05. TRUST FALL

Chloe kneels and hugs Trixie. "Be good for Dad, okay?"

"I promise."

"And brush your teeth before you go to bed."

Trixie scrunches her nose. "Okay." She smiles, waves, and mumbles a "Bye, Mom" before dragging her backpack into Dan's apartment. A moment later, there's a cry of "Cake!", and Trixie can be heard running.

Chloe straightens. "You're going to ruin her dinner."

Grinning, Dan leans against his teal doorframe. "Calories don't count at her age."

"Thanks for taking her on such short notice. I know, with Charlotte and everything..."

Dan shrugs a shoulder. "Trixie's a great distraction. Anyway, you know I never mind."

It's true, he doesn't. Dan is a much better single father than he ever was a partnered one. He shows up, usually on time, no excuses or complaints. It's a fact that sometimes makes Chloe's heart hurt, and at other times makes her want to spit in his face. Why was he so bad at those things when they were married? What is it about her that inspired such mediocrity?

Not that she wishes they were still married. They're better as friends, and, as much as the word makes her want to gag, co-parents. There are whole days that pass where Chloe forgets, or at least doesn't quite acknowledge, that she created a new human with the man. The thought of having sex with him now is a little too weirdly incestuous.

He's made a life for himself in a one-bedroom apartment situated in Ocean Park. He pays too much for too little space that needs renovating, but it suits him, and Trixie returns to Chloe with tales of Xbox sessions, friendly street vendors, and sand castles on the beach.

Dan clears his throat. "Hey, I know it's none of my business, but this last-minute schedule change, it, uh, doesn't happen to have anything to do with Lucifer, does it?"

She stands a little taller and adjusts her shirt, preparing herself for the argument that's brewing. "I'm going to see him, yeah."

"Right," Dan grunts. "Think he'll explain why he left you high and dry and expected the rest of us to lie for him?"

"Is this why you've been calling me?"

He shrugs. That's a yes.

"You don't know everything that's going on." And can't. He'll never believe it. Just, she thinks, like she never believed it. In that way, she and Dan are alike: to see is to believe. If there's nothing to see, de facto atheism, it is.

"Enlighten me." Stepping out of the apartment, he shuts the door behind him. "We've known him for almost two years, Chlo, and while I know he's done some good work, and, hey, he can be an okay guy sometimes, he also does shady shit. Never been able to prove it, but we both know it."

Lowering his voice, he hisses, "That crime scene was a goddamn mess, there's a murder weapon missing, and now, like some stupid rookie, I've committed a felony. For a guy I don't even always like."

She almost pours salt into old wounds. Almost. Almost asks how covering for a man who's had her back more times than she can count is worse than stealing evidence or gaslighting your wife until she thinks she's crazy.

Instead, she puts a soothing hand on her ex-husband's arm. "All I'm going to say is he saved me. Again. And now he needs me, so I'm going to be there for him."

He sighs. "I get it. He's your partner, and you've got this...weird thing together. Just be careful. You know, Pierce—"

"Lucifer is nothing like Pierce," she snaps.

Dan lifts his hands in surrender. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Look, I'll pick up Trixie from school on Monday, okay? Don't forget she has a spelling test tomorrow."

Then she turns on her heel and leaves.

"Back already?"

Chloe pulls a box of medical supplies from the back seat of her car. Banking it against her hip, she smiles at Henry sheepishly. "I promise I'm supposed to be here this time."

"Mr. Morningstar texted me."

"Great. Sorry about earlier."

"Part of the job," he says, shaking his head. "You wouldn't believe the crazy things people do to get into that penthouse."

"I bet," she says dryly, and heads toward the elevator.

The penthouse's living room faces east and is dim when she enters, lit only by the glow of afternoon in the distance. She sets the box of supplies on the bar and turns on the overhead light. Lucifer has vacated the bloodstained sofa, having managed to move to his bedroom, where he again lies face down, sound asleep. This time, his battered wings are unfurled and drape down to the floor on both sides of the bed. The tip of his right wing spreads out so far that it touches the top step of the small set of stairs that lead into his bedroom.

