XII.
UNBOUND / REBOUND
Joe Bradley: Wake up.
Princess Ann: No thank you.
-Gregory Peck + Audrey Hepburn, Roman Holiday
Fate, if it did exist, seemed to work in funny ways throughout Chloe Decker's life. As much as she was convinced that logic and probability pulled the strings in life-masters of our own fate, captains of our souls, writers of our own stories and so on-there were times when she would lay awake late into the night, writhing underneath the heavy covers, wondering if that was all just mantra bullshit to help people get through the day; clutching at the idea of control as we hurdled through the unending, lonely expanse of space.
If her father hadn't been murdered while on duty, would she have made the choice to become a cop? If she had, would she have pushed herself so hard to make detective? Would she have ever met Dan? Got married and had Trixie? Just as she thought of solving cases as finding the thinnest thread that would soon unravel the entire story, did there exist a wispy strand, the thinnest of threads, that had sent her unraveling into a future that had been written long before she was even born?
Penelope Decker had called their daughter a miracle baby. After years of doctor's visits, fertility treatments and overseas procedures to increase the likelihood of her carrying to term, the Deckers had eventually accepted their life as a twosome. Plans for long vacations, early retirement and converting the white walled spare bedroom-their silent constant reminder of the baby they could never have-into a theater room to house all of Penelope's features and shows. They had spent countless nights holding each other, crying familiar tears, convincing themselves that just the two of them was enough. Maybe they could get a dog or cross their fingers for an adoption request to go through or use their baby-raising money to finally buy a little place on the beach where they could watch other families live the life they had wished for themselves. The sting of acceptance had eventually mellowed to an ache as Penelope and John adjusted to their newsome-twosome future, allowing their jobs to fill in the spaces that still hurt.
Mrs. Decker had been having a few drinks one night at a dive bar with some crew members after wrapping up another season of the soap opera, Finding Angels, to which she was the headliner. It was a fun, easy gig that helped to pad her bank account while her agent kept fishing around for movie parts, hoping to land the one that would get her up on stage with a gold figure in hand. She had been about two martinis deep when a tall, broad-shouldered man with a smooth head and perfectly manicured beard sidled up next to her at the bar. He had ordered a vodka soda with a twist of lime then turned to her to comment that she looked familiar. Finding Angels, she had said, to which he seemed amused. Penelope had told him that they were celebrating the wrap up of the season finale and he had bought her another martini as a congratulatory gift. She wasn't sure how long they had ended up talking at the bar, first about the hardships of working in the film industry then eventually the hardships that were plaguing her personal life. Candor had never been a strong suit but she had felt as though she couldn't stop herself from spilling her life story to this handsome, quiet man who had sat listening patiently while sipping from his vodka soda. There will be water if God wills it, he had told her while she cried into her empty glass. By then most of the crew had left and it was just Penolope and the soft-spoken man sitting in two squeaky chairs at the bar. The jukebox in the back of the room had kicked from the loud dad rock of her youth into a soulful rendition of I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry. Not the sad, rockabilly one by Randy Travis but the version sung by ole Hank Jr, the late singer's son. It had instantly transported her to her mother's parlor of yesteryear as the old single speaker flooded the air with the twang of honkey tonk mingling with the smell of dinner frying in the pan. Something about the man's disposition calmed Penelope. Made her feel as though their meeting had been a stroke of Fate or really really good fortune. Pray on it, he had told her as he got up off of the barstool while flipping a hundred dollar bill onto the counter, maybe God will send you a miracle. She had wiped at her eyes, laughing, nodding, while he waved at her from the front door before slipping into an LA night that was starting to wind down. The bartender, Clive, the sweet darling that he was, had ordered her a cab. During the ride back home she rolled the words around in her head like a loose marble: pray on it. So she did. In a half-drunken stupor she had sent up the same wish she had sent up a million times before: gimme a goddamn baby, you stingy fucker. And a year later, God willed water.
Was it Fate?
Did the choices that the Deckers made in that year before the birth of their daughter determine the outcome? Was it the law of probability? Did biology and timing align in just the right way at the right time to create their miracle baby? It didn't matter much to Penolope and John Decker-they finally had their biggest wish rocking away in their arms, the hows be damned-but it riddled Chloe's mind, especially after constantly hearing the story of her mother's fateful meeting with this person she called her guardian angel. It riddled her mind now as she hazily drove down Sunset Boulevard in her faded gold sedan.
