Chapter 1
"You know, for a minute there I thought you were going to stand me up," Chloe grins shyly, her finger trailing along the rim of her wineglass.
"My deepest apologies, Detective," he takes his seat across from her, smiling anxiously. "My session with Dr. Linda ran a bit long, and… I didn't turn my phone back on once I'd left."
"Everything okay?" her sea-green eyes glow in the soft lighting of the restaurant, made more vivid by the pale ivory of the bulky cowlneck sweater that somehow still manages to showcase the soft curves of her body.
An eager young waitress appears at his elbow before he can formulate a reply, and he rattles off his drink order without really acknowledging her. Chloe sips at her own drink, her eyes crinkling with amusement at the disappointment on the server's face as she scurries away to fulfil the order. Lucifer's throat is suddenly dry and he grasps for his water glass, taking a deep drink.
"It wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to invite you out and then fail to join you, darling," he gives her a smooth smile, and while she recognizes the dodge, she lets it slide. He picks up the elegant menu and focuses on it with frenetic intensity. "Have you decided what you'll order? The branzino here is delectable."
She watches him, bemused, as he prattles about the entrees, and which of them the cook that owes him the favor is particularly adept at. He looks handsome and distinguished as ever in his graphite shirt and black suit, the white polka dots on his slate blue pocket square seeming to dance in the candlelight flickering between them. She notices a slight tendril of his hair starting to escape its product prison, the tip of it just shy of brushing his forehead, and she wonders if he's been nervously running his hand over his hair—not that the devil would ever admit to a nervous habit, especially one that musses his magnificent hairstyle.
"Sorry," he mutters when he realizes that he's rambling, his eyes slowly climbing to meet her amused expression. He pulls in a deep breath and holds it for a moment before releasing it slowly. "I am sorry, Detective, this…" he gestures vaguely between them, "isn't anything I'm accustomed to. Friendship. Kindness. Gratitude."
"Having a home?"
"That… may play a small factor, yes," he allows briskly, but he takes any sting from the words with a warm smile and a light touch of her hand. His eyes glint appreciatively at her. "You look lovely, Detective. Thank you for agreeing to have dinner with me."
"Lucifer, I like spending time with you, you don't have to thank me for that," she laughs fondly at his puzzled expression. "Just like I'm always on your side, okay? We don't always have to have a reason to do stuff together."
"I'm not sure I follow, Detective," a pang of sadness rips through her heart, because she can see that he truly doesn't.
Hasn't anyone wanted to spend time with him just for his company, because they enjoyed it? Or have they all just wanted something from him? She's afraid she already knows the answer to that.
The waitress reappears then, with the bottle of wine Lucifer had requested and takes their food orders. Her smile is less forced now, and Chloe wonders if it has anything to do with the price tag on the bottle. Once the server leaves, Chloe seizes her opportunity to settle where they stand.
"Look, I know things have been a little… weird between us lately," she takes a breath and holds it until it's no longer fluttering in her chest before she continues, "and that's at least partly my fault. I got a little emotional with my dad's case, and I might have read things wrong, and then with everything with Ella on the Glory case, I just—" she breaks off because the confused furrow on his brow is only getting deeper and his head tilt has gone to the extreme of a young puppy hearing a high-pitched sound for the first time. A gusty sigh escapes her. Chloe, you know he's clueless. Keep it simple. She smiles, and leans forward like she's imparting a secret, "You're… my best friend. My partner. It's just been a long time since I've had someone I can count on in my life, and… I think I maybe got confused. With… with our relationship."
"Well, if it helps, you're clearly not the only one," Lucifer chuckles. It catches in his throat, and he clears it with a soft cough. "The, ah, the reason my session ran long was because I… had a realization of sorts."
Now it's Chloe's brow that's furrowed. Lucifer rarely discusses the details of his sessions with her—even going so far as to say that he can't discuss it with her specifically—though he's more than willing to discuss literally anything else. "A realization."
"Yes, exactly," hope lights in his eyes when she doesn't immediately reject the topic of discussion. "I thought I came to Los Angeles to… to reinvent myself, to escape my father's plan, but the good Doctor pointed out that I've also been looking for something."
"Okay?" Chloe tries to follow along, her heart starting to race at the unnamed emotion trembling in his dark eyes. "What is that you're looking for?"
"I… Detective, I'm not quite sure what it means, but, I think I may have been looking for you." He drops his gaze, suddenly incredibly interested in a tiny wrinkle in the white linen tablecloth. "I told you earlier that I'd realized that as much as I love it, Lux wasn't truly my home. The building itself, that is. Home… Whatever it is we are, it's… that feels like home." You feel like home, he nearly says, but doesn't.
Chloe stares at him, a flush crawling up her cheeks. Is he saying what I think he's saying? Is he—?
"Lucifer, I'm…" her voice shakes a little and she spares the effort to steady it, watching his manicured nails pick relentlessly at the hapless wrinkle. She wants clarity between them. Emotions are hard for him, lay it out. "What are you trying to say?"
