The waiting is torture.
The penthouse grows more suffocating with each passing breath, as the threat of Rory's arrival hangs overhead like a stagnant mold.
He had led her outside when she'd finally urged him from his knees, guiding her to the balcony as the tears in both of their eyes cleared with the crisp bite of evening air. They had stayed there for a long while, watching the remnants of dusk slip into black night as her head nestled comfortably against his shoulder.
He had pointed out a few constellations to her, at first, but his words eventually faded into silence. She knew why he had taken her out here: why the voice that commanded the stars to appear before her was tinged with strained lightness.
He's waiting for her, she had thought. Scanning the skies; tensed on high alert for his sister's undoubtedly brusque arrival.
It seems now, though, that the nervous anticipation has become too much. He whisks her back inside, closing the glass doors behind them with a sealing hiss.
"Where are you going?" Chloe asks, arching a brow as Lucifer snatches the black jacket he had draped across the couch and shrugs it onto his shoulders. "I thought we were waiting for your sister to come kill you."
There's a tinge of familiar teasing painting her words, but they tumble out more strained than she intends. She's more on edge than she had realized.
"Yes, well, turns out waiting to be ambushed is uniquely boring. If she'd like to try and kill me, she's welcome to come find me first. I don't see why we should make it easy for her, Detective."
Chloe opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again.
"It's Saturday night," he drawls, brushing dust from his sleeve, "And I haven't made an appearance at Lux since our rather…climactic sting."
She sighs at the word choice, but she can't help the slight, aching tug that accompanies the memory. His eyes flash in smug amusement — though whether in response to his own innuendo or at the very obvious blush that creeps across her cheeks he doesn't say.
"You can't be serious," she says, jolting herself from the thought. "You want to go downstairs? To a nightclub? Now? When Rory is hell-bent on finding you and wiping you out of existence?"
"What? I'm just passing the time, Detective. If she's come to ruin my night, we can at least salvage some of the evening. Besides," he says, hurriedly, launching off the look she gives him, "I'm expected there. People will start asking questions. Lux is one bad drug deal away from gang warfare during happy hour, and I don't believe the Heavenly Host overseeing a den of inequity would do wonders for the godly branding image. It's taken quite a hit already these past few centuries." He sighs. "The sight of me should be enough to smooth whatever…creases have appeared during my absence."
"I—"
She lets the word die on her lips. There's no use arguing with him, not when he's got that curious glint in his eye and that nervous, agitated twitch of his mouth that demands distraction.
"I'll just…wait here, then."
"Out of the question." He grabs her hand once again, brushing quickly over the cool metal of her ring.
"I'm not even dressed," she whines, a last-ditch attempt to get him to relinquish his hold on her as he drags her toward the elevator. That much is certainly true — the white sweater she wears is stained with flecks of blood around the collar, where Maze's face had pressed into her. Her black jeans and boots are scuffed with dirt, though that, at least, will be masked by the strobing darkness of the club.
She's still woefully underdressed. So underdressed, in fact, she figures if she'd shown up to Lux like this on a normal night, without Lucifer by her side, she would have been laughed off of the Sunset Strip.
She's surprised, then, when Lucifer only huffs in response and yanks her inside the elevator. She knows he has dresses here — prizes from conquests collected over the years — he's even lent her one, before. But any inclination to see her dressed up must have died with the years that separate that night from this one: now, he only stares at her with starving eyes as the elevator begins its slow descent.
That look — that hungry, insatiable look — follows her as the doors slide open and deposit them on the second floor of Lux. It's packed: it takes a concerted effort just to make it to the stairs as a steady swarm of people stream by.
Lucifer guides her with a hand on the small of her back, and the crowd parts for him like a drunken rendition of the Red Sea. He releases her when they reach the bar and she's embarrassed at how quickly she arches against the absence of his touch, leaning instinctively into the space he had consumed only moments before.
She takes a seat while he orders, drumming absent fingers along the ridge of the counter. She can see him even through the hord of nameless faces that fill the space he's left behind, splayed over the bar as he mutters a quiet word in Patrick's ear. Chloe's mind wanders — she can't help it — and the blush threatens to crawl back to her cheeks as she traces a finger along the same edge of the bar Lucifer had pinned her to only hours before.
She's so enthralled by the memory — and the sudden, desperate heat that accompanies it — that she doesn't hear the first slurred greeting directed toward her.
She hears the second, though. It's impossible not to hear, as the man beside her sidles all too close and bends into the curve of her ear.
