XIII.

REFLECTION

"I wonder if the course of narcissism through the ages would have been any different had Narcissus first peered into a cesspool. He probably did."

Frank O'Hara

She had stayed longer than she had intended; their conversation dovetailing into an easy-going back and forth from the current run of the case to recent renovations at city hall into lighthearted stories about the brothers' pasts. Here, Michael did most of the talking, much to Chloe's surprise, seeing that Lucifer typically preferred being the center of attention. It had brought Chloe a modicum of joy to imagine the twins in front of her as young boys, full of jealousy and grit and mischief. It had also humanized them in ways she didn't know she needed them to be humanized. They had rocketed into Chloe's life in such a way that didn't leave room for the mundane. The reminder that they were deeply complex people with rich pasts full of neglectful but loving parents and way too many siblings to keep track, had fleshed out the flat image that she had carried with her, a necessity in her line of work that bled into the personal far too often. She had laughed particularly hard at the story of a young Lucifer trying to get his brothers and sisters to enact a play that he had written, a loose biopic of God's favorite son, starring one Morningstar, please and thank you. It had ended with all twelve of them in a dogpile, spitting and screaming and pawing at each other over the historical inaccuracies (and clownish portrayals of each of them). Chloe had thrown her head back and laughed loudly, her balled hand thumping against the bartop as Michael showed her the half-circle scar on his arm that had been from the chomping teeth of their sister Jophiel, who had also taken a nibble at Amenadiel and Chamuel, both with the scars to prove it. Later, Michael had written a mock review of the play and had given it a rating of "three bites" and that the narrative had fallen to shit before the close of the first act. Lucifer had walloped him a good one when he had read it, citing him a poor scholar of the arts. Still, when Chloe had asked general questions like where they had grown up or what schools they had gone to, it was deftly deflected. She didn't push the subject but filed it away for further thought later. There would come a time for hardcasing and it would come sooner rather than later. Things felt like they were pushing along, pieces coming together slowly but soon they would be clipping along at a jog and then, finally, a full-out run. But for now, it felt good to slow down and chew the fat a little, as Daddy Decker would say.

They had clinked a few more glasses and shared a few more stories, Chloe even telling them about the time that she had ripped that old page from her aunt's Bible and flushed it down the toilet. Lucifer had particularly liked that one. Befitting, he had said.

Eventually, the night grew long legs and the detective found herself tired but in good spirits. Grabbing the faded denim jacket from the back of the chair and throwing it over her shoulders, she gave out her goodbyes. Michael insisted on walking her back to her car and she agreed eagerly. Lucifer, now free of his dark blue suit jacket but still buttoned up to the neck ("I pay good money for these shirts, the least people can do is look at it in its entirety", he had told her once; also, "one doesn't wear custom Gucci open-throated, we live in a civilized society" but she quietly noticed that he still rolled up his sleeves, whatever that meant for civilized society), who had for the most part acted as audience for the night, gave her shoulder a light squeeze. His unusual lack of conversation and distracted body language painted him in a meeker light and Chloe suddenly felt very sorry for him. How exhausting was it to constantly have expectations thrust upon you? The expectations to be perfectly polished, to have the right thing to say, to upkeep the image both you and society created together. If at any moment people saw what lay behind the veil, what kind of devastation would follow? She eyed the starchy dress shirt with its gleaming cufflinks, at his creaseless leather shoes and meticulously moisturized face. She saw the person she was meant to see, but didn't she also notice the slight creases of worry along his forehead or the nervous way he would adjust his shirt sleeves when he felt unsure of himself or the brief moments of clear, dark emotions that would blink in and out of his face like a lighthouse beacon? Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around the thin of his waist, clasping her hands together. A flushed cheek pressed itself gently against the hollow of his chest as she listened to his heart give out three quick beats before pulling away. They both came away with a look of surprise and Chloe could only offer an apologetic smile. Michael had led her away then, leaving Lucifer still standing with his arms slightly out past his sides, the furthest he could muster them to move while the Detective had hugged him so suddenly.

