Chapter 17
God Johnson, formerly known as Earl Johnson of Odessa, TX, settles nicely into His visit to the high-end Los Angeles psychiatric hospital that He had voluntarily checked Himself into after He had donated all of Earl's earthly assets to charity.
He had patiently awaited the arrival of His son when that unfortunate orderly was murdered, only Samael hadn't come. Instead, the recently demoted Detective Daniel Espinoza arrived, asked a few cursory questions of the staff, and disappeared again. God feels His first twinge of concern at this unforeseen development, and does not appreciate the tingle of uncertainty that accompanies it.
He hasn't had to deal with the unknown since He'd had His son Amenadiel escort His wife to Hell. With Her gone, all surprises and unknowns had vanished, and in the intervening millennia He had realized how very much He had appreciated those things about Her.
That ability to surprise Him, that mystery and intrigue She had brought to His existence had brought Him more joys than sorrows overall. He can admit that now that He's had time to cool His wrath at Her meddling with His project.
He sighs to Himself. How had He allowed Himself to lose track of time this way? It seems mere months ago that Samael had confronted Him and demanded the gift of free will that He had gifted humanity with… never considering that he might already possess it.
Why had He been so contrary? Why had He not merely explained that Samael and the angels that had stood with him already had that which they had so desired, that they had only needed to use it? Instead, He had banished His favorite son to Hell for his rebellion, then watched as best He could through the distortion of the Hellish atmosphere as Samael had tried to turn his back on everything that he was.
His Morning Star, brightest and best of all His children had turned away from his burning inner light, tried to obscure and lose himself in the shadowy basalt towers and twisting corridors of the infernal plane. Immersing himself in the debauchery and sins of the human souls mired there by their own guilt in a desperate effort to shut down the brutal emotional and mental traumas of being isolated from divinity, light, and love.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to send him so far away, without explanation or companionship.
God shakes His head, a sour expression spreading like storm clouds across His normally serene countenance. That can't be right. Mistakes aren't possible for Him. Where had that thought come from?
He'd tried to make up for it, though, by providing companionship here on Earth in the form of one Chloe Decker. A human specifically designed and placed just here and now to intrigue His wayward son—immune to his divine gifts and talents. A no-nonsense soul that would curtail his wilder impulses and give him a friend, someone to care about that would see him just as he is. A window,since the doorway to Heaven had been slammed closed; an opportunity to build more relationships and connections here on Earth, where he seemed happiest.
He shifts His weight in the slightly uncomfortable chair in the rec room, wondering why Samael hadn't appeared with his miracle. They should be the ones handling this case. It's been nearly two days and no one has even spoken to Him. Time is ticking by so quickly now that He is here on this plane, He doesn't have any to waste.
What has happened? Where is My Samael?
God looks around and smiles paternally at the range of His human creations currently around Him as He makes His decision. As He goes to look for an orderly to pass along a message, He pats Renata on the back and cures her hallucinations, then brushes gently against Dirk, soothing his paranoia.
Chloe had not appreciated the explanation she had demanded of his plan to contain his mother away from humanity.
First she had seemed to be near tears, but he must have misread that because then she had raged at him about irresponsibility, inconsideration, and then utter obliviousness for what felt like hours until her phone alarm had gone off and she'd needed to retrieve her offspring from school. She'd stalked off with an angry admonition of 'Don't do anything stupid before we can talk.'
He's not quite sure to make of that. He had been confused at her emotional outburst in response to his plan, and was no little relieved at her departure, though he isn't sure what to make of her sudden and complete silence since she had left yesterday.
He'd spent the late afternoon wrapping himself carefully in bandages and finally contacting the detectives working the bombing case for his scheduled interview via video call.
At least that had been moderately entertaining, the detectives had made it quite easy for him to misdirect them even though he'd provided truthful answers as always. He couldn't risk them trying to approach his mother, after all.
It had been child's play to let them use their own assumptions and his partially truthful answers to lead them toward the bomber they already suspected and Deputy Warden Smith. The bomber part was probably even true… just not who had ordered the target. He soothed his compulsion to seek justice by reminding himself that once his parents were face-to-face, they would certainly see that both of them were punished, all by themselves.
He had been careful to limit his movements, blithely assuring the detectives that his burns were far less severe than initially thought, and that he should be able to return to work soon, barring any ill circumstances. Once the interview had been concluded and he'd rid himself of his costume of bandages, he'd realized he perhaps should have sown some seeds of doubt for his return.
After all, he doesn't know what will happen to him when he returns his mother and brother to Heaven. If he survives that, he doesn't even know if the Detective will accept him back to work as her partner, especially after her recent diatribe.
