XVI.

AIN'T NO JOY FOR AN UPTOWN BOY

I've had enough of danger

And people on the streets

I'm looking out for angels

Just trying to find some peace

Now I think it's time

That you let me know

So if you love me

Say you love me

But if you don't just let me go

One More Try, George Michael

Another chord rang out from the glossy grand piano, its sweet sound echoing into a nearly empty club. Most of the guests had left for the night, some against their will, bad reviews be damned. He had stumbled into Lux around midnight after downing the remaining bottle of Macallan and half of another while sitting in the empty restaurant to finish their meal alone. A barely perceptible buzz had begun during his drive back home, the rush of air cooling the flecks of sweat that had sprung up along his brow as his body processed the influx of alcohol. He had never drank to get drunk, but tonight he intended to test the limits. To drown out the hollowness that had taken up residence in his chest; whatever had lived inside that cavity had left around the corner with those winking tail lights.

And teacher

There are things

That I don't want to learn

Oh the last one I had

Made me cry

So I don't want to learn to

Hold you, touch you

Think that you're mine

It was all so silly. These feelings. These human feelings. Where were they supposed to fit? How did one hold them and still wake up the next morning? They had tumbled inside him like a pair of shoes in the dryer, clattering about, making noise, asking to be taken out lest the machine fall apart. The club had been mellow when he arrived, the night was still young as was the patronage, their weekday party dresses and newly bought suits still nicely pressed as they clustered around the plush seating and polished tables. He had motioned to one of the bartenders who promptly slid three fingers worth of whisky in a rocks glass across the bar. All of it disappeared in a single gulp, eliciting a slight eyebrow raise from the bartender before he motioned for another. Again, the entire contents slipped quickly down his throat and by the third pou, the bartender left the bottle on the counter. Warm liquid slither down his body, sending his heart into a lurching pace as he surveyed the youthful, laughing faces at the bank of tables around the dancefloor. The Steinway had been left out on a raised stage, its rightful place on weekdays when Lux catered to a more subdued atmosphere. He rarely played in public anymore, his recent attention having been eaten up by the case and a certain doe-eyed detective, but tonight it seemed to beckon him back to a life that used to make sense. The old comforts. A few of the fresh-faced guests pointed when he slipped onto the bench, the bottle and empty glass at home next to the music rack. He had an endless roster of songs, operas, concertos and bards memorized but none came to mind, nothing, it seemed, lived in his mind right now.

"Um, excuse me?" A handsome, young man meekly waved to him from around the lid prop. "Are you...taking any requests?"

Lucifer smiled. "Pour me a drink and I'll play whatever you want."

The next two hours had been filled with the clang of the piano as people laughed and danced and shouted out their own requests. Suffragette City, Pretty Young Thing, Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nocturne in B-flat Minor, Dancing Queen; they ranged in genre, era and taste. A rotation of men and women with glimmering smiles and swaying bodies had come to refill his glass, sit alongside him, smooth his hair and stroke his thigh as they sang along. He would pause only long enough to take a swing from his drink or place a stranger's lips over his own before launching into the next frenzied chords of whatever had been requested. It brought back memories of rickety stages built in basements as homemade gin was ladled into cloudy glasses, his fingers flying over keys as the heat from all those bodies looking for reprieve from the realities of economic and financial collapse radiated through all of their clothes. He had lived and played amongst all that grief and it had been unable to touch him. But now...now his own clothes radiated with the realities of collapse. Heat. Sweat. He was almost through the chorus of Life on Mars-Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know, He's in the best selling show, Is there life on Mars?-when he suddenly stopped playing, his hands falling away from the keys.

"Get out." He said. A few of the patrons looked around at each other, some held their flutes and glasses up to their chests protectively. "I said get out!" His eyes lifted to meet the large group that had gathered around the raised stage. "We're done. I'm done." He swiped for the nearly-empty bottle and poured the rest of the contents into his glass, placing the empty next to him on the bench. Slowly the group broke apart, throwing perplexed or angry glances his way before exiting the club.