"Hey," he mumbles, reaching back to drag his barstool behind him and clambering into it when he's deposited it inches from Chloe's own. His knees knock against hers, and she tries to draw them away. He waves haphazardly to the bartender, flopping his elbow against the bar as he leans into her space and breathes out on a reeking exhale.
She doesn't respond. She looks pointedly forward, clutching her glass somewhat closer to her breast. She can't get up: the crowd behind her has thickened even in the few short minutes she's been seated at the bar, and a particularly raucous group of men is holding court inches from her chair. She's trapped; wedged between the crowd and counter.
"You don't look like you belong here at all," he leers. His eyes rove across the collar of her sweater, past the dried smudges of blood, and settle on the bit of material that's pulled away from her shoulder and exposed the black strap of her bra. She can see him staring in her peripheral; feel the heat of his gaze, and she tugs to readjust her sweater. He frowns in vague distaste at the motion and lowers his stare to her chest, brazenly undeterred.
"Yeah. I'm just waiting for someone," she says finally, lifting her gaze to fix him with a sharp glare.
"Someone who let you come here wearing this?" He laughs, and she recoils at the sting of whiskey inches from her lips. "I would never let a lady embarrass herself. Especially not one with so much…potential."
He grins, darting a tongue along the seam of his lips as his stare lingers. There's a particular heat rising in her throat, and Chloe is considering slapping him, or dumping the contents of her drink over his head, but there's something glittering in his rapacious stare. Something that, here, trapped against the bar with his knees brushing against her own — sends a slight tremor down her spine.
"I'd be careful if I were you."
Chloe releases the breath she's been holding at the sound of Lucifer's low, unmistakable rumble.
"I've heard our new goddess doesn't take kindly to unwelcome advances." He moves beside Chloe, draping a cool hand over the back of her chair. There's a hollow, shapeless smile curving his lips as he addresses the man, but his voice is ice.
The man laughs again — louder, this time. His attention flits to Lucifer, offering him a sloppy once-over before returning with lecherous insistence to Chloe.
"Goddess?" He grins, repeating the word to no one in particular. "Really? How cheesy is this guy?" He looks around as if to gather support, but the buzz of the club and the clamor of the bar has left his words stifled between the three of them alone.
There's a heavy pressure on the back of Chloe's chair as Lucifer's grip tightens against it. The affected smile slides from his face, and he straightens with a glacial stare.
"I'm afraid she's taken." Lucifer steps forward, and Chloe's chair loosens without the weight of his palm against it. The man's gaze tears from Chloe's chest and lands briefly on her ring, folded nervously in her lap. "Permanently."
"Mm," he slurs, his grin widening into a loose snarl as his attention is once again begged away from Chloe. He offers Lucifer a longer glance this time, lingering on the pressed dressed shirt and the well-tailored jacket that ripples over tensed shoulders.
He leans closer to Lucifer — and Chloe — with a searing lurch. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
He laughs again, leering at Lucifer with mocking derision. His hand releases its hold on the drink he's been nursing and he stands, pushing off of the bar with a jeering huff. The stool he's been sitting on skits across the floor as he kicks it away and draws himself to his full height. Even straightened, with his shoulders pulled and his chest puffed like an exotic bird — he's nowhere near Lucifer's stature. The fact doesn't seem to faze him: he's grown tired of his focus being stalled.
He approaches Chloe's other side — the side not currently occupied by Lucifer's rapidly-darkening shadow, and leans to whisper at the base of her neck.
"Let's get out of here." He says, the words too loud — too crass — to maintain their semblance of privacy. "I'll get you out of those clothes. Maybe I'll even buy you something nicer once I'm done with you."
He pulls the drink from her hand before she can react, sending it sliding down the bar as his own hand snakes around her wrist with an iron grip.
She freezes.
His other hand — the one not currently bound to her with seething, rancid insistence, reaches to tilt her chin to him.
And then — faster than Chloe can possibly process — he's crashing face-first into the edge of the bar, choking against the splatter of blood that flies from his own nose and seeps between his teeth. Lucifer is standing behind him with an easy strength — one hand holding both of the man's wrists while the other palm is pressed firmly to the back of his neck, forcing his face against the stone counter.
For once, Chloe doesn't protest. She doesn't put a hand to Lucifer's arm, or utter a peaceful word against his stricken gaze. She only watches in cool detachment as Lucifer slams him, again, against the bar, sending nearby patrons scattering toward the dance floor and luring security from their discreet positions. The music lowers with thrumming uncertainty, and the lights flicker dimly on.