Ah well, that's a problem for another day, he muses anxiously as his fingers dance quickly over the piano keys before him, coaxing a lively tune from them. He allows himself to wonder briefly what might happen if he does survive relocating his mother and brother. Will the Detective turn away from him entirely, or will she decide that she still needs the eggs he so eagerly provides for her?
His mouth twists painfully as he considers his two most likely outcomes. There had been a brief, shining moment where he'd allowed himself to hope. To hope that he could show her the truth without scaring her away, that perhaps they could be something more, with no secrets between them.
Well, there are certainly no more secrets now. And somehow, she hadn't run. He shakes his head in blatant disbelief. Yet.
Why didn't she run? She saw my face when I woke up… and she only made a joke about my hair regrowth. No running, no screaming, no babbling about forgiveness for her imagined sins.
She should have been terrified. Then, she should have been utterly steamrolled by the wave of divinity that would have washed over her like a tsunami when his wings had made their impromptu, unwelcome reappearance.
What in Dad's name is she? He wonders, not for the first time. Not an angel, certainly not a demon. She doesn't appear to be anything other than a peculiarly gifted human. His father certainly isn't about to provide any enlightenment.
He scoffs to himself at the very idea of his father being helpful in any capacity as his phone distracts him with an alert from an unknown number.
He tilts his head as he reads the text.
Hey man. Chloe says you're recovering but I've got a weird case at a mental hospital where one of the patients is asking for you. Only he says you're his son, and he's calling you Samuel?
Lucifer ponders the text for a moment. It's not from the Detective. But the only other person he knows that works cases and might have his number would be…
Sorry, don't know anyone that goes by that name, and my father certainly isn't here. Who is this?
Srsly you didn't save my number? It's Dan. I need a favor, if you're able.
It had taken a frustrating amount of time to get the required special permissions to talk to the man that had initially found the body of their victim: Toby Mulligan, an orderly at one of the higher-end psychiatric hospitals in the Los Angeles area.
Dan enters the small room set aside for his interview and finds a tall, solidly built man with medium-brown hair that's peppered with some grey at the temples and kind but piercing blue eyes.
"Hello, Detective Espinoza," the man formerly known as Earl Johnson— now God—greets him evenly before he can introduce himself. "I hope you don't find Me rude, but I had rather hoped to see Detective Decker and My son here to speak with Me today. Do you know when I might expect them?"
Dan stops short, appraising the man again with narrowed, suspicious eyes. "Detective Decker is unavailable, so your case was assigned to me. Who is your son?"
"Her partner, my son Samael," His countenance is perfectly calm, but he holds himself tense. "It's very important that I speak to him."
"Sorry, we don't have any detectives with the name of Samuel," Dan shrugs, "You must be thinking of another precinct. I'm here because I have some questions about Toby Mulligan, the orderly you found in the rec room the other day."
"No, My son is most definitely partnered with Detective Decker," God insists doggedly. "Tall, lanky even, dark-haired with deep brown eyes. Impeccable style, bit mischievous, speaks with an accent."
"Are you talking about Lucifer?" Dan asks, intrigued. "Your son is Lucifer?"
Oh man, his Dad is in the loony bin… that explains so much. "Wait, Lucifer's real name is Samuel?"
God tilts his head curiously at the Detective, who looks as though Christmas has come early. "Lucifer is one of his titles, yes, and now that I think about it I do recall Amenadiel saying something about Samael choosing to use his title as his primary form of address some time ago."
He hadn't believed it, not really. Certainly, Samael had been angry at being sent away, but God couldn't imagine one of his children willingly giving up their name, their very purpose, in a mere fit of spite at a little time out.
"Okay," Dan coughs a little to hide his snicker and tries to get back to the reason behind his visit. "Be that as it may, I need to speak to you about the orderly you found."
"I'll only speak with Detective Decker and My son."
"Well, sorry to break it to you, sir, but they're on medical leave, and definitely not in any shape to be handling cases." Dan's patience is wearing thin, and he makes a monumental effort not to snap at the delusional man staring politely at him. The light streaming in through the window behind him is almost blinding and Dan blinks stars from his vision, unable to focus directly on him due to the brilliant halo surrounding him for a moment.
"My son is on medical leave?" God draws himself up in surprise, brows drawing close. A cloud passes over the sun outside, cutting off the beams and shrouding the room in contrasting darkness. "That's impossible."
"It's definitely not, and that's all I can tell you," Dan fights to get the conversation moving in a productive direction by changing the subject, "Is there anything you can tell me about Toby Mulligan? Had he fought with anyone? How is it that you found him before anyone else?"
God regards this wayward child of His with ice-blue eyes brimming with concern. He can read everything about Dan, from his eagerness to prove himself capable of doing his job to his desperate need to redeem himself in his ex-wife's eyes. His abject fear of failing to be a good father and role model to his daughter and his constant war against his desires to give in to his darker desires to cut corners and take the easy path by cutting corners wherever possible.