Dan had called earlier that evening after her cup of noodles dinner had been scarfed while studying through the brown binder that contained the bulk of the Delaney-Smith case. Distraction danced in his voice as he asked about her afternoon at Luci's with Trixie.
"It was good. Fun. Felt like old times, kinda." She switched the phone to her other ear. "She was adamant that you needed a double stacker though."
"Yeah, thanks. It was nice."
"What's going on, Dan? I have a feeling you didn't call to talk about lunch." She had known him long enough to recognize the impatient lets-get-the-niceties-out-of-the-way tone that flittered from foot to foot. "So what's the deal?"
"Right. That Fifth Trumpet thing you asked me to look into. I spent the better part of my day with records trying to pry something useful about them."
"Okay. And?"
"Well, it'll probably come as no surprise that it's an empty corporation."
"Okay, so it's a dummy. Who or what is it fostering? Bernards? Gio?"
"Chloe, it's deep. Whoever created it spent a lot of dough to keep their anonymity." Dan sighed. "Deep pockets."
"And you don't think the Bernards have that kind of cash."
"No. But cyber investigations did eventually trace it back to a corporate service provider in Bumblefuck, Wyoming. No offshore, keeping it in the seedy underbelly of rural America. Smart motherfuckers."
She picked up the pen she had been writing with earlier and placed the blunt end into her mouth. Teeth marks from previous chewings scratched against her lips as she twisted it in thought. "Any way you could see who else with big money might be filtering their shells through this firm in Wyoming?"
"Already ahead of you, Chlo. Looks like our late friend, Dean Cooper had a dummy corp setup with a firm in Delaware over a decade ago that eventually got dinged by a loose-lipped accountant in the Cooper's ranks. Remember there was that big exposé written about it in the LA Times?"
Yes, she recalled seeing headlines about Rich Rat Cooper hoarding assets through a shell company so that his wife wouldn't be able to touch his growing fortune. It hadn't piqued her interest much at the time but remembered it being quite a scandal. "So what does Delaware have to do with Wyoming?"
"I'm getting to that." Annoyance tinged his voice. "So some of the cats from that Delaware office end up moving to Fuckall, Wyoming and setup a little law firm out there. Wheeling and dealing some of the same old shit."
"Maybe move some of their more lucrative accounts with them."
"Right, cause we know that rich fucks don't stop committing crimes when they're caught, they just get better at not getting caught. Fifth Trumpet was incorporated five years ago, a year before Dean Cooper passed, but it's still an active LLC."
Chloe sat up straight. "Joint corporation."
"These bloodhounds in investigations did a jurisdiction by jurisdiction search and…" Dan laughed, a slightly off-kilter sound that bordered on disbelief, "it's Lucifer."
Her head snapped back. "What?"
"It's him. It's that motherfucker. We managed to find him listed as one of the directors of Fifth Trumpet." Another bark of laughter. "What the actual fuck does this mean, Chloe?"
Silence rang in her ears with its dead breath. Somehow it didn't surprise her to hear Lucifer's name. Everything from the moment she had first stepped foot into Lux had felt like an out of control carnival ride that always led back into the mouth of the Devil. She didn't know how or even if Fifth Trumpet linked to the murder cases in any way but she had a yawing bout of dejavu nonetheless. Again with the secrets. Again with the dark half-truths and shaded parts of Lucifer's life that seemed to seep into her socks like dirty rainwater. How could she ever trust this man? Why did she still want to trust him?
Blinding rage bubbled up from her stomach and threatened to choke her with its vile, acrid bile. The lies, the half-truths, the omissions...she could deal with those. It was a part of being human after all and she had dealt with enough of them everyday to know life and lies went hand-in-hand. What she couldn't excuse was the helpless way it made her feel. Because, against all odds, she had trusted him despite his human nature. She had believed that there existed within Lucifer Morningstar something else. Something more. Because she caught glimpses of it when he wasn't looking. Because she had felt herself being drawn to the underlying darkness that awaited below the surface. Something painful, but something real. Something honest. Chloe had tethered her hopes onto that honesty, hoping that time and perseverance would allow...what? A partnership? A kinship? What? What was so important about Lucifer that she couldn't walk away even in the face of all the evidence that told her she must?
