions.

"Lucifer."

Tight authority thrummed in her voice. It was a voice that demanded rapt attention and undivided obedience. It was the voice of hard truths and absolute control. He stilled, his breathing still shuddering in walloping waves. "I'm going to take a look but I need you to try and remain calm, okay?" Fingers dug sharply into his shoulders as those cool, calm iceberg eyes waited for his response. He nodded his head slowly. "Okay. I'm going to open your shirt. Keep your focus on my voice."

Outside, the murmur of curiosity had cacophanied into a frenzy of shouts and she recognized the sound of Dan's voice yelling out her name.

"Dan, I'm in here!" She bellowed towards the hidden door but didn't get up from her position. Her focus was here, her attention was here. Dan had most likely called for backup and medical, that was the most important thing. Everything else didn't matter except what was happening in the small, stifling room behind the walls.

Deft fingers pulled down the left side of his jacket and unbuttoned the starch fabric down to Lucifer's navel. The red halo was slowly spreading into a grotesque Rorschach painting and she was certain that she saw the image of The Devil in its splotchy smear. A grimace touched her face as she carefully pulled open the shirt to reveal his sweaty, blotchy chest but it quickly slackened into confusion. Instead of an entry wound she was met with something she had never seen in all her years on the force. The skin where the bullet had hit was split open in an almost perfectly straight two-inch gash where she could see the ruddy rawness of exposed flesh and blood. Feathery splinters of bruised veins ran off the ends like cracked glass or the pesky spider veins that threatened to take up residence on her thighs. Right in the middle of the split was the bullet. It sat partway in the wound, the back half peeking out from his chest more like an inconvenience rather than a marker of Death. What she was seeing was impossible. Even more impossible, she swore she saw the bullet wiggling imperceptibly, as if his body were pushing it out. No. That can't be right. You've lost your fucking mind, babygirl. You're officially in shock and seeing things.

Shaking uncontrollably now, she reached out with fingers that no longer wanted to touch anything on Lucifer's body but she willed them nonetheless. They grabbed the bullet by the tail and gave it a slight tug. A sick, sucking feeling traveled up the short length of the .40 cal and she had the image of pulling a lollypop out of a child's mouth. She pulled a little harder, ignoring the grimace of pain on Lucifer's face, as the bullet finally let go with a wet pop. She held it loosely between the tips of her index and thumb. An unwarranted repulsion overtook her at the sight of it. Sitting back, she took in the full scope of the damage and was still unsure of what it actually meant. The area where the bullet had lodged itself (impossible) was a deep muddy purple, the bruise radiating out around it in gradients of blue and black. It had left a small perfectly round hole in the middle of the split (impossible), almost like a silhouette of Saturn with its large protruding rings. Dark trickles of blood were pooling out of the gash but in a slow, relaxed dribble inconsistent with gunshot wounds (impossible).

Again, her mind turned to her time in France all those summers ago—before Trixie, before Dan, before she decided to dedicate her life to the LAPD and the pursuit of justice. She had rented a tiny apartment in Lyon, hoping to spend a few weeks immersed in something other than the California sun and her most recent heartbreak over her high school sweetheart. It had been an unseasonably rainy summer—all the locals kept exclaiming that Lyon was usually very pleasant and sunny, a fact that brought no comfort to Chloe—which left her seeking out mostly indoor activities. Old bookstores and vintage shops had been a particularly big attraction to the young woman but one of her neighbors had suggested that she take the bus out a few miles to a small village that still operated in the ways of the Old World. In the French countryside she had found lush fields of damp greenery, roving livestock and a walled city full of shoemakers, old churches and handmade sweets. With a crusty loaf of bread in her hand, she wandered from street to street and awning to awning, trying to stay dry and keep herself entertained for a few hours. She had eventually wandered towards the edge of the village and had followed the sounds of a metallic clinking. It had led her to a group of older men chiseling large slabs of rocks with various tools that were so worn they looked as though they would break at any moment. Fascinated, she spent the next half hour observing them as they yelled to each other in their native tongue, slamming, sanding, crushing, throwing, forming stones. Two men in particular had caught her rapt attention. They were the most wiry of the bunch, dark beige strips of cloth were wrapped around their foreheads to keep the sweat out of their eyes as they arched huge pickaxe-looking tools into the craggy surface of an enormous piece of stone. At first it looked as though their swings were unheaded—the solid facade remained whole and unmoving to their advances. Then finally, with a loud clank, one of the pickaxes chunked into the slowly chipping face and made a small dent. The wielder of the axe gave out a happy cry. He swung the tool in a looping arch and hit the exact same spot again and a rattling crack formed where it struck. The two men stopped for a moment and observed their handiwork, chatting loudly. That crack reminded her of what she was looking at on Lucifer's chest. The chipped hole of the axe meeting stone, the branching veins of stress, the gaping crack that followed…

"How bad is it?" Lucifer peeked down at the bloody mess on his chest and let out a sharp breath.