"I'll tell you what, Detective Espinoza," he offers kindly, a smile creeping across his open expression. "You get My son to come have a conversation with Me, and I'll tell you everything you need to know about Mr. Toby."
"Buddy, I don't even know if he's even in LA," Dan dissembles uncomfortably. "Last I heard, he was in some fancy burn treatment center in Las Vegas."
"Samael is near, I can feel him," God shakes his head, sure of his answer. "Get him to come speak with Me and you'll have your answers, you have My word."
"What is it with this crackpot family," Dan mutters under his breath, turning away and pulling his phone from his jacket.
Less than an hour later (which by itself is impressive, since the hospital is nearly that far from Lux on a good day), Dan nearly has to scrape his jaw off the floor as Lucifer himself swans into the hospital, looking just as he always has save for the fact that his black hair is a little shorter, a little curlier than usual.
"Dude, what the hell?" He exclaims angrily, completely ignoring the manic expression on Lucifer's face and stepping into the other man's path. "Chloe said you were burned to a crisp! That you were all covered in bandages and got transferred to some specialty burn center in Vegas! Does Chloe know that you're—"
"As always, you're a bit behind the times, Daniel. I was indeed badly burned protecting the Detective, but as you can see, I've quite healed by now and am currently doing you a favor as you so nicely asked. The Detective is fully aware of my current state of health. Now, where is this charlatan that claims he's my father?"
"He's in the next room," Dan lets the consultant's eccentricities slide yet again with an internal grumble about craziness running in families. He gives Lucifer the details, but the taller man doesn't seem to be listening, almost manic in his determination to get into the other room with the disconcerting mental patient. Dan thinks to himself that if he's lucky, Lucifer will get locked up right along with his supposed dad and Dan's life can go back to normal.
"Very well, I'll happily speak with him," a feral grin twists Lucifer's lips into something wicked and Dan, suddenly nervous, feels the need to advise some caution.
"Hey man, you've gotta take it easy on him, okay? He's a patient here, and if you rough him up at all we won't get the information we need to catch the guy that killed this orderly."
"Come now, I've no intention of terrorizing the man, Daniel," Lucifer blows off Dan's words of warning with a wave of his well-manicured (and entirely unburned) hand. "I love the mentally ill! Who wouldn't be entertained by someone that thinks they're Elvis, or Napoleon, or… Wesley Snipes!"
Dan just stares incredulously at the delusional man before him, wondering if it's worth pointing out that he believes he's the Devil. Pot, meet kettle.
"No, no, no, I merely intend to have a conversation with the man and point out the truth of the Supreme Being he's chosen to imitate."
"Yeah. I'm sure that'll go over real well," Dan drawls dryly, snorting quietly when Lucifer nods happily. "All right, let's get this nightmare over with. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner I can get my information and move on with my case."
Nevertheless, he stands protectively in front of the door and wags an admonishing finger at the overeager consultant. "I'm gonna be watching from this window, Lucifer. One wrong move and orderlies are gonna be all over you, and you'll probably earn yourself a nice little stay in here, and I doubt they're the partying type. Capiche?"
"Yes, yes, you've my word that I'll behave to the best of my ability, Detective Douche. Do you want your answers, or not?"
Dan sighs, swallowing the sinking feeling that he's going to regret this and stepping aside to allow the Devil access to the room that currently contains God.
Chloe stares at her phone in consternation, trying to find any other meaning in the text she'd just received from her partner.
She'd sent him a text letting him know she wanted to come and talk some more about his asinine plan to possibly get himself killed by bringing his mother and brother and depositing them on Heaven's doorstep like a Celestial UPS delivery, and he'd responded a few minutes later with an apology.
Sorry Detective, on my way to consult on a case for Daniel. Rain check?
She'd told him not to do anything stupid. She'd said those exact words. He's supposed to be recovering after being burnt to a crisp from a car bomb, not gallivanting around Los Angeles consulting on murders without her.
She doesn't feel bereft at the idea of her partner working with Dan. She's certainly not jealous either, only… concerned.
Yes. Concerned, absolutely. After all, how is he going to explain the fact that he's perfectly healed? Is he going to show up all wrapped in bandages?
She almost laughs at that image, despite immediately dismissing the idea—Lucifer would never allow himself to be seen that way in public. If it's only Dan… maybe he won't say anything. He doesn't particularly like Lucifer, though he's been slightly less antagonistic toward him lately. He definitely won't like having to admit that he'd needed to call in her partner to help him with a case, so maybe he'll be willing to leave Lucifer out of the case report.
