Chapter 9
"Lucifer, you're okay," relief rings clearly in Chloe's voice, but her eyes don't leave the two beings at the bar, nor does her aim waver. "We heard them on the laptop, and… got worried."
"You got worried," Maze defends herself, at Lucifer's off look, "I only went along with it because you said this bitch was strong enough to lift Amenadiel and someone needed to watch your back."
"As if I would harm My son," Goddess snipes defensively, and even Amenadiel can't help glancing at her incredulously. "What?"
"You're the one that set off the bomb in the first place," Chloe points out bluntly after a stretched moment of uncomfortable silence, "You're the one expecting him to go… back to Heaven when no one has any idea what might happen to him if he actually does. So yeah, I think we've established that You would harm Your son, if it furthered Your plan."
"Detective," Lucifer murmurs quietly, and Chloe's eyes flash to him, angry at the idea that he might take his mother's side in this argument. He's moving slowly toward her as though approaching a wounded wild animal, hands raised non-threateningly. "We, ah, also don't know what might happen if you were to shoot Her. If Her celestial strength has returned, a sudden physical shock could have a devastating result."
She pauses, considering, her finger stiffly sliding away from the trigger mechanism. Goddess looks a bit smug, but concern also creases her smooth forehead, as if she hadn't considered that particular situation.
"He's supposed to be immortal. Besides, I didn't even know Lucifer was there until I heard him yelling for you," She rolls her eyes dismissively as she lowers her hands to rest on the bar. "I certainly had no intention to harm him."
"Yeah, confessing that you only wanted to kill Chloe probably isn't earning you any brownie points," Maze taunts, still slowly circling. "You need to leave, now."
"Mazikeen, we only came here to make sure Lucifer was healing well, and to explain—" Amenadiel breaks his silence, only to be cut off by his brother's bitter laugh.
"Brother, don't make excuses. I know you were trying to stop Mum from blowing the Detective to bits, but you clearly knew She was up to something and chose not to warn me in the process." Chloe does a double-take at the sheer lack of emotion in Lucifer's voice, and takes her eyes from the pair at the bar for the first time since her entrance. His face is a mask of indifference, so very unlike the open expressions she's become accustomed to since he'd begun working with her. Since he'd begun opening up to her, little by little. She wonders if this is the face he wears as the King of Hell—all emotions locked down and hidden away. Her breath catches as understanding washes over her.
Emotions are a weakness he can't afford. No wonder the slightest little indication of affection or emotional intimacy sends him running, or shutting down.
"You've made it clear that I can't trust You to remain here and not harm humanity, Mum," Lucifer continues, blithely unaware of his partner's new and deepening understanding of his own state. "I have something that I need to attend to, and time is of the essence. You and my dear brother can go and fine tune your plan to return to the Silver City. Once I've completed my task, I'll come to You and we can discuss how to safely relocate you."
"Lucifer, you can't really intend to stay here, alone?" Goddess wheedles. Chloe's eyes dart anxiously between the two, but Lucifer only snorts derisively.
"It seems I'm better off here and alone, Mother," He sneers, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "You've already pointed out that You lobbied with Father to send me to Hell, while He wanted to destroy me entirely. I can't see that either of those options is really better than anything that Earth has to offer me. I've already told you that this is my home."
"Whatever it is we are, it's… that feels like home." The words from the night of their almost-date echo in Chloe's mind like a gunshot, and any fears that she'd harbored that Lucifer might choose to leave suddenly evaporate like mist in the Los Angeles sunshine.
"You're not alone, Lucifer," Chloe's voice rings out before she can stop herself, and suddenly all eyes in the room are on her. Suddenly, her burned skin feels even tighter, the bandages too abrasive against them as she chews her bottom lip. "You've got friends here. You're not alone."
"Preposterous," Goddess snarls, waving a dismissive hand airily, "You humans are nothing more than a blink, you barely even register in the scheme of things."
"That's quite enough of that, Mum," Lucifer cuts off Chloe's indignant sputtering with an abrupt gesture toward his mother. "Maze is right, You and Amenadiel need to leave. We'll take care of our business, then I'll come to you both once it's concluded. I look forward to hearing how you intend to gain entry to the Silver City, since none of us currently have wings."
His icy tone leaves no room for argument, and after a briefly exchanged glance, Goddess and Amenadiel are safely sealed back in the elevator to begin their planning session. A beat of tense silence, and Lucifer's voice once again fills the room, this time tinged with worry.
"Are you planning to shoot me now, Detective?"
"What? No, of course not," Chloe first notices that the dry rasp has disappeared from his voice before she realizes belatedly that she's turned toward him, but is still holding her service weapon at the ready. She flicks the safety back on and swings her arms down, stiffly shoving her pistol back into her holster. "You're, um… you look better."