"I—I don't know."

The faraway look had returned to her face and Lucifer straightened, mistaking it for fear. There was little pain—only a deep throbbing sensation where the bullet had entered—but he knew that the human body juiced itself full of endorphins right before death. "This can't be real. I'm not supposed to die." His eyes, full of fear, pleaded with her.

"I don't think you're going to die, Lucifer." She slowly held up the bullet still pinched between her fingers. "I—I can't explain it…but…"

He grabbed her wrist and brought the bullet closer to his face. "I don't understand." His other hand roamed over the stinging wound on his chest. Bleeding but still whole. Human but not fully. A bark of laughter spilled from his open lips as he flopped his head back onto the cushions. There remained some divinity in him after all.

Chloe got up so suddenly that her knees popped loudly in the dense air. Her footsteps led her backwards almost robotically, the bullet still held out between her fingers. Something terrible ran laps across her features, manipulating them into scowls between rage and terror.

"Detective." Lucifer started to get up but she shot out a hand.

"No. Don't come near me." Her voice was high and frantic, a sound that startled him. How could someone who had looked down the barrel of a gun and met it with solid defiance be so utterly afraid in a moment that called for relief and celebration?

"Chloe."

Something seemed to snap inside her at the mention of her name and her shoulders leapt in response. She flung the bullet away as if it had stung her, wiping her bloodstained hands against the waist of her velvet dress. She had backed herself against the wall and was shaking her head back and forth, her eyes plastered on the scarlet mess of his chest. The gaping wound seemed to grin menacingly in response and she couldn't help the low moan that ripped from her throat.

Lucifer darted forward as the Detective's body crumpled. It fell in a jumble of arms and rolled eyes. Her legs skewed at odd angles. One hand feebly tried to paw him away from her. Sweat sprung up on her forearms at his touch and she tried to wriggle free. Another moan, softer this time. He fought against her writhing body, placing a shoulder against the wall to help him maintain his leverage as he wound his arms around her. They enveloped her narrow arms and soon he felt her give in and slacken.

"I don't understand." She mumbled.

"What's there to understand, Detective? We're alive and that's all that matters."

The tears came then. Hot and slick from somewhere deep inside where she stored the emotions that scared her the most. This had been the closest she'd ever come to dying. Yes, she'd been shot at before. Pushed, choked, punched, shoved. She had knives pulled on her, guns drawn, bats swung, but never like this. Never through an eye as cold and hateful as Gio Arretxea's had been. He wasn't shooting to defend himself or his honor, he was shooting to kill her because he wanted her dead. She was a pawn in whatever game he was playing with Lucifer or with Joel Bernard or whoever else was entangled in this mess. She was disposable. Just a…thing.

Lucifer tightened his hold, helping to support her weight as she quietly cried. There was comfort in the act, especially after having seen the lifeless quality of her face as she pulled the trigger of her own gun. Nothing lived under that gaze. No joy. No love. Nothing. This was marginally better than that. At least this was proof that she hadn't lost her humanity during their brief but terrifying exchange with Gio. There was going to be a bit of mental gymnastics with all that had transpired tonight, particularly the last few moments before the room had filled up with gunfire and smoke. Something about the way Gio seemed to know so much about Lucifer gave him a sinking sick feeling.

The wood-paneled door to the hallway finally clicked open and Dan Espinoza ran into the room with his gun drawn. His eyes darted from the open bookcase door to the two people huddled over by the wall and he slowly holstered his weapon. Lucifer motioned to the figure in his arms and Dan stepped towards his ex-wife, gently placing a hand on her shaking shoulders. She caved at the familiarity of his touch and nearly fell into him, clutching desperately onto the front of his jacket as she tried to regain some of her composure. He held her loosely, rocking back and forth as he had done many times before in their long relationship, falling into old patterns of comfort that soothed both of their frazzled nerves. After a few moments she had calmed enough to stand on her own, sheepishly wiping her eyes.

"Medical is on its way." He motioned to Lucifer's chest. "Jesus, looks like you took a pretty bad tumble."

Chloe shook her head. "No, not a tumble. He was…"

"It's nothing. Just a small cut." He gave the Detective a pointed look. "It's almost stopped bleeding."

"What the hell happened in here?"

"Just having a nice chat, getting to know one another. Then the chap pulls out a goddamn gun." Lucifer motioned to the room. "As you can imagine, it went downhill from there."