"You're special," he says simply, his eyes jump up to meet hers and it's hard to tell with the dim lighting, but she thinks his cheeks are pinker than they would normally be. "You're important to me, Detective, and… I need to show you who I am. All of this is new to me, but… You need to know, or none of this means anything. None of it is real until you accept the truth."
"Oh," maybe she hadn't been confused, after all. Her heart swells, and suddenly she feels too warm in her thick sweater. "Okay, um, what do you want to show me?"
"Not here," he murmurs, shaking his head. "Can we go somewhere after dinner? Anywhere you like, anywhere you feel safe."
Safe? That's an odd stipulation, but okay… She nods, trying to figure out the secrets that he's held so tightly—until now.
Their food arrives then, and Chloe glances up in startlement. They'd placed their order less than half an hour ago.
"Chef Paolo extends his greetings, and his compliments, Mr. Morningstar, and hopes the meal is up to your exacting standards." The server isn't the same waitress as before, but a deeply tanned older woman with mousy brown hair and friendly green eyes. Obviously a manager if the classier uniform is anything to judge by.
"I have faith in Paolo's skills, Marisa, thank you," he grins up at her and she recognizes the dismissal, backing away with a bob of her head.
Another couple is seated at the table next to them, then, and Lucifer sits a little straighter. By mutual consent the conversation changes to something lighter, and the rest of the meal passes in a pleasant haze of candlelight, their usual banter, gentle laughter, occasional long gazes, and fluttering pulses.
Finally the last morsel has been consumed, the dregs of the (admittedly excellent) wine drained, and Chloe's stomach feels as though she's swallowed a package of Trixie's Pop Rocks. Lucifer seems to sense the shift in her mood, and he moistens his lips. Her eyes catch the movement and linger there, wondering where the night will lead them.
"You never did answer my question earlier, Detective," he begins tentatively, "Can we… will you allow me to show you who I am?"
"Lucifer, I already know who you are," she says lightly. She's trying to hold on to the sense of them that they enjoyed over the meal. It had felt like something, perhaps a beginning. She knows Lucifer has his issues, but he's a good person, and working on being better every day. It's astonishing how much he's grown and matured over the past year. Nothing he can show her will change that. She pushes down the images of the gnarled scars adorning his back, of the sound of his ragged voice, desperately demanding to be shot by a sniper. Of his absolute certainty that both of his parents were all-powerful, and always plotting against him.
"You know me better than anyone save Doctor Linda, yes. But you don't believe me about the important bits," he sighs, eyes closing dejectedly. "And since my meddling muttonhead of a brother convinced you not to test my blood, I've only got one way remaining to prove anything to you."
"Okay," she agrees quietly, dismayed that this is what he wants to talk about. The Devil thing. Of course it is. She's already seen the cosplay wings, which he apparently burned. Does he have horns and a tail, too? Maybe some of those weird goat-leg prosthetics that Ella showed her a few weeks ago? Heaven help her, if Chloe ever encounters either of his parents she intends to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with them. "Sure, Lucifer, we can go somewhere private and talk."
"Wherever you like, Detective, I want you to feel safe." That's twice now that he's stressed her safety, and the pleasant Pop Rocks feeling in her stomach starts to devolve into a cold, heavy lump. Just what is it he needs to tell her?
"Trixie's at home with her sitter, so… yeah, I know a place." She'll take him to the beach. It'll be quiet and private. Maybe even nice, if she can get him past this. "Do you want to ride with me?"
He considers for a moment, fingers lightly drumming the table before he reaches his decision. He's surprisingly serious when he responds, "Yes, that may be best. You may feel safer if I have no way to pursue you when you run."
She rolls her eyes at that and scoffs, "Lucifer, I'm not going to just leave you somewhere, no matter what you tell me."
He merely smiles sadly in response and stands gracefully, circling the table to pull her seat back for her. "Are you ready, then?"
"Sure, let's do this," she laughs, getting to her feet and turning to face him as she gathers her clutch from the table. "Are you okay?"
His expression is stunned, eyes wide and mouth partially open as he gapes at her. Self-conscious, she tugs on her sweater, glancing down. Oh, right. A smile touches the corners of her lips. She hadn't forgotten his proclamation of being a leg man.
"Detective, you were hiding those under the table the entire time we were sitting here." It comes out faintly accusatory, and her pleased laughter jolts him out of his shock. His eyes sweep her from head to toe, taking in her short skirt, the bared, shapely legs that had been hidden by the tablecloth when he'd arrived late to dinner. "I was wrong before, you don't look lovely, you look exquisite." He stares appreciatively for another moment before offering his arm with a gallant gesture, "Shall we?"
She flushes again and wraps her hand around his offered elbow as they move toward the exit. His left hand softly covers hers as his right elbow snugs her arm against his ribs, and she can only just feel the fine tremors wracking through him as they exit the restaurant.
It's all he can do not to tremble at the thought of what he's about to do. What he's about to do to her. He shouldn't. She doesn't deserve to look upon the Devil's face, that visage is reserved for sinners of the worst order. The most malevolent, stained souls deserve that punishment, not the likes of her.