Because as infuriating as he is—as terrifying as this new realization of how much larger, stranger, and more fantastic the world is than she'd originally thought— she's realized that she doesn't want to lose him. She wants him to be able to continue working with her. Wants him to keep breaking into her house at odd hours and cooking her surprise meals. To drive her utterly crazy with his blatant inability to understand the so-called human emotions that he's spent so long repressing that he can barely even recognize that he feels them too.
She knows that she just… wants him. What she doesn't know is how to convince him that it's okay for him to want her. That together, surely they can handle anything the universe—even his all-powerful parents—can throw their way.
She glances at the time. The clock has been her enemy since she's been on leave, either creeping far too slowly, or seemingly flying at the speed of light. It's early in the day still, only just lunch time. She wonders how long Lucifer will be consulting with Dan, if she should be planning to get Trixie from school later or if she should simply go to Lux and camp on Lucifer's couch until he returns and she can demand an explanation of what he was thinking when he decided to go consult without her.
She argues with herself for a long while before she compromises by calling Dan.
"Hey, Chlo', what's up?" He sounds distracted as he answers the phone, and she immediately needs to know what's going on.
"Lucifer says he's consulting for you today?" Her tone is accusatory, but she can't bring herself to care. "What on Earth are you doing calling him in, Dan? He's barely recovering!"
"He looks pretty damn good to me, Chloe," Dan snipes back hotly, and Chloe's nose wrinkles at the confirmation of her suspicion about Lucifer's reluctance to appear injured when he's perfectly healed. "You said he'd been burned all over!"
"He's a quick healer," she offers lamely, and Dan's scoff rings loud and clear over the line. "And the hospital said his burns had appeared more severe at first than they did later. But he still shouldn't be back at work. What was so important?"
"I got assigned a case, and one of the witnesses refused to give me any information unless I could get Lucifer to come and talk to him. He wanted you, too, but I put my foot down on that."
"He… what?" Chloe blurts disbelievingly, "Why on earth would a suspect need to talk with me and Lucifer specifically?"
"Get this, Chlo'," Dan's voice lowers conspiratorially, "The guy is a patient at a mental institution here in LA— he thinks he's God, and he told me he needed to speak to Lucifer. Only he calls him Samuel."
Dan's snicker is hollow in her ringing ear. She hadn't seen any references to a Samuel in Lucifer's books… She snaps back to the present to catch the tail end of Dan's sentence, "—eird to think that's his real name, right? I mean… I've gotten used to calling him Lucifer now, but—"
"Dan, Lucifer is his name," she says urgently. "Don't call him Samuel, or… or anything else, okay? We… we have to respect his choice on what he wants to be called."
"He doesn't have the slightest problem calling me 'Douche'," Dan says sullenly. "Or 'dipwad', or—oh shit I gotta go."
She hears a loud crackling noise, and what is unmistakably Lucifer's voice in the background, roaring, "You bastard!" before the line goes ominously silent.
Chapter 18
The heavy door snicks closed behind Lucifer as he slips into the visitation room, and he fights the urge to close the blinds on the large window as he feels Daniel's face nearly smushed against the glass, keeping a wary eye on him.
He, in turn, is keeping an even warier eye on the late middle-aged man before him. Wavy brown hair peppered with grey strands at the temples and a thick, equally peppered beard and mustache adorn the open face watching him cheerfully. Even though he's never seen him before, there is no mistaking the divine light peeking from behind those crystal blue eyes. Not so different from the light that now glistens in the eyes of the former Charlotte Richards.
"Well," he breathes, "Hello God. Nice move by the way, changing the name right away. Not exactly trying to keep Yourself below the radar now, are we, Dad?"
"Hello, son," the older man smiles, his eyes crinkling and lighting in recognition and welcome. "I needed to make sure I wound up here in time to meet up with you, it seemed easiest to be where you would be, but then you didn't arrive. Where's your partner?"
"Oh, of course You know about her," Lucifer hisses, stepping away from the door, but no closer to the human body that houses his father's light. His careful footsteps echo strangely in the blank whiteness of the room, and he's uncomfortably reminded of his father's throne room in the Silver City, and the last time he was there. "I think she's had quite enough to deal with this week without throwing a God-shaped log on the conflagration. You won't be meeting her."
"Well, that's going to be a bit difficult, given how close the two of you are, and that I'm going to be staying with you."
An incredulous bark of laughter escapes Lucifer. "You most certainly will not be staying with me! You've admitted Yourself to the right place if You think that I would open my home to You after being so forcibly barred from yours." He shakes his head, mahogany eyes flickering momentarily crimson in his anger. "I have quite enough problems with Mum pestering me at all hours, at least She has her own place! You can just stay right here." A long beat of silence throbs in the room as the two celestial beings stare at each other. "Why are You here, anyway?"
