XV.
ACT ONE
She had been expecting a certain level of dramatics when she showed up at the address Lucifer had texted her-enough time had been spent together to understand that he enjoyed a good show whenever the opportunity presented itself-but she hadn't been expecting it to end so messily.
There had been a stodgy woman in a well-made suit as she walked up to a small building painted the softest shade of blue, reminiscent of grey mornings along the ocean where the fine mist along your skin felt like a baptism. Chloe had taken a few minutes to go home and clean up after baking in the driver's seat for the better part of the day but, as always, felt significantly underdressed after seeing the posh set the woman at the door was wearing.
"He's waiting for you inside." She didn't offer Chloe a smile as she opened the heavy wooden door.
The entranceway was awash in a swath of golden light, reflecting itself from the glass panes of beautifully rendered and tastefully curated art prints. There wasn't anyone to greet her at the host desk, nor was there the usual hum and clinks of a restaurant in full swing. She stopped in front of a large gilded mirror, smoothing the hair that she had torn out of her french braid in the quick few minutes she had stopped home to change. It hung in loose, tired waves around her shoulders, framing a face that also felt loose and tired. There was something about being in the presence of wealth that made one hyper-aware of their own shortcomings. Same with sharing the company of youth or the types of people who could spring out of bed every morning with nothing but good will in their hearts. What she saw in the mirror, this version of Chloe, felt like a sore thumb amidst the well-polished wood and expensive art work. Sighing, she turned away from the reflection that she thought of as Downslope Chloe and slowly rounded the corner into the main dining room.
The warm intimate wood and golden cast from the front room gave way into the dark maroons and velveteen glow reminiscent of husky nights splayed on the cool grass of some foreign country while the distant gleam of lights in windows and soft heads on pillows swayed on the horizon. Like wading into the warm waters of friendly oceans as the soft waves pooled around your ankles and a thousand pinholes of brightness shone their absolute and resolute significance above you. A small set of stairs led her down towards a sprawling sea of white tablecloths, empty, save for one near the center of the room. There, like the opening of Act One, sitting in the beam of a spotlight provided by the mellow dangling lamps, sat Lucifer paging through the menu. His face seemed to shift and illuminate under that beam, painting his features in swatches of shadow and light, good and evil, love and lust. She thought back to the night that Michael had sat in the car with her-what felt like another lifetime ago-and how the light had cut across his features like a lightning bolt, highlighting the parts of him Fate had meant for her to see. Here, it felt like the Hand of God was pushing her (or was she being pulled?) down the stairs, towards answers to questions and continuations of inevitability. He looked up as her heel clicked on the final step and she hesitated, their gazes locking briefly before he slowly stood up. "Detective."
She could only muster a nervous smile in response as she made her way towards the table, unconsciously combing through the ends of her hair again. Lucifer reached over and pulled out the empty chair, motioning for her to sit. Once they had both settled in, a heavy silence hung between them as she gazed around the lavish setting, once again feeling out of place. She finally swung her eyes to meet his and they briefly, silently measured each other before bursting into laughter.
"It's all a bit silly, isn't it?" Lucifer motioned to the grand chandelier and leather-bound wine list. At the empty tables that housed no chairs.
"Was the Vatican fully booked for tonight?" She let out another burst of laughter.
"I guess I was being overly cautious." Sheepishness crept into his voice. "Insurance that we wouldn't be distracted by our neighbors."
Chloe again wondered just how much money Lucifer had. "Well, I appreciate the thought. At least we know service isn't gonna be a problem tonight."
As if on cue, a door near the back of the room swung open and a smartly dressed man came towards their table with two small bowls in his hands. He placed them quietly in front of the pair and described the dish as Wagyu Air and slid back into the shadows. It was a small cube of marbled beef, impossibly red and veined with thick glistening ropes of fat, sitting in a cloud of white foam. She nervously eyed the small spoon in her hand, unsure of how one ate air in such a situation. With a practiced hand, Lucifer scooped the entire contents onto his silverware and plucked it into his mouth, a haze of boredom never leaving his face. Just another day, just another piece of hundred dollar beef. When one lived around the socially unattainable-fine dining restaurants, custom designer clothes, multi-million dollar homes that sat unused-they became the rhythm of life. Just another thing to cross off the checklist. The meat winked as if in agreement as she brought the spoon up to her mouth. Yes, it was one of the best things she had ever eaten and no, she didn't think she'd ever want another chance to indulge in Wagyu Air again.
Lucifer sat back in his chair and pushed the small bowl off to the side. "Did you get a chance to look through what I gave you?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And, I think there's a lot more left to tell. But...I think it's a great start."
"I'll drink to that."
From the outskirts of the room, another vapor in a nice suit appeared, this time with glasses on a tray. He placed a tumbler of brown liquor in front of Lucifer and a bottle of Macallan at the edge of the table; a delicate wine glass next to Chloe's right hand, the pale gold liquid etching long legs down the bell. Lucifer palmed his glass and sloshed the scotch around, watching the whirlpool it made in detachment, but didn't bring it up to his lips. "Detective. Before I start, I want to ask one question."