She thought back to her earlier preoccupation with Fate. Of how it had seemingly disguised itself as chance and coincidence even before she had come into this world. Swirling and crashing around her in powerful waves, towing her under, pulling her further into the open waters of the unknown but possibly pre-destined. The unwanted but palpable connection to Lucifer Morningstar, to Michael, to Lux. Were they always meant to meet? Was it Fate...or was it the Hand of God? At this point, they felt one and the same.
The question chewed at her as she took a sharp turn into the alleyway behind the nightclub, easing the old rental car she had started thinking of as Golden Oldie into a small parking space a few rows behind a pair of white limos decked out in sleek lights. VIP parking for VIP guests. All of it so meaningless in the haze of her thoughts about pre-destination. Did life have any meaning if it had already been laid out for you like a Sunday outfit?
Choices. Control. Free will. What the fuck did any of it really mean?
She paused at the back door, her finger hovering over the doorbell that rang into the security office. Here she was again, barging into Lux, being drawn into Lux, ready to shoot straight from the hip. What had her Daddy told her all those years ago? You got a brain that sees around corners, monkey. He had encouraged her anxious and borderline neurotic behavior as a child because he saw them as analytic traits that would help her plan for the unexpected. The unknowns. You and I are overthinkers, babygirl. Brain chatter on full volume all the time. It's a gift. More like a goddamn curse, she thought spitefully. But there was truth in his words; Chloe had always been keen in both eyes and mind. Strategy almost always won out over strength; honey almost always over vinegar.
She took a deep breath and pressed the button next to the black steel door. After a few moments, it buzzed loudly. The muted sounds of dance music echoed from the painted brick walls as she rounded the corner and walked the wide hallway to the swinging doors that led next to the main floor's marble bar. Noises crescendoed into the clear thrum of synth notes and a hundred conversations. Clicking glasses and swaying bodies. Laughter, yelling, the noise of ice being aggressively scooped and thrown into cups. An ecosystem of bleary eyes and perfect hair all created under the watchful eye of a man who never seemed to tire of the chaos night after night.
It was full-on party mode out on the dance floor as she cut across, avoiding a few flailing arms and splashing drinks, to emerge on the other side where a small set of stairs led up to a marbled platform with three large booths currently housing groups of gorgeous humans pulling bottles from large silver buckets and chatting excitedly with one another. At the leftmost section, she saw a familiar perfectly-coiffed head of hair sitting on the end of the rounded leather bench. Their eyes locked and she saw a brief moment of genuine surprise before he stood up and walked over to her.
"Lucifer."
"Detective." Lucifer tried on a crooked smile. "You're a sight for sore eyes."
"I wanted to...to talk. About last night." She allowed a measure of gentleness to touch her voice. Willed her face to remain approachable.
"It seemed pretty cut and dry. Some would call it a falling out." Hurt tinged the ends of his words.
"Yeah, so I thought." Chloe paused, her eyes measuring his openly. "Why did you come to the precinct this morning?"
"I figured if we were done, the least I could do was make sure your job was protected. I know how much it means to you."
"Why?" Her gaze dropped for a moment. "Why even bother if you saw us as over and done?"
"Detective, I-" he pulled her aside as a group of laughing women brushed past them. He searched her face for the telltale signs of anger but saw none. Instead, she seemed genuinely curious. He had taken a risk by going down to the precinct without her permission. Had gone even without his own permission. After what he had seen the other night through the Detective's window, Lucifer had felt sure that the link between them had been severed. She had chosen. And it hadn't been Lucifer. So it had come as a surprise to find himself striding into Captain McMullen's office, his dials turned all the way up, to convince the hulking body behind the desk to keep the Detective not just on the force, but on the case. On the surface, he had convinced himself that it was his final act of selflessness but the more honest part of his psyche knew it was because he wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. The image of those haunted eyes swam in his dreams, a new occurrence in his life that he wasn't sure was because of his newly complicated transformation into something quasi-mortal or if he had simply spent too much time on Earth. Whichever way, he had seen...something. A something that had made him feel a lurching sense of lost time and impossible futures. Slow, quiet moments of maybes.