"Yes, well, it's astonishing what one can manage with a loofah and skilled hands," he leers lightly at her as she rolls her eyes and huffs a laugh. "I think we're nearly ready for our little outing, Mazikeen. Detective, you should really be heading home, you're going to need time to recover, yourself."
"If you think I'm letting you go without me, then you need to think again," Chloe begins hotly, but Maze cuts her off.
"Chloe, you can't come with us," the demon's dark eyes fix intently on her blue ones as she firmly shakes her head, flicking her knives away into their hidden sheaths. "Lucifer still needs some time to finish healing, and it'll be better for him if he's invulnerable while we're dealing with the Alhambras. Besides, if you go, your security detail is going to come too."
"I can see about getting my detail removed… tell them Lux security will handle it?" Chloe had already forgotten about Marconi being assigned to her. She purses her lips in thought. "I guess that doesn't help with your… healing thing. You really should have a police presence there, though."
"Detective, as far as the police force is concerned, I've checked into a burn center in Las Vegas. I'm afraid my appearing in plain view perfectly healed just now would stretch even the LAPD's credulity a bit too far."
"Oh," she breathes, feeling like an idiot. "Um… right. How are we going to… the detectives on the case are going to need to talk to you, Lucifer, how are we going to do that?"
"I suppose video conferencing and extensive bandages will have to suffice, Detective," Lucifer sighs, put off at the necessity of the subterfuge. "The hospital was left with the impression that I was transferring to Las Vegas, so it's not as if they'd come to me personally, anyway. It's going to be far trickier to keep everyone away from Mum until we can find a suitable solution for her."
"Yeah," Maze huffs, "It's a shame you don't have a way to just get rid of the problem—oh wait—"
"Mazikeen." The ice in Lucifer's tone freezes even the demon's hot-headed rant, and Chloe's eyes bounce back and forth between the two curiously. "Allow me to get my hat, and we'll be ready to go. Detective, you're welcome to stay if you wish, or return to your apartment. I'm afraid I'll be unreachable until my new phone arrives, but Maze has hers."
"How are you getting past my security detail?" Chloe wonders absently, and Maze chuckles.
"He's only guarding the club level. All we have to do is take the elevator down to the parking garage. That's how we got in without being seen. Lucifer, I'm gonna head to the armory and grab a bigger blade, just in case something fun comes up while we're out." He calls back an agreement, and Maze descends the staircase to the lower level of the penthouse, while Chloe turns back toward Lucifer's bedroom.
"Then I should be able to go with you, too. Marconi can just keep guarding the club!" Lucifer returns with a cap in his hands and a frown on his cracked lips, and she realizes her mistake. "But you still need time to finish healing, and if I go, you'll be…"
"Vulnerable, yes," he agrees gently. "We'll be quite all right, and once I've gotten our answers, I'll send Mazikeen to Daniel with the information. With her help, surely even he can't screw this up too badly."
"Then you'll come back here?"
"Then I'm afraid I have to go deal with my mother and brother," he closes the distance between himself and the bar, helping himself to the abandoned drinks left there by his family.
"You're not doing that alone," she musters every scrap of authority she's got for that simple phrase, and he turns toward her with an arched brow. "I'm going with you."
"You'll forgive me, but I'd much rather keep a continent between you and my mother, Detective." Lucifer sputters, nearly choking on his drink. "At least until I can manage to get an entire plane of existence between the two of you. I can manage my family issues, Detective, there's… still so much you don't know. I'd rather you not wade any deeper until you're… sure."
"Sure?"
"You're still in shock," he replies softly. He leans down toward her, his dark eyes darting between hers and the stairwell Maze had disappeared down. "Once you've truly had a chance to process, I… I have every faith that you'll make the right decision for yourself and your family. Your friends. You'll choose to protect them from… well, from me."
"Lucifer, that's not—"
"Okay, I found one of my old favorites," Maze appears back at the top of the stairwell, sliding an eighteen-inch blade into a flat sheath strapped to her thigh. "Ready?"
"Yes, of course," Lucifer murmurs, straightening up with a nod. He positions the Ivy Cap precisely on his head, concealing the dark down of his hair, and strides toward the elevator, with Maze in tow. He steps inside and presses the button for the parking level. "The choice is yours, Detective. I should have my replacement phone tomorrow, same number. If… if I don't hear from you, I will understand."
The silver doors slide closed before she can formulate a response, and she growls at his infuriating conclusion that she would –could—just choose to walk away from him. She pulls out her phone with a sigh and orders dinner for them both before pulling some religious texts from the shelves on the landing and settling down on the couch. Surely the Devil's own library would have some accurate information about him?