"Sure."
"Why Michael?" He was still staring into the whirlpool, following its shape and trying to pull a sensical reason why he couldn't meet her eyes.
She sat still for a long while, watching him, watching his hands, watching the gentle downslope of his mouth. At a face that was a reflection of another but still so vastly unlike his brother's. And what answer was left to tell that didn't spill her entire chest cavity onto the spotless white linen. How could she encapsulate a lifetime's worth of insecurity, loss and love into a neatly packaged few sentences? Especially to someone who rarely had to contend with the dark waters of never having enough or being enough. How finding someone who allowed the vast complexity of humanness to simply exist felt like a blessing. How scary the world was at the thought of living through it alone and unseen. "Well, because Michael is...uncomplicated. He's straightforward; he doesn't make me second guess myself. There's no metaphor or twisting prose, no long standing moments to process and resolve the way that it feels to be with him. I don't have to keep up for the sake of keeping up."
He chuckled. "Sounds boring."
Her blue eyes softened as she lightly shook her head, errant strands of hair brushing against her cheeks. "No, not boring. Stable. Honest. I need that, Trixie needs that. I work a job that threatens to overturn my life every chance it gets. It pushes me in the most challenging and uncomfortable ways and-don't get me wrong-I like that about my work. I'm really fucking good at it. But, I don't need that in my personal life. When I come home I want to be, I don't know…"
"Stable." He finally brought the drink up to his lips and with a flick of his wrist downed the entire contents in one gulp. Dependable, plain Greek yogurt Michael. Mr. Stability. Mr. I'll-be-there-for-you-when-the-rain-starts-to-pour. The quality that Lucifer had always thought of as his brother's most lackluster ended up being the worm that hooked one security-seeking Detective, and how could he compete with that? "Well, I'm glad you found some needed stability in life, no matter how boring." He smiled. "And I cannot stress just how boring my brother Michael is." She let out a brief laugh. He had really come to like that sound. Maybe due to its rarity or maybe because it felt like one had to earn that laughter. "But if you ever, and I mean ever, want to leave some of that boring stability behind but perhaps want to hold onto that handsome mug, well…"
This earned him another laugh, smaller this time, but he still lapped it up hungrily. "Just so we're clear: I would never, ever, ever sleep with you, Mr. Morningstar."
"Oh, we're down to two 'evers', I feel like that's progress."
A delicate hand crept up to her mouth as she tried to suppress a smile. "Looks like it dropped a few degrees in Hell, huh?"
"Give me a few days and we'll be celebrating beach weather in no time."
"I'll bring the suntan lotion."
His mouth pulled up slyly at the thought of his hands rubbing slick oil all over her body. Regardless of the complications that Michael, an ongoing investigation or the hairline filament holding together his partnership with the Detective brought, he was still an angel that dealt in desires. Those of humans, those of his own.
She read the darkness in his eyes and blushed but didn't shy away from the way it made her feel. There was a sense of power when he looked at her in those moments. Outside of the aspect of desire, there lay a genuineness that he rarely displayed. It wasn't a part of the act. It came from a place where he himself may not even know. It gave her hope. Things could change. He could change. Because Chloe Decker was a fixer. A damn good one. "So, Mr. Morningstar, now it's your turn."
It had started out slow, his voice a staccato as though he were attempting to rev up a motor that had long been dormant. His story began from the point their lives had crisscrossed, a hot summer night in Los Angeles when Chloe Decker had come into Lux to deliver the news that his tried and true companion Mazikeen Smith had been murdered. Soon Lucifer's smooth cadence returned, the words flowing out in the gifted way of a natural storyteller. Multiple courses of small, artfully presented dishes had dropped in and out of their periphery but Chloe had barely touched any of the food instead opting to sip slowly through her glass of wine. All her dedication, all her attention was locked solely on Lucifer Morningstar. He had told her about his chance meeting with Dean Cooper at a premiere party in Malibu and the fast friendship that had blossomed afterwards. How that friendship had turned into the procurement of an old hotel that had been one of Cooper's most undervalued but personally treasured properties. A property that he didn't want to fall into his ex-wife's claws with what the old man felt was an impending divorce that indeed went on for many years up until his untimely passing. He had told Chloe about Maze and Lucifer's first few months in Los Angeles; the neverending parties, unfettered access and days of binging on whatever and whoever they desired. Sometimes that was other people, sometimes it was each other, sometimes it was both.