Chloe tiptoes around the feathers carefully. Turning on his bedside lamp, she takes a moment to assess the damage. His skin is as scorched as before, still red, still raw. But his wings... As broken as they are, they're breathtakingly beautiful, stretched out like this. She can see how they might be powerful and deadly when whole, but right now it looks like a harsh wind could strip him bare.

It's far worse than she thought. Single, bloodied points of entry, damage done by pistols, pale by comparison to the ghastly scattershot patches left by rapid-firing submachine guns. Lucifer's body is riddled with lead.

Because of me, she thinks.

As if sensing her presence, Lucifer blinks awake. "You're here."

She hates how surprised he sounds.

His flaming eyes are bright in the low light of the room. Strange how quickly they've come to seem normal, just another part of Lucifer, who Chloe has always known was more complex than his rich playboy trappings. Not that she ever could have guessed he was this complex.

"Detective? Why are you crying?" he asks, his head raising an inch from a black, silk pillowcase before dropping back tiredly.

Chloe wipes at her face. "It's really bad, Lucifer."

"I do feel a bit like swiss cheese," he jokes.

If only. That'd mean the bullets went through. As it is, she can tell they're embedded, deep. Getting them out is going to be ugly.

"Is there no one better who can help?"

"Well, Mazikeen might have helped once, but I don't feel inclined to trust her with sharp objects right now."

"Oh," she says, a little faint as realization dawns. "Maze really is a demon."

"Yes," he replies, oblivious to how unsettled she is. "And, well, there's only one doctor who knows what I am, and she's made it abundantly clear she's not helping with this sort of thing anymore. Not after last time."

After last time? "Who?" Chloe asks, curious.

"Doctor Linda, of course."

"Wow." Old conversations with her therapist friend take on new meaning in her head. "Okay. I'm just worried I might...make things worse."

"Oh, you will," he says in that sarcastically-cheery way of his. "The pain is excruciating around you, but you are right, the wounds need cleaning if I'm not going to walk around with heavy metal for an age. And I can't bloody well reach the buggers myself."

She frowns, mindful of his feathers as she steps closer. "What do you mean 'the pain is excruciating' around me?"

He smiles bitterly. "I once told you that you make me vulnerable. I meant that quite literally. Under normal circumstances, I'm nearly invincible. With you by my side, I'm almost as meaty as any other human."

"Is that... Is that why you were so surprised that you bled when I shot you?"

"One of the greatest shocks of my life."

Chloe leans against the bedroom wall. "So, I'm basically the worst person for the job."

"You don't have to do it," he says, his voice soft.

She swallows and pushes off the wall. "I just don't want to hurt you." An apparent impossibility.

"I'll be fine. You'll find I'm very good at handling pain. But I won't fault you for backing out." He tilts a wing back with a grunt and reaches a hand toward her. Seeing his inflamed skin, he grimaces and lets his arm drop.

"I brought supplies," she says awkwardly, and slips out of his bedroom.

When everything she brought is set out on the floor beside the bed, she wonders if she has enough rubbing alcohol. Enough of anything.

Lucifer seems to follow her concerns and snickers. "You and your plans," he teases. "Everything will be fine. I will have a few of those Percs I see there, though. You may make me bleed, but, never fear, you do wonders for my highs, as well."

"I think they're expired."

"Don't care."

"They're leftovers from a back injury Dan had." She shakes two pills from the bottle into his hand. He flexes his fingers greedily until she adds two more to his palm. "I'll get you some wat—" she starts, then sighs when he downs the pills with scotch.

"Judge not, Detective."

Standing at the foot of the bed, she stares at the carnage. "I'm not sure where to begin," she admits.

"Wherever inspiration strikes. It's all going to bloody hurt."

Knowing this, Chloe works left to right across his body, weaving back and forth to give him small breaks. She plucks feathers, cleans exposed flesh, digs into torn tissue with forceps, sweat dripping down her back and beading across his. When she reaches for the sewing kit, Lucifer stops her, his eyes glassy and wild.

"It'll heal," he croaks.