She spends some time browsing the books, but nothing she reads really fits with the Lucifer she knows. Some of them are the absolute opposite. Why would he have these here? The only answer that occurs to her is that he keeps them to remind himself of humanity's dim view of him, so she moves on to the next, and the next. Dinner arrives and she sets his inside the mini-fridge behind the bar before eating her own and taking her pain medication. She winces at the tight feeling of the bandages, knowing she'll need to change them at some point this evening. She glances out the windows at the setting sun as she feels her eyes getting heavy from the effects of the medication. Might as well nap now, since they have a lot to talk about once he gets back. This waiting around thing is not going to become a habit. She tucks herself into a ball in the corner of his oversize couch and lets the medication float her away.
Mazikeen lovingly secures her two beautifully sharp new toys in the trunk of her Audi, slinging a concealing length of canvas over them. She turns and snatches the slip of paper Lucifer offers her and tucks it safely between her breasts. "You're off to see the Queen Bitch and A-Mama's-Boy now?"
Lucifer snickers and smirks, wondering if his demon has used this new nickname in his brother's esteemed presence yet. He flicks his lighter and puffs at the cigarette held between his lips, ruefully watching the tiny flare of flame in his hand. "The sooner I address the issue, the sooner she's out of our hair, Mazikeen. I just don't know how I'm going to manage it."
"If you'd let that bastard brother of yours just take her in the first place—"
"You heard him, Maze, he wasn't going to take her, he was going to destroy her. She doesn't deserve that," his eyes darken with grief and he leans back against her car, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose. "Uriel didn't deserve it, either, but… he wouldn't…"
Maze watches her former master closely, vowing to herself to take care of the Goddess herself rather than watch Lucifer destroy himself again over another worthless family member. None of them deserve her King's regard. Not when they abandoned him.
"You know Decker's still going to be at the penthouse waiting for more explanations when you get back," she offers, changing the subject. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, the skin there creasing naturally again, no longer tight and shiny from the burns. He shifts his shoulders as though his jacket is too tight, though, and Maze wonders if his back is as healed as the currently visible skin.
"I'm sure you're correct," he sighs, exhaling a long plume of white smoke. "Did she seem all right when you found her in my office, Mazikeen? I'm rather concerned that she hasn't truly… reacted. She hasn't even asked about any of the big things, like Linda did."
"It's Decker," Maze smirks, "You know she's going to do all her research before she comes at you with the big guns."
"Yes, that's rather what worries me."
The demon shrugs and opens the car door as Lucifer steps away. "You want my phone? I'll just snag Dan's if I need to."
Lucifer chuckles darkly, but declines the offer. The tires of the Audi squeal loudly as Mazikeen pulls away and Lucifer settles into the driver's seat of his beloved Corvette after stubbing out what's left of his cigarette. His fingers twitch toward the packet of fine, white powder in his jacket pocket, but he doesn't have enough on him to really take off the edge off his worry, so it's not worth the bother. He twists the key and smiles as the engine purrs to life. At least Mum didn't try to blow up the 'Vette. The random thought causes the smile to slide from his face. Why did she target the Detective? She couldn't possibly have known how I feel about her, hellfire, I only just realized it myself when Dr. Linda—
Oh, bloody Hell.
He'd introduced the two of them at Lux just the other day, at the staged sit-in. He'd been so pleased that his mother was supporting him, despite her disagreement with his decision to stay, that he hadn't thought twice about leaving the two women alone together as he saw to his hosting duties.
Did Linda see something? Say something? Or did Mum just watch me dancing with the Detective, and… surely I wasn't so obvious…
He pulls out into traffic, his mind traveling back to the dance floor the night she'd helped save Lux. The lights causing her eyes to flash and sparkle with compassion and laughter at his playful dance moves. The feel of her small hands on his shoulders, then sliding down to his waist as they moved together. Her chin resting naturally on his shoulder as he buried his nose in her hair, the unfamiliar feel of the wide grin stretching his lips the entire time she was happily wrapped in his arms.
Bollocks. My fault.
He frets about his guilt over the inadvertent revelation the entire way to Mum's apartment, barely noticing that he'd managed to park until he hears someone's car alarm chirp as they approach in the parking garage. By the time he arrives at her door, he's managed to work himself into a righteous fury.
"Explain yourself, Mother," he growls, stalking past her as She opens the door and wisely steps back to allow him inside without comment. "What in Dad's name were thinking, targeting a human to get me to fall in line with your plot? I would truly love to know."
"We don't belong here, son," he scoffs and begins to pace restlessly as She trails him into the wide open area of Her apartment. Amenadiel is perched on one of the pale ivory leather chairs arranged to one side, a tiny cup of coffee dwarfed in his large hand. "Humanity isn't designed to bear up to divinity. That little insect doesn't deserve the regard you grant her."