And yet, the doctor is right, the Detective wants to know. Has asked him multiple times to show her, to prove to her what he is. He's told her, shown her every way he knows how, but one. He needs her to know, because until she does he'll always doubt her acceptance, her affection. And if—when—she rejects him… he tries to convince himself that he'd much rather it be sooner than later. After all, he's already grown attached, it's only likely to get worse.
And yet, he's certain that once she does know, he'll lose her. Because who could possibly accept the Devil? If he's lucky, she'll decide he's useful enough to keep around for cases. Perhaps he'll still have the odd chance to make her roll her eyes, or smile. If she can get past the utter, brain-scrambling terror of working with Old Scratch, that is.
They reach the entrance to the restaurant just as Lucifer is flagged down by the anxious chef Paolo himself, wanting to make sure everything was perfect. Chloe holds up her valet tag, indicating she's going to send for the car. Lucifer smiles at her and nods before turning back to Paolo to assure him that the evening and food had been delightful, and his favor was indeed repaid in full.
He waves away the effusive thanks and turns back to the street, only to be distracted by familiar voices from a nearby alleyway. He edges closer to the voices, eyes skimming the humans along the sidewalk for the Detective's provocative outfit. She'd worn that skirt for him, he was sure of it.
"Well, of course I can." There, the words were clear now, that's Mum. "I just press this button." Perhaps she was having a technology issue and was asking for help.
"Mom, please... give me the detonator." Detonator? Amenadiel?
"No." Her tone is petulant and irritated, like a child not getting her way. "This little bug is the reason that Lucifer doesn't want to go home. Squash her, problem solved."
Bloody Hell, Mum, I've already told you, Los Angeles is my home! Why is his family so set on targeting the Detective to go after him?
"Are you really gonna make me force it away from you?" Lucifer feels a slight twinge of appreciation for Amenadiel, at least someone is on his side.
"Trust me, you don't want to do that." There's a clear warning tone in his mother's voice, and Lucifer spots Chloe's car being pulled up to the curb—there she is. The valet hands her the keys and jogs off to meet his next client. Detonator? His eyes widen as the next words reach his ears.
"But I can't let you kill Chloe, Mom," there's an indistinct grunting noise, Lucifer suddenly recalls Amenadiel getting his arse handed to him by Uriel, and he doesn't waste a moment bolting for his partner.
"Chloe, look out!" he shouts, she turns just as he impacts with her, managing to drag her a half dozen feet away before she digs in her heels with an annoyed huff at his seemingly unnecessary panic.
"Lucifer, what the hell—" Her breath is hot in his ear, but his focused celestial hearing catches the tiny click of the button in his mother's hand, and he has only enough time to wrap himself protectively around Chloe, tucking her face into his chest and shielding her as a fireball of heat and light explodes from underneath the car.
Chloe screams in his arms, the terrified sound of them nearly as painful as the blast of flame and shrapnel embedding itself into his body. He locks his jaw to avoid adding his own screams to the bedlam as the all-too-familiar sensation of his flesh igniting and melting crawls under his rapidly crisping skin. His blistering hand cushions her head as they strike the pavement with the force of the blast. The foul scent of burning hair fills the air as he manages to roll several more feet away until the air is cool enough to breathe without damaging lungs further. He shoves her away then with the last of his waning strength, trying to keep her from being burned by the blaze consuming him.
He lays on the pavement, his body crawling with flames, bleeding from hundreds of cuts that wouldn't be possible but for the fragile human he'd willingly shielded. And now, without her to focus on, suddenly his mind is back in Hell. Screaming and fire, heat and agony. His wings. Where are his wings? He can't fight properly without them… The world around him spins. It burns. Urgent shouting. Another, smaller explosion and more screaming, gripping hands. Lights flashing through his crisped eyelids. It burns.
This is my fault. Mum. This happened because of me. If she… if she… my fault.
He hears his name in stereo, one voice, hoarse with pain and raspy with heat; the second further away, shrill with panic.
My fault. All my fault.
Finally, blissfully, inevitably, everything goes dark and silent.
"Lucifer!" his name erupts from her seared throat on the tail end of a ragged gasp, coughed out the moment she gathered her wits. She pries her eyes open and crawls in the direction she thinks he was, her vision blurs with tears—from the acrid smoke or from not knowing, she doesn't know. The acrid taste of burning hair, skin, and gasoline lines her throat. She feels a tingling tightness on the burned backs of her hands and a stinging in her palms as they encounter shards of shattered safety glass and bits of red-hot metal on the pavement between herself and her partner.
She hears his name being echoed by another voice, familiar but unplaceable in the chaos of the scene, then suddenly gentle hands are grabbing her, lifting her and roughly carrying her—somewhere.
"Lucifer!" she rasps again, this time as a sob. Over the shoulder of her rescuer, she can barely make out a shadowy shape hovering over the still-blazing form on the pavement through her tears. Another small explosion rocks the conflagration what had once been her car, and her rescuer drags her further away still.
"Chloe, look out!"
That voice did not belong here, and the Goddess of all Creation freezes in place, dangling her Eldest son in midair by the neck of his jacket. Amenadiel takes advantage of her distraction and scrabbles for the detonator.