"You're losing a lot of blood, Lucifer." As though they're in some grindhouse horror, it's begun to seep into her jeans and drip onto the floor. Discarded feathers drown in it.

"Leave it. Please. I can't take it."

She works more quickly then. The blood flows freely to the tune of Lucifer's agonized moans and the tink of bullets dropping into the Pyrex dish she found in his kitchen cabinet. Twice, she changes sterile gloves when they become too slippery.

Hours later, when what she believes is the last bullet fragment joins the others in the glass dish, she leans back from where she sits across his bare, red thighs and tears off her gloves. His wings, the feathers painted a scarlet that matches his skin, look worse than when she began. Her face is wet with sweat and tears.

Rising, she goes to the side of the bed and kneels by Lucifer's head. His eyes are screwed shut, and he breathes hard and fast, as if he's in shock.

Chloe touches his cheek, and he opens his Hell-filled eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," he whispers between shivers. "I... Thank you."

It's so strange, hearing and seeing that dulcet voice come out of this ravaged version of her partner. He speaks to her in the tone he reserves for their most quiet, intimate moments: soothingly, gently. It helps her see past the nightmarish visage, to whatever it is in him that always calls to her. His soul, maybe.

Because souls are real.

She slowly leans forward and presses her lips to the too-warm, leathery skin of his forehead. When she leans back, he searches her face, and she smiles at him softly. "What are partners for?"

Chloe watches, spellbound, as his devilish form fades and melts into his body, leaving smooth, pale olive skin in its wake.

"Oh," she breathes. "There you are."

Lucifer gives her a bemused expression, then looks at his hand. Relief smooths some of the lines in his face. "It would seem you took the red right off the Devil. I was afraid that killing..."

"That was self-defense."

"No, it wasn't. It was—"

"For me," she whispers. "It was for me. Thank you."

He says nothing in return, only reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She's a cop and not supposed to feel so comfortable with extrajudicial killings, but there's always been a barbaric protectiveness between them, a willingness to wipe out each other's enemies, as if they are threats to themselves. It started with the record producer Jimmy Barnes, and she doesn't suspect it will end with Pierce. It should frighten Chloe, this connection they have, but it doesn't. Not at all.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she considers Lucifer's wounded wings. Just because he looks more like himself doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet. "You said you're vulnerable only when you're around me. Does that mean it'll help if I leave?"

He takes some time to answer her, but finally sighs, "It would."

"Okay." She stands and begins cleaning up the mess she's made. The bloodied floors beneath his flagging wings will have to wait.

Lucifer grabs the bullet-filled Pyrex from where she left it on his nightstand. He gives the contents a rattle. "Fancy a pair of earrings?"

Clutching at the necklace that's found its way back around her neck, she looks at him like he's grown another head. "What I want is for you to never be shot again, by me or anyone else."

He lets the dish fall back to the table with a clunk. "Good thing we don't go rushing into harm's way all the time, then, isn't it?"

Chloe huffs tiredly. "Can I get you anything before I go?"

Lucifer sighs into his pillow. If she ignores his wings, he's very easy to look at now, all deep, dark eyes, black wavy hair, and thickening scruff. Tempting might be the word, and Chloe realizes she and most of the metropolitan area might be forgiven for thinking it. He wouldn't be much of a devil if he didn't inspire things he shouldn't. She averts her eyes.

"Will you..." he begins. "Will you return tomorrow?"

"Of course. Okay, well, take it easy tonight."

She turns to leave, but he calls her, "Chloe." She turns back. "You've taken this better than I could have ever hoped. I'm not entirely sure how to tell you... Well, how grateful I am."

"Yeah, well, don't get comfortable yet. I have a lot of questions that need answers."

Lucifer hums in agreement, already sinking into sleep.

It's almost eleven when Chloe parks in her assigned spot outside her complex. The nearest street lamp is several buildings away, which means the path to her complex is bathed in long shadows.

She hesitates outside her car. Even as a child, she was never afraid of the dark or of monsters under her bed, but the dark is different when you know supernatural beings roam the Earth, when there's no Glock resting at your hip.