The foyer still remained dark, the switches having left Magda's hands so many hours ago and would remain so until tomorrow night. Here Michael had slipped his hand into hers, an innocent gesture that brought about the fluttery feelings of new touches from new faces. They were rough and calloused at the palms-blue collar hands, her dad would've called them-large enough to swallow her lithe fingers in their comforting grip. Neither of them said a word as they waited for the elevator to reach the penthouse, instead just focusing on the feeling of their tethered hands between them. A bright slot of light spilled onto the entryway as the doors slid open. Michael pulled her into the dusty white-walled elevator and just as the doors started to close again, he turned to Chloe and his face broke out into a full smile. She couldn't help the husky laugh of delight that poured from her throat as his hand slid around her waist, pulling her closely against him. Her feet and legs tangled between his as she wrapped her arms around his neck; lips alighted onto hers and she was entombed in the sight and scent of him. The scratchy feel of his grey sweater against her palm, the gentle taste of hard liquor on his mouth, his hand creeping under the waist of her shirt.

"Careful." she scolded. Teeth found their way to the thin skin under his chin and he let out his own breathy laugh.

The elevator chimed to announce its arrival onto a party that was just hitting its second stride. A wavering crowd of partygoers were jumping around on the dance floor below, pink and blue lights highlighting the ecstatic faces they wore while spilling their expensive cocktails all over each other. Something pop-y blared from the speakers, half the room singing along loudly in the hazy confidence of alcohol and being young. The staff corridor was slightly quieter, some of the walls housed shelves full of bar towels and microfiber cloths that helped to dampen the raucous sounds of the nightclub. Michael was still holding onto her hand, and pulled her close again as she giddily obliged, apparently unable to keep their hands off of each other, as most people found themselves in the first few stages of infatuation. There was neediness here. A slick, hungry consumption that conjured up those rolling eyes of a deer caught by the bullet of an inexperienced hunter. Dank afternoon woods filled with the scent of last night's rain and the soggy leaves that stuck to her boots. Dark earth, she thought, a smell that felt much too clear to be real. As if your nose was the only part of you that was truly awake. She assumed people who lived up in those mountains of Switzerland probably felt the same way when they opened their windows and took in a lungful of that crisp, cold mountain air. She clawed the ideas away, afraid of the seeping dampness the memories brought her. There was something about being back in this concrete hallway that muddled up long-forgotten images that she had spent a good deal of time trying to suppress.

Sharp pain brought her back, his hands now clutching at the sides of her ribs. Fingers digging in deep as he pushed her against one of the wire shelves, a few neatly folded towels tumbling to the floor. What had surprised Chloe these last few nights of stealing away to be with Michael, was the urgency to which he took to her. As though he had never lived through his teenage dating years of making out in the back of cars and getting felt up at the movies. As though his rational part had no say in the matter. That parts gone, babygirl. Whatever is happening to this man, that's part of your mojo. And that had made her feel powerful.

A bartender turned the corner with an armful of booze and gave out a bark of surprise when they happened upon the two. "Oh! Lucifer! I'm sorry, sir." He gave out a confused laugh when Michael turned to him, his hair in disarray and a red welt blooming on the side of his neck. "My apologies. Michael." Eyes shifted over to the equally disarrayed detective and a mischievous grin touched his lips. "Sorry to bother you." The bottles clinked their high notes as the bartender slipped down the hallway and out the swinging doors.

She couldn't help the relieved laugh that spilled from her mouth. "Maybe we should stop messing around like a pair of kids."

Disappointment passed over his features and he ran a hand through his hair, tamping down the errant waves that had come unfurled during their harried necking. "Right. I apologize. I'm just...you know, really into you."