Her thumb depresses the trigger and the force of the blast knocks her off her feet.
"What is he doing here?" Goddess mutters to herself as she staggers to her feet. Her Eldest son lays a few feet away, groaning. She leans over to check him for wounds—since he's apparently mostly human now—before helping him to his feet.
"Luci," he gasps, staring in horror at the fireball before them.
Goddess can make out the stirring form of her Lightbringer's damned Detective on the pavement, and she considers using the distraction of the blast to just go end her there and then.
"Luci!" Amenadiel breathes again, horror infusing his tone. The Goddess glances at him in concern.
"What are you worried about? That blast wouldn't hurt him." Wait. Where is he? Why isn't he hovering over that… that human of his? Or storming over to shout at her about endangering humans with that ridiculous accent of his?
"Mom, Chloe makes him vulnerable! He can be hurt when she's nearby, he can die."
"He what?" Her sharp eyes catch sight of a large chunk of burning debris laying on the sidewalk several feet from the feebly stirring human she'd tried to exterminate, and she spies a familiar ring within the dancing flames. "Lucifer!"
She starts to run to him, but Amenadiel beats her there, yanking off his jacket and patting it down over his brother to smother the flames still licking at his body. The double chirp of a siren distracts him and he tries to gather his brother's still-smoking form in his arms to get him away from the humans, but firefighters swarm, forcing him and his mother back away from the flames. He sees another two grab Lucifer and lift him, efficiently carrying him far enough away from the blazing vehicle to be placed on a gurney and immediately placed in an ambulance with a flock of technicians surrounding him.
"Mom," Amenadiel takes her arm and starts to tug her away. In her shock, she lets him. "We have to go. If we don't go now, there's going to be trouble. Where is the detonator?"
"What?" she snaps distractedly, eyes still fixed on the still visible sliver of gurney that holds her decimated Lightbringer. "Why does that matter?"
"Mom." He insists, and she finally tears her eyes away once the ambulance doors have closed and the vehicle roars away. "If they find the detonator it's going to have your fingerprints on it. They'll be able to trace it to you because Charlotte Richards used to be on the police force. We can't leave it here, where is it."
It takes precious minutes to locate the tiny device in the dim alley, even with the flames burning brightly not 50 feet away. Amenadiel does a final sweep of the scene before carefully leading his stunned mother away through the opposite end of the alley. They barely manage to escape the police cordon, and then Goddess becomes hysterical in the car when Amenadiel turns toward his apartment.
"Why are we not going to the place they took your brother!?"
"Mom, if we turn up at the hospital before the authorities notify family of the situation, it's going to look suspicious. We can't do anything to help him right now, his healing should kick in the moment he's far enough from Chloe, and we'll just… have to check him out before the humans can find anything out about him."
"Why didn't he tell me about this… affliction?" she whimpers from the passenger seat as Amenadiel grimly drives them home. "How did this happen?"
"We don't know why," the former angel admits wearily, "At first we just… thought it was a—a glitch, something maybe involved with being on Earth too long. But then he realized it only happened around Chloe."
"Come on," she groans petulantly. "Why would he choose to remain close to the human that allows him to get injured like one of them? Especially when he's got the chance to go home with us! One little human can't mean more to him than his family."
"He killed Uriel to protect her," Amenadiel reminds her quietly, and she surreptitiously wipes a tear from her smudged cheek.
"Well... what's so damn special about this one?" She grumbles, and he only just manages not to roll his eyes.
"That I don't know. But, Mom, the bottom line is if we want Luci to go home with us, then we need to make sure that it's his decision to leave Chloe behind." He pulls over to allow more flashing lights to pass them by, rushing to the scene of the explosion. "We just have to get him out of the hospital first and healed up."
Chapter 2
The pain is a welcome distraction from the image of her partner engulfed in flames on the ground that's nearly literally burned on the backs of her eyelids. The tender feeling of too-tight skin is exacerbated by the sharp pain of her shoulder where they'd impacted the sidewalk when the blast had blown them off their feet. Lucifer had shielded her from the worst of it, she knows, and all she can think is that no matter how she is feeling, he'll be a hundred times worse. She hopes he's unconscious.
She hopes he's only unconscious. He hadn't been moving, not even feebly twitching as her rescuer had carried her away from the flaming remains of her car and toward the ambulances. She sits huddled on a gurney a safe distance away, the smell of overheated metal and burning plastic and rubber enough to make her gag, but not as badly as the rank scent of burnt hair and charred flesh still clinging to her. Her own burns are painful and blistering, but no more than second degree, primarily on the backs of her hands but also her forearms, where they'd been wrapped around Lucifer's waist as he'd tried to tackle her away from the blast. She thinks to herself that most of the burnt flesh smell is from him, not her. She tries to get a glimpse of him, but his gurney had been loaded onto the ambulance almost immediately and they're scrambling to close the doors now, preparing for departure.
She clamps down on a sob, trying not to consider why they seem to be in such a rush. Her throat is raw and dry from the blast of superheated air and her lungs are burning, though not as badly as they would have been had Lucifer not been shielding her, with her face buried in his jacket.