Lucifer doesn't stop: not when the music slows, not when the lights come on — not when the club goes silent around him. No one dares say a word, and suddenly the man's voice — which had been so shrouded by the pulse of the club — is piercing the unnatural quietude with gurgling pleas.
"Sorry," he's gasping, the words shockingly sober as he chokes against inhaled blood. "I'm sorry, man." Lucifer grabs him roughly by the collar, lifting his head inches off the stone counter.
"Don't say it to me," Lucifer growls, wrenching the man's hair and twisting his head against the bar, until his eyes are fixed on Chloe. "Say it to her."
"I'm sorry," he rasps, blinking back tears. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."
When Chloe is silent, Lucifer's eyes flare like searing, spitting embers, glowing red and crackling under the sheer heat of his stare. He yanks the man from the bar and whips him around, inciting a terrified whimper as his gaze lands on Lucifer's burning eyes.
He's gone as soon as Lucifer relinquishes his hold, sprinting through the silent crowd without so much as a second glance. Two security guards trail after him off a look from Lucifer, disappearing beyond the doors and leaving them all in nervous stillness.
"Must everything be a spectacle?" Lucifer muses, waving his hand toward the gathered masses. The music starts again, sputtering to life with a groan of relief. He turns to Chloe as the lights darken once more, his eyes black.
"Are you alright, Detective?" His voice is deathly soft. She notices he doesn't touch her; doesn't make any move to drape a hand over her own as he had done so many times before.
He's waiting. Waiting for her to tell him it's okay; waiting for her to relax against the remnant of the vice grip that had wrapped around her wrist. She bridges the gap for him, reaching for his hand and folding it between her own.
He melts into her touch. The dregs of anger that had followed that man out the door and sparked at the frightened look on her face dissipate in the wake of her palm pitched against his.
"Fine," she clips. Her heart rate has slowed, and the gentle push of his breath near the base of her neck is all the promise of comfort she needs. "I'm fine. I've dealt with worse."
His brows furrow at the comment, and sparks bristle just beneath the surface of his gaze. "You shouldn't have to," he murmurs, rolling his shoulders in an effort to quell the tension that's settled there.
"Lucifer, I'm okay. Seriously. It's just some drunken idiot. I'm just sorry you had to get involved. That can't have done wonders for the whole…maintaining the godly image thing."
"You have nothing to apologize for," he says. His voice is flinty, striking against the sparks that flicker in his eyes. "He certainly will, though, after I put Maze on his tail. He'll have more than the wrath of God to answer to then, Detective."
The hint of a smile teases his lips at the thought, but Chloe stops him with a light touch. "No Maze," she says, unable to hide her own small smile at his vehement crusade against a single drunken patron. "I think you scared him enough for a couple lifetimes."
He relents, finally, when she stands from her seat and traces a finger along the sleeve of his jacket. The events of the last ten minutes are already fading into a distant memory; dissipating in their fervent malignity in the sudden, overwhelming presence of him standing before her.
"We can go back to the penthouse," he offers, leaning into her touch. "We don't have to stay here, Detective. Not after such an inauspicious start."
"No. No. I want to stay." She reaches for the drink that had been cast away from her and takes a light sip, staring at Lucifer over the top of the glass. She likes the way he looks by her side; likes the way the shifting crowd stares in unbridled jealousy as his hand traces a burning line down her spine. She likes the way the whiskey at her lips is drowning thoughts of murderous sisters and drunken perverts and lighting her from the inside out with liquid heat.
He looks at her in some surprise, but nods in ready acquiescence. The last vestiges of rigidity vanish as her hand passes over his own, stealing across his knuckles with soft assurance.
"Very well," he purrs, splaying his fingers to thread between her own. "Shall we?" He motions to the dance floor with a resurgence of his loose smile, pulling her toward the flashing lights before she can fortify her firm resistance.
The music has returned with throbbing insistence. It's even louder than before — at least, that's what it seems like, as Lucifer guides her to the center of the floor with effortless grace. The thrashing lights are making it near impossible to make out the pulsing crowd around her, but Lucifer seems to be miraculously preventing the thrown elbows and writhing bodies from so much as bumping against her.
She puts up a weak protestation, if only for appearances' sake, as Lucifer sweeps an arm around the small of her back and draws her flush against him. She doesn't know how to dance — she's never known how to dance, but the fact has never seemed to deter him from his singular purpose even after years of halfhearted objections.