He had told her about his other life, the one before LA, before the tinsel and the glamour, the one full of dark memories and ceaseless punishment for disobeying his father. He had called it literal Hell and Chloe thought she could draw the parallels: the wayward son thrown from his home, made to reap penance in a prison of his vengeful father's choosing (military or boarding school, perhaps?), hightailing it outta there the first chance he got. She had grown up with friends who had strict parents-the spare the rod, spoil the child types-and had seen firsthand the closed fists and snapped belts that kept them living in fear under an authoritative rule. Most of them ran away the minute they turned eighteen, throwing themselves into lives that would make their conservative parents scream. Yeah, she knew a little bit of that fuck-you life herself, didn't she? Being twenty, reeling from the loss of her father, careening into her own darkness, her own dark pleasures. A dark life full of dark thoughts, living recklessly because none of it truly mattered anymore. Not her mom, not her future, not even her self. The city had swallowed her whole. Had taken her young form in one meaty gulp and had she not broken her arm from falling out of a second story window-doing rails off of a polished sink counter while they slammed tequila at some house party in Van Nuys, smoking cigarettes that burned untouched on the windowsill and then whoops! there goes Chloe slipping out the window because Bernie Carlson was hip-checking her way to the toilet-she was sure her life would have ended being shit out the other side as another unfortunate corpse in LA's rising body count.
Lucifer's voice remained even, melodic, but an undertone of grief weaved its way into his words. Because he was grieving, wasn't he? For the life he never got to live, for the love he never received, for the ways in which his Father had truly and completely fucked him up. Once, he had walked past a mural near St. Vincent's on Adams Boulevard and in bold yellow lettering someone had drawn the words "God is Love" with a laughable illustration of his brother Chamuel, the angel of love, hovering alongside. The words had enraged him. God was incapable of love. The God these humans had worshipped for the last few millenia was not the God that actually existed; The Human Idea of God was nothing more than a projection. A Biblical-Build-A-Bear (complete with a "record your own message from God!" that you could press whenever you needed a little self-fulfilled guidance). Lucifer had stared for a while at the mural, at the poor rendition of Chamuel, and then, pissed on it. Sorry, not sorry. He omitted this memory from his storytelling but he had plenty others to choose from that didn't involve him unzipping his trousers and defacing religious property. Not that the Detective would judge. No, as much as this felt like a confessional, there was a deep catharsis in being able to say some of these words aloud. Because that was part of throwing out the lifeline, right? He paused to take another drink from his glass, trying to gauge her reaction. As always, her features remained unreadable. Not disinterested, not cold, just...there. She had listened with rapt interest, only interjecting to ask a follow-up question here or there, but otherwise she had nodded along, sipping quietly on her wine. Smooth, cool waters. Not a ripple of emotion to let him know what she had thought about the Life of Lucifer, Season One, now with director's commentary. In the grand scheme of things it didn't matter much what the Detective thought, but it didn't change the fact that he was looking for her approval, as though he were the one standing trial to await her judgement. Role reversal. He didn't much care for the way it made him feel. She was now staring blankly at what looked like the fish course that had hit the table a few minutes ago, a furrow starting to eat a groove into her forehead. He was fascinated by that groove, nothing more than a slight wrinkle that would trace along the skin, what he thought of as her Detective's Eye. It gave her naturally soft face a pensive quality, an underlying cunning that he particularly enjoyed. Her hair was worn down tonight, another fact that he particularly enjoyed, and it framed that groove above her eyes in curved parentheses. The lamps overhead highlighted smooth cheeks, a thin nose, thick lips pulled down ever so slightly. He understood how Dan, Michael and so many others could have fallen ass over teakettle for her. Another glassful of scotch vanished down his throat. Enough, he hoped, to quell the flames.
Finally, the groove left. "Can I ask you something, Lucifer? Something, um, celestial?"
He nodded. Intrigued.
"If, let's say, one were to take what you're saying literally: Heaven, Hell, the Devil, all of it...what does that mean for those of us who don't believe in Fate and faith and the will of God? Does our non-belief make us evil? Or are we just giving in to the temptations set out by the Devil because of the inherent evil born inside all of us?"
"You mean, original sin? Detective, I didn't take you as the religious studies type."
"Two years of Catholic high school gave me enough information to know that religion wasn't for me."
A sly smirk cut across his lips. "I hope you kept the uniform."
"Lucifer…"
"Right, yes, original sin. You know, there were pagan and Christian demonologists around the time when Plato was tinkering around with Forms, that believed Fate and the stars controlled the life of men, but demons controlled the stars. This led to a lot of theorizing about the perpetuation of evil and a whole lot of other religious debate that was apparently good dinner conversation for the times. Christians believed that demons were eradicated when Jesus came and died for your sins; His cross was a symbol to show that the demonic power that enslaved mankind had been broken. Poof. Gone. Demons lived in Hell with the other sore losers and could only interact with man on the outskirts of the living world through the inherent evil that resided inside each person. Majority of Christians said, 'yeah, brilliant, lets invest in that idea' and after a few decades of Newtonian natural law under our belts, it widened the rift between natural order and what some may call the supernatural order or others may call divination, we land somewhere close to modern ideations of Christianity or Catholicism. Sound familiar?"
"Sure. But I feel like there's a suckerpunch waiting for me somewhere."
