A/N: Sorry for the long hiatus and thank you for the lovely reviews! My dear beta-reader, Tempest and I was working very hard on this and the next chapters – we want to give you the best we can (it used to be one very long chapter, but we decided to split it). The next part is almost finished, so hopefully this time you won't have to wait for long :) The cursive parts (Lucifer's song) are from Tempest's poem – you will receive more of it in the next chapter. :)

Chapter 22 – Why?

Chloe's heart was pounding.

She had deliberately parked into the basement, so she wouldn't risk meeting anyone else at LUX. She made a beeline to the elevator to go directly to the penthouse. As she pushed the button, she could feel her heartbeats in her throat.

She hadn't been able to sleep a minute last night. After crying out her last tears, she had expected to have some relief, but her body had decided otherwise. She had thrown up twice, twitching and trembling uncontrollably. Her body was in a fight-or-flight mode, but she could neither fight nor flee.

She had never imagined how so many opposing emotions could storm in her mind and heart at once. But no, this was more than just a storm. It was conflict; direct and brutal. Between the lie that she had been living, and the truth that lay bare.

Marcus was dead. Gone. The grief had only just begun to make itself known to Chloe, when she realised, her detective brain reminding her, that he was the Sinnerman. What was worse – if the stories were true – he was the first murderer. The shock of realising that she'd dated not only a criminal but a cosmic murderer – that she'd slept with him, dreamed of a life with him, perhaps even loved him for a while –

She pushed those thoughts away, violently. And then, an even stronger realisation hit her – she'd almost slept with both the world's first murderer and the Devil himself – together. If anything, that is surely sending me to Hell, she thought.

Hell – the word brought another wave of panic. Hell was real. Damnation was real. Heaven was real, probably too. What if she – if she went to Hell, would Lucifer torture her soul for all eternity?

No, he would never. A small, hidden part of her brain had chimed in, throwing memories at her – memories of her and Lucifer's time together: his daily shenanigans, innuendoes left and right, constant banter, annoying arrogance. And his little, but important, kind gestures. Their "prom dance". Their game nights.

A vision of Lucifer smiling one of his rare, sincere smiles came to her.

And then she remembered. All of his stories. His allusions to Hell. His diligence in finding a perpetrator. Dealing punishment. The side of Lucifer that everyone feared – suspects cowering and scared to death after spending only a few moments with Lucifer.

The memories hit her in torrents, both positive and negative, like a shower turning alternatively hot and cold. The thought of Lucifer as her friend. Her partner. Someone who always had her back. She clung to these ideas because only they felt the most real, the most calming.

Once the onslaught of memories had begun to die, only one, rather recent, fresh image lingered behind. A sudden, delicate whiteness. A sense of fragile peace before the storm: Lucifer's wings.

He saved me.

Her brain seemed to clear, the spinning ground finally solidifying under her.

He's still him.

Amenadiel's words kept echoing at her. Amenadiel, who had lifted up his injured brother and drove away. Another angel –

He's injured. Lucifer was injured.

All the debate somehow came to a stop – even if not to a conclusion. She didn't know what she believed in yet, what she stood for. All she knew was that she wanted to see Lucifer. She had to see him, if he was alright. After all they had been through, all he had done for her, she owed him that.

And a little, honest part of herself knew that she couldn't bear losing him.

Not when against all odds, she'd almost chosen him.

After a long shower, powered by a fortunate slice of toast that hadn't turned up from her churning stomach – here she was, at LUX, about to face emotions she herself didn't understand.

The elevator doors opened with a ding. Chloe stepped into the familiar cubicle, her heart now pounding even faster. She realised that she had no idea what she would say to Lucifer – that is, if she found him there, at the penthouse. She nervously shifted from foot to foot, when the doors opened again.

She stepped into Lucifer's living room and her breath hitched at the sight. The furniture was covered with white sheets, just like when Lucifer left her last time.

She felt as if a frosty hand had gripped her stomach and began to squeeze it until she could no longer breathe. A faint whimper tore from her throat as her gaze clung to the horrible white cloth that covered the piano like some kind of shroud.

Not again! This was not happening!

She stood frozen, eyes glued to the covered furniture – she was panicking.

"Detective?"

The sound broke into her thoughts, shattering her panic. She turned eagerly towards the source of the sound, and there he was.