She'd never admit to him the grin that spreads across her face — the grin she shoves into his lapel as he presses her against him and nuzzles his nose in the crook of her neck. The combination of the whiskey and the blazing music and the cloying, fevered darkness and him, loose and wandering against her — is enough to make her forget, if only for a single, strobing moment in time.
She comes clattering down to reality when he breaks away, peeling the lips that trail along her shoulder and leaving her weightless without the firm hold of his hands on her waist.
"Lucifer," she murmurs, finding her voice as he slips from her. "Lucifer. What are you—"
She watches, glued to the center of the floor, as he weaves his way to the piano and exchanges a hushed word with the man currently tapping out a semi-satisfying tune. He vacates his seat immediately and Lucifer takes his place, shedding his jacket and rolling his sleeves to his elbows.
Chloe's cheeks are already heating with the inevitability of what's to come — even through the strobing lights, she can see his piercing gaze fixated on her, glazed against the rest of the crowd as he focuses with singular intent.
He leans forward, tapping a tentative finger against the microphone as his eyes remain locked on her. He smiles in smug satisfaction and motions for the music to quiet with a passive hand.
"If I might have your attention for a moment," he drawls. Chloe's heart sinks to her feet. She doesn't know what on earth he's thinking, but judging by the immovable gaze that's burning a brand into her own eyes she would wager a fair bet that she's about to be the center of this newly-summoned attention.
"I have a very important announcement to make." He settles against the piano bench, flexing his fingers. "You might have seen a rather radiant looking Detective in here tonight — ah, there she is now—" he motions with a giddy grin toward Chloe, and there's a murmured ripple that passes through the crowd. He rolls his eyes. "Right, you can stop with the griping. I said former. She's not here for your drugs."
He pauses in his annoyance, and the grin he affixes to her shifts to something deeper — something probing — like she's the only one there, watching him, even as the crowd jostles and ebbs against her.
"Her nameis Chloe Decker," he announces smugly, lips mere inches from the microphone. Chloe shakes her head at him, drawing a hand across her neck as she motions for him to shut up, but there's an aching pull in her chest as her name echoes off the walls and silences the crowd. "And she's here because I'm madly in love with her — and because, perhaps against her better judgement, she's agreed to rule over Heaven with me for the rest of eternity."
"So," he says, gliding straight past the confused murmur that's bubbled up from the crowd, "I've dedicated this next song to her. And I would be honored if she would join me." The words trail off as he nears the end of his declaration, growing ever quieter as he addresses her alone.
Oh, God.
She's not sure what possesses her to step forward. Maybe it's the whiskey; or the heated stares of everyone — everyone — that surround her in muted silence. Had she possessed a slightly clearer mind, she might have realized that it's none of these things — that it's him, imploring her with dark, glinting eyes and the hint of a smile behind his showman's grin that's reserved especially for her.
So she goes. Slowly, unsurely, boots clicking against the floor as she approaches his side. He scoots to allow her room to sit and she drops down beside him, leaning to whisper a heated word in his ear.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hisses, teeth clenched. His smile never wavers. "Lucifer. I can't sing. I can't play the piano. I'm—"
He only needs one hand for the song he has in mind. It rests with languid patience over the keys, while the other falls against her knee and quiets her words, threading its way up her thigh with gentle assurance. Her reluctance wanes and she eases against his delicate touch, letting her hair drape across his arm as she tips into the crook of his neck.
He plucks out the first notes of Heart and Soul — chiming and innocent and so, so out of place in the packed, strobing nightclub — and her eyes sting with tears, searing in the wake of the memory he's conjured with deft, easy fingers.
"You do play this one, if memory serves, Detective."
He's playing the easiest part — her part — chipping away at the notes with his left hand while his right rests just above her knee and beckons her closer. When her gaze flies to him, searching him with soft eyes, he only smiles and moves further down the bench, slipping his hand from her leg as he switches chords to allow her her part.
It's only when she's piecing the notes together with a tentative hand that she realizes she's even begun to play. Her piano skills certainly haven't improved in any meaningful way since the time they'd played together all those years ago, but the broad grin that meets her clunky notes is the same, beaming smile he'd affixed to her that night.
It's far from Lucifer's usual evening repertoire, and the crowd hangs briefly in confused limbo as the notes wipe clean the remnants of thrashing, pulsing music. But it's his club, and no one dares object — not only because of the reputation he'd so firmly maintained only minutes before at the bar, but because of the broad, beaming smile that lilts across his face at Chloe's mismatched notes — because, despite the danger that looms ever still above their heads, his mood is infectious.