"Mom," Amenadiel rumbles warningly, noticing Lucifer's eyes briefly glinting red. "Why don't you tell Lucifer how we can get home, and why we need him to come with us?"
"Yes, it's rather a long jump from the earthly plane to the Silver City, and nary a feather between the three of us," Lucifer spins on his heel and straightens his jacket, badly wanting a drink in his hand to give his restless fingers something to toy with. "That seems as good a place to start as any."
"We have everything we need to get home," Goddess breathes, beaming at him with a beatific smile as her hands gently cup his cheeks between them. "We just need you to make it work, and then we can all be together again… be a family again."
"Speak plainly, Mum," Lucifer barks, twitching his face away from her caressing fingers and stepping back. "What is it you want from me?"
"We need Azrael's blade, and your Light."
Lucifer exits the lift into the penthouse three hours later, exhausted, famished, and wrestling with a persistent stiffness in his back. Surely the burns are healed by now? Unless maybe it's just my scars acting up, now that the rest of the skin is repaired…
The penthouse is dark and silent, and he breathes a sigh of relief mixed with mild disappointment. Apparently the Detective had opted to go home after all. While he's grateful for the reprieve from what is bound to be a difficult conversation—or more likely, series of conversations—he's also worried about whether she fled because she'd finally come to her senses about the practicalities of associating with evil incarnate, the devil himself.
His back itches abominably now, worse even than when the burns had been healing, and he loses no time in peeling off his jacket and shirt, allowing the cool air of the penthouse to caress the heated skin of his shoulders. He wraps his arms around himself, trying desperately to scratch the area, but he'd never been able to reach his scars properly. He can't even feel the edges of them with his fingertips, and he finally resorts to rubbing his back against his Assyrian wall like a particularly well-groomed bear before he gains any relief at all.
His back still feels wrong somehow, but he's sure it will settle. The scars had always felt a bit odd, even if he'd convinced himself it was merely the feeling of freedom, not the phantom pains of missing limbs. Not a missing part of himself. He crosses back to the bar and pours himself a whiskey, then tucks his cigarettes and lighter into his trouser pocket and carries the glass and decanter out onto the balcony.
He wonders if the Detective is asleep or awake, if she's being plagued by nightmares of the devil, or merely by old memories made terrifying by new information. Despite his trepidation over her reaction, though, he feels a surge of… satisfaction. Almost happiness. The muscles of his back prickle uncomfortably and he flexes them as though trying to relieve a cramp.
She knows now. She knows what I am. I've finally managed to make her believe… no more secrets. He wonders what Linda will say, when he tells her. Even if she never wants to speak to me again… at least she'll know that I never lied to her. And maybe… just maybe she'll remember that I saved her life… even if it was my fault it was in danger to begin with.
He stands there, overlooking the city for a moment before raising his eyes balefully to the stars above. His stars. He'd gone so long below without being able to see them, to feel their light (his light) tingling on his skin that when he'd finally come up for air, he'd dropped to his knees right there on that beach—white suit and all—and had nearly wept for joy. He'd stayed there until the pale tendrils of sunrise gently wiped the last of his creations from view with a wash of cerulean sky, and then he'd stood and turned his back on the whispering ocean to feast his hungry eyes on the dawning light of his closest star.
Tonight, though, he's not looking at his stars, he's glaring beyond them, at his silent father.
"This is all down to You," he begins, almost conversationally. "I told you I'd be the son You wanted me to be, that I'd go where You wanted me to go, do what You wanted me to do. All You had to bloody do was tell me, and you couldn't even be bothered to do that properly. You showed me a door, Dad, what the Hell was I supposed to do with that? You know I don't have wings to take Her back, you knew Amenadiel was losing his, so how exactly did you expect us to send Her back to Hell and have her actually stay there?" His voice is getting louder, but he doesn't bother to check himself. No one can hear him from this high up anyway, and no one would care if they did.
"All I asked, as I lay there dying, was that You keep the Detective safe, and I would have done anything You asked me to do— I would have stayed in Hell, but You didn't ask. You brought me back, and then You didn't stop Uriel. One bloody word is all it would have taken, Dad," his voice breaks in a dry sob, and he empties his tumbler before pouring himself another. "One bloody word, and he would have scampered back home with his wings tucked tight. Or he could have taken Mum back to Hell and locked her up again properly, then returned to You. But You didn't." He's beyond conversation now, and well into a screaming rage. "You didn't, and he didn't, and I had to kill him to keep him from destroying Mum, and the Detective! I murdered my own bloody brother because You couldn't be bothered to just tell us what it is you want!"
A soft familiar sound erupts from just behind him as he shrieks his accusation to the Heavens, accompanied by a no-longer familiar weight at his back. He stiffens immediately, his glass dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers and shattering against the stone balcony, the alcohol within splashing up and running silently down the glass railing and the legs of his trousers.