He had played enough songs for other people tonight. Had given music to their joys and their heartbreaks. What about his own? He placed his fingers back on the board but they refused to hit the keys. Frustrated, he called for another bottle, taking a deep pull directly from the neck, allowing it to run down the side of his mouth in thin rivulets. A warm numbness had filled his arms and legs, nowhere close to being inebriated but he welcomed the deadening feeling that currently lived in his stomach. Thinking of times long ago made him long for the feelings that lived in that body: carelessness, power, unbridled hedonism. He had tried to capture some of that tonight but it had rang untrue, even as his hands rekindled the familiar notes and memories, they had felt worn. Old. Useless. Another pull from the bottle lifted the deadening feeling further up his body into his chest, muffling the fluttering feeling of a heart that felt much too human. This transformation that was happening to him-was his loss of immortality the cause of his emptiness? Perhaps this is what it meant to feel human, to exist as a human. Again he wondered how they were able to wake up morning after morning with this burden. This was the longest he had stayed on Earth and perhaps that had a lot to do with whatever change was happening. The late eighties had brought about a longer stint, back when Los Angeles had hit its stride as the drug and party capital of the US. Deals had been brokered, futures ensured, successes drawn all while the booze flowed and beautiful bodies were never in short supply. Lucifer had rarely spent time alone during that trip; back then he had thought it as an excuse to fill up on all that human life had to offer but on further inspection, perhaps it was to fill up the empty feeling it left behind. He had cut his time short once the parties started to wane and the sun came up too soon, the urgency at which things like consequences and accountability were creeping up felt like a harsh buzzkill. No thank you. And maybe these feelings he was contending with now, those were also the warning bells that his time here was coming to an end. Consequence was catching up to him and it was time to leave it behind for another few decades until it was safe to come aboard again. But he knew. If he left, he would never be able to come back. Dad had let it slide for too long, had let Lucifer get too entangled in the doings of humans. This time would be the last time. And he wasn't willing to give that up. Not yet.

He tried to push away the image of the Detective's face, wrought with confusion and fear, as she shook her arm away from his hand. At the absolute humanness of her hurt, her worry. Her face had told him that there was no room for him there. Whatever could have...could never. And the finality of her sad eyes glistening with unspilled tears, the chasm of an extended hand as it reached out for a pair of fading tail lights, all of it was an answer. Not you, not you, not you. Had he known all of this, would he have agreed to meet with the Detective on that fateful night?

Yes.

Because it was Fate. And more than that, he would choose to meet her again and again, in this life or another. Not simply because Fate had meant for them to meet but because he wanted to choose her again and again. That was the truth that lived in the deep reservoir of his chest. That was the emptiness that wanted to swallow him whole.

When you were just a stranger

And I was at your feet

I didn't feel the danger

Now I feel the heat

That look in your eyes

Telling me no

So you think that you love me

Know that you need me

I wrote the song, I know it's wrong

Just let me go

He hadn't thought about this song since he had first heard it during that late eighties visit. It had been all over the radio that summer, a power ballad they had dubbed it, but Lucifer had largely ignored it in lieu of the catchy upbeat tunes that dominated the poolside parties and high-end clubs that year. Nearly four decades later, his fingers had found the melody and this time he couldn't ignore them.

Because it ain't no joy

For an uptown boy

Whose teacher has told him goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

He had distantly heard the click of heels on the polished floor but didn't recognize them as the Detective's until she was gingerly sitting on the corner of the bench. Fingers continued to hit the chords but he stopped singing, too immersed in his surprise, perhaps a little too deep into that last bottle. The gentle floral of her shampoo kissed the right side of his face and he tamped down the urge to run one of his hands through her hair. Instead, he kept his focus on the white and black keys. F, C, D minor, F, B flat. Repetition was the mother of learning, wasn't it? F, C, C sharp minor, D minor, B flat. What was there to learn here? What was the part of their relationship that kept repeating? On his next C chord, his left hand remained on the three keys, the notes holding long into the empty club as though in contemplation alongside their maker. It thinned out until all that remained were the ghost notes that continued to hold the music in each of their ears. Slowly, she raised her right hand and rested it on the keys, fingertips barely touching the warm ivory. She hesitated a moment then hit a high C, then two more times. He wordlessly shifted his hands and hit a D chord. A slow smile bloomed onto her face and soon they were playing a halting, simple version of Heart and Soul, a stiff smile growing on his lips as well. He soon sang along.

Heart and soul, I fell in love with you,

lost control, the way a fool would do,

Gladly...

Because you held me tight,

And stole a kiss in the night.

Heart and soul, I begged to be adored,

Lost control, and tumbled overboard,

Gladly...

His heart felt light with the words, jumping with the tune as they glided along. The blue and white spotlights had been dimmed to paint the room in ethereal hues, the one directly behind the Detective casting a bright white halo. Golden hair captured inside that light, catching them in a haze of fire like a burning crown, her face nearly imperceptible amidst the glow that spilled over her shoulders and onto the keyboard. A living angel. A breathing god. One could become enraptured at its form. One could drop to their knees to worship the false idol of that light.