Here, now, rid of the blaring music and the heated lights and the sloshing of jostled drinks, Lux has never looked so alive.
He whisks her back onto the dance floor after their duet, pulling her from the bench as the music resumes and the clamor of the crowd returns to its usual buzz. The man he'd shooed from the piano returns as Lucifer leads Chloe away, threading between the faceless masses as the music pulses to a soft, sultry beat.
He bends to taste her, grazing his lips against hers as his hands slip to her hips. She hums into him, twisting a hand in his hair as she urges his tongue against her own. The innocence of their shared song burns with the heat of his touch, and when his mouth leaves her lips to drag along her throat, her self-control wavers on its last toehold.
This isn't the Chloe she knows — the Chloe who shows up to Lux in jeans and a sweater; the Chloe who frowns at the slightest show of public indiscretion. The Chloe she knows would never whine against his electric touch; wouldn't tip her head to allow his lips free reign over her neck as they stand in the midst of a packed club.
But she doesn't want that Chloe. Not now, not tonight — not when this could be their last night. She shakes her head against the thought, bucking him slightly from his concerted efforts at the base of her neck.
When he lifts his eyes in a questioning glance she forgets again. Forgets Rory, forgets the club, forgets everything that doesn't start and end with him. Whatever effect he's had on her balks in comparison to the hunger that coils just beneath his stare, and there's a flush of satisfaction pulling at her core at the sight of him utterly, completely at her mercy.
"Do you remember what I told you, Detective?" He whispers, his nose brushing against the shell of her ear. He doesn't pull back to watch her answer, sliding his lips instead to the rut of her jaw as she struggles for a response.
"You asked me how long I had wanted you," he murmurs, and now she remembers — pressed up between him and the bar, when she'd asked him how many times he'd thought about this — how long he'd fantasized about pushing her against the empty counter. His voice had wavered, then, snagged on thorny desire: but now it slips past her ear with silky conviction.
"What did I say?" He urges her, and she trembles at the slight nip of teeth at her throat. Her hands slide down the front of his shirt and linger at his waistband, as if of their own volition.
"Lucifer." His hands, still glued to her hips, tease the hem of her shirt and trail against the bare skin beneath. She shivers. "Every time I'm here. You said you…you want me every time I'm here."
His smile curves against her neck in wicked approval.
"I don't see why this should be an exception," he says. The silken confidence of his tone stumbles on a breathless pant as she brushes a hand over the inside of his thigh, pausing just long enough to incite a low moan.
"Where?" She murmurs, trailing her hand along the thin leather of his belt. She's having fun with him now — egged on by the whiskey's smooth encouragement and the looming threat of danger and the panting, ragged angel before her.
"Anywhere," he manages, his voice husky. "Upstairs. That booth. The coat closet." His finger skates beneath her sweater and sears against the small of her back, urging her closer. "Right here. I'll send them all away, Detective."
She doesn't bother asking if he's serious. She knows he is. She knows if she says the words — if she leans to seal his offer with a burning kiss — he'll shut down his packed club with a single word and not so much as a second thought, if only to drag her to the floor with him right there and then.
The realization rattles her to her senses somewhat, and the tinged thoughts of danger that had become a contented blur sharpen as reality rears its ugly head.
"Lucifer," she murmurs, pressing a hand to his chest as she tips her head to meet his black gaze. He responds to the slight movement with supernatural speed — his hand slips immediately from her bare skin and returns to the folds of her sweater as he senses her brief hesitation.
"I want you," she says, blue eyes dark with racing desire. "I really…really want you." She swallows dryly against the admission, feeling her cheeks heat even in the near-blackness. He rumbles in satisfied agreement, but makes no move to touch her again just yet.
"But what about Rory?" She whispers, finally, breaking through the veil of intoxicating distraction that's shrouded the night thus far. "She could come at any time, and you have to keep your guard up—"
The same sense of shattering reality doesn't seem to have broken over Lucifer yet. He's still standing tattered against the ashes of her touch, gazing at her in soft, desperate reverence. "If this is my last night with you, Detective, I won't waste it thinking about anyone else."
"Don't say that," Chloe shakes her head, pressing harder against his chest as if to shove his words back in. "We don't even know when — if — she's coming. And if she does, you'll…you'll think of something. You have to."
"You have to."
He smiles against her repeated insistence, and this time he does reach out to touch her, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear with a chaste hand.