Lucifer stood at the top of the stairs to his bedroom, dressed immaculately, like any other time: jet-black suit, a bright white shirt, gleaming shoes. The only thing missing was his pocket square. Chloe noticed the glinting red cloth in his hand, a small piece of silk, waiting to be in its rightful place.

Lucifer was staring at her as if he were seeing a ghost, mouth slightly agape. In the end, it was Chloe who broke the heavy silence.

"Are you leaving?" she asked, her voice cracking.

Lucifer swallowed and cleared his throat.

"Yes," he replied quietly. "It seems the right thing to do."

His words hung in the air like a death sentence. The pictures of her last dream came back to her and closed like a vice on her brain. She lost him. She wanted to say something, but only a faint 'no' left her lips.

She started to see little black spots. Strange. They began to evade her vision and she felt a sudden urge to grab the edge of the piano and lean on it. Everything became so blurry…

Lucifer felt paralyzed the moment he caught sight of the Detective.

He was past his last shower, his last meal, his last quality drink, he'd put on his favourite suit and shirt, and he'd covered the furniture – after playing one last time on his piano and composing one last song as an attempt to get rid of his troubling feelings –, so he was almost ready to leave. Almost. Choosing the right pocket square had never been easy for him, and this time was no different. Although he finally managed to make a decision, he didn't think that this small delay would have such consequences. Truth to be told, he had been delaying only so he could stay just a little while longer in a place he'd attached so much to.

When he looked at her, he realised that he wasn't prepared to not see the Detective ever again.

Lucifer had been so busy trying to decipher her expression and her possible intent that he almost didn't recognize the change in her posture. But in the moment that she leaned on his piano, he could see her knees wobbling. With two long strides, he was next to her and caught her in the last moment before she collapsed on the ground.

He gingerly laid her on the couch, after pulling off the sheet covering it. He'd intended to step away from her, but before he could, Chloe had clasped her hands around his neck so tightly that it almost hurt, and shakingly pushed her face into his chest. She was muttering something, but it was muffled by his suit. So, he just sat next to her, stiff like a poker, until he could finally understand her words.

"Please… Please, don't… Please, don't… Don't go… Please, don't go…"

A desperate plea, continuous like the waves' relentless drumming on the rocks of the shore. Like the throbbing of blood in the ventricles of the heart. The dull rumble of her words began to fade only as Lucifer's shoulders relaxed and he wrapped his arms around the Detective, although hesitantly.

It was a long period – minutes, hours, eons? – before he could gather enough courage for his question.

„You don't… You don't want me to go?" he asked, already dreading the answer, which could break this strange, yet wonderful moment.

Chloe had stopped sobbing, but her face was still buried deep in his chest. She heard his question, and slowly, gently disentangled herself from their embrace.

She blinked, the corner of her eyes wet, as if shaking herself out of a trance.

"No," she said, once she felt stable enough to speak. "Why would I want that?" she spoke each word softly and carefully, not looking up until she'd finished.

This was a counter question Lucifer had never expected to be asked – even if he knew and despised its answer. He leaned back into the couch to provide her some space as he chose his words.

"Because, Detective-"

His emotions were swirling like an insidious vortex that could suck him in and crush him at any moment. He was choking on his words. Then he thought back at the song he composed a few hours ago. Although words often failed him when it came to expressing or sorting out his emotions, music always helped. And it was the opening lines of his song that pulled him out of the emotional whirlpool.

I wonder if – if it's okay to hope, okay to say,

I really would miss you so please let me stay,

The song echoed in his ears and helped him gather his thoughts.

"Because you know who I am. What I am." His voice faltered, expression bitter. He fixed his gaze on the coffee table stubbornly.

"Yes, Lucifer," she whispered. His name, as she spoke, felt entirely something new to him. As if it didn't carry the weight it had, of its public image, its cultural impression on it. "I know."

The silence that fell for a few seconds was filled with nervous tension – for the both of them. She twiddled around with the hem of her shirt, and he fidgeted with his pocket square. Neither of them looked up and at each other, too shy, too raw to be able to handle what the other's face said.

"Then why are you here?" Lucifer asked finally.

"I…" Chloe paused, and with determination, looked up, into his eyes. "I wanted to see if you were okay," she confessed.

"Why?" the question escaped Lucifer involuntarily, and the song continued in his head.

Why? Why do you still – care?