He stares straight forward for a long moment, afraid to look because he knows exactly what he'll find. What he doesn't understand is how, and why.
"Lucifer?" The quiet voice pierces the silence between his heaving breaths, and his heart falls from his chest to shatter on the stone amidst the shards of glass at his feet. He tenses, and his wings mantle instinctively around him, feathers sharpening into deadly points without conscious effort. He grits his teeth and convinces them to soften—there is no threat here, not from her. He turns to face his Detective, her pale face shining in the moonlight nearly as brightly as the bandages that still snugly wrap her arms. She looks back at him with wide, wet eyes, and he imagines that he can almost see himself reflected in them, wings and all. Her mouth hangs open for a long moment, and the two of them stare silently at one another, at a loss for words. "Your, um… your scars on your back are gone."
It's not what he expects her to say. In fact, he's surprised she can even string two words together—by all rights her brain should essentially be pudding right now, having stared straight into the heart of his divinity for the last several moments without reprieve. Suddenly self-conscious, he shrugs his shoulders and his pearlescent wings fold obediently away. Chloe gasps in surprise, then her eyes roll back and he lunges for her as her knees give way and she tumbles toward the cold stone floor.
Chapter 10
He catches her easily, her slender frame fitting far too comfortably in his arms as he scoops her gently into them. He glances around, seeing the little nest she'd made for herself in the hidden corner of his couch.
No wonder I didn't see her.
He sweeps into the bedroom, her warm weight negligible against his bare chest. He tells himself there is no reason she should feel so familiar in his embrace. He's only held her, what, three times? Ah, no four, if you count frantically carrying her out to the medics during their first case. Alright, five, if you count their recent brush with death. But he'd been actively on fire then, surely that didn't count. Not that he's counting. Of course he's not.
He lowers her carefully onto his bed, pulling the luxuriously thick blanket over her before stepping away. Better to keep his distance. It's one thing to see his fast healing up close and personal… it's another entirely to be faced with blatant divinity in the guise of a gleaming pair of brand-new wings.
She stirs restlessly, and he retreats a little further in case she wakes. He glances at her once more before turning and making his way to the bar. She's physically unharmed, at least, and a good sleep will only do her some good. His mouth twists wryly as he wonders how badly she'll be affected by the sight of his wings.
Have I destroyed her entirely? Will she be able to work past them? She'd seemed more or less lucid just before she'd fainted, but that could have been the shock talking…
He opens the mini fridge to pull out a couple of ice cubes and hesitates as he finds a paper bag that hadn't been there before. He pulls it out and his mouth waters at the aroma of the food inside. He gets his ice and pours his drink, turning to retrieve a napkin to set under the glass. He notices crumpled up food wrappers in the bin under the bar that match the logo on the bag, and a small smile touches his lips as he realizes Chloe had ordered him dinner.
His stomach rumbles, and he opts to just eat the burger cold. It's still incomparably better than anything he'd had in Hell, after all. He can't let himself think about how the Detective is going to react when she wakes, so he turns this new development over and over in his mind as he eats.
The wings. How on Earth are his wings back? This is certainly a twist he hadn't anticipated—what could his father mean by it? It seems like an open invitation to fly Mum right up to Heaven and drop her off at the gates. Is he supposed to become a bloody Celestial Uber?
Here's your wife and eldest son, in exchange I'd like to keep my freedom from Hell and your meddling, thanks.
Maybe it's a trick? A ploy to get me to fly up to Heaven to be destroyed, so he can finish what he started all those eons ago? He crumples up the greasy paper and throws it away disgustedly, the cold lump of food sitting heavily in his stomach now. He grits his teeth against the tirade he so badly wants to continue against his father, but glances back toward the bedroom, unwilling to awaken his inadvertent houseguest. Taking a deep breath, he picks up his drink (and decanter) and crosses the room to settle into one of the low, caramel-colored chairs, determined to find his father's angle.
Two hours later, he has an empty decanter, a massive headache, and only a handful of theories. First is that the wings are a trap, to lead him to self-destruction by approaching Heaven. Second, that the wings might be to tempt him back to his throne in Hell, like Amenadiel had tried to do last year. Third, that by giving him his wings back, his father might be hoping that he would simply return his mother to her cell. And last (and by far the least likely), that the wings are a desperate attempt to bring him back into the fold, to get him to take orders like a good little angel again.
He wants absolutely nothing to do with any of those plans, and seriously considers cutting them off again right now. He's got the blades to do so… but last time Maze did it for him, and it had gone fairly quickly. Without his phone, he doesn't have a way to contact Maze just now, and he's afraid if he tries to do it himself he may wake the Detective. She's certainly been traumatized quite enough in the past 24 hours, she doesn't need to find him kneeling in a bloodbath, hacking his wings off with a demon blade.