"You can show me every one of your…coat closets, right after you've stopped Rory. In the meantime, though…" it takes every ounce of self-control to summon up the next words; to deny the man standing inches from her under the heated lights and throbbing bass. "I will not be the reason you're too distracted to save the entire universe."
"Mm," he offers his hand to her, laughing against her ear as he leads her off the floor and toward the elevator. "Very well. You are rather diverting, Detective. Especially when you do that thing, the one with your —"
He huffs as she shoves him into the elevator, deflecting his next words from the throng of women who slink past with unabashed interest.
She rolls her eyes as the doors slide shut, turning her back to him in an effort to resist the temptation to push him against the wall and tangle her hands through his mussed hair — and to refuse him the satisfaction of seeing the smile that plays on her lips and betrays her feigned annoyance.
—
There's no hope of sleep, and so he makes them grilled cheeses when they've settled back in the penthouse. Not the fancy kind — the yellow, Kraft-single, cancerous kind — sandwiched between two pieces of white bread surely manufactured in a laboratory rather than any semblance of a farm.
Normally he'd pounce on the rare opportunity to have her here, alone, without interruption — but he doesn't move to persuade her further. She knows if she would only say the words, he'd have her in the bedroom in a matter of seconds — Rory be damned — and her own resolve is teetering on the edge of nothingness at the thought. But he doesn't test her; doesn't push against the weakened walls of her self-control. He only sinks with a contented hum to the carpet, his back against his leather chair as she sits opposite him and munches quietly away.
"No ketchup," she comments, nodding to the barren plate.
"You hate ketchup," he replies, blinking softly.
Of course he remembers.
Her heart snags in her throat.
"I texted my mom," Chloe says, quietly. "She's taking Trixie out of town for a few days. She has an audition, and I thought it would be good for Trixie to go with her, to —" To get away from here. Just in case.
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Lucifer nods, slowly, staring determinedly at the glass coffee table that rests between them. His own reflection nods back, warped by the flickering light of the candle that sits atop the glass.
Their return to the penthouse has crashed around them like a cold shower, stripping the flushed, panting desperation that had followed them across the darkened dance floor and leaving them bathed in quiet clarity.
"My…power. This connection," she ventures, inciting a lifted gaze from Lucifer. "How can I help you, if I don't even know what it is? What it…does? I want to be there, Lucifer, I want to help you when she comes — if it's tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that — "
He goes slightly rigid, but answers her nonetheless. "I've been racking my brain ever since Amenadiel's revelation. It's obvious you're connected to the staff; that you're imbued with whatever bit of Dad's light Michael managed to leave you with. I just…I don't know where to go from there. I don't know what it means. How we're — how you're — meant to use it."
He sighs, pushing his plate away with an agitated puff.
"If only I was still a detective," she muses, "We could just have Ella take a look at whatever the hell's inside me. She doesn't miss a beat."
She's joking, of course — attempting to lighten the frustrated fervor that's settled on Lucifer's brow. But his gaze snaps to her as the quip settles in the air, and she starts as he jumps to his feet.
"The Detective," he mutters, drumming his hands along the bar as he paces the length of the penthouse. He pauses, rapt in concentrated silence, before his eyes flit to the ceiling in arched realization. "Of course. Oh, that is clever. Bravo, Dad. If this is truly all still a part of your plan, you've really gone and outdone yourself this time round."
Chloe stares at him, still cross-legged on the floor with half a grilled cheese sandwich in hand.
"You wanna…maybe, share with the class?"
He trots to her with all the excitement of a puppy, stumbling over his own feet as he attempts to clamber back down into the spot of indented carpet he's claimed.
"The Detective," he intones, again, as if the moniker itself will guide her on the path to enlightenment.
"Yep. Got that part."
"You are the Detective," he says, waving his hands with impassioned furor.
She stares at him. "Lucifer," she replies, utterly nonplussed, "I know."
"I told you once," he begins, steadying his breaths as he forms the words, "That you were selfless to a nauseating degree. It's true, Detective. You're all good. Even before the staff, before this…" he waves his hand absently to the air — this celestial shitstorm, the motion implies.
"You would have been an ideal choice to wield that staff," he says, "Aside from the small…human snag. You've spent your whole life restoring justice, Detective. Righting wrongs. Putting the bad guys away. You've saved countless lives, helped countless people. All in the name of justice." He pauses. "Real justice. Detective, you are everything Rory is not."
When she doesn't respond he continues, voice lifting with the passion of his words. "You're not the Detective anymore. Not officially, anyway. But when I— when I brought you back—when you got a second chance, Detective, I think perhaps you were given an opportunity to do your job again. Just…on a celestial scale, this time around."