He smiled, but not kindly. "Oh, getting there. As with any movement, you always get a few Debra Downers who don't want to be a part of the majority. There are some who still believe that demons walk among us, live among us even. Having grown weary of working in the outskirts they've found new ways to torture souls on Earth. Evil is perpetuated, activated by these walking temptations, as though mankind has no control in the matter." He scoffed.
"Is that what you believe? That demons walk among us?"
His thoughts turned to Mazikeen and he suppressed the well in his throat. "Demons don't need to control the stars, Detective, not any more. Humans have been doing just fine on their own for millenia. You don't need our help."
"You didn't answer the question."
"I know they walk among us." he said.
This time it was her turn to scoff. "How? Because you're 'The Devil'?" He shrugged as if to say she already knew the answer. "Okay, let's say you are who you say you are. If, according to you, the Devil is sorely misunderstood and that being the caretaker of Hell is all a longstanding punishment for starting a war, why would you allow demons to interfere on Earth?"
"They're not here for you. For humans. They're here for a lot of the same reasons anyone else would be in their situation. To leave behind a life of imprisonment. To get a taste of mankind's greatest gift: freedom. Can you really fault me for showing kindness?" Another glass of scotch disappeared down his throat. "Humans need a reason. An explanation, no matter how illogical or farfetched, for why evil exists in the world. The Devil didn't create evil, Detective, whether you're a believer or a non-believer doesn't change the fact that evil simply exists. It's...a part of humanity. Created by humanity."
"So then demons are just, what, living on Earth, paying bills, working jobs?" The image of a dark devilish figure in a cheap shirt and tie, cranking numbers behind a desk floated briefly in her mind. Absolutely ridiculous.
He laughed. "You make it seem as though the world is run amok with our friends from the underworld."
"It's not?" There was a file cabinet under her desk with over a hundred case files that said otherwise. To her...demon, criminal, monster...it all came down to the same thing.
"No. Quite the contrary. The last one I've ever known was Napoleon and he fled back home with his spiny tail tucked between his legs decades ago." Well, him and Mazikeen. But he had an inkling that fact would only further the Detective's heel-digging on the subject. Even to die-hard believers, religion was something abstract. A feeling, an idea, a lesson in faith to believe that which we could not see. Did not want to see. Because if God's number one fandom knew that these lessons in faith had gnashing teeth and glowing wings...well, it would simply tear their brains apart. It was easier to look at the reflection of the truth than meet its eyes head-on.
"Wouldn't we know? Wouldn't we see that they're not human? Not one of us?"
"Do humans know when they're in the presence of a murderer? Is mankind's intuition so good that you'd be able to sniff out an imposter? Especially if they had a face you've seen a hundred times as you walk down the street to work in the mornings or served you your Friday martini every week from behind the bar? Isn't that what so many people say, 'he was such a nice chap, albeit a little strange, but we never would have thought he had a freezer full of heads in his basement'."
And that was God's honest truth wasn't it? How many interviews had she conducted as neighbors, friends and co-workers would sit across from her, shocked at the revelation that the person living next door, the weekend bowling partner, the guy who always had a funny story to tell around the water cooler...that guy was a seriously fucked up piece of shit. In retrospect they would tell Chloe that there were tiny moments-the dead glint in their eyes when no one was looking, the unnerving friendliness as he bid them a good morning from his front porch-but these retrospections only seemed like clues because these people, these tertiary victims, needed to believe that under better circumstances, they would be able to recognize evil. "So...how do they do it then?"
Lucifer shrugged. "Possession, I suppose. Not in The Exorcist kind of way, mind you." There were rituals that made humans susceptible for hosting but it wasn't a matter he was particularly interested in. That was more of Maze's thing. Besides, demons rarely wanted to come up to the surface; they had been created for one specific purpose and Hell met all the needs a sadistic hellion could ever dream. Sure, there were always a handful every few millenia that would get curious about lives not lived, Mazikeen's mother being one of them, but they rarely stayed longer than a few weeks before growing bored of the rigid social structures and itchy clothing. "Why the sudden interest in demonology, Detective?"
Chloe stared at the untouched plate of snapper near the edge of the table, taking in the glistening white flesh as it sat atop a mound of vibrant green puree. Flaky bits of finishing salt dotted the crispy skin, recalling a desert landscape sparse with stunted shrubbery and jagged hills that struggled to meet the sky. A simple yet masterful presentation. One she couldn't bring herself to rake a polished fork through. And it wasn't just about the lavish setting and the refined food that existed outside of her financial means; it was also about the ease in which she could imagine living a life that held those possibilities. Just like a certain maroon velvet dress that hung in her closet, it helped her slip into another version of Chloe-the Chloe of Possibilities, the Chloe of Yesteryear and Yesterlife. The version that didn't spend her days off fighting carts at the grocery store and reading books while the laundry spun through the gentle cycle. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. That snapper, with its golden aroma atop slick porcelain, felt like the poisoned apple, Snow White or Eve, your choice. There wasn't a specific reason she had brought up the subject of evil. Maybe it was something Ella had said earlier about a chrysalis or one's insides turning into a gak ball of genetics or maybe she was toe-touching into the improbable, hell, the impossible. Or, better yet, maybe she was on the brink of checking herself into the nearest psych ward to trade in her badge and gun for some soft slipper socks and velcro curtains (and you'd know better than anyone about that, wouldn't you, babygirl?). "What if it's all true?" she whispered, more to herself than to Lucifer.