"Well, your mother is here, of course," God says blandly, as if the answer is perfectly obvious. "How else am I supposed to speak with Her?"
"Oh, so You did read my message!" Lucifer crows sarcastically, tucking his trembling hands into his trouser pockets. "Or did You just use Your bloody omniscience? I was planning to drop her on your doorstep in just a few bloody days. How long have You been here, anyway? Couldn't have sent a little memo back with Gabriel warning me You'd be popping by and expecting a guest room made up for You? Maybe a little postscript… 'By the way, I'm planning on addressing the issue with your mother, see you soon'?"
"I came down the moment I gave Michael his assignment," God leans his hip against the low windowsill, regarding His son steadily, "I've been here for a few days now."
"Speaking of my evil twin—"
"Now, you boys know that I never liked it when you teased each other that way—"
"In case You haven't noticed, Dad, I haven't paid the slightest bit of attention to what You've liked or not liked for a very long time now," Lucifer snarls, what little patience he'd managed to garner rapidly slipping away. "Why did You send Michael to my flat? Was he gathering intel on the Detective? Trying to steal Azrael's blade? Or did You send him to assassinate me, like Amenadiel?"
"What in My name are you talking about?" God's bushy brows pull in, nearly forming a comical caterpillar across his forehead. "I didn't send Michael to Earth at all."
"Ah, well, at least You can admit to sending Amenadiel to try to carry out the death sentence you let Mum talk You out of, then!" The accusation rips from him in a reverberating growl, and God stills before the wrath and anguish rippling in almost palpable waves between them.
Oh, My Wife, what have you done? He hadn't meant it, of course, when He'd said those horrible words in the heat of His rage. He wouldn't have—couldn't have—really followed through on the threat to unmake His Lightbringer, His favorite son. At least, He doesn't think He would have. Admittedly, He still doesn't remember a great deal from that fateful day, the fury washing through Him had muddled it all into a thick haze of swirling red clouds.
Never had one of His children dared to defy Him outright. Certainly, Samael had toed the line, found loopholes here and there to circumvent some things and put off others, but never before had he stood defiantly before Him with chin lifted and eyes blazing with righteousness.
"I will not, Father," his voice— accentless then, because Britain (Great or otherwise) had not yet come to be, and would not come to be for millennia upon millennia—had rung vibrantly in His throne room. "You cannot ask this of me, to unfairly test Your creations so, to attempt to lead them astray merely for the sake of punishing those that decide poorly. I will gladly help them fulfill their desires, but I will not indulge or encourage depravity that directly harms others, nor will I lead them into sins not of their own choosing."
He remembers ordering the Lightbringer to be chained and removed, watching impassively as his other sons and more warlike daughters had dragged him, bloodied but unrepentant, from the room before He had retreated to His own chambers in a fit of rage and destruction unlike the Silver City had ever seen. He remembers His Wife hovering anxiously nearby, intermittently interjecting soothing nonsense as He whirled and paced and wrought havoc on their living space until finally something She had said had caught his attention.
"So it is true, then," Samael's venomous tone cuts through the chains the memory had wrapped Him in, jarring him blinking back to the present. "Good to know Mum wasn't merely making that up in order to manipulate me."
His silence in the face of the accusation says more than any explanation or refutation ever could, and a bitter satisfaction bleeds into His son's brittle expression, smoothly filling in the cracks left behind from the pain of that realization. "Well, then, if all You needed was a willing hand to bail You out of here, I'm afraid you've asked for the wrong son, Dad. I'm not the bloody YMCA. Ask Amenadiel, if You like, though he seems pretty close with Mum here lately, so even he might not be willing to host You right now."
"Don't rush off, Samael," God stretches out a hand in a gentle command, drawing it back in surprise when His son wheels like a viper ready to strike. "I wanted to speak with you."
"That is no longer my name," he growls ominously, crimson fire lighting his irises once more. "I turned my back on being Your poison when You turned Your back on me. You will address me as Lucifer, or not at all, and I hardly think I need to tell You how vastly I prefer the latter."
"Come now, son," God tries a reasonable tone, and His son draws himself up further in barely restrained fury. "Haven't I been making an effort to connect with you? Aren't you happy here with your Detective?"
"I fail to see that You have anything to do with my happiness, or with the Detective, as You won't be meeting her."
"As it happens, I have quite a lot to do with it," God replies smugly, feeling as though He's getting the upper hand back on this conversation. "Seeing as how I asked your brother Amenadiel to pass along the blessing that not only allowed her to exist, but also ensured her immunity to your particular talents."