She sets the rest of her grilled cheese down and tucks her knees beneath her, leaning across the coffee table as she fixes Lucifer with a look of silent bewilderment.
"I don't know what any of that means. Not a word, Lucifer."
"I—" He sucks in a breath, stuttering on the word as he attempts to thread together a cohesive thought. "Right. We know the staff melds to its owner, yes? Conforms to the goals of whoever waves it about?"
Chloe nods. "That's why it —" she falters slightly before pushing on, "That's why it killed Michael. Why it didn't send him to Heaven, or Hell. Right? Because of Rory? Because she wants to erase it all, and start over again?"
Lucifer hums in soft approval. "Molded to her desire, as it were. And now it seems that the staff and yourself are intrinsically linked."
He waits for her to catch on, his breaths shallower and his tone more clipped than the long, feline drawl she's come to know. "We know Rory is corrupting the staff. Using it for evil; for her own warped notion of justice. We also know it can be reversed. Restored to its original purity. The only problem is we can't get close enough to the bloody thing to swipe it out from under her. And even then — even if we could — we'd have to go about 'blessing a life taken by evil', according to Amenadiel's billion year old book. The whole thing's seemed like a wash from the start, but now…" he trails off, and the shadow of a smile plays at his lips. "We have you, Detective."
"What? You think I can reverse it?" Chloe asks, mildly incredulous. "I mean, I'm — I'm no one, Lucifer. I can't wrestle a staff from your psychotic little sister. And I don't even know what blessing a life taken by evil means, even if I did have the staff—"
"That's exactly it," he says quietly. "I don't think we need the staff. Not anymore. Not now that we have you. Detective," he murmurs, sliding forward as his smile warps to hardened steel. "You have a piece of that staff inside you. If you were to fulfill the rules of its reversal — if you were to restore justice to a single soul — then perhaps your connection to the staff would be enough to purify it. A single act of good to outweigh the bad. We wouldn't need the staff at all. We just need the Detective, one last time."
He smiles slightly, reaching across the table to drape his hand over her own. "That's hardly no one," he murmurs.
—
Her hand is trembling slightly against the cool glass, and she's grateful for the blanketed warmth of his palm atop hers.
"Are you sure?" She murmurs, eyes drawn as she stares at him across the table. He blinks.
"No," he says, simply. "But I've a sneaking suspicion dear old Dad's plan didn't vanish into dust the second he popped off to retirement. This…development…has his mysterious ways written all over it."
"I'm not sure," he says, relenting against her silence. "There's no way to be sure. But it makes sense. And I think you think so too, Detective."
He's right. She does. That coiling, insistent heat — the one that's become so familiar now as it curls and licks against her scar — has returned off the cuff of his impassioned speech, as if imploring her to take his word as truth.
She only nods, touching a hand instinctively to her navel as the one beneath Lucifer's palm flares with a pang of singing warmth. His fingers scatter across her knuckles at the heat, but he doesn't pull away — he only stares at her in rapt fascination.
"How?" She whispers. "If I can help, if I can fix this, I — how do I do that? How do I bless a life that's already been taken?"
He pales when she says the words, like he's hearing them — really, truly, hearing them — for the first time. They're different coming from her mouth: far different and far more plaintive than the lines of scrawled, ancient text Amenadiel had rattled off to him while his mind had wandered. Here, now, when she speaks them in the quiet stillness of the penthouse, it clicks.
Everything clicks.
He rips his hand from her and crumples against his chair, pulling his fingers through loose, tangled curls. When he finally lifts his eyes to her his gaze is fractured, crumbling on the edges of an unspoken truth.
"She's not coming," he murmurs, shaking his head. "She won't come here."
Chloe frowns. "What? Why? Just…all of a sudden?" She glances around, half expecting to see Rory lurking in the recessed corners of the penthouse. "That's good, right? We can stop staring out the window every five seconds and waiting for your creepy, winged sister to fly in and murder us?"
She ventures a hopeful half-smile, but it dies on the heels of his blanched stare.
"Michael tried to bribe me back down to Hell," Lucifer growls, "He killed Dan, so that you'd feel guilty, Detective, so that you'd—" He doesn't bother finishing. She knows. The memory slices at her; singes her with a violent hiss.
"It was a clever plan," he says, softly. "But you were cleverer. You didn't let him win, you — you were stronger than he was. But if you hadn't been — if you had gone there, to Hell — he would have won. Because he was right — I would have followed you in a heartbeat, Detective, and stayed there for an eternity."