"I can tell." A hand went to the side of his face. The other crept under the front of his sweater and brushed against smooth skin and thin hairs. She relished the feel of his warmth under her fingertips, at the firm yield of his body. He had joked to her that LA would classify him under "dad bod" (or "professor bod" if you carried around a PhD and a kid) but to her and her roving hands, she thought his form was damn near perfect.

"How about I walk you out to your car? Like a gentleman. I promise that was my innocent intention all along. Just got a little distracted along the way." He pulled a deep breath when her hand crept up past his nipple. "But, you know...I just...hafta be strong."

Daddy said. He said I hafta be strong.

And just like that, she was fully back in those woods, too afraid to watch as her father pulled out his .22 and put the deer with the black-blood mouth out of its misery. The spirit of the deer had moved on, but the gurgled, huffing noise it had made in those final moments did not. Young Chloe Decker who saw too much and felt too much until Daddy taught her not to feel anything anymore. Hard steel, he had told her. Pour it down your spine and make it stick, monkey. But in those woods, she hadn't poured that steel just yet. She was still holding on to her last two baby teeth and had to bury her face in her father's coat when the small pistol doled out its last bit of mercy. Dark earth. Like the cavernous hunger of the man before her. She was afraid but she was also unbelievably...alive.

Her fingers curled around the inside of his grey sweater, wisps of his chest hair peeking out from the pulled collar. Taking in a deep breath, taking in the scent memories of wet earth and those hints of sun-bleached haystacks in the middle of nowhere flatlands. Yes, she was afraid but she was so fucking alive. She gingerly placed her lips over his, slipping her tongue into the cool water of his mouth, drinking deeply. She allowed her hands to move down and slip into the waistband of his faded black jeans. "Why don't you walk me to my car, Mr. Demiurgos. I could use the company."

Lucifer's thoughts had been a jumbling mess since hearing the Detective say she was uncertain about restarting their partnership. Her coming here had felt like an olive branch, her presence a wordless apology. Bygones be bygones, and so on and so on. Perhaps it was his own wishful thinking but he didn't think that was the only thing. He may be a self-centered arse from time to time but he knew enough about humans and their psyches (and desires) to know that she came here looking for the same thing. Or at least curious about it, as was her annoyingly inquisitive and pragmatic nature. So what had changed?

Well, the answer was fairly obvious. Michael.

As much as he loathed his brother (and loved him in his own barmy way), he recognized his innate ability to see the undercurrents that Lucifer always seemed to miss. Michael connected to the Detective in ways that still baffled Lucifer. As much as he thought he understood humans, he had a hard time connecting them to the complexities of the emotional. Whenever he would have questions of why: why did humans do this, why did they behave in these ways, he chalked it up to their desires. Because they wanted to. End of story, wrap it up with a bow and call it Christmas. And frankly, he never really wanted to know the deeper why. That was the boring bit. Like the Spice Girls said, "tell me what you want, what you really really want".

So her comment had sent him reeling into a place within himself that he rarely ventured. At least, not with company present. He was physically here, standing around the bar with his brother and the Detective, laughing at the bits he was supposed to laugh at and nodding along when Michael's eyes would brush over his own. Still, his mind was elsewhere. Inside. Ruminating like a petulant child with their bottom lip extending well-past their chin. All that was missing were his whines of "but moooom, she won't play with me!" (And people wondered why he didn't care for children). Old feelings of inadequacy reared up, tearing new wounds in not-quite-healed over places. The stories of times past didn't help much in the matter either. Hearing the Detective's free laughter at memories that held much deeper cuts than the lighthearted mess that Michael had painted them as ("three bites" indeed and Lucifer had the scars to prove it) made their centuries of spiteful fighting seem like a sitcom (who wrote the theme music to Charles in Charge, cause I'd like to sign him on for this dumpster fire). Whatever cutesy imagery that was playing in the Detective's head (Little Rascal's style, most likely) was far from the torn flesh, bruised skin and two broken bones that the twelve of them had walked away with once their mother had intervened. Lucifer had gotten a good swipe at Michael's face right before they had been forcefully pulled apart (he was glad to see the small whitish line that still decorated his brother's cheek) and they had all been punished viciously in the ensuing days. Hearing their torrid early years being told in such a blase fashion pitted his stomach with roiling fever (and jealousy because she was lapping it up like honey, wasn't she? What else was she lapping up? No, not there. It's better not to know.)