Holding up her phone, she pierces the darkness with her flashlight. One deep, fortifying breath, and she makes a mad dash for her front door. She laughs nervously when she fumbles and drops her keys.

Inside, Chloe secures all the locks—for what little good they can do—turns on all the lights, including the one in Trixie's room, and turns on the television. A news anchor says the words "Marcus Pierce," and though she should probably listen to the segment, she flips channels until she finds a buxom woman kneading dough. Baking is about as much excitement as she can take right now.

And then, suddenly, she's running into the bathroom to throw up. She's not been eating enough, and bile comes out, then dry, acidic heaves that make her throat burn. She gasps raggedly, pressing her forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.

Learning and accepting the truth hasn't been easy, but today was too much, too real, too fast. She can still feel the warmth of Lucifer's blood through the nitrile gloves, the wet, spongy sounds his flesh made as she cut and dug. Despite the Percocet and alcohol, he was awake for it all, as evidenced by his moans and the way his feathers twitched, fanned, and contracted around her hands. Living parts on a living man.

To see the divine, to touch it, is overwhelming enough. But to carve into Lucifer? It was like carving into herself. Even if it was what had to be done, it makes her sob now.

When her stomach settles, she peels off her blood-soaked jeans and sweat-dampened top. After changing into pajamas, she wraps herself in a blanket and returns to the living room. Beneath the yellow glow of lamps and the blue light of the TV, she sleeps fitfully.

The Los Angeles Times headline fills a third of her mobile screen. Bleary-eyed after a rough night on the couch, Chloe reads through the steam coming off her coffee.

Mayor shakes up LAPD following lieutenant scandal, death

Olivia Monroe, the LAPD's former lieutenant and L.A.'s first female chief of police, is out. The former deputy chief, a man by the name of Ezra Mitchell, is in, having been promoted. A new deputy has been instated. Garcia has officially replaced Pierce.

Other changes are rumored to be afoot, with the journalist writing the article calling it a case of "administrative musical chairs." Yesterday, activists held a demonstration outside City Hall, where they clogged up Spring Street as they demanded explanations.

When Dan calls, Chloe answers on the first ring. "Have you seen The Times?" he asks.

"I was just reading it. Looks like Monroe had to fall on her sword." Chloe sighs, "I never liked her, but she wasn't the problem."

"Yeah," Dan agrees. "You notice how there's no mention of the FBI or DOJ getting involved?"

Chloe frowns. "You're right." Something is very suspect about that. Pierce's network of minions stretched far beyond the walls of the LAPD, and with John Barrow in custody, there should be something to go off of. "No way there's no corruption case here." The feds should be crawling all over it.

"Robbie says they're smoothing everything over, that it'll be like nothing's happened when we get back."

"But the evidence—"

"Might be getting destroyed while we're stuck on asses at home."

"You think the mayor's involved?"

"Anybody could be involved. I'm not even talking to most of the guys until we know more. We gotta keep our heads down, Chlo."

"And let Pierce get away with everything?" Chloe sputters.

"That asshole didn't get away with anything. He's dead," Dan says firmly. "But there may be a power vacuum in the Sinnerman's wake. We have no idea who we're up against. Maybe we'll get lucky and nobody will take his place."

Neither of them believes that, in which case it will be hard to know who to trust when they return to work.

A knock on the door startles Chloe so thoroughly that she nearly spills her coffee. Setting the mug aside, she stands and tiptoes to the front window, where she peeks around her curtains.

To her surprise, Lucifer waits at her doorstep. He's his usual sharply-dressed self, lean body neatly tucked away in a crisp, white shirt and black three-piece suit. No red skin, no wings. Save for a little paleness that makes the skin beneath his eyes appear darker, he is the picture of health. She's almost sick with relief herself.

"Hey, Dan, I gotta go," Chloe announces, and hangs up before he can say goodbye.

She opens the door. "You've gotten a lot better about knocking."

Lucifer folds his hands in front of him, at least somewhat contrite. "Yes, well, in light of recent events, it seemed appropriate."

"I was going to come see you." She's shocked he's out of bed. She hasn't even showered yet. Then again, it's almost ten, so that's on her.