He saved my life. Again. That's what, three times now? And it's the second time from fire. She recalls his scoffing humor as he'd noticed the burns on his arms after toting her out of the burning restaurant.
The Devil gets burned by fire. Could this be any more ironic?
She inhales again, the cloying, nauseating smell of burnt skin and hair coating her airway as the strangled sounds he'd emitted in her ear when the blast had struck them echo in her whirling mind. She overhears snatches of the paramedics arguing about whether her burns are first or second-degree—they've cut away her burnt sleeves and her hose had already melted away in the heat before she'd even been dragged away from the explosion. The decision is made to get her to the burn unit and let the experts decide on the degree of her burns. The fluids running through the line and into the IV in the crook of her elbow are blessedly cool, as are the wet wraps they've placed on her arms and legs. The skin on her face feels uncomfortably tight, but overall, she'd been shielded from the brunt of the blast.
How badly did Lucifer get injured? In addition to the burns, there were bound to be multiple injuries from flying debris from the blast. She had several cuts and deeper lacerations on her legs, she can only imagine what his back must look like—his back, already marred with those massive scars across his shoulders.
Oh God, the scars. Her partner is a handsome man, and vain for it. He's used to having people falling at his feet over his good looks, and he uses them like a suit of armor. He already has a wealth of self-image issues, how much worse would extensive cosmetic scarring be for him? How long will his recovery take? He knows he healed quickly after she shot him, and the previous burns did as well, but this…
She closes her eyes, swallowing hard as she sees again the fiery image of Lucifer's disturbingly still, burning form sprawled on the sidewalk. The shadowy figure over him, trying to douse the flames with a coat. Her throat tightens and she fights down another sob, her chest constricting with worry. She'll ask about Lucifer the moment she gets to the hospital. He's her partner. He saved her life. She needs to know.
Amenadiel breathes a sigh of relief when he finally gets the call from the hospital. Keeping his mother distracted enough to stop Her from barreling straight to the hospital and giving away their involvement in the blast to the human authorities had been harder than he'd anticipated. He'd finally set Her to looking for ways to get Lucifer discharged from the hospital before his celestial healing can give the humans any proof of divinity.
"Did you find out how to get him discharged?" He asks warily after hanging up the call, well aware of the ominous grumblings that had been emanating from Her side of the room for the past two hours. "That was the hospital, we can go there now."
"They certainly took their time with the notification," She snarls, and Amenadiel winces as She slams Her laptop closed. "This is useless. Medical law has far fewer loopholes to exploit than criminal law! If he's unconscious, the hospital won't release him unless another medical facility signs to take over his care, but I don't have those kinds of connections. It's utterly ridiculous that they won't release him into my care. I'm his mother, I know what's best for him!"
Didn't seem that way when You were blowing him up, Amenadiel thinks to himself sarcastically, before feeling a twinge of guilt in his withered wings at the ungenerous thought. She hadn't known about Lucifer's vulnerability, after all. But She had intended to kill Chloe… He needs to address that line of thought again, make sure She doesn't try to go back to it.
"Lucifer doesn't have emergency contacts set up," he explains as they head toward the car, "The only reason they knew to contact me is because Chloe gave them my information, Mom."
"That human is aware enough to give the hospital information, but My son isn't!?" Goddess snaps, twisting a lock of Her hair between deceptively delicate fingers. "Everything about this is wrong, Amenadiel. We have to get your brother off this planet and away from these humans. Especially that one."
"But we have to think it through carefully, Mom," Amenadiel reminds her firmly, "You can't kill Chloe. Lucifer… I know him better than he knows himself, and if You do… he won't rest until he finds out what happened, and he would never forgive You."
"Don't be ridiculous," She scoffs, "I'm his mother."
"When you escaped Hell, he was sure You were going to kill him when You found him, Mom, he… family doesn't… he doesn't trust us anymore." The bitter taste of bile fills his mouth as he considers his part in that development.
"That's because you lied to him," She accuses off-handedly, staring out the window at the passing lights of the city. "Lucifer respects the truth."
"Which reminds me, what are we going to tell him about what happened?" He grips the steering wheel tightly, ostensibly keeping his attention on the traffic around them. His mother stiffens beside him, though, and he knows She's considering their options.
She knows Her eldest son is right. Lucifer won't rest until he finds out what happened. If it had only been he that was affected, She knows he would be quick to forgive Her. Her Lightbringer has always been quick to forgive a slight to himself with the slightest show of remorse in return. But now that his precious Detective has been injured… She's going to have to adjust Her approach to how he finds out the truth. Because now his wrath will come into play, and in that… he is far too much like his father. She pulls her bottom lip between Her blunt human teeth and worries it as She thinks.
"He was rushing to her before the bomb went off," She muses thoughtfully, "Do you think he heard our scuffle in that disgusting alley?"
Amenadiel glances at Her, startled. He'd been too distracted by being dangled and trying to keep his mother from detonating the bomb to pay too much attention to their surroundings.
"Chloe, look out!"