"What if it is?"
She had looked up then, her face sliding between fear and amusement. A brief exhalation of air escaped from between lips that barely held a smile. "Listen…there-there's something I want to show you."
"Now?" He motioned to the still life of her snapper, to her glass of wine.
Another brief pause then a curt nod. "I think it has to be now."
The air had cooled considerably when they walked out of the restaurant, leaving behind the golden hues of excess into the realities painted in the dark blues and greys of a quiet night. There were a few people strolling along the sidewalk-a young couple linked at the hands, two older ladies trudging along with a metal shopper, a posh long-haired dude in a stiff leather jacket smoking a cigarette-but they paid Lucifer and Chloe no mind. They had places to go and people to be. A small family clad in what Chloe thought of as Midwest Tourist-Wear brushed past them and the youngest child, a fair-haired plump little thing, swiveled his head around to stare at them with large curious eyes until he was pulled into the ice cream shop a few buildings away. The detective's gaze lingered on the shop's entrance, as though she were reading into the child's passing interest as a sign that she was making the wrong decision. Too many eyes. Too many ways it could all go wrong. She waited for another moment, gripped with uncertainty, before grabbing onto Lucifer's wrist and pulling him down the street. He followed along willingly, his face a mixture of confusion and curiosity. They rounded the corner and headed down another smaller side street, the walkway now empty of shoppers and evening strollers. The dingy gold of the rental car soon came into view and the two bright flashes it emitted as she hit the button on the key fob looked to him like a conspiratorial wink: hey bud, good to see you again, guess what I've got in store for you. As they closed in, he could see a shadowy figure in the back seat.
Robbie Bernard. The old sack of shit, sack-shitting it up as sacks of shit typically did. He had been sleeping or, more likely, passed out in the backseat but the sound of the doors unlocking had woken him up. The Detective stood next to the backdoor, peering at the bleary-eyed junkie through the window with a hard set of lines on her mouth and on her forehead. Again, that pensive uncertainty. He thought to clear his throat, maybe reach out to break the deep internal conflict that she seemed to be having, but hesitated. There was something inky lurking just below the skin, one that foretold of a darkness that was wrestling to get out, or be kept in. It threatened to consume her face, a venomous snake's hiss that would swallow the entirety of her usually placid but stoic features.
"Lucifer. When you talked about the bureaucracy of police work, I had always brushed it off as wrong. Order and discipline is necessary, especially as we continue to do this work. But…" Her mouth scrunched into a bitter scowl. "...it's gotten me nowhere. It can't bring my father back, it can't bring Maze back, it can't bring Stephen Delaney and the hundreds of people I've seen taken from this life back. I've played by the rules, followed the book and upheld everything the force has ever asked of me. I've given it the holiest and most honorable parts of myself because I truly believed that goodness conquers all. The good guys win but only if they uphold the goodness in them...around them. And it's gotten me nowhere."
"Detective." He didn't like the sound of her voice. At the icy, vacant stare as she watched Robbie Bernard wipe the sweat from his sullen cheeks. The Detective was a pragmatist, sure. A pessimist, at times. But she had always held onto her rigid moral compass. It was the hook that upheld all of her core beliefs, about herself, about society, about her life. To see her question it, to consider leaving it behind and allowing the dark thing that crawled under her flesh to consume it gave Lucifer goosebumps. Evil was inherent, but the Detective? No, he had always thought of her as untouchable.
She held up a steady hand, stopping his words. "There's one thing standing between us and Gio. I have Robbie Bernard on drug possession charges, his arrest is completely within the jurisdiction of the law. But...I don't want the law, not this time." Her eyes left the window and connected with Lucifer's. "I want the truth."
He shuddered at the lifelessness in her stare. At that hard steel. "And what would you like me to do?"
She slowly turned back to the pallid figure hunched over in the backseat. "I want you to get the truth. All of it."
The car reeked of old piss and the musty smell of something wet that never fully dried out. Robbie, the little shitsack, was huddled against the backrest, knees folded against his scrawny chest, one of his hands cuffed to the door handle on the opposite side. The arm that stuck out was beyond thin and had the greyish tinge of the undead. And perhaps that wasn't too far from the truth. It had only been a few weeks since Lucifer had last seen Shitsack Bernard but he had lost quite a bit of weight, his swollen eyes almost overtaking the plastic quality of his face. A thin line of crusty residue traced its cracked surface from his chaffed nostril and down around his mouth, eventually lost in the small white pustules that bookended ashen lips. Oh, their little friend Robbie had been slithering around town with quite the hungry monkey on his back. Daddy Bernard would have to throw some serious cash to get his only son dried out properly, that was a non-negotiable. And maybe the kid wouldn't live long enough to get dried out.