"Right. But why bother when I can save you the trip? Unless..." He looks distraught. "Do you not want me here, at your home? I can leave."

She waves him in. "What? No. Don't be stupid."

If the Devil ever wanted to do her harm, there were a million times he could have done something. Not that he looks like the Devil now. He's just...Lucifer, and the warm familiarity of him makes her want to wilt.

Closing the door, she turns to him, her eyes narrowing, as if squinting might help her find the Devil and angel beneath his skin. He leans back and regards her in return, brows raised in question.

"Detective?"

"You really do heal fast." Understatement of the century.

"Of course." He smiles, relaxing. "It helps that I was in very capable hands, as well. Though I do hope the next time we play doctor, it's under different circumstances."

The casual innuendo sucks the air out of the room.

Pointing a finger skyward, Lucifer pleads for patience. "To my credit, I realized as I was saying it that you would find it inappropriate."

Chloe's snort is loud in the room. "Do you want breakfast?" Suddenly starving, she turns and heads into the kitchen.

Lucifer stays where he is. "Actually, I'm only here to make sure you're all right."

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asks, ignoring how her pulse leaps into a gallop. "I wasn't the one bleeding out."

"Yes, but even you have to admit there's been a lot to take in. I mean, all women must admit that about me at some point, but still."

He must be feeling better.

Rolling her eyes in mock dismay, she pulls a cutting board and paring knife out of a drawer. She plucks an apple from the fruit bowl and begins slicing it into eighths. "So, you think I should be freaking out."

She is, at least about his familial connections, but she's not going to admit it to him. If there's one thing she understands, it's that you don't get to choose your family.

Lucifer's face lights with amusement as she hands him an apple slice. "Freaking out does tend to happen when one eats from the tree of knowledge." He bites into the fruit with a devious grin.

Chloe waves her knife at him in conversation. "The Bible doesn't say it was an apple that"—oh—"that you tempted Eve with."

"Mm, it wasn't. It was a pomegranate. And tempt is a very strong word. Adam was always dead from the neck up. I brought Eve a basket of fruit, and she threw herself at me. Really, I'm the victim in that whole fiasco." He steals another apple slice and looks pointedly at her kitchen table. "Been doing some light reading, I see." He huffs in disgust. "Is that the Divine Comedy?"

"So Eden was real?"

"Hmm?" He turns back to her. "Oh, not exactly, though the people were very much real. Not made of dust, though, I can tell you that, and the dinosaurs were long gone by then." He hesitates, eyeing her carefully. "Do you remember what I told you about Pierce, Detective?"

Chloe doesn't want to talk about this, but knows they must.

"About Cain," she says tightly, nodding. She leans back against the edge of the sink. This, far more than anything having to do with Lucifer, she's been trying to avoid. "I didn't believe you."

"No one ever does," Lucifer says with a sad smile. "Not since the Age of Enlightenment, anyway."

"How what I supposed to believe you, Lucifer? You've always said the strangest things. It just seemed like you were making up some story about him because you were—"

"Certifiably insane?"

"Jealous."

He pauses. "Be that as it may, I didn't lie to you."

"No," she agrees bitingly, "but you didn't do anything to make me believe you, either. You know I need proof."

"Well, how the bloody hell was I supposed to give it to you?" he snaps. "I didn't have my devil face until I pierced Pierce."

"You had your wings, though! That's all you've complained about for months. Why didn't you just show me them? I would have believed everything you said."

A dark expression pulls at his mouth. "The wings aren't me—or, well, I didn't believe them to be. I haven't always considered them mine, exactly. As I told you in the past, I cut them off. But they were pinned on me again by my father, or maybe for some other reason having to do with my own ridiculous beliefs. At any rate, it didn't feel right to show them to you. It would have felt like a lie, and for the millionth time, I. Don't. Lie."

"You really cut them off?"

"Oh, several times. I was a right feather factory for a while there."

The thought is horrifying after the trauma of last night. "Don't you ever do that again," she admonishes. "They're a part of you."

Lucifer looks uncomfortable. "I plan to keep them now. They've proven useful."