"You…" Lucifer feels as though all the breath has been driven from his body, as if he's slowly being pressed under an ever-growing pile of boulders. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"You'd been alone too long, son," God replies kindly, oblivious to His son's turmoil. "You had turned your back on your light. Your siblings, well… I suppose I had underestimated 'out of sight, out of mind' when I sent you to Hell. When I realized how very isolated you were, and saw that you would be leaving Hell for Los Angeles, I arranged for you to have someone here that you could really connect with. I sent you a miracle."
"You placed her here?" His breathing is rapid and shallow, sparkles of flame dance in the corners of his eyes as he runs through memories of his time with his Detective.
"Did my father send you?"
"I think us, our… thing… maybe it goes beyond just work."
"If it's any consolation to your pride, it appears you make me vulnerable, too."
"You are precious to me, Lucifer Morningstar."
"Does she know?" he growls, nearly blazing with rage. "Does she know what she is? That you've stripped her of her free will in order to provide your wayward, unlovable son with a bloody companion that can stand to be in his presence? I'm sure You and Amenadiel were having a cracking good laugh, watching me scramble to figure out why the Hell I was suddenly mortal, all the while dancing to Your little tune!"
"No need to overreact, Samael—"
"Do not call me that." The words reverberate with the Command of the Lord of Hell, and God gazes at his son in surprised concern. "You will answer. Does she know that she's being forced to care for me? That she was literally created as the Devil's companion?"
"I'd forgotten that you have your mother's tendency for dramatics," God sighs, hooking His thumbs in His jeans pockets and gazing sadly at His son. It doesn't escape Lucifer that this is not an answer to his question.
"She doesn't know." It's not a question, but an accusation. "You planted her here, knowing our paths would cross and predisposing her to allow the Devil to run roughshod over her entire life. Her life. She has a child! Family and friends that love her! She doesn't deserve any of this, she is not your plaything!" Bleak understanding blooms, his enraged expression falling into weary despondence. "Nor is she mine, despite your twisted intentions."
"Samael—" God tries again, "She cares for you, just as you are. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"You bastard!" The devil roars, last vestiges of control snapping as he lunges toward his father, the thick door bursting open behind him in a flurry of motion and sound.
It's been hours since Dan's hurried disconnect and the implied Lucifer-related pandemonium behind it. Dan's not answering his phone, but he did at least assure her that he's handling Trixie's pickup from school. Lucifer hasn't even read his texts, and isn't answering his phone, either. Chloe bites her lip as she curls into the corner of Lucifer's caramel-colored settee, trying to decide what her best course of action is.
She's got her phone in her hand, ready to text Maze to see if she knows what's going on when the elevator chimes cheerfully, the door sliding open to reveal a Lucifer she's not yet familiar with.
She's seen Lucifer angry. She's seen him earnest, exuberant, and infuriating. She's seen him as sex personified, as a consummate businessman, as a politician. She's seen him grieving the loss of a friend, and bewildered at being shown affection. She's seen him terrified, and guilt-ridden, and down-trodden. The Lucifer that exits the elevator is none of these. This Lucifer… he looks shattered.
His eyes are cast downward, and his perfectly tailored jacket hangs loosely from his hand, trailing along the floor. His shoulders are slumped with the weight of the events of the day, and he shuffles off the lift as though movement of any kind is simply too much effort. He makes it to bar and pours himself a drink before he catches sight of her in the mirror, watching him thoughtfully from his couch.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find you here," he sighs, and his voice is brimming over with pain until it floods into her own heart, drawing prickling tears to her eyes. He doesn't turn to face her, but takes a drink from his glass, inspecting its golden contents carefully.
"You really shouldn't," she agrees, struggling to keep her voice even around the sudden tightness in her throat. "What happened to keeping a low profile? Dan told me you went to consult for him today?"
"Less of a consult, more of a favor," he grumbles, not meeting her gaze. "His witness refused to give him any information until he spoke with me."
"Dan said the guy claimed to be your dad," she offers hesitantly, curious as to how the meeting had contributed to his current defeated demeanor.
"So he was," He throws back his glass, taking the entire thing as easily as a shot of tequila, despite the tumbler being nearly full of top-shelf bourbon. He stares morosely at the glass for a moment, his eyes flickering up to her briefly in the mirror again before returning his attention to pouring himself another drink. "So he was, indeed."
"Wait, your dad is really here?" Chloe's jaw drops as the breath is driven from her. "Does… has that happened before?"
"Dad hasn't walked among His creation since just after Eden, at least not that I'm aware of," Lucifer waves a hand tiredly, leaning against his bar. She wishes he would turn around. She wishes he would come sit next to her, close enough to feel the heat of him. "He's here now because I sent Him a message about my plans for Mum via my sister. But I have no idea what He intends to do."
"If He didn't want to talk to you about that, what did He want to talk about?" If not the Goddess' presence, what subject could possibly be important enough to warrant God appearing on Earth?