He remembers the words ringing in the relative silence just before the blast. His mother is right, Lucifer had known something was going to happen, so it's likely that he'd heard their struggle. Even without his wings, Lucifer's celestial hearing was more than acute enough to pick out their voices in fairly close proximity.
"I think we should assume that he did hear us, Mom," Amenadiel decides as he pulls into the hospital parking garage and slowly spirals down the ramp, looking for a parking space. "We'll have to tell him the truth."
The burn unit is bustling with activity and Chloe fights the drugs they've given her, trying to stay awake, to stay aware to witness it. The waiting is difficult. Her wrapped limbs feel heavy, unresponsive, but also oddly light, like they're floating in body-temperature liquid. Her mind wants to drift, thanks to the drugs trickling slowly through the IV, but she needs to remain conscious to get an update on her partner. She can't rest until she knows how he is. They've placed her in a double room, in the bed furthest from the door so she has a decent view into the hallway through the open door. Nursing staff members have been rushing past her field of view with alarming frequency since she was parked in here. Finally, a nurse steps through the doorway to check on her.
"Ms. Decker, how are you feeling?"
"Please, how is Lucifer?"
"He's being taken care of," the gentle non-answer falls on frustrated ears, and Chloe nearly growls in frustration when she finds she can't even clench her hands due to the bandages over her burns. Her nurse is a late-middle aged woman with deep auburn hair. The roots are a sandy color, and a good inch or two long, but it's tied back into a neat bun. Her soft brown eyes scrutinize the detective from a galaxy of freckles speckling her friendly face in chaotic constellations, and small laugh-lines crease the corners of her eyes when she smiles at her charge. "My job right now is to take care of you. You should be sleeping. How is your pain? Is it keeping you awake?"
"No, I'm definitely sleepy, but I can't sleep until I know Lucifer is okay. He's my partner, and he was hurt protecting me." She allows a little pleading to creep into her voice. It's not difficult to do; she's willing to beg at this point if it means someone will tell her something. "Please. He's… my best friend."
The words ring hollow in her own ears, and the nurse (Freya, according to the name badge hanging crookedly from the reel attached to her jacket pocket) gives her a disbelieving look.
"Honey, if your best friend puts himself between you and a car bomb, I'd really like to know your criteria for a significant other."
Chloe feels her cheeks warming, and she finds herself a little grateful for the slight residual burns on her cheeks, since her blush probably doesn't show outwardly. Tears bead on her eyelashes, though, and one takes the plunge, quickly followed by another until a veritable parade of them is streaming unchecked down her face. "Please. I just… I need to know he's going to be okay."
"Mr. Morningstar's burns are severe," Freya murmurs sympathetically as she checks Chloe's tubing and IV site. She looks over the dressings covering the patchy burns on her arms and legs, but doesn't offer to change them yet. "He's still in surgery to remove the embedded debris from the explosion. It's going to be quite a while before he's moved to a room, but I believe they intend to house him here with you so we can keep a close eye on you both."
"But I'm fine. Why would need to keep an eye on both of us?"
A delicately-shaped eyebrow lifts in disbelief as she checks the new bruises blooming over Chloe's shoulder where they'd impacted the pavement during the blast, then moves to inspect the deeper cuts on her legs from airborne debris. "Ms. Decker, I don't want to worry you, but you're here because your car was rigged to explode."
Chloe stares at the nurse in slack-jawed surprise. She'd been so worried about Lucifer that she hadn't even considered the cause of their injuries.
Someone wants me dead. Or us? Did the bomber know Lucifer was going to be with her?
The nurse watches her carefully, notes the widening of her eyes and flaring of the nostrils as she fights not to start panting. She glances out into the hallway and notices the armed guard across the hallway for the first time. She drags in a shuddering breath and holds it, forcing herself to let it free slowly before allowing another to take its place until her calm is restored. Her mind feels clearer than it has since Lucifer shouted his warning before he knocked her back.
He had known.
He'd seen, heard, or suspected something that made him fear for her safety. Wait. He'd been concerned about her safety even before dinner.
"Can we go somewhere after dinner? Anywhere you like, anywhere you feel safe."
She swallows, her throat suddenly dry.
What if he'd finally been about to tell her something real about his past? She's not stupid, she's had her suspicions about her partner's sketchy history since they met. With his taste for money and drugs, and his lack of traceable history, there's every possibility that he used to be some kind of mob kingpin… or the spoiled son of one. He's got all the signs of someone trying to run from his past, to turn over a new leaf and leave everything that he was behind. Why else would he style himself as the Devil, and only refer to his past as Hell? Why else would he cloak his entire life in metaphors and never once break from them?
But that still doesn't tell her who the target was. Was the bomber after her, Lucifer, or the both of them? Was it something to do with a case they'd worked together? Or a sinister shadow from Lucifer's hidden past coming back to rear its ugly head?
He had known she was in danger, though.
What had he seen? What did he know? She blinks suddenly, surprised to find the nurse shining a light into her eyes.