She nods, knowing this is the most she'll get from him on that subject. "Why do you think it would have been a lie to show them to me?"

"I'm no angel," he tells her, shrugging.

"Well, you're not a monster, either."

He huffs, but says nothing.

"I wish you had shown me," she repeats quietly.

"Yes, well, I do, too, now, don't I?" he replies, crestfallen. "Would've apparently saved us a great deal of bloody trouble. Figuratively and literally."

"I just..." Chloe fidgets, balling her hands into the old, stretched Lakers shirt she slept in. "I just don't get how you could let me be with him."

Tears well and spill over, falling to the hardwood. She's beyond tired of crying, but she doesn't try to hide her pain. There's a fragile part of her that feels betrayed, not by an angel or the Devil, but by her best friend, by someone who, at times, has felt like so much more. And she realizes she desperately needs him to understand this. Needs him to know that all the miscommunication and secrets pale by comparison to this: that he didn't protect her heart when he could, when, at some unknown point, she very foolishly gave it to him for safekeeping.

Lucifer rounds the counter and stands before her, his face tight. "I drove you to him," he despairs. "And then you were...happy."

"But it was a lie."

He winces. "He was a very good liar, good enough to trick the Devil. For a while, I thought— Actually, I thought I saw myself in him. Which is precisely what he wanted me to see."

At her bemused expression, he continues, "You have to understand, Cain murdered his brother, which was evil, certainly, but then my father punished him for thousands of years. Deserving or not, a punishment of that length will...change a man, turn him into something he never expected to be.

"He was the Sinnerman, but then, I am the Devil. And then, well, he met you. And I thought he was changing, that you were changing him, because, whether you realize it or not, Detective, you do have that effect on people. It seemed wrong of me to judge him when...when a second chance is all anyone wants. I wanted to believe a man like Cain could deserve a second chance." He frowns. "I should have known better."

They're quiet, then, as the confession settles over them, reshaping their perceptions. Chloe wonders how much of Lucifer's understanding of Cain was pure projection. He is always searching for, and sabotaging, his own redemption.

"I apologize for any hurt I caused," Lucifer says. "It was never my intention to—I would never hurt you, if I could help it."

"I know that." He has a funny way of going about it sometimes, but Chloe knows it's true. She draws in a deep breath and scrubs at her face. "At least we don't have to worry about him anymore."

"I almost wish I was back in Hell," Lucifer rumbles, and a chill skitters down Chloe's spine. A moment later, he clears his throat. "Well, despite the drama I've brought into your life, you seem to be of sound mind and body, so I should be on my way. Lux has a shipment of—"

"Do you have to be there for it?" Chloe interrupts. Giving into impulse, she reaches forward and grabs his hand.

"No," he answers quickly, looking at their fingers.

"Then let's do something together."

He lifts a suggestive brow. "Such as?"

"I don't know," she laughs, feeling shy. "I'd just like to get to know you. No more secrets."

"No more secrets," he ponders. "I think I'd like that, Detective."

There are no stars over L.A., or at least not any that can be easily seen. The sky is a dull, mud-mottled purple. Instead, L.A.'s twinkling stars are its lights, which spread for miles to the north, south, and east. To the west, the Pacific is cold and black.

On the rooftop of Lucifer's building, Chloe leans back in a plush lounge chair, breathing in the night air, her hair shifting in the breeze. Beside her, Lucifer reclines similarly, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed.

The day has gone well, even if it has been emotionally and mentally draining. For the first time in a long time things almost make sense to Chloe. Maze is a demon. Lucifer's brother Amenadiel is an angel. Charlotte Richards, for a time, was a literal goddess. (Talk about a notch in Dan's bedpost.)

She's not that bothered by the truth, crazy as it is. Knowing is better than not knowing.

That doesn't mean it isn't a lot to take in, but she's managing. After years of compartmentalizing Lucifer's, well, Luciferness, it's not so hard to compartmentalize more. Lucifer's the Devil? Sure, let's throw in her former roommate, a demon, while we're at it. Why not?

