It would be easy to kill him, if she wanted to.

The woman considered the man sitting across from her. The coffee shop he'd suggested was bright and airy, the day warm. They'd taken a window together. He'd bought her a chai latte, which she sipped in between watching the people pass by outside. She kept her demeanor demure and halting. The man across from her responded strongly to her apparently nervousness. He was large, but sat comfortably slouched, hands relaxed. He was making an effort not to intimidate her. His kindness made her ache.

She couldn't bring him to the motel. He was too large of a presence to blend into the background, even with an outward-facing door. As he'd walked ahead of her, she'd texted once on her flip phone, and now felt the vibrations of a returned message against her abdomen. She slid one hand across the pack there. An address was waiting now, but her drink was still warm.

She was in no hurry.

She wrapped both hands around the glass container. The warmth seeped into her fingers. Her palms were on the verge of burning. She shifted her grip with a sigh. Her eyes stayed focused on the table in between them.

"Do you like it?" Amenadiel asked. He'd settled on a lavender tea and tipped the barista well. His smile was as gentle as his manners. She met his eyes for a brief moment and managed a small, shy smile.

"It's good," she said, Peruvian still. She needed to stay consistent while speaking with him. "I've never had this."

He beamed. He believed he was providing her with a new experience, emotional comfort, and protection. She kept her gaze down.

"How can I help you?" he asked. "Tell me what you need."

She produced a soft flinch. Fear radiated around her.

"I don't want you to be hurt," she said. Honesty filled the words with conviction. "If they know who you are…"

Amenadiel smiled with pride.

"I'm God's greatest warrior," he said with confidence. There was a pause, a slight flicker of pain across his face, then the confidence and pride returned. "I'll do my best to help you."

She unzipped her pack and checked the phone's screen. Blocky letters beckoned. She folded the phone closed and settled it back inside the pack. She tapped a finger against the table, nervous. She cleared her throat and nodded. Part of her story was the absolute ultimatum of no police involvement. She hadn't said that much yet and didn't think she'd need to. She would find out in another moment.

"I know where they are, here," she said. Syllables cracked in an apparent show of the tension cording through her. "Could you…help me?"

It was dangerous, of course it was dangerous. She was taking a risk that he was the type who would want to see the threat for himself. God's greatest warrior, he'd said. A soldier at heart. Possibly reckless, certainly arrogant. She knew she had him when one broad hand rested on the table, close to her own but not touching - respecting her unspoken boundaries while offering a source of strength.

"Yes," Amenadiel said, "when you're ready. I'll keep you safe."

She resisted a full-body flinch. She liked him too much. It might make her sloppy. She needed to regain control of herself. She met his eyes through her lashes, turned the corners of her lips up in the smallest gesture of hope. She lifted the drink to her lips, sipped, and hummed under her breath. There was time to finish their drinks before she betrayed him.


Cain understood how to build, and he knew how to raze foundations to the ground.

Chloe had already been looking for an out from Lucifer Morningstar's orbit. She'd begun distancing herself before Cain began his courtship. The courtship itself opened a wide gulf between them. He'd watched her fumble through avoiding telling Lucifer the truth about her new relationship, watched her stumble over herself trying to make sure Marcus Pierce knew he was her priority.

Chloe and Lucifer shared a devastating personality trait: neither of them could just talk to each other. Cain could feed her any information he wanted, secure in the knowledge that she would never just ask Lucifer to confirm or deny for fear of what her supposed best friend would say.

She'd agreed to marry Marcus Pierce once; she could be convinced again. Especially if he could push her to the truth.

Chloe plainly cared for Lucifer, but she was also emotionally cautious with him. She'd given up the gifted necklace, and she'd let Marcus Pierce fill the space in her heart she might have reserved for Lucifer.

Cain held all the advantage. He understood humans in a deeper way than Lucifer ever could simply by being one. He'd lived among his own kind, fallen in love, built several legacies. He understood the basic human instinct to commune with each other, to share a culture, to be one of many. With cultures rose stories, and with stories rose myths. Cain's shadow was cast the world over, his underlying humanity granting him sympathetic portrayals. A tragedy in human form, the first murderer, both outcast and lost son of God's chosen.

Lucifer was no human.

Cain's past meant that he knew the truth about divinity, and Lucifer had planted to seeds of his truth with Chloe over their years-long partnership. Chloe was a good detective; she only needed enough evidence to come to her own conclusions. He didn't need to embellish the truth or lead her far. He just needed her to believe what Lucifer already insisted was true, and the power of underlying cultural significance would finish the job.

Lucifer was the Devil, and Chloe was a good person. Cain knew her nature, having seen it before. If she believed and did her research, she would find little cultural sympathy for the Prince of Lies.

Abaddon.

Satan.

Most Unclean.

Cain had already collected the data over the decades, keeping tabs on Lucifer's movements, his actions, he general presence in Los Angeles and before. Cain removed a few documents, not wanting Chloe to know about the Devil's vulnerability around her or the Devil's earnest attempts to die. She might come to a compassionate conclusion if she knew those details, and Cain saw no need to take chances.

As a result, the folder he presented her didn't precisely match the file he'd pulled from his records. And yet, it wasn't a lie either.

Chloe deserved to know and accept the truth.

And he deserved to provide her with the support he knew she'd need.


Ella huffed in exasperation. They'd just finished chatting with last night's bartender, who confirmed Mariana's appearance but otherwise had nothing of note to add. She rubbed a hand over her face, exhausted from the past twelve hours of stress combined with Lucifer's constant presence. His energy was all over the place with distractions. Normally she'd be able to keep up easily as he flickered between thoughts like a drunk mayfly, but today she was operating on less than an hour's sleep and a truly unhealthy amount of caffeinated sugar.

She wasn't irritated, per se, but she did grab his knee and squeeze it when he bounced it so hard it thunked the bottom of the bar.

"Cool your jets, man," she said. She barely managed not to beg. His jitters