They had spun around a hardwood floor, arms linked around each other like two souls lost in a blizzard. Only, their blizzard just happened to be made up of dead bodies and buzzing bullets. It had been a brief moment in the vastness of their time together but it had imparted something deep into Lucifer's thoughts. So despite everything-Michael, McMullen, their fight, the inevitable and slow descent into uncontrollable chaos-he had chosen to hold on. What he couldn't vocalize was why he had felt so shocked by her presence tonight; isn't that what he had been hoping would happen? Wasn't that part of the reason he had gone into the precinct early that morning?
She watched him with neutral eyes, not quite angry, not quite sad. Just expectant. He offered her a shrug. "It felt like the right thing to do."
"And what do you know about what's right and what's wrong?" The question didn't come out as an accusation. Just another expectant. A question based on curiosity.
"I used to think I had the answer to that."
Chloe Decker blinked in surprise but something seemed to thaw in that curiosity. Her own inability to let go. Fate, Hand of God, Karma...it all added up to the same thing. The blaring music and neon glow of a nightclub she hated everything about still had the grounding sense of...right. Of belonging. Then, to hear the unexpected, from Mr. I-Know-Everything had only clenched the tight feeling that was coiling in her stomach. The clench of inevitability. The grip of honesty: she hadn't come here to find out the truth, not totally anyways. She had come here because she needed to be convinced to stay. To keep trying.
"Will you tell me everything?" Her eyes bore into his.
He opened his mouth to reply but hesitated, remembering the way she had stood in her living room, hand outstretched to Michael, a golden spill of hair cascading down a thin shoulder. What that hand had meant. She had chosen. And it hadn't been Lucifer. Instead he offered her an apologetic smile. "It's bloody loud in here, yes? How about we go upstairs and sort ourselves out?"
They moved around the bank of booths towards a small alcove that housed a more modest elevator than the double set that lived upstairs in the mezzanine. Here the recessed walls were painted a demure blue, the dim lights casting a muted glow against their faces. The noises of a full dance floor still bled through the doorway but the piercing sounds of the speakers dulled into a moderate background buzz. Lucifer thought to make a "we're finally alone" joke but stilled when he saw his brother's face moving across the club towards them. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in this intimate corner of Lux with the newly appointed lovebirds. Or fuckbirds. Whatever they were, he didn't want to be audience to it. He gruffly pressed the single elevator button again. After a few moments, the doors slid open and Lucifer quickly ushered her in. They were halfway closed when the brothers made eye contact, a smug grin plastered on Lucifer's face as it disappeared behind stainless steel.
"Why is it so important for you that I stay on this case?" Chloe's eyes met his in the reflection of the polished elevator doors.
"You're the only cop I know that could do Mazikeen justice. You're the best detective I've ever known, and I've known a lot in my time."
"Is that all it is?" she asked.
He adjusted the collar of his dark blue dress shirt. "No. You're also the only one willing to put up with my bullshit." A smile creased the corner of his mouth. "And somehow not fall in love with me in the process." This earned him an eyeroll which he took greedily. A semblance of their old cadence had returned, not fully, but for now things seemed better than where they had last left it.
"How anyone could fall in love with an ego that big is beyond me." Her face remained deadpan but he saw a glint of amusement.
Still, the words stung a little bit. She had almost outright called him Narcissus, and that, given his own Daliesque bouts of Dad's not-so-subtle signals, had hit a tender nerve. There was definitive truth in the dig but there also existed a painting within the painting. The layers that the eye didn't naturally gravitate towards upon first glance; you had to get right up close to see the detailed brush strokes. Stop kidding yourself, you are in no way ready to have someone that up close and personal.
The penthouse was dark when the doors slid open. His housekeeper, Magda, must have turned off all the lights before heading home. He gingerly placed a guiding hand against the back of the Detective's soft denim jacket and ushered her through the foyer, not bothering to turn on the overhead lights. The darkness gave them a caressing moment of anonymity, her shoulder touching against the inside of his arm as she allowed him to lead her through the entryway. It had felt like a cheap excuse to relish in their closeness but he gruffly pushed the guilty feeling away. The living room was also bathed in the ink of evening, a small Piloti lamp in the corner of the room had been turned on and was casting a baby halo of orange light near the balcony doors. He led her to the bar and motioned to a glistening tray lined with crystal decanters. "What's your poison for tonight?"