"There you are, welcome back," Freya says with a small smile. "I think we're going to need to increase your meds just a little so you can relax, hm? If you get some sleep, Mr. Morningstar might even be in here with you by the time you wake up."
"Will he…" she swallows, suddenly unsure if she wants the answer to her question, "How extensive were his burns?"
A flash of sorrow sparks in the nurse's soft brown eyes, and she glances to the door briefly before pressing some buttons on the pump attached to Chloe's IV line. She whispers quietly enough not to be overheard from the hall, "Mr. Morningstar's burns cover about 60 percent of his body, mostly third degree, with some areas of fourth degree. His head, back, and shoulders took the worst damage, but he has some smaller areas of first-and-second as well, along his chest and abdomen. We don't know how his lungs didn't take more damage. His recovery is going to be a long and hard one, but he seems to be a fighter. He's lucky to be alive."
Oh my God. Chloe's breath catches in her throat. Her lungs burn again, and this time it has nothing to do with the reek of burning rubber or the stifling heat in the air. She tries to imagine her impatient, energetic, unceasingly active partner… her Lucifer… enduring a long, drawn-out healing process. He can't even sit still on a stakeout, how on earth is he going to manage being bedridden for weeks. Longer? A shuddering breath escapes her, and she manages to shake her head at the nurse's question asking if she needs anything further before she moves on to tend her next patient.
Her eyes drift blankly out the door, resting on the armed guard she can see. He's chatting with someone across the hall, and she realizes there's a pair of them out there.
That explains why Dan hasn't been in to see me yet, she realizes with a slow blink. No visitors until they get more details on the bomb, and who might have planted it.
It's not like they'd need to look too far for suspects. Throw a rock and you'll hit a half-dozen, she grimaces at the wry thought, but can't refute the truth of it. Between her cases, her unpopularity at the precinct even after being proven right about Palmetto, and Lucifer's unknown past… they're going to have a Hell of time narrowing down the pool of suspects.
She wonders briefly if they've even notified Dan of the blast yet, or if they'd want to clear him of suspicion before making the call. She had, after all, been on a sort-of date. Her ex would probably be one of the first places they'd look, especially given Dan's blemished record. She wonders if Lucifer's brother has been called. She tries to imagine the enormous black man that is somehow Lucifer's sibling – and she no longer doubts that, not with the amount of animosity between the two—fuming with annoyance in the waiting area. She's only met Amenadiel a time or two, but he doesn't seem like the type to flock to an injured sibling's side to offer assistance.
Thoughts of Trixie cross her mind, and how close her daughter almost came to losing her mom… again. And how she has Lucifer to thank for the fact that she's still here… again.
Maybe I should consider a safer line of work. I could… be a barista or something.
Her mind starts to go a little loopy with the influx of medication, her bandaged limbs feel heavier and she vaguely remembers the nurse's words… that if she sleeps, maybe Lucifer will be with her when she wakes. She decides it's worth a try, and lets her eyes slide closed.
The peaceful void doesn't last long. It never does. Bloody celestial metabolism. He has to work insanely hard to get blackout drunk or high, and it never lasts long enough to offer him a true escape. This time is different though— the moment he becomes aware, a tsunami of pain slams over his body. He crashes back to himself like flaming wreckage strewn on a sun-baked beach. Like a meteor blazing across the sky. He's in a prone position, and his muscles tense as he senses movement all around him amid the blinding haze of an all-too-familiar agony. Fire and ice battle for supremacy across the surface of tortured skin that had once again felt the intimate kiss of flames.
What had happened?
A cacophony of beeps and tones, along with the alarming sounds of metallic instruments and murmuring voices greet his sensitive ears, but he finds he can't open his eyes. Several sets of small hands flutter over and around his person. Though they are gentle, pain follows in their wake like trails of bioluminescence in the ocean as a ship passes, rippling and spreading in whorls and eddies. His jaw instinctively clamps shut, but he must make some noise because there's a sudden flurry of activity around him.
My fault.
The bewildering thought lodges in his mind, and he has just enough time to wonder what it means before a soothing coolness spreads from his left arm to the rest of his body. His thoughts fade gratefully into the background. Not back into that blissful nothingness, but into a dark enough grey area that whatever is happening around him is reduced to gentle tugs and probes. Almost pleasant, if his mind didn't keep trying to read it as a horde of the grabby under-demons he'd worked so hard to avoid in Hell. They were a particularly noxious breed; shrill voices and tiny, misshapen bodies with dirty, razor-sharp claws. They weren't particularly dangerous to an archangel, even a fallen one, but if the horde was large enough they could manage to do some damage before he could eradicate it entirely. And the entire time they would be shrieking bloody murder, sounding eerily like human spawn at play.
Had there been another demon rebellion? Did they somehow manage to capture him, strap him down? How was he going to escape whatever they had planned for him?
My fault.
Random words float into his limited consciousness, seeming to drift to him like sand along the sea floor—slowly and aimlessly.
Debris… hemorrhage… debride… stat… lavage… explosion.
Explosion.