Realization slowly dawned in Robert Bernard's face. "Oh, no, man! No, no, not you!" He pedaled his thin legs against the back of the car seat, trying to scoot his ass to the other side. A twisted invisible finger pulled the left side of his mouth down in a hard frown that reminded Lucifer of the D-level Stallone busker that roamed up and down Hollywood Boulevard. "Get away from me, you freak! Get awaaaayyyyyyy!"
Lucifer deftly blocked Robbie's kicking feet and hunkered down near the door frame, his elbows on his knees with hands dangling between his calves. His face remained neutral. Bored. "Robert." Like a parent scolding their child.
The wild kicking quelled into a few half-hearted flops but the look of terror on the kid's face remained. A wet squelch rose up from his chest as he pressed his back against the opposite door, his cuffed hand now clutching the door handle. "Stay away from me, man."
"I have absolutely no intention of getting into this car, trust me." He shot a disparaging look around the backseat and scrunched his nose. "Detective, you're going to need to get some aggressive detailing done once you drop Robbie back into whatever hole he crawled out of."
"Whaddya want! I already told the broad that I don't know nothing about nothing!" A slimy sheen of sweat ran along his upper lip as he talked. Another slick coating of it painted his greyish, splotchy neck.
Lucifer tossed a quick look to the Detective who gave him a nod of her head before leaning forward, trying to lock eyes with the thin, shaking figure in the backseat. "Robert, look at me. Listen to me." His voice slowed down and took on a sugary quality. "I need you to focus, because the faster we get this over with, the faster you can go back to whatever nefarious things you've been up to. Are we clear?" The young man threw a final, floppy kick and then stilled, his wild buggish eyes now fixed fully on Lucifer. Fervent. Ready. Lucifer leaned in a little further, ignoring the overpowering smell of vomit and week-old underwear. "Robert, what is it you truly desire?"
A wane smile bloomed on a face that used to be considered handsome. "I want...I want some more smack." A fiendish giggle trilled from his throat. "Enough to make me forget. Enough to make me forget I saw your face. Your real face, you dig?"
Oh, he did indeed dig. He dug it right down to the bone. "And whose fault was that, Robbie?"
"Mine." He hung his head, his voice thin and wavering. "But also, yours. Why did you have to show me that face?" Almost a whisper now. "Why?"
"I promise you'll never have to see it again if you tell me what I want to know."
"I can't." Then, "you promise?"
"Cross my heart." He mimicked an "x" over his chest.
"Hope you die." Another soft trill of laughter. "I don't know where Gio ran off to, that's the truth. After the night of the party he came into The Shop and called up the doctor. I was counting the till with a few of the guys and heard him down the hall, said he needed a quick patch-up. Gunshot. No more than an hour later he's all sewn up and…" Robbie bit his lip, "and he sounded all right but…aw, man..."
"But, what?" Lucifer leaned an arm against the edge of the back seat and tapped one of Robbie's limp feet.
"I don't know, man. I was kinda doped up. Me and the guys had been drinking and snorting a few rails so I wasn't, ya know, all there. But...his face, man. He looked like...he looked like he was wearing a mask."
Jesus, kid, have you looked in a mirror lately? Also, could the Detective really rely on a doper to be a credible source of information, especially when said doper was admitting as such? "What do you mean by wearing a mask? Are we talking Friday the 13th?"
"Naw, like-" The kid's eyes took on an empty stare as though they were looking into the past, "like, there was something living under his skin. Something that wanted to get out."
Lucifer heard the Detective shift uncomfortably behind him but he fought the urge to turn around. "What wanted to get out, Robbie?" He had unconsciously tipped his entire top half into the car, his hands now resting on either side of Robbie's wiry legs, their eyes fully locked together in a herder's stare off. And wasn't that all this kid was anyways, just another sheep to wrangle into the slaughterhouse? If that made Lucifer the ever-obedient sheep dog, then the shepherd...well...he fought off another impulse to whirl around and meet the Detective's gaze. Be a good boy now, the job's almost done. Glistening white teeth peeked out from a sickle-shaped smile as he bore down on the shivering form huddled in the back seat.
"That." Robbie's voice was almost imperceptible. A dirty finger reached up and pointed at Lucifer. "Whatever lives inside you. That's what I saw on Gio's face." Slowly, a large tear spilled over and left a glowing track down tired skin. "It was burning under there. A skull. A demon. An evil thing. It marked me. It marked me and now I'm gonna die." Another fat tear rolled down and followed the gentle slope of his thin nose, hanging on the tip like a ripe peach before dropping into the darkness of the car.
Lucifer felt the Detective's hands push through the narrow opening of the door frame, her body nearly on top of his. "Robbie, did you notice anything off about Gio the last few weeks? Long periods of sleep or maybe he was hospitalized for a little while?"