"Well, we have it all on video so we've got more than enough to get a warrant and charge this asshole with attempted murder. The boys are on their way and they can get this scene secured but I'd say from the looks of it, you got him pretty good." On the wall behind the desk Dan pointed to a small spray of blood as well as a trail of thin droplets leading out of the room through the door hidden in the bookcase.

Seeing the aftermath of her gun brought a cawing sense of vindication to Chloe. It had never felt good to have to use her weapon—the precarious balance of another human life resting on the pull of a finger had always felt too hefty—but seeing Gio's blood satiated something dark inside of her.

Two people in blue jumpsuits ran into the small room with soft packs in their hands. Dan waved them over and soon Chloe was swarmed in the prodding lights and questions that trailed from the medics. There was a brief moment where she was able to see another group of jumpsuits whisk Lucifer out of the room and she was finally able to relax enough to allow a ruddy-cheeked woman to take her vitals. The space was starting to fill up with officers, detectives and the occasional lookie-loo that managed to slip their heads into the room to pass down whatever information they could to the gathering crowd of inquisitive prodders. Their questions didn't hold any empathy, just morbid curiosity to get enough details to tell at their next cocktail party. Lucifer would have understood.

After a few more exchanges with the EMTs, the lead investigator—a man by the name of Garrett Levy who sat a few desks behind Chloe—approached her with the shrug of his shoulders. "Well, this is some right crazy shit, huh?"

Chloe had never particularly liked Detective Levy. He was a mediocre cop and a lousy person, always the first to offer his "two cents" especially in situations where his money had no bearing. He was also the dickhole who had christened her Killjoy Chloe and had made no effort to hide his handiwork.

"I'd say it was a close call. Is Mr. Morningstar all right?"

"Eh, he'll be fine. It'll be a panty-dropper story to tell the dumb broads at that club of his more than anything."

She bit the inside of her cheeks and tried to move past the cutting way he said the word broads as if he were a caricature of a television wiseguy. "And Gio? Did you find him? He couldn't've gotten far."

"We're working on it. In the meantime, I'm gonna need you to tell me what happened here, frame by frame." He motioned to her dress. "Why don't you start by telling me what the hell you're doing here in the first place?"

"I'm working a case." Chloe crossed her arms, suddenly feeling naked under Levy's piercing gaze.

"So am I, so lets cut the bullshit and hear some answers, 'kay?"

Chloe scowled. "We got a tip that Gio Arretxea would be in attendance at the Historic Society's Gala. I believe him to be involved in a string of murders."

He lifted an eyebrow. "D'ya have a warrant?"

"I'm just on surveillance."

"So how the fuck did it end up in a gun fight, Detective Decker?"

She looked down at the carpet. "I don't know."

"Well, how about we start from the beginning."

Chloe recounted what she could remember without revealing enough to implicate foul play. As much as she wanted to clear herself of any wrongdoing, she didn't want the course of her own investigation thrown askew by the likes of Garrett Levy. Just enough information to get his report written, submitted and closed. Just enough to satiate his need to get his numbers up without doing too much additional work. Levy jotted a few notes down in his book, nodding absently. "And why is Lucifer Morningstar seemingly working this case with you instead of Espinoza?"

She flushed. "This is his scene. He was providing valuable insight into the Historic Society's inner workings so that we could get closer to Gio and Joel Bernard."

"Does the captain know you're colluding with a civilian on a case? A civilian, may I remind you, with no training that now has a six inch gash on his body. We'll be lucky if he doesn't sue us for endangerment." The pen in his hand drummed on the top of his open notebook. "Seems pretty reckless. And illegal."

Chloe bit her lips and nodded, trying not to incite her growing rage at Levy's condescending tone. As much as she wanted to tell him to fuck off, it would pay bigger dividends to let him spew his dad speech and walk away feeling like what hung between his legs grew a few inches. "I'll be talking to McMullen first thing tomorrow morning. I know what kind of shit we're in here, but right now I just want to clean up and get home."

Garrett Levy looked at the dark smears under Chloe's eyes and allowed his shoulders to slump in their beige windbreaker. "Yeah, you look like shit. I'll leave it out of the report but—" he ran a hand through his fine hair, leaving a trail of broken wheat stalks, "—this just doesn't look right, Decker. You know, first with Palmetto and now…"

She raised a hand. "Stop. I've had enough. Unless you need further statements from me, I'd like to get the fuck out of here. Now." The detective slid around the stuttering form of Garrett Levy without waiting to hear his reply. Not that it would have mattered.