The Detective. The surrounding grey fog burns away in a blast of enlightenment within his drugged brain. Of course. Mum. The bomb! The Detective! She's in danger! With a massive effort he manages to lift his head, only to be greeted with a flurry of raised voices and another sudden influx of coolness racing through his bloodstream with the pounding of his panicked heart. Still unable to open his eyes—and what would cause that? — his world doesn't so much go dark as fall quiet, his mind retreating into sheltering shadow once more.
There is no one manning the reception desk when Amenadiel and his mother enter the emergency room waiting area. It's that strange time of night where everything seems to stand still, holding its breath as though waiting to see if the night will continue into morning, or remain in this eerie stillness for all eternity. The timeless battle between renewal and stagnation, writ small upon the trembling second hand of a waiting room clock.
Goddess kicks up enough of a fuss that someone appears at the desk in short order, and Amenadiel then has his hands full restraining Her when they're told that Lucifer is still in surgery and they can't see him yet.
"What was the point of traipsing all the way across town in your cramped human vehicle just to find out that we can't even see My son?" Goddess growls as his hand tightens cautiously over Her elbow. "What are we supposed to do now?"
"We wait, Mom," Amenadiel mutters, earning a sympathetic, if slightly shocked, look from the young man behind the desk. The fallen angel directs his mother to one of the uncomfortable chairs and goes back to the desk before the attendant can disappear again. "The woman that came in with my brother, Chloe Decker? How is she?"
"I'm afraid I can't release any information about any patient without proof of an immediate relationship," his open face is apologetic but firm, and Amenadiel nods in understanding. A clatter at the door has them both turning to greet the disheveled Dan Espinoza staggering in.
Amenadiel sidles away as Dan hurries to the desk. "I just got a call—my ex-wife, Chloe Decker, she was caught in an explosion, they couldn't give me any real information—"
"All right, sir, let's see some ID, and I'll see what information I can find for you…"
Amenadiel crosses the room to his mother, who had noticed Dan's entry as well. She watches him with an appraising expression as Amenadiel seats himself next to Her.
"Do you know that human, Amenadiel?"
"I've only met him once," he shrugs, keeping his voice low. "He's Chloe's ex, Dan… something. Luci usually just calls him 'the douche'."
"Hmm," She muses absently, watching how the tight t-shirt the man is wearing hugs his torso and delineates the muscles underneath. "He is fairly attractive, for a human. That bulky jacket he had on earlier almost hid that." Her eyes drop to admire the tightness of his jeans and Amenadiel makes a disgusted strangled noise.
"Mom, please!" he refuses to acknowledge how close to a whine those words were, but then the attendant returns to the desk and addresses Dan.
"Ms. Decker's burns have been treated. She is heavily medicated and resting comfortably," his tone is empathetic, and Amenadiel finds himself wondering idly how often the man has to use that tone of voice every day. A little of the tension leaves Dan's body as he sags against the counter. "Her room is currently under guard, and she is not allowed visitors until they have been cleared by law enforcement."
"I am law enforcement," Dan bristles, unclipping his badge from his belt and waving it agitatedly.
"But you are not on the approved visitor list yet," the man asserts confidently, entirely unintimidated. "I am sorry, but if you have questions you can likely address them to your superior officer. I can provide you updates, as you are listed as one of her emergency contacts, but you will not be allowed to visit until you're cleared by law enforcement."
"One of her emergency contacts?" Dan repeats, puzzled. "You mean her mom? Has Penelope been alerted already, then?"
The attendant glances at the paperwork in his hand. "I don't see that name on here, no. The other contact is a Lucifer Morningstar, but we weren't able to… Oh."
"Lucifer is Chloe's secondary emergency contact?" Dan sputters, and the Goddess perks up again at the mention of her son's name. "If I have to deal with his insanity tonight, I swear I'm gonna—"
"Mr. Morningstar was unable to be reached," the attendant says stiffly, closing the file with a hostile flip of his hand. The EMTs are a chatty bunch, and they'd been eager to share the story of their latest run, with the victim that had been so badly injured saving his apparent lover. "Because he was brought in with Ms. Decker, having shielded her from the worst of the blast."
Something predatory sparks in Goddess' eyes as Dan reels back, surprised at both the news and the sudden, unexpected hostility of the clerk. He shakes his head as he moves away across the room.
Of course Lucifer already has the people here on his side.
He glances in the direction of the only other people in the waiting room, feeling a sudden flush of shame as he recognizes Lucifer's brother, and the defense attorney for that suspected bomber from a couple days ago, Charlotte something. He'd been surprised when she'd called him at work and asked him to dinner, but she'd left a sour taste in his mouth so he hadn't had an issue with turning her down.
Looks like she didn't waste any time moving on.
He picks a chair on the opposite side of the room, not wanting to engage in awkward conversation. He checks in with the last-minute sitter he'd needed to call for Trixie. He hadn't wanted to wake her up just to worry, so he'd just allowed her to sleep and had the sitter come to his apartment.
Anytime the doors to the back twitch or open, the three people in the room come to life, but no updates reach their eager ears for many hours. And so the war between time passing and standing still rages quietly on, until creeping dawnlight eases through the windows to announce yet another victory for the new day.