"No. Not that I can remember. He was spending a lot of time with a new lady friend so he wasn't stopping by The Shop to watch the matches as often as he used to, but they split a few weeks ago and he's been sorta...mopey. Nothing a little extra tail and a few bottles can't fix though, ya know?" He snorted. "Kinda funny to see the big dude all grumpy and bent outta shape over a broad, no offense."
"Bent out of shape how, Robbie?"
Lucifer shifted uncomfortably under her listing form. "Does that part really matter, Dete-" She shushed him harshly.
"I dunno, like, he's not an emotional guy, you know? Pretty reserved. But he's been really angry lately. Yelling a lot. Threatening the guys for little shit. It's like he's dipolar or something."
Chloe ignored his gaffe. "Like he's a different person?" Caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly. She couldn't stop imagining a gooey mess sloshing around in a human-sized cocoon. What came out at the end?
"Like he's trying to pretend he's a different person. But I know. I saw. He's the Devil." Another wave of wildness overtook his eyes and Lucifer felt the line between them fading like a cell phone losing reception. He finally met the Detective's gaze, trying to gauge her reaction to the verbal vomit of their dear old drugged-out friend. The darkness of the backseat made it hard for him to get a clear view, but he saw the furrow had reclaimed its rightful position on her forehead. She was still staring at Robbie, or more so through Robbie, because she was riding her own wave, her own high. A hunter's face. Not in the slick, wolfish predatorial images that so many movies and books loved to use as romantic similes. No, nothing quite so Hollywood. This was a bloodhound. A dogged, wretched creature with a singular goal. All bloodshot eyes and jagged back. He thought again to the younger years when Amenadiel would spend inordinate amounts of time solving puzzles, writing riddles, consuming celestial philosophy...anything that would give him the mental edge in combat. Honing a mind that could think around corners. His eldest brother would spend days, sometimes even weeks pondering on a singular cryptogram because his mind was far away, busy hunting out the truth. Here, Lucifer saw a reflection of that obsession, a human with a mind that also wanted to hone itself into a weapon meant to cut down its prey. He shivered, whether in fear or excitement he couldn't be certain.
A slight breeze had picked up sometime during their questioning, rustling two pairs of pant legs as they jutted out the back door of a faded gold sedan. They had stood that way for a few more moments, unmoving, figures lost in thought, lost in impractical ideas and memories. As Lucifer dove deeply backwards, the detective was replaying the conversation she had had only a few hours ago. First Ella, then the man she was currently careening over. There was something that was trying to connect the two together and maybe a small part of her, a deeper part, recognized that connection but the ever-present pragmatist that dominated her thoughts wasn't ready to make it quite yet. Perhaps it never fully would.
A blearing honk finally severed the stillness, the Detective's fingers digging painfully into the back of Lucifer's suit at the sudden noise. They had clambered out of the stifling backseat, leaving behind the stench of Robbie's decay, their arms and legs tangling into each other as they tried to back out at the same time. An errant hand brushed against the smooth fabric of her thigh-a silk blend if his fingers were right-and he suppressed the hot spark that flickered in his chest. Was that all it took nowadays, a simple passing touch? Or was it the fact that she was forbidden fruit, an invariable apple in the garden of Eden? Not because of Michael, no nothing so shallow as brotherly jealousy, but because her goodness, her pure heart, made her untouchable to Lucifer's monstrous hands. The months since their initial meeting had shifted their dynamics; he was no longer interested in simply sleeping with her, he was trying to prove something to her, wasn't he? Or maybe he was trying to prove something to his Father, or even to himself. Lots to prove, so little time.
The Detective's face still had the hard look of deep thought. Gone huntin. A light sheen of sweat dotted her brow, catching in the pale light of the streetlamp half a block from the car. Shadows ate grooves into her eyes and around the bridge of her nose, a painting of her own mask. It rippled for a moment as they stood in the hazy half-shadows and for a moment Lucifer wondered if hers was the face that held a demon. He had expected her to ask him how much of what Robbie said was believable. He expected a monologue to convince herself that all of it was just the rantings of someone who was too fucked up to differentiate reality from horror. How many stories had she heard that sounded exactly like this from people less far gone? Part of him hoped that she would. Shake your head and mumble about the lunacy of the impossible. Let your unimaginative pragmatism chalk this up as nonsense and lets move on. Because he saw that mask of protection waver, question; it paused long enough to consider the impossible and he was a part of that impossible. He understood now that to tell her everything would mean losing her, whether by her choice or his or perhaps even by Fate, it would mean the end of their partnership. And that felt like too much. Too big. He was too afraid to ask himself why. Still, he understood that this truth...this was the everything.
"Lucifer. Before LA, before being sent away to...Hell...what was there before that?"
Darkness settled over his face. "Does anything really matter before then?"
"Everything matters, especially now."