The hallway of Greystone had been cordoned off by a couple of uniforms but most of the guests had already cleared out well before the yellow tape went up. Apparently they had gotten what they needed to tell at their next three Michelin dinner table and would leave the rest up to conjecture. Whatever would get them a re-invite or a few minutes in the spotlight. A young couple, perhaps even the ones who had drunkenly stumbled into Lucifer and Chloe on the dance floor, walked by with wide eyes and downturned mouths. They regarded Chloe's tangled hair and the splotches of blood on her hands with detached amusement before hustling down the hallway and into a California night that held nothing but warm and easy futures for each of them.

"You look like hell. Can I take you home, Detective?"

She turned towards the voice slowly, unsure of her capacity to meet Lucifer's face. Afraid she would be unraveled by the casual mischief that she would find there. How could he act as though the last half hour didn't happen? As though they had just danced and drank a perfectly normal night away. As though he didn't get shot…and lived. Hell, he was practically doing cartwheels.

"Lucifer." She swallowed something stringy in her throat but it remained coated over her vocal cords. "Don't."

His smirk wavered. "Don't what, Detective?"

"He shot you. I saw it. I-I pulled it out of your body." Her hands clenched together at the thought of the wet sucking feeling of the bullet being dislodged from his chest. From his sentient flesh.

"Yes, bit of an over-reaction, don't you think?"

Blood-stained hands clapped onto his shoulders and she brought his face closer to hers. "Lucifer…"

"Oh, Detective. Right now? I suppose I did just save your life." He leaned his face towards her and tried to place his lips over hers.

"Stop. This isn't the time for your stupid games." She pushed him away gruffly. "Gio said I was the key. What does that mean? What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't know why he said that. It was the rantings of someone who is clearly unhinged." He adjusted the buttons on his shirt. "I've never met him before tonight. And I have no idea why he was rambling on about freedom and loss and…Detective, I'm not…", he sighed, "I can't explain what happened in there."

"You can't…or you won't?" She eyed the charred hole in his dress shirt and at the fresh bandage underneath. The scarred smile of a bullet chiseled into stone, as if it were telling a cosmic joke about reality. "What are you?"

"I never tried to hide that from you."

"No, not that. Not now. We're done roleplaying. We're done with the cheeky personas and whatever else you have to hide behind to protect yourself. You gotta lay it all out here, right now. You have to tell me everything you know. Or else…or else this is over." It may already be over, babygirl. If McMullen had anything to say about it, she would be lucky if they quietly discharged her from the force without her pension. Unlucky Chloe would be looking at a few years of jail time.

"I can't. Not right now." He clamped onto her arm when she started to turn away. "But I will. I promise. All of it, right on down to the nasty bits I've never said aloud. To the parts I don't want to show you."

"No, Lucifer. That's not good enough. You used me. You put my life in danger. You put my daughter in danger." She violently shook off his arm. "I'm going in to McMullen tomorrow and I'm asking to be removed from the case. We've already fucked it up big time and I'm not going to keep jeopardizing this investigation."

"Wait." Lucifer reached out but she batted his hand away. Hard.

"Stay away from me." A sharp crack rang out in her voice and reverberated down the nearly empty hallway. There was immense anger in that crack but what dug into his chest was the absolute certainty that she was finished with him. Her scream left no room for compromise.

He watched her small figure, clad in the alluring curves of a past era shaded in the deep maroons of glamor and vibrancy, disappear into the darkening mouth of marbled corridors that had seen decades of broken, failed unions. If this was the last time he would see her, maybe it was befitting that it would be in this monstrous mansion that had ushered and laid to rest countless lines of could-haves and should-haves. The mortal part of him, whatever that meant in the here and now as blood seeped hungrily from a wound he never thought possible, wanted to chase her. To shake her. To make her see his side. But the other part of him, whatever remained of it anyways, watched with a measure of relief as she disappeared out into the warm LA air. It heralded a return to his life as he knew it. As he wanted it.

Untethered. Free. Completely his own.

No wavering duality. No complicated foreign feelings. No dangling phone lines waiting for someone to pick up at the other end.

He would find his old comforts and his old habits. He would dive into them, head first, tongue out.

RIght. Good.

Lucifer straightened the cuffs of his shirt, which would undoubtedly end up in the trash when he got home, and gave his hair a smoothing over. Tonight would be as best a time as any to restart his life; the lights and sounds of Lux would help him ease back into his pre-Detective days. Just as he was about to set out, the large painting above the trick door caught his eye and he had to take a moment to laugh at the big joke that only his Father could have set in place for His least favorite son. Hung on the paneling, skewed but still whole, was the painting Metamorphosis of Narcissus by number one jokester and surrealist, Salvador Dali.

Good one, Dad. Really fucking funny.