Of course, as much as they started the day with the goal of "no more secrets," she also senses they've barely brushed the surface of what there is to know. With basic facts covered, they stuck to illuminating, but rather safe, topics, like how on Earth Lucifer has been solving crime in his own, devilish way all this time. Cleverly, it turns out, but also fiendishly. Maybe a little illegally. Or a lot.

It should bother her more than it does.

"Ah, someone needs a top-up." Lucifer leans over and whisks her wine glass out of her hand before she can protest. He fills it to the halfway point, then shrugs, tips the bottle back, and chugs the remaining contents.

Chloe watches his throat as he swallows. Even after everything that's happened, she's still attracted to him, and the liquid courage flowing through her veins makes her open to acknowledging it, at least to herself. If his devil form was supposed to throw a wrench into her desires, it didn't work. That wasn't him, not really. This, the Prince of Drunken Revelry, this is Lucifer.

"No more. I've had enough," she says, her words bunched close together. But she accepts the glass without further comment and finds herself sipping the heavy Merlot again. It's good, very good, and no doubt costs a small fortune—which, she thinks, means it costs more than it should. She doesn't have it in her to be a snob over such things, but she is amused by Lucifer's snobbery.

"Doctor Linda would be very proud of us, Detective," says Lucifer. "Well, me especially, but you, too, I imagine."

"Oh?" she snickers. "How come?"

"Well, it may be hard to believe," he starts, his tone jocular, "but I've not always been very good at expressing myself, and yet here we've gone a whole day baring our souls to each other. I believe she would call this a breakthrough."

Chloe laughs before sobering slightly. She understands Lucifer in a way that she has, heretofore, assumed to be impossible. More than anything, she now understands how he can be so world-weary and clever, but also youthful to the point of naiveté.

Lucifer is many things: charismatic, overly confident, ingenious, funny, and purportedly devilishly good in the sack. But he is also stunted from eons spent in Hell, a place she can't think of as anything other than cruel and unusual punishment. It's one of several subjects he's been circumspect about today.

And even though it's a little terrifying to think she might be going against the Almighty Himself by aligning herself with the man beside her, she knows she's still Team Lucifer. God's never spoken her, and so remains a touch unreal, but the Devil almost never shuts up, and well... He gets a bad rap.

She watches as Lucifer's eyelids droop under the influence of alcohol and no doubt some lingering physical exhaustion from yesterday's bastardized attempt at surgery. The same protectiveness she felt when he lay red and broken has only grown as they've spent the day together, untangling the past. It's far from perfect, but it's real and theirs, and it's a start.

They roamed the city on foot, talking as they toed through sand and slipped down alleyways. They stopped for burgers at a food truck, and then ice cream, when the sun was high. On a street corner, they watched a young woman strum her guitar and sing "Rocket Man." Lucifer thanked her and stuffed several hundred dollars into the hat at her feet.

It was the most time Chloe ever spent with Lucifer outside work, and she regrets how she waited so long to do it. He's easier to talk to than she imagined. Or perhaps it's that his lips are looser now that he can speak the truth and she has ears to hear it.

By the time they arrived at his penthouse, wine and pizza box in hand, Chloe felt good, deep in her bones.

"I can hear you thinking from over here."

Chloe stirs from her thoughts. She almost makes a joke about Jedis, but there's something in his tone that suggests he's worried about what's on her mind. "I enjoyed today," she says sincerely.

Lucifer sinks into his chair a little more, his eyes crinkling at the corners with his grin. "And how do you plan to enjoy tonight?"

She laughs. Now he's teasing her; there's no heat behind his words. "I—" Her phone rings. She grabs it from her back pocket. "Trixie," she announces, showing him the screen.

"And I thought I was the Devil," he murmurs. "Your spawn has positively evil timing."

She snorts and answers the call. "Hey, Trixie-babe! How'd you do on your spelling test?" For the next several minutes, Trixie's chatter washes over her, and she supplies all the requisite oohs, ahs, and questions.

"Dad says you're with Lucifer."

Chloe glances at him. "I am."

"Can you put me on speakerphone? Please?"

Chloe takes the phone away from her ear and looks at Lucifer pointedly as she says, "All right, monkey, I've got you on speakerphone."