"The person I was, the...thing...I used to be. That part, I don't want to remember. I don't know if I can tell that story."
"Is that what you're running away from?" she crossed her arms and took a step back. "Is there a part of you that is capable of hurting someone?"
"Detective…", his voice broke, "What I used to be...it made me into what I am today. I'm-I'm a monster. Not a hypothetical or metaphorical one, but an actual literal monster." The quiver in his words deepened. "I'm...the Devil."
"You're not the Devil. You have to...to stop this masquerade. This alter ego that you've built to-what?-punish yourself? Absolve yourself?" Was this about redemption? Reclamation? Or was this all the delusional makings of a rich playboy who needed an extensive coping mechanism for the shitty things he may have done in the past? Chloe couldn't figure out the deeper meaning behind his words, because there had to be a deeper meaning; a truth behind the metaphors and the well-spun stories. Just as the Bible held parables for its followers to interpret as guides to live lives under the grace of God, here too Chloe was meant to dig out the truth because the alternative was much too frightening; he was crazy or he was the Devil.
Lucifer shook his head. He considered showing her his face, his true face. Because that was the last step to making her understand, wasn't it? To make her see that he really was a monster, the original monster. A creature of God, fallen from Grace, forged in the fires of the everlasting flames of what he now thought of as both home and prison. All her doubts, all her reasoning would be nothing more than ash under his burning flesh. He studied the slender slope of her neck, at the soft jaw line that gracefully tapered into the fine hairs around her temples, at the smooth skin around cheekbones that held up those piercing, clever eyes. He imagined the horror he would see in them as his form contorted, eating up the beauty in her face as she relented to the terror of knowing him. Of really knowing him. His own selfishness wouldn't allow it. Couldn't allow it. Because somewhere between the long nights of working together and sharing meals and the endless, needless chatter, he had started caring. Amenadiel had always harped on him for being emotionally obtuse and here was the shining example of his own denial, staring at him with sympathy, with frustration, with hope. And that was the clincher, that hopefulness. Because it meant that she was still holding on. Waiting for the tides to change. Because some part of her still believed that there was goodness in him. There was something worth waiting for. "There's no absolution here, Detective. No redemption arc, no chariot of fire, no voice of God from a burning bush announcing that this was all a test of faith. There is no masquerade. No alter egos or grand delusions." He shrugged. "There's just this one fact. And who could be crazy enough to pray for the Devil?"
Tears pricked the corners of Chloe's eyes and she turned abruptly, rummaging in her pocket for the car keys. "I came here for answers, Lucifer. I came here for the truth. After all we've been through, I would've thought you'd extend me at least a crumb of honesty. To cut the bullshit, to stop playing games, at least for a little while and...I don't know...try."
"Detective." He extended a hand but she batted it away, hard.
"No. The time for talking is over Lucifer. You've made it clear." She cantered towards the driver's side door, willing her eyes to hold in her tears, begging them not to spill over until she was safely inside. Her foot caught the edge of the pavement and she grabbed onto the hood to steady herself when she felt his strong grip around her arm.
"Detective." He spun her around. "You can't ask me to tell you everything, to pour it all out, then refuse to listen to the parts that don't agree with you. I'm giving you more than a crumb of honesty, I'm giving you the whole goddamn cake. I know how it makes me sound. I know you don't believe me but...you have to try. This is what you wanted."
"Is it, Lucifer?" she spat. "Is this what I truly desired, Ye Old Splitfoot, King of the Bottomless Pit? Tell me, Satan, what is it you truly desire?"
The word tumbled out against his will. "You."
Her eyes widened into discs of fear, two large floating islands lost in the sea of her face. She had gone limp at his confession, her knees buckling as her ass hit the side of the car in a dull thud. There was a deep well of panic building inside of her, but also, relief. Because it had been the most honest thing he had ever said to her. What it meant for them, for all of them, well, that was a whole different set of problems. Not right now, babygirl. Not now and maybe never. He was still holding onto her arm, a dazed light casting his face in an angelic halo as the quiet street waited for someone, anyone to break the silence. She shook her arm free from his grip, giving his face one last confused look before slipping into the car and driving away.
He remained standing, his hand still slightly outstretched as though he were still holding onto a phantom arm, still begging it not to leave. Her face…what he had seen there, what had met him at his uncontrollable confession...No, leave it there. Once was enough. What more was there to expect, to look forward to in that face? It had surprised him as much as it had surprised her to hear the word somersaulting between them. Not because it had been an epiphany of any sort, at least not to him anyways, but because of the way it had helplessly fallen from his lips. What did it mean? Did she hold a power over him-her own particular brand of mojo-that contorted him to her will? It felt dangerous. It felt like the cruel hand of Fate.
He watched the taillights wink around the corner, hand still outstretched, as if trying to call her back one final time. One last effort to cross a burning bridge. Slowly he looked down at his outstretched hand and was surprised to see it empty and torch-free, he must have set it down on that bridge long before tonight. Long before he fully understood what that expression could truly mean.