In the depths of the flat, his clock chimes once. He's exhausted, but his bed is occupied. At least his bloody back is no longer itching. He glances down at his bare torso, and his still-damp trousers and sighs, retreating to his closet to change into some satin pajama pants and his crimson-trimmed ebony robe.
He stops at his linen closet and pulls a thick blanket from its depths before curling up on the couch with a final, longing glance at his very large, very comfortable bed. He turns onto his side and presses his forehead against the back of the couch, grumbling to himself about chivalry until he falls asleep.
Fingers of light are just starting to thread themselves through the sky when Chloe drifts back into the land of consciousness on a somnolent sea. She takes a deep breath and works her tongue against the dry roof of her mouth—proof that she'd been snoring again—and stretches indolently. She freezes when her arms shriek in protest at the movement. In that instant she also realizes that these sheets are far too silky for her practical cotton, and this mattress is both unfamiliar and yet more familiar than it should be…
Lucifer.
Yesterday's discoveries come flooding into the forefront of her mind and she lies paralyzed for a long moment, struggling to maintain control of her breathing.
Lucifer is the Devil. Really. He has glowing red eyes, a face covered in burns, and also giant, white, absolutely gorgeous wings. He was yelling at God on the balcony last night, and I saw them. His mom—God's wife—tried to blow us up, because She thinks he wants to stay here on Earth because of me. He's already totally healed from his horrific, disfiguring injuries while I'm still stuck in these day-old bandages—
That last thought is the one pulls her from the precipice of panic. She glances down at the bandages she was supposed to change last night, their surface starting to show some yellowish staining due to the exudate from her burns. Responsible Chloe takes the helm in her reeling mind, and pulls her body into a sitting position, trying to remember what she'd done with her overnight bag and the bandaging supplies the hospital had sent her home with. She remembers leaving it beside the couch in the sitting room, and carefully stands, hissing slightly as the taut and tender skin of her legs protests her inadvertent decision to sleep in her jeans.
She straightens her wrinkled clothes, grimacing at the stiff feeling of the bandages against her raw skin. As she approaches the couch, she notices a mound of snowy white towels where she had fallen asleep last night.
Lucifer chose last night to do a load of laundry? Her muzzy brain wonders, before grinding to a halt as she realizes the 'towels' are slowly rising and falling to the rhythm of raspy breathing.
"Lucifer?" she murmurs, approaching with care. The wings are restlessly twitching, flexing and fanning as he curls into himself, seeming somehow even smaller now than he had in the hospital bed. Perhaps because now he's dwarfed by the enormous wings sprouting from his shoulders once more. The dawn light crawls in through the enormous windows, limning the edges of the perfectly white feathers in sparkling gold incandescence. Chloe stands, entranced at the way they move, letting herself take the time to acclimate to them… to the fact that her partner, her best friend somehow has an extra pair of unearthly limbs.
The image of his unmarred back presents itself from the turbulent depths of her memory. She hadn't made the connection at the time, she'd been too stunned by what he'd been shouting at the sky, but the horrible scars that had so tugged at her heart—they were gone. The puckered and ravaged crescent shapes erased, replaced by a smooth and unbroken expanse of supple, freckled skin.
She watches the wings tremble and refold over her sleeping partner as she lets the outrageous idea of them settle into her mind. She replays his impassioned speech from last night, his voice snapping and breaking with emotion as he'd unwittingly confessed to dying, to killing in order to protect her. She hadn't been able to decide how she felt about that before the snowy wings had erupted from his shoulders in a mind-melting display of divinity—they had shone so beautifullyin the moonlight they had taken her breath away. And yet… seeing how the sun's rays caress them as well, she can't help but imagine that the light itself is drawn to them, warming them and bringing to life an image of an angel that she'd never once thought could truly exist.
There had been a possibility that she'd imagined them when they'd disappeared so suddenly before she lost consciousness—just a remnant of the vision from his office the day before— but here they are, quite literally larger than life. Some of the larger feathers seem to be the length of her forearm. As she slowly approaches, she can make out smaller, almost downy feathers the size of her thumbpad closer to his body, where the wings meet his shoulders. They seem to be ruffled, and she stifles a giggle as an image of a fluffed, fat robin sitting on a tree branch in the snow appears in her mind's eye. Somehow, she doubts that Lucifer would appreciate the comparison.
She's so focused on the wings, on him, that she stumbles over her bag, and when she looks up again the wings have disappeared and Lucifer is stirring sleepily. She bends down to snatch the bag of supplies and retreats back to the bedroom, listening as he settles into stillness once more. She breathes a silent sigh of relief, unable to articulate to herself why she hadn't wanted him to catch her watching him.