But now I see, what one embrace can do,

Look at me, it's got me loving you,

Madly…

Chloe snatched her hand away from the board so suddenly that Lucifer hit the wrong keys, a discordant jumble of sharp and round sounds. It cut out as quickly as it came and again they were sitting in the thick silence. They hadn't said a single word since she slipped onto the leather bench and there didn't seem to be much that could be said. He had left it all on the asphalt of some unknown side street in Beverly Hills where they may still remain, waiting for their owner to pick them back up. The thought occurred to him to ask why she had come, but in all honesty he didn't care much to know. She was here and that was enough.

With slightly shaking hands she grabbed the glass from the top of the piano that still had a few mouthfuls of liquor sitting on the bottom and drank what remained. He saw her full bottom lip press over his own lip print on the edge-a kiss through a glass-before the dark liquid disappeared down her throat. His intentions chased down after it, wanting to know, to understand what lived inside this person who had taken up such a large part of his life in such an unassuming way. She took a moment to close her eyes, allowing the warmth to cycle its way down. The backlit halo still washed her in its blessed glow, alighting onto thick lashes set against pale cheekbones, almost translucent now under the spotlight. He didn't try to call back the hand that reached out to softly brush back the fall of hair on her shoulder, exposing a long neck that beckoned. His thumb grazed the thin skin of her jaw, her eyes opening at the contact. They were afraid. So were his. A new wake of warmth crept up his stomach. Tight with hopefulness. Tearing apart the skin of his resolve. He was pulling, calling the hand back that was now ensnared at the nape of her neck, the fingers helplessly caught around coils of her hair. It brought her with it.

Her lips had met his lightly, the skin under his fingers pulsing deeply with her quickening heartbeat. The breath of green that had announced her arrival was now fully blooming, filling his nose, his mouth, his lungs with its verdant vibrancy and he was sure it was the scent of Eden, of the first garden, where he had met the first woman and had birthed the first sin. Original Sin. Here was the scent of that sin, of salvation, of destruction. Except this time she was the Devil. One falling, if not already fallen, from the goodness and from the rightful godly place and he was the one pulling her down. All of Hell belonged to her because he belonged to her. A well of hopefulness tore open inside himself and he let go of her neck, their lips parting slowly, his still relishing in the feel of their weight.

Her eyes were closed and he was thankful, unsure if he was ready to see what they held. What would follow. The bench creaked beneath them as he slid closer, his hand already pulling her back, an urgency now creeping into his belly to meet the tightness. Trepidation had fallen away and Lucifer was overcome with something much more familiar. Lust. That first kiss-the first real honest kiss, anyway-had broken the seal and paved the way towards possibility. Not all was lost. She was not lost. Her own lips had pressed against his, a slow hand had crept up on his shoulder, her head had tilted ever so slightly...no, there was still hope. Perhaps all he had to do was draw it out. He leaned forward.

A phone shrilled loudly between them, her eyes fluttering open at the intrusion and briefly meeting his own before looking to her left jacket pocket. In those neverending cool blue eyes, a startled glint had winked in and out like a dying star pulsating before its timely burnout. A return to Earth, a return to reality. The hand not holding the phone lifted unconsciously to her mouth, barely touching the sensitive skin of her lips as if she needed confirmation that they were her own. Lucifer lingered on them for a few moments as she mumbled to the person on the other line. Was the spell broken? Could they return back here once the silence left just the two of them alone?

"Okay, I'll be right there." She stuffed the phone back into her pocket. "Gio's phone pinged somewhere near the Black Rock desert in Nevada."

"You mean where they hold Burning Man? Didn't take him for the type."

"Nevada State Troopers are already en route but I have to get out there. Dan will be here in a few to pick me up but I have to go." Chloe started to get up but Lucifer placed a hand on her arm.

"Tonight? As in right now? Detective, that's a nine hour drive. Besides, how do you know it's Gio that has the phone and not some lowlife he sent out that way to-" he let out an exasperated noise, "I don't know, send you on a wild goose hunt." He hated the desperation in his voice.

"I need to go, Lucifer. I have to see it for myself. What he's up to, who...what...he's become." Wildness swayed in her eyes.