Thankfully, after a few more knee-slappers from his honey-throated brother, the Detective had pulled on her jacket. There was a merciful God after all. Still in a half-haze from his internal deep dive, he had given her arm a slight squeeze as a goodbye. He had expected the small turn of her lips that acted as her smile. What he hadn't been expecting was the naked sympathy he saw on her face. As though she felt...sorry for him. The thought had made him recoil in male-dominated disdain (he lived a glamorous life that never left him wanting! why the fuck would he need her sympathy! look at how many goddamn nice things i own!) but part of him also felt relief. Because it was true, wasn't it? He was feeling quite sorry for himself (woe is me) and those all-too-seeing eyes had plucked it down like a ripe peach in a farmer's deft hands. Had recognized it right away. (Be careful, be careful, she sees too much). He had felt exposed (pitiful) under that gaze, as though she could see the monster that lay under all the nice suits and two hundred dollar haircuts. He thought to those sad commercials that would play repeatedly after the news concluded and the late night reruns kicked off their 90s lineup. Those doe-eyed dogs huddled in dirty cages and trash-ridden alleyways as a woeful voice sang about finding solace in the arms of an angel (what solace? what angel?). It was a gut punch to your heart in-between the Rosses and Rachels, the Barts and Homers. You wanna laugh a little? You gotta earn those laughs, baby. We take Mastercard or Visa.

She had wrapped her arms around his waist then. As he spiraled into his thoughts about cheesy sitcoms and dead dogs and how no one called toll free numbers anymore except maybe golden olds who still had landlines (and that was the target demographic, wasn't it?), she had pulled him back into the penthouse. He barely felt her. Hell, he barely registered what had happened before she had let go and given him another of those turns of the lips that she thought of as a smile. The last few nights he had thought vivid thoughts of being lost at sea: marooned, alone and treading water (Doctor Foster went to Gloucester). How their spin around the dance floor had brought up images of salvations and lifelines. Cliche? Of course. But there was no other way he could describe the feeling. Her arms around him...pulling him...out of the water and into the boat. Out of the mire and back into the penthouse. He had tried to lift his arms to wrap around her thin shoulders but they had felt ladened with lead. Hard steel. They hung out to his sides in a lackadaisical crucifix pose (oh, wouldn't Dad get a kick out of that thought) and then fell dully to his sides as she walked away with Michael at her side. Sluggish eyes followed their shadows into the darkened foyer as they waited for the elevator, the bright slant of light from the opening door silhouetting their joint hands. He watched as his brother pulled the Detective towards him, eliciting a throaty laugh that was cut short by the sliding doors that would lead them to something much more enjoyable, but not before Michael shot him a brief look of absolute smugness through the last two inches of light before Lucifer was staring at his own blurry reflection in the polished stainless steel. Before he saw the Detective's lips flood onto Michael's face. Before Lucifer was left with the wretched feeling of emptiness. Is this what those flea-ridden dogs felt as crews shoved lights and cameras in their faces, all for the sake of saving those who couldn't save themselves (and who were the ones that put them in those situations in the first place, huh?)

So he had stalked back to the bar, where he sat now, alone and awaiting his own angel's song in the form of whatever starlet had the time to croon a few wallowing bars. He wasn't sure how long he had been drinking (straight from the bottle, mind you, cause there wasn't time for glasses and proper ice cubes and social norms) when he heard the familiar footsteps of Michael returning from his disgusting activities with the Detective.