The Detective eyed the bottles and seemed to contemplate whether this visit was social or business. Business. It's always business. It had to always be business or else she would be slip-sliding down those slopes again. Lucifer seemed to sense her apprehension and lifted a finger, cutting off her impending no. "Wait, I have just the thing. I went out and got it myself a few days ago." He strode around to the inside of the bar and bent down. The top of his head bobbed as he pulled the first two temperature-controlled wine cabinets, letting out a triumphant laugh at the third and final drawer. He popped up from behind the bar with a polished wine glass and a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck Chardonnay. "Bought a case just for you."
The bottle crackled in his hand as he broke the seal to the screw cap and gurgled a hefty pour into the chilled glass. Chloe considered being offended at his persistence but the sight of familiarity, something as inconsequential as her go-to cheapshit wine, overtook any brief annoyances she may have felt. With a sigh, she slid the glass towards her and thanked him.
Okay. It was a start. Lucifer sloshed two-fingers worth of Lagavulin into a rocks glass and held it out, giving Chloe his most charming smile. "To friendships and partnerships. Through thick and thin."
"For better or worse." she added.
The glasses clinked in the near-darkness of his penthouse as the music roared a few floors below. They clinked amidst the orange halos of his much-too-expensive floor lamp and the inlay lights that ran up the length of the recessed floor-to-ceiling bar. Lights that painted her face in half-shadows and radiant, mysterious warmth. Half in and half out. Like her heart. If there had ever been a time that Lucifer wanted his silver tongue to sway the Detective, this was it. Instead, all he had was cheap chardonnay.
He took a long sip from his glass, taking the time to study the Detective as she took a swig from hers. Same no-nonsense face. Same no-nonsense eyes. Everything the same, as Michael would say, but he couldn't place the unfamiliarity he felt at seeing her. Perhaps it was because last night had felt so...final. That they would never cross paths again. Hell, she had in so many words told him that she would run him off the path if they ever did cross again. He had initially resigned himself to that fate. Had embraced it. But then, seemingly against better judgement, had found himself half-alight on her porch steps, watching his twin fulfill something he still couldn't fully comprehend. The roadblocks were there. They were warning him with their bright blinking lights that DANGER lie ahead, turn back, road is out. So why was he still here, gas pedal to the floor, ready to plunge into what could only be more darkness?
"Lucifer?" The glass was still pressed against her bottom lip, her ring finger nervously tapping the stem. No more than a half sip had slid into her mouth before she had noticed the distracted look on his face.
In that moment-full lips on glass, cool eyes against his, half-lit features shaded in Rembrandt's light like a living painting (chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro, you beautiful creature)-he had wanted to kiss her. Jump across the bar, sweep her off of her feet, hands tangled in a mess of golden hair, kind of kiss her. Because she had chosen. And it hadn't been Lucifer. No amount of charm, no amount of mojo, no amount of nice clothes and fast cars and trips to faraway lands could sway her to choose him. Because what was left after all those things-those mortal temporary things-were stripped away?
Why, just Lucifer Moringstar: Caretaker of Hell, Fallen Angel, Forgotten Son of God.
Could someone like Chloe Decker, someone who was so deeply rooted in hunting for goodness and justice, look upon The Devil-Nemesis of Good, Personification of Evil-and want to be touched?
She sensed his darkening thoughts, his starved gaze. Considered excusing herself and hightailing it out of there. It had been curiosity that had brought her here. A test of Fate. Maybe even a test of faith. There were things to find out as well, that had been her initial excuse to drive out to Lux, but if she left here with nothing more than a mouthful of chardonnay and a smile, she supposed she would have been okay with that too. Because it wasn't just business. There was something deeply personal happening (well, with Michael that had already happened and, she hoped, would continue to happen) and that felt like the real case she was supposed to solve. The painting within the painting.
Lucifer laughed softly, shaking his head and dissipating the red cloud of hunger that had taken up sudden residence. Things with the Detective were on rocky ground and his objective tonight was to make sure they were somewhere closer to solid. The personal parts he would have to figure out on his own time...or more likely, salved with the desires of the flesh then forgotten. "Apologies, Detective. I suppose I'm still a little gobbed at seeing you here, in the most pleasant of ways, I assure you."
"Well, do you believe in Fate?" she asked.