"Become? What are you saying?" The image that had flashed through his mind in the library made another appearance. The Enochian symbol for demon. Well, not quite. Bearer of Darkness. Night bearer. Night bringer. A spring of pinpricks crawled up his arms and neck, settling on his forehead as they drew out a thin sheaf of sweat. If he was the Light Bringer, then the Night Bringer… "Detective, please sit for a moment, just a few…"

Chloe gently removed his hand from her wrist and stood up. "Lucifer, I have to go. I'm sorry." Her faded boots were already taking her down the raised platform and towards the staircase, leaving behind the last traces of her shampoo, that botanic sweetness that had only minutes ago made up his whole world. A sense of dread lodged itself into his chest; if she left now, he was sure that would be the end. Chasing after Gio would mean certain destruction of one strong-willed Detective because what they were dealing with was no longer mortal, no longer within the grasps of human understanding. Going after Gio meant fighting a battle she was ill-equipped to fight. Death would surely meet her there in the desert. He darted after her, catching up to her on the stairs, a hand curling around the small of her waist as he turned her towards him. She opened her mouth to protest, surely to at least reprimand him for standing between her job and her duty, but nothing came out except a shallow sigh. Because she had seen it on his face, for the first time in the months since they had met, he was afraid. Writ on his features plain as day.

"Lucifer...what is it? What's...out there?" A firm hand wove its way around the placket of his shirt and pulled, pleading.

His hand left the crook of her hip and slid up to cup her face. "Death. Demons." An unbelieving laugh huffed from his lungs. "Things I don't want you to see. That no human should ever see."

"Why?" she whispered, afraid of the deeply imploring nature of his eyes. At the burning heat of his hand on her face, as though it were trying to brand her. Mine.

Lucifer's other hand found its way to her other cheek, now holding her pale face in a ginger embrace. He welled up as much clarity and conviction that he could find beneath the haze of liquor and fear and unease because if there was ever a time to convince someone to stay, it was now. It was her. "I'll tell you everything, I'll even go out there with you, protect you, bring about whatever constitutes as justice for you. Just please, stay for a little while."

The earnestness in his voice sent hot goosebumps down Chloe's back. "It's my job, I have to go."

"Then take me with you." He pulled her face in closer. "Please."

"Chloe?" A voice rang out from the top of the stairs. "Lucifer? What's going on?" Michael came down three steps before stopping and taking in the two figures, his brother's form worse for the wear. Wrinkled shirt, hair falling across his brow; Michael didn't care much for the way Lucifer's hands were placed on Chloe's face.

The Detective tried to turn her head towards Michael but Lucifer held it fast, his eyes locked onto hers. "Detective." Then softer. "Chloe."

"Is everything okay?" Michael descended another two steps, his hand clutched around the railing in a white-knuckled grip. Suspicion creeping into his words.

"Not a good time, brother!" He yelled up the stairs, his hands still holding the Detective's face, afraid that if they let go, it would sever their cosmic tether for good. Shaky fingers tried to rake through the fine hairs around her face, trying to recall and rebuild the quiet sphere they had lived in together just a few moments ago. He felt sure if they could return there, if he could put his lips on hers and show her that Fate and faith lived in their intertwined lives, she would stay. She would choose him. "Chloe." He cast a quick glance at his brother. "Stay with me."

"Lucifer." Anger. Embarrassment. "Stop it." Not what he was hoping to see. She grabbed his wrists and pulled them away, her cheeks red from the prolonged contact. "I don't know what you're trying to do or what sibling rivalry you're trying to make me a part of, but I don't want anything to do with it. I'm not a...thing to be won over and I refuse to be some prize that you feel like you can take from your brother." A scowl ate its way over her face, casting deep dark hues into the hollows of her cheeks where they held firmly onto clenched teeth. Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "If that's what this night was about, save it. I don't want your lip service." Deep hurt lurked in the dark hues. "You almost had me fooled, Lucifer."

Back and forth. In and out. That was the repetition that bred learning, wasn't it? That was the ebb and flow of their relationship and what lessons had been learned except its consistency? Like the moon's push and pull on the ocean, they would always end up here, with one of them pushing, one of them pulling, never narrowing the space between. Never towards each other. Was that also part of their Fate? Could it truly be that cruel? He watched as Michael's steady hand wrapped around the Detective's shoulder, leading her up the stairs and out of the club and into the dangerous unknown. Chaos broiled as his brother threw back one long look behind his shoulder, a triumphant smirk twitching near the corner of his mouth, barely perceptible but their longstanding feud had made it obvious to Lucifer's jealous eyes. I won, it said. His hand slowly slid over the healed scar on his chest, now nothing more than a slightly-too-pale fracture along his skin but the meaning it held was still an open wound. He was weakening. How or why didn't seem as important as when. Didn't matter. Not much did nowadays. Something in his life had shifted, something in him had shifted and the pleasures of a world that once oversatiated his desires was now as dull as the spotlight that once held the Detective's head in its long bright beam. Without her in it, it was nothing but a weary thing that had seen too many faces and too many feet coming in and out of his life. Back and forth. In and out. Ebb and flow.