"I'm not certain we truly got to the point of the conversation," Lucifer admits dully, his eyes sliding closed and his throat working as he swallows hard, as though he's fighting the urge to vomit. "He had expectations of staying here with me, which I immediately disabused Him of. He also wanted to meet you, but you needn't worry, I declined on your behalf."
She huffs, torn between an odd flattery that God wanted to meet with her and affront at Lucifer's high-handedness at declining the invitation for her. "Lucifer, you can't just insulate me from your world—"
"Well, that's been made blatantly obvious to me now, Detective, hasn't it?" He pinches the bridge of his nose so hard that his knuckles turn white and she pauses, whatever she was about to say lost in a sea of uncertainty. "It's been right there from the very bloody beginning, and I was too blind to see it, to understand what it meant. And you—"
He bites off the sentence, pulling in a wet breath as he fights for composure. Chloe can't stand the distance between them any longer and moves to the bar, but he recoils when her shoulder brushes his.
"Don't," he begs, and she flashes back to a year ago, when she'd seen the massive scars on his back, the ones that disappeared when the wings returned. "Please."
"Don't what?" she murmurs, not moving away, but allowing him to reclaim some distance for himself.
"You can't… trust your reactions when it comes to me, Detective," he mutters thickly, and she notices for the first time that his eyes are red-rimmed. From exhaustion? Drugs? Or has he been crying?
She's never actually seen him cry. She's seen tears brimming, heard them trembling with unnamed emotions in his words. She's felt him shuddering with dry sobs against her after his revelation about Uriel, but there had been no dampness on her shirt where he'd buried his face. She wonders vaguely if he's ever allowed himself the luxury of weeping. What could make an angel cry? Especially when that angel is the Devil, and has seen every horror and malady known to mankind?
"What does that mean, Lucifer?" she asks earnestly, taking his hand and tugging him with her back to his couch. He allows it, stumbling along after her like a child's toy on a string. She gently presses him into the seat and sits close beside him, her left side flush against his right, his hand firmly clasped between hers. "I already know that I'm immune to your so-called charms, so what are you worried about? You think you're influencing me or something?"
"It's not my doing," he growls, and ice crackles in his tone. She searches his dark eyes, finding a desolation there that yawns widely, leaving no room for his usual twinkle of mischief, or the occasional spark of hope she's found lighting them before. "It's His. I never asked for any of this, Detective, I would never want, would never subject anyone, let alone you to… to this."
She lifts one hand up to brush against his cheek gently, and he automatically leans into her touch with a muffled whine before he pulls away, lifting his bleak eyes to meet hers. "What am I being subjected to, Lucifer?"
His hand grips hers tightly for a long moment before he lets go and slides away with a heavy sigh. "My father told me that he… created you."
"Okay," Chloe blinks, trying to see past the obvious. "Well, you kind of knew that already, didn't you? I mean, you've literally referred to humanity as your dad's little project, right?"
"My father created you, specifically with your immunities to my charms, my powers over desire," he elaborates, desperate mahogany eyes meeting hers, pleading with her to understand, "You weren't meant to exist. He made you, and placed you here, now… for me."
Chloe laughs. What other action could she take? The idea of it—of being hand-crafted, by God? As what? A present? For the Devil, no less? The entire concept is absurd. Impossible. She laughs harder, lost in the complete ridiculousness of even the possibility that she, Chloe "Plain Jane" Decker had been created for this paragon of sex and sin standing brokenly before her.
"Jane," he murmurs, his voice cracking and breaking through her impending hysteria. Had she spoken aloud? His eyes are burning into hers, and she can't look away. "Do you remember what I told you? What it means?"
"It means…" she trails off, the laughter slipping from her like water from a sieve, leaving only the salty tracks of tears in its wake, "it means, 'Gift from God', doesn't it."
"Mm," he hums in bitter agreement, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves as he looks away from her, breaking the spell holding them and spinning her mind into frantic motion. "Well, your parents certainly hit that nail directly on the head, didn't they? Quite a lovely little inside joke."
"But…" she sputters, reaching for him as he moves smoothly away, crossing the room and seating himself in one of the matching chairs as though it were a throne. "Lucifer, that… can't be right. I mean, I'm just me. I'm boring. There's absolutely nothing special about me that would be a draw for… for you. If your dad really made me for you, wouldn't I have fallen into your bed when we first met? I mean, the rest of LA has!"
"You don't see yourself at all clearly, you know," a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, trembling there for a brief moment before it disappears into carefully smoothed blankness. Her heart flutters in her chest at the return of his mask—the one she's gotten used to being allowed to see past. There are no glimpses behind the veil now, his walls are up and shutters firmly in place as she scrabbles to make sense of this new information. "You're a miracle, darling, even beyond your inbuilt peculiarities pertaining solely to me, you're fascinating in so very many ways. You need to remember that. You are worth far more than what He has manipulated you into becoming."