"Michael's gone," she says gently.
"Yes." He balances on the word like a high-wire, gauging the feelings that rush forth from the gaping silence and the brazen mention of his brother's death. But there's nothing — only dull, empty space where his twin had previously held court within the annals of his mind. "Rory is much, much cleverer than he ever was," he says, finally. "She's also never had an original thought a day in her life. Price of immaturity, I suppose. She's piggybacked off of my rebellion; I don't see why she shouldn't take Michael's plan, now, and smooth the edges. Make it foolproof."
Chloe is starting to realize, now; starting to catch up with the runaway train that steams across his broken stare.
"She's not coming," he repeats, his voice empty. "She won't face me here, on Earth. Where I have friends — where she knows our siblings will fight. She'll lure me back down to Hell, where no one in the Silver City will follow me. No one except Amenadiel, and she knows I won't ask it of him. Not when he has baby Charlie at home. We'd be on equal footing — each of us without an army. And she knows how to get me there now, Detective. She's learned from Michael's mistakes. She won't bribe me. She'll threaten me with something — with someone — already there. Someone she knows I won't refuse."
A breeze seethes through the open balcony doors, rustling the sheer curtains and extinguishing the candle between them.
Chloe's mouth goes dry. She understands, now, but neither wants to say it — neither wants to summon the name in fear that speaking it will cast the truth into being.
"Dan," she whispers, finally. Lucifer matches her stricken gaze.
"She'll find him, down there," he says, his voice low. "Use him as leverage. And if I don't go — if I don't meet her in Hell — she'll take him. No Hell. No nothing. He'll be gone, before he even has a chance, before I can help him —"
"A chance?" Chloe's stare narrows. "What chance could he possibly have? He's in Hell, Lucifer."
"Well, I've recently learned a soul in Hell is not, necessarily, sentenced to an eternity of circus clowns and babies crying on airplanes. I met an old friend when I came to retrieve you, Detective — one I'd seen rotting away in his own Hell loop only months before. He faced his guilt, and…" Lucifer motions broadly with a sweeping hand. "There he was. Heaven."
"So there's hope," Chloe says, blue eyes wide. "Dan can — he can get out? Go to Heaven?"
"I had hoped so," Lucifer replies, his voice slipping on the trailing faith of her words. "I'd hoped he would be able to face his guilt, that he'd be able to walk through the door and straight through the Gates, but —" he steals a glance at her, "If Rory has him, Detective, and I don't come — he'll go nowhere at all. He'll be nothing at all."
There's silence. Deadly, creeping silence. Chloe stands on an unsteady breath, padding around the table to the strip of carpet where Lucifer sits, wrapped in the vice grip of his own raging thoughts. She sinks down beside him, laying a gentle hand across his forearm as her head nudges his own aside and nestles into the dip of his shoulder.
"What if we get to him first?" She asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. He turns ever so slightly, his cheek bumping her nose as she speaks the words against his ear.
"Lucifer," she says, heated with the whining insistence of her breath and the thrumming, golden warmth that spreads within her at staff's persistent mention. "You just said that I could purify this staff. That we didn't actually need to have it to make it pure, again; not when I have this…whatever I have. This connection. You said — you said we needed to bless a life taken by evil. Undo an injustice. Lucifer, if we can get to Dan — if I can help him face his guilt, like you said — maybe that's some justice restored. We could turn the tables on her."
He's quiet; mute against the scent of his shampoo in her hair as she pulls her head from his shoulder and faces him with imploring eyes.
When he does speak, allowing her words to crash and recede against them, his voice is flat.
"It could work." He shifts against the molten heat of her palm. "In theory."
"In theory?"
"That's all it is," he says quietly. "That's all it will ever be, Detective." He's growing more insistent now, matching her stare with flickering eyes. "Because in practice, it means—"
"I know what it means."
There's a beat. Smoke from the prematurely extinguished candle twists in tendrils above her head, draping her in a shroud of muted grey. The smell of ashes fills the space between them, stinging and bitter, though whether the scent has been yanked from the dying candle, or the seething heat that pricks from Chloe's scar, or from the crackling embers that flare in the depths of Lucifer's black gaze — is impossible to tell.
She traces an absent line along the hand he splays across her wrist, grasping for her and begging for her silence. When she speaks again she's looking at him, shoving her shredded pulse down with a breath as she stares in immovable conviction.
"Lucifer," she whispers, "I have to go to Hell."