He seemed slightly taken aback at the question, giving her a brief raise of his eyebrows. "Fate? No, I don't think so. Humans have always had the gift of free will; you're open to choose the life you want to live. There is no Fate, there are only choices."
Maybe Lucifer didn't feel the same gravitational pull as she did. "And what about you? Did you choose to live this life, in this way?" She motioned with her eyes towards the darkened penthouse. "Or as the Devil?"
"This is the closest thing I have to a human life and yes, I chose to live it this way. Whatever happened before that...well, I had very little choice in the matter."
"You mean, before you became Satan." Another sip. "Before you got kicked out of heaven."
He paused, an amused look sprawling onto his features. "Why the sudden interest in the celestial past, may I ask? I thought you saw it as a delusional egomaniac's Freudian fantasies."
"Sometimes the unexplainable can only be explained with the unexplainable. Like Gio." Her throat clicked audibly. "What was that about? How can it be explained? He...he shot you, Lucifer. I felt it with my own hands."
"Something between a miracle and a heavy bout of luck, I suppose." Long fingers drifted to the small bandage under his shirt, as if to check its place in reality. "Or if you're inclined to believe my delusions of grandeur, angels and demons are a fairly hearty bunch. Although I can't account for the ways in which that's been changing lately."
"But why did it seem like he knew you or at least knew so much about you? It was like...like he was expecting you. To be at that party, to follow him into that secret library. Why?" Here the accusatory lilt made an appearance and she had to pause for a moment to calm herself. It wouldn't do either of them any good if she started shooting from the hip right now. This was the time for gathering. The hunting would come later.
"I assumed it was because we ran in the same circles, knew the same dull faces. The rich and famous tend to cluster in their own little social ecosystems. Rumor mills run rampant, and gleefully. Malicious even." He poured himself another serving of scotch. "But I promise you, Detective, that I've never met this Gio fella before that night at the gala." And that had been true. What he didn't care to tell her was the symbol that had flashed in his inner mind shortly before the hefty meatbag known as Gio Arretxea had pulled the trigger.
Enochian. Divine Language.
The symbol had been a marker for demon or more specifically bearer of darkness, what he assumed was a dig at his identity. I know what you are, it seemed to signify. And for the most part, everything Gio had said was right on the money. In his own creepy way, he had laid Lucifer wide open for all to see. Warts and all. Ultimately, he and the Detective wanted to know the same thing: who the fuck was Gio and why did it feel like he had a leg up on them?
"Do you think he's after the same thing Holloway is?" Chloe measured his face carefully.
"And what would that be?"
"Fifth Trumpet." Her eyes didn't waver but neither did his. They remained locked for a moment, a study in the game of chicken, seeing if either of them would veer off the road first.
"No." There was no guilt or surprise in his voice at the mention of the shell corporation he shared with the late Dean Cooper. "I don't think Gio is after money. Or Lux. I think he has some cowboy vendetta he's trying to carry out."
"Against you? I thought you said you've never met him before."
"In this line of work, you sometimes burn bridges before you've even crossed them. Before you even know of their existence. It's like a damn Butterfly Effect but with dollars and hurt feelings. It wouldn't be the first time I've crossed someone without knowing and it probably won't be the last." The final dregs of brown liquor slid down his throat, its hot trail leaving a buzzing emptiness. "As for Holloway, he's been chomping at the bit to get his hands all over Lux since I first met him at a tacky summer party in Malibu."
Chloe narrowed her eyes. "And when exactly were you going to mention that you had a dummy corporation with Dean Cooper, the only asset listed being the very thing Holloway wants so badly."
He shrugged nonchalantly. "What does that business have to do with this case?"
"Because you expect me to trust you. To be your officially unofficial partner. That takes honesty, Lucifer." she said.
"Detective." Here his countenance took on one of genuine astonishment. "I have never lied to you. Nor will I ever. I'm completely incapable of lying. Devil's honor." He raised three fingers out in front of his chest.
"Omission is deception in my book." The wine glass chimed its hollow sound as she placed it on top of the bar. Lucifer promptly poured more chardonnay into it, which she watched with abject dismay. The seal had been broken and already she could feel the ease at which she was downing liquid courage. "How do you expect me to trust you?"
"Why, faith, of course." He capped the bottle and gave her a lopsided grin. "If you've come here to ask about fate, doesn't that go hand-in-hand with faith?"