He'd probably be unbearably smug about it.
"See something you like, Detective?" his richly accented voice purrs inside her head.
But the wings… The look of dread on his face as he'd turned to face her last night, laced with fear. Clearly, his wings aren't something that he's comfortable with; Hell, he'd cut them off. So… maybe best to let him decide how to approach the subject. Another sigh escapes her, this time in frustration. Another thing to add to the list of things we need to talk about.
Sounds of her partner moving around quietly in the outer room reach her, and she finds his ridiculously enormous ensuite bathroom. She takes her pain meds, removes her shirt and starts unwinding the bandages, but she doesn't get very far before she realizes that delaying the bandage change had been a Bad Idea. She tugs gently, but the bandages are stuck tight to the sensitive oozing skin beneath. A hiss of discomfort slips past her lips and the faint sound of movement outside ceases.
"Detective?" His voice is tentative, and distant. He hasn't moved any nearer. She tugs on the bandage again and a thin layer of skin peels with it, eliciting a soft exclamation. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah… mostly," She grits out, letting go of the bandage and considering her options. "I was supposed to change my bandages last night, and didn't, and… they're stuck to me."
A soft, commiserating hiss echoes from wherever he is. "Your security detail could return you the hospital? I'm sure they could find a way to minimize the discomfort?"
"I'm not going back to the hospital, Lucifer, my mom and I have to be back at the courthouse later this morning for Perry's trial!" Her eyes are tearing up with frustration now, she did not need this additional complication this morning. She grabs a towel from the—heated? Really?— rack and wraps it around herself before opening the door. "Can you please come help me with these?"
"Perhaps Penelope could—?" When she doesn't hear him moving closer, she pokes her head out the door and spies him loitering in the open doorway between his bedroom and the sitting area. She glares at him impatiently, and he fidgets indecisively.
"My mother doesn't know I'm here instead of my apartment, and I'd like to keep it that way."
"I… don't want to hurt you, Detective." He straightens the lapels of his rumpled black robe, and doesn't come closer. "Nor do I wish to frighten you again."
"You—Lucifer, I'm not afraid of you!"
"You fainted when you saw… when you saw me last night, Detective," he reminds her needlessly, but he lets her imperious gaze draw him forward a reluctant step or two. Disgust twists his handsome face, and he runs his broad palm over the slightly-longer fuzz on top of his head. "When you saw them."
"That wasn't fear, I was just surprised." She flushes, reluctant to say that she was overwhelmed not by his presence, but by the sudden onslaught of divine information and his otherworldly beauty in that moment—he'll never let her live it down. "You said you didn't have wings anymore! And then I woke up and you were yelling at someone, and your scars were gone, and then they were there and… it was just a lot. I learned a lot yesterday, and… my brain apparently decided it needed a little break, okay? Now please come help me? These bandages are starting to hurt, and I need you."
"I'm not skilled in human first aid," he informs her as he moves nearer, keeping a wary eye on her expression before his eyes drop to her stiff, stained bandages in dismay. "I wish I had been able to spare you this discomfort. What is it we need to do to remove these?"
"I'm… not sure," she admits with a frustrated huff. She wants to point out that he's the reason she's even still alive, but she knows he still blames himself for his mother's actions and she doesn't have the energy for that argument this early in the morning. She looks up at him as he nears, noticing that his hair is already longer, and his stubble is starting to make a hint at reappearance. Her brain short-circuits, and she blurts, "How often do you have to cut your hair?"
"How—what?" He stares back at her with wide, confused eyes, as though concerned for her sanity. His hand reaches up absently to ruffle the short length of stubborn, soft curls that have started to form.
Well, that could be a valid concern.
"I just… your hair is growing back so fast, I wondered… is it always that way?" She fidgets, her fingers twisting together as he continues to regard her incredulously.
"It's…" he pauses, then shakes his head, a faint smile playing upon his perfectly healed lips. "You are truly remarkable, Detective. To answer your question, no. I rarely have need to cut my hair. I believe the last time I did so was in the 18th century. Give or take a few decades, of course."
"Of course," she repeats faintly, as he transfers his attention back to her bandages.
"You said they're stuck to you? Do you need anything for the pain, darling?"
"I just took my meds, so I'm good there. But… yeah, it looks like they're stuck to the skin, when I tried to peel them away, um… the skin tried to go with it."
Lucifer grimaces in sympathy, having experienced a more severe version himself when he awakened in the hospital. "Well… what if we wet them? The usual remedy for something sticky is water, yes?"
She eyes the sink on the vanity, and the bandages on her arms. "Maybe… Maybe if I stand under the shower?" She glances over at the massive luxury shower, noticing that the shower head is attached to a sleek silver hose. "Oh, that works."