"Manipulated?" Chloe tilts her head, confused at this seemingly new argument.
"But of course!" Lucifer nods blandly, and Chloe notices that his fingers are gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly, the leather is squeaking in protest. She wraps her own bandaged arms around herself in an attempt to hold herself together under the onslaught. He takes a quavering breath, but his voice is steady when he speaks. "Dear old Dad decided that I'd been alone long enough— that my eons of isolation could come to an end—and since He apparently had no desire to speak to me Himself, and none of my siblings wanted anything to do with me, He created you. He gave you immunities to my charms and talents, and set you in my path, all primed to tolerate, even welcome my presence, my invasion of your life. He's been pulling your strings this entire time, Detective, it's no wonder you managed to maintain your wits after seeing not only my wings, but my face—it's a vile violation of the free will that all humans have, and you deserve better."
"That… can't be right." Can it? She thinks back to all their pivotal moments, their times drawing apart, only to send her back to him time and again. How many decisions has she made to keep him in her life, against her better judgment? Against Dan's pleading to keep Lucifer at a distance from their daughter? Were they hers to make, or was she a marionette… a plaything? "It's… but what about you?"
"I am my Father's son," he spits the words as though they taste of ash, bitter and dry. "His manipulations are part and parcel of my existence. You should never have been forced to be involved, least of all to be… shackled to me."
"I don't… how do I know what decisions I've made, and which have been influenced?" Her voice rises, plaintive in the quiet dusk of the penthouse's afternoon lighting. "I mean… I married Dan, I held multiple jobs, had Trixie! There… it can't all have been… Can it?"
"He didn't tell me," Lucifer confesses quietly, "I admit that I… rather lost my temper when He presented your existence to me as a… as a gift to ease my eternal punishment. It's reasonable to assume that you managed to make all your own decisions with perhaps minor nudging prior to my arrival, but I'm afraid that I don't know that for certain."
"Lucifer, I…" she falters, unable to even find words for the thoughts frantically flapping around her brain. She stands, anxiously brushing her fingers over her bandages and shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I need to think about this, and then I think I need to talk to your dad. I want answers."
"I would expect nothing less of you," he nods seriously, holding the rest of his body stone-still. "Daniel can provide with the hospital details, and I'm certain Dad has placed you on his approved visitor list."
"You… you don't want to come with me?" Her heart falls. With Lucifer by her side, she's brave enough to tackle anything, but going to see God by herself…
"If I had my way, I'd never see Him again and He would never set eyes on you," Lucifer grumbles, "but I would never stand between you and the answers you so badly desire. I will ask that if you go, please take Amenadiel with you. Dad will likely have a request for him, since I refused to let Him bunk here with me. Just... be careful, please?"
"Your dad expected you to let him stay with you?" Chloe's eyes widen, and Lucifer allows a small smirk to grace his smooth expression. His only response is a low hum. "I… okay. I'll, um, I'll sleep on this tonight, and then go see your Dad first thing tomorrow. Once I'm done there, I'll come back and we'll talk some more, yeah?"
Lucifer holds her gaze for a moment before lifting his glass for another drink. He inclines his chin a little, in an almost approximation of a nod, and Chloe takes it as the only answer he's capable of giving right now. She turns toward the elevator and takes a few steps before turning back, suddenly apprehensive. The fluttering anxiety in her chest suddenly echoes emptily there.
"Lucifer?"
"Hm?" His head snaps up, as if surprised to find her still here, still speaking to him.
"Can I… I need a hug. Will you—?"
"Detective, I'm no Miss Lopez…"
"Please?" her voice breaks under the weight of the swirling emotions threatening to break free and before the threatening tears can start to fall he's across the room and drawing her into the warm safety of his embrace.
Her arms snake around his waist, wrapping tightly in contrast to his gentle hold, one broad palm lightly stroking her back and the other carefully cradling the back of her head. She tucks her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him between her sniffles as the warmth of his breath infiltrates her hair. He surrounds her, and for a moment she can breathe freely within the shield of them. The nervous wings inside her settle, at peace in his arms.
The light has shifted a little when she feels the lightest brush of his lips on her hair and his soft voice fills her ear, "You need to get some rest."
She nods against his shoulder, squeezing his waist again tightly before releasing him with a sigh. He tucks his hands into his pockets and remains where he stands as she shuffles toward the lift. When the doors slide open and she crosses into the carriage she turns back and finds him still staring after her, a look of pure longing on his face before it disappears once more behind his mask.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she calls as the doors start to close, and hears again his humming response, followed by a low,
"Goodbye, Detective."