And then, a miracle. A laugh. Not one of her polite chuckles or the soft breathy giggles she gave out when something would baffle her otherwise logical senses. A laugh. One of relief. Of amusement. Followed by a smile that touched the tops of her cheeks. He hadn't asked what had so suddenly tickled her, didn't think it was a question meant to be known. Instead, he just relished in its sound, so foreign in the shadows of this place he called home. Soon, he would have to answer her questions, would have to be quick about it because he sensed that she was still half in and half out, but for now, he would allow himself this brief pleasure. Because, it seemed, she had finally realized something important. Maybe something about him or the case or the litany of other unknowns she was carrying around in that black notebook of hers.
And for Chloe, it had been a moment of absurd clarity. For what was she if not the protagonist of her own Truman Show? Her inner most thoughts and concerns, tumbling around in her brain, coming to life through the mouths of others. What was that if not the controlling and unbecomingly obvious Hand of God? Go here, do this, meet this person. Fate and faith and faith and fate. None of it seemed to matter anymore because she wasn't the one in control. Maybe she never was. Chloe Decker was a child born from a miracle, a child touched by the Hand of God, so her mother always said. A Hand of God that never quite let go. She wasn't a child born from a miracle, she was a child born unto Fate. It didn't take a detective (haha, babygirl) to see the evidence. She was always meant to end up here, in front of Lucifer Morningstar, to have this conversation and drink her cheap chardonnay and come to the realization that her purpose had been pre-ordained in a shitty dive bar while Hank Williams Jr. crooned about being so lonesome he could die.
The elevator rang out as Lucifer's jilted brother, his begrudging mirror half, stalked into the room with an annoyed scowl. There was no deep reason to be offended at his slight, after all, they had centuries of back and forth to pull from that had left much deeper scars, ones they carried with them on grooved shoulders, than not holding an elevator. It had been the childishness of it that bothered Michael. And the fact that Chloe had been with him. Eons they had waged war with each other, both in the familial way that siblings so often did, but also in the all-out rebellion that Lucifer had undertaken as his final, desperate plea for Father's attention. Decades had passed with their squabbles and bickering, sharp jokes and clear disdain. But this...this was uncharted territory for both of them. Because they weren't just fighting each other, or for Father's love, they were fighting over a human. Lucifer had always been quick-minded, always the first to pickup anything around him and deftly master it, always the one that Amenadiel had confided in regarding matters of war and strategy, but he had a blindness about him when it came to understanding himself. Michael had been the quiet observer all his life, his inward nature giving him a leg up when it came time to reflect on the deeper meanings. He had picked up on Lucifer's jealousy the night they had come to his aid in the liquor room at Lux; had seen the distasteful curl of his brother's lips as the shriveled form of Chloe Decker wept into Michael's shirt. Perhaps Lucifer still didn't see it, couldn't look past his initial feelings of desire and gratification to understand the deeper meanings of their interconnectedness. Michael had felt it the moment they had stood in this very room, many weeks ago. A palpability so thick it was almost physical. They had become tethered then, a link of chain held together by something, or Someone, bigger than them.
"Nice of you to finally join us, Michael." A look of sly enjoyment crossed Lucifer's face.
He ignored his brother and turned his attention to Chloe instead. "Good to see you again, even better that it's so soon."
A smile bloomed across her features, starting at those cool blue, all-too-seeing eyes then spreading to her lips. They broke open slowly to reveal teeth that rarely made an appearance without Trixie to cajole them out. A shadow that had spilled across her face seemed to dissipate, revealing the rarity of Chloe at her most disarming. Most authentic. "Hi." It was all she seemed able to offer at the moment and Michael took it happily.
"May I top you up?" He reached for the slippery bottle on the bartop, his eyes refusing to leave hers, too immersed in capturing and hoarding away the details.
She shrugged amicably. "I shouldn't but…" she extended the glass and gave out a breathy laugh when he started to pour into it. "When in Rome."
"When in Lux." He gave a wink and watched as she slowly brought the glass up to her mouth and took a long sip, her lips coming away wet with a few droplets of wine. It conjured up the memory of the night in the living room and how he had stared at the white halos that had gleamed on her bottom lip as she took a pull from the near-empty bottle. At how much he had wanted to lick them away. How much he had wanted to put his mouth over every part of her. A knowing look crossed her face and she cast her eyes down, a sheen of pink stealing over her cheeks.