Lucifer follows her gaze and grins. "Oh, well done, Detective. I was going to suggest a dip in the hot tub, but the treatments in that water may not be the best for burned skin."
"You just wanted to get me in your hot tub," she accuses facetiously, and his grin widens, confirming her suspicion.
"Oh come now, you can't blame me for taking any opportunity to fulfill a long-held fantasy of mine?" She rolls her eyes, trying to hide how pleased she is that he's comfortable enough to tease her even a little, after his initial reluctance to even approach.
She ties her hair into a messy bun and moves into the shower stall in her jeans and her bra (it's not as though he hasn't seen it all before, anyway, and she still needs his help to soak the bandages thoroughly). With some trial and error, they quickly realize that her burns do not appreciate cold or hot water. They settle on a temperature that's warmer than tepid, but cooler than luke-warm, and by the time the bandages are soaked enough to soften, she's shivering violently.
Lucifer carefully and fretfully wraps her in a warm towel, and she shucks off her wet jeans and underwear while he retrieves her overnight bag from beside the couch, considerately handing it in without looking. She manages to dry herself a bit more, even though the bandages are still dripping, and slips into dry underwear and her pajama shorts before wrapping herself in yet another (blissfully heated) towel and inviting him back in to help unwind the bandages.
He handles her carefully, like a soap bubble he's terrified to pop. His dexterous, gentle fingers flutter over the bandages, finding the ends and meticulously teasing them apart, the quiet ripping sound of the cotton coming free the only sound in the room apart from their breathing and her occasional hiss as a stubborn spot breaks free. She watches his face to distract herself from her injuries.
Shouldn't the Devil be more of a mystery? It should be strange, how well she can read this ancient, cosmic being. She can see his concern in the crease of his brow and the tightening around his dark eyes, his anger at his mother (and probably himself) in the thinning of his lips and clenching of his jaw, and she can feel his affection in the tender touches of his gentle fingers and the warm brush of his body against hers as he kneels in front of her.
Once both arms are bare, she braces herself and surveys her own healing as she gives them some time to air. The pain medication is starting to take effect now, giving her some necessary mental distance for the evaluation. Most of the larger blisters have ruptured (probably during her mad dash to reach the penthouse once the Goddess turned up yesterday), but the smaller, more resilient ones are still present and accounted for. The skin is still incredibly painful and angry-looking, and the discomfort she's still feeling reminds her that she's been low-balling her pain medication—taking it only twice daily versus the recommended three times in order to keep her head clearer.
She flexes her hands gently, doing some of the flexion exercises Freya had taught her in the hospital, and makes a mental note to do them more frequently as the new skin protests the stretching and movement. Lucifer turns back to her after ruffling through the supply bag, an array of bandaging material offered in his hands and a look of hopeless confusion on his face.
"How in Dad's name do we get you wrapped back up, Detective?"
She chuckles and indicates the non-stick padding. "These go over the worst bits, then the fluffier-looking stuff on the roll, then the thinner, more durable one on the outside. I think I'm ready to start if you are."
"I'm always ready, Detective," he murmurs, but there's no heat behind the innuendo. It's spoken almost absently, merely going through the motions as his nimble fingers apply the non-stick pads with the pressure of a hummingbird's landing. She looks (and feels) like a boiled lobster, and he's concentrating on his task completely, the pink tip of his tongue just peeking from between his parted lips. There's absolutely nothing sexual about their current situation aside from the fact that she's mostly unclothed and he's warm and close and touching her so very tenderly, and suddenly all she can think about is him.
What would he taste like, if I leaned down and kissed him right now? The thought is one she's had before, so it doesn't take her by surprise. Would he pull back in surprise, or lean in and deepen the contact? Would his eyes widen in shock or close in bliss? Would he make that annoyingly sexy little pleased sound like he does when I get his coffee order right?
She must get lost in her thoughts, because the next thing she's aware of is Lucifer gently taking her hands in his and looking into her face apprehensively. She latches onto his hands reflexively, drawing him closer as his dark eyes bore into hers.
"Detective?" the way he says it makes her wonder if he's said it a few times already. "Did I hurt you? Are the wraps too tight? I was trying not to—"
Any other words are lost in the press of her lips against his. She keeps her eyes open, and something hopeful flutters in her chest when she notices his eyes do widen before his eyebrows draw together and the lids slide closed. She frees a hand and it immediately gravitates to the nape of his neck, finally getting to touch the fine downy growth of freshly-grown hair there. Her fingers brush through the softness of it and he does make a sound—not the coffee sound, but something visceral and involuntary and she wants him to make it again. The tip of her tongue brushes the seam of his lips as he starts to respond, then—
"Detective Decker?"