Translation: Behave, Satan.

"Hello, urchin," Lucifer says into the night.

Trixie giggles delightedly. "Hey, Lucifer! Thanks for taking care of Brayden for me."

"No thanks required. Only remember we're even...unless you have a new deal in mind."

Chloe's eyes widen. Taken care of is a terrifying phrase. "What happened to Brayden, Trixie?"

"He's moving next week!"

"Huh," Chloe says, squinting at Lucifer. "How...sudden."

After she ends the call on a river of goodnights, sleep tights and I love yous, she turns to Lucifer, who looks disturbed by the open affection. "What did you do?"

At this, he smirks. "The Decker women made a deal with the Devil. Services were rendered. Neither of you ever said how they should be rendered. In the words of Sinatra, I did it my way."

"Trixie said you talked to her bullies."

"The unrepentant require special treatment. Surely you can appreciate that."

"Did you pay the McNeils to leave L.A.?"

Lucifer scoffs. "Darling, you have a lot to learn about favors. If I paid money to everyone I wanted something from, I'd be a poor man, and"—he waves his wine glass around, indicating the rooftop—"I am certainly not that. Likewise, if I only ever demanded money in return for favors, I would be wealthy, but powerless. But, don't worry, nothing too illegal transpired."

"Too illegal," she echoes.

"Kidding," he says, dark eyes twinkling. "A prestigious law firm in Chicago offered Brayden's father a position."

Cain wasn't the only one with far-reaching connections.

"I'm guessing that was no coincidence."

"You guess correctly."

"Great, so you unleashed an 'amoral' lawyer on Chicago."

"Uh, yes. It's Chicago. He'll be welcomed with open arms. Though I don't imagine it will be a very permanent position. I may have gotten him in the door, but his ineptitude will have him out on his arse within a year."

There's a lot that's bizarre about this conversation, enough so that Chloe suddenly bursts into laughter and struggles to stop.

"Are you all right?" Lucifer asks, but he knows she is, and he's chuckling, too.

Wheezing another laugh, Chloe says, "You'll have to explain this favor business to me one day. I feel like I'm sitting with L.A.'s biggest mob boss."

"Oh, my ledgers would scandalize you." He grins. "The mob bosses owe me."

"I'm a cop," she laughs into her hands. "You have the right to remain silent, you know. I shouldn't know this stuff."

"Say the word, and I'll open my books. I'm not one to hide my sins." He folds his hands primly over his crossed knees and leans toward her. "And I always comply with law enforcement."

"Bribes don't count." She holds up a hand. "Okay, seriously. Don't tell me if you've ever successfully bribed a cop."

"Why, bribing isn't necessary. I have an in with someone at the department."

"Oh? And what if your connection stops putting up with you?" The grin on her face makes her cheeks hurt.

"Well," Lucifer says, his voice rich like warm honey, "if she wants to cuff me and punish me, I won't deny either of us the pleasure."

Chloe exhales shakily, suddenly aware of how close they are. She hears the blood rushing through her veins, feels the flutter of her heart. Her gaze settles on Lucifer's parted lips. What would it be like to throw caution to the wind and kiss him, now that she knows the truth, now that she's seen his darkness and his light?

But Lucifer suddenly breaks the spell, clearing his throat and leaning away. "Right. Shall I drive you home?" he asks, tugging on his sleeves.

She blinks at him and sits back, feeling as though he's thrown her into a vat of ice water. She's not sure whether to feel bereft or grateful. Maybe they are moving too fast, all things considered. Of course they are. What's wrong with her?

It's just...it feels so good to know more. Between that and the wine, it's clouded her judgment. Yeah. That's it.

"It is late, I guess," she says.

Lucifer's up so fast, striding toward the stairwell, that she has to jog to catch up.

Author's Note: Anyone reading know a bit about police departments and investigations, or at least read/watch more police-related material? I have some questions if you're open to tolerating them. Otherwise, I'll soon be winging some stuff (pun intended) in this story. I can probably get away with it, but I like to do my research, when possible. Hit me up at matchstickdolly at gmail.