Lucifer cleared his throat loudly. "To get back to the subject at hand, all I can ask is that you extend a measure of trust, Detective. I may not always seem it, but I assure you that I'm 100% in your corner and at your service."
Michael palmed the yellow tequila bottle and uncorked the top. "Trust comes with experience, Lucy. Have you done enough to earn Chloe's?"
"I would hope so." He filed away the fact that his brother was now on a strictly first name basis with the Detective. A personal perk, perhaps. "And if not, I'm willing to make that right."
"So I assume you're both remaining partners then? As loosely as it can be defined?" And Michael wanted it very, very loosely defined. Non-existent if he was able to have his way.
The three of them paused in contemplation. None of them had expected the course of tonight to be about forgiveness, although that wasn't quite what had happened seeing that no one had come right out and said they were sorry, but nevertheless it hadn't crossed their minds as to what their impromptu meeting and sharing of drinks meant for their near future. Lucifer typically bolstered the school of thought to let bygones be bygones, but knew that humans, who lived such short and boring lives, collected bygones like bracelet charms to wear around their wrists. Being the Devil and an immortal creature had its perks in so much that all the hurts you administered along the way were typically wiped clean after a few decades or so. It was easy to forgive and forget if all he had to do was wait out for old age to take away his problems. Live long and prosper, my dudes.
Chloe was the first to break the long silence. "I-I don't know." She eyed the drink in Lucifer's hand but wasn't able to meet his eyes. "I think we can help each other, with the case I mean. But partners...well, I don't know." There were too many variables that felt clouded when it came to Lucifer. Too many unknowns, or omissions as he thought of them, to give her over-analytical mind any comfort. She could play the unwitting fool only once. Daddy Decker had poured too much hard steel into her for second chances.
"Detective." Hurt passed over his face. He had felt assured by her coming here. As though things were reparable. On the right track or at least on a better one than the jolting mess that they had unceremoniously disembarked on a few nights ago. Yet, here she had shown her half-and-half heart, both unsure yet resolute. Still, he didn't press further on the matter. He knew enough about her to know when to step away, if at least for a little while.
"I came here wanting to know answers. I came here maybe under the impressions that, I don't know, I could convince you to be honest. But maybe it's too late for that now, Lucifer. Maybe we've moved past the point where we could have…" she shrugged, "been something."
Partners. Surely. Friends. Unlikely. As much as she was drawn by curiosity to the man behind the bar, she understood that they existed in two vastly different worlds with vastly different cares and needs. Being star-crossed never accounted for the complexities of life and its realities. Lucifer Morningstar was the fantasy. The men one saw in magazine ads or her favorite weekly tabloids, a narrative to imagine another life full of leisurely three hour lunches at the Ritz and beach getaways to distant tropical countries. The Notting Hill kind of romance where he would see you from afar, you in your stained sweatshirt and three-day-old yoga pants, and see your inner beauty. The hot goddess beneath your kick-around clothes. He would somehow fall helplessly in love with you and your charming life as a common, everyday gal. And then what? The fantasy fell apart if you tried to make sense of it too much. It was a romantic, singularly selfish daydream to help pass the day, but the realities of life dictated that they remain pies in the sky.
"I wish there were a way I could convince you to try, Detective. I felt as though we made a pretty smart team." And that had been the honest truth.
She smiled, sadness touching the corners of her eyes. "Yeah, we did all right, didn't we?"
"Minus getting shot, I'd say it was the most fun I'd had in decades."
"And what about now? How is the investigation going to proceed?" Michael interrupted, not liking the wistful gleam in his brother's eyes.
"We have a full APB out on Gio. We're in the process of tracking down the Bernards and awaiting all of the forensics to come through." She smiled, not kindly. It was a huntress' smile. "We're getting close, I can feel it. It won't be long until we catch the sonuvabitch that killed Mazikeen and Stephen Delaney."
Lucifer's heart picked up its pace at her words. At her absolute confidence. Here, he was witnessing her in her element.
On the prowl, on the scent.
Ready to dole out justice with quick mind and fast fingers.
The Devil dealt in desire, The Archangel dealt in fear, but Chloe...well, end of the day, Chloe Decker dealt in lead.