"Thought you'd be elbows deep in a few beautiful young things by now." Michael laughed.

"I'd say you already checked that off the list on my behalf." Lucifer eyed the rumpled sweater and red welts on his brother's neck. At his sickening shit-eating grin.

"She's something else, lemme tell you. She makes this unbelievable noise when-"

Lucifer threw up a hand. "Stop."

"Oh, suddenly shy about sexual exploits, hm? That's so unbecoming of you, brother." He took the bottle of whiskey from Lucifer's hands and took a large swig. "What's the hangup?"

"You're the hangup. What does she see in you anyways?" The mocking tone he tried to conjure up fell short and left him sounding hurt. Scared.

"Don't tell me you're jealous."

Lucifer responded by swiping back the bottle of whiskey and pulling a hard sip.

"Does it bother you that she finds boring old me so desirable? Does it bother you to be outshined by someone so...average, as you see it?"

He slammed the nearly empty bottle on the bartop. "We're all forced to eat unbuttered toast every once in a while, Michael. I wouldn't preen so cockishly about it."

"You didn't even give her a second thought until the threat of me being with her entered your mind. You've always wanted what others had, Lucy. And you only wanted them when you couldn't have them for yourself." Another laugh. "You're a selfish fuck, you know that? Chloe...she's just another thing to you; something that you want only because she doesn't give one single shit about you. You want her because I have her."

Was there truth in that? Yes. Probably. The thought of Michael enjoying anything in life made him well up with anger. God's favorite son already had so much. More than any mortal or immortal being could ever need. Was it wrong of Lucifer to covet that? To want to take some of it away? Dad had decreed thou shalt not covet thy neighbor, but He probably hadn't had to look at Michael's smarmy face His whole life to know that, hey, fuck that neighbor that's hoarding all the good stuff. Also, his brother was wrong. Lucifer was still trying to process this one himself, but it wasn't solely about competition. The words weren't ready to come out of his mouth quite yet (or from the recesses of his brain) but there was something else. Something new. Something...unexplainable. A miracle, even. Because what Lucifer was coveting wasn't just all the slipping and sliding his brother was doing with the Detective (but it was definitely a big one). He coveted everything that she meant: goodness, acceptance, a future filled with the kind of boring shit that he had no interest in but wanted anyways. He wanted her to flood his face with kisses. To look at him with soft eyes and a smile that wasn't quite a smile but still filled up her face with warmth. He wanted her to come through those elevator doors day after day, night after night. He wanted her to see him. He wanted to be seen.

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? He wanted her to know him. All of it. Because he saw it in her eyes. Tonight. At the mansion. When they had first met. She had seen so much and she was still here. She had chosen. And it wasn't Lucifer. But that didn't seem to matter so much because...she was still here and somehow that felt like a lifeline. The big lifeline. How different would the mythology be if Narcissus had looked up from his own reflection?

She had asked about Fate earlier in the night and he had categorized her preoccupation on the subject as a test. Humans cycled through a slog of existential questions when brushed so closely with Death, but now...well, now he was here asking those same questions. Was it his own dance with the hooded black figure that brought up questions about pre-determination or were his own foundational beliefs starting to come unraveled? If she had believed that her life was supposed to turn out this way, did that mean she also believed that meeting Michael, being with Michael, was also dictated by the Hand of God? The thought disturbed him. It didn't feel right. It couldn't be right. Because why else would he feel the way he felt? This was a choice (and he despised it), fully and completely his own. Dad had given him the one thing Lucifer had always wanted-had started a goddamn (ha!) war over-and it didn't bring him the satisfaction he thought he would feel. Because he had freely chosen the Detective. Had freely chosen to feel whatever complicated feelings he felt about her. And in the end, he would be left with little except the knowledge that he had obtained his long-sought free will (was it there all along?) and nothing else but the crumbs of those choices. Like the Spice Girls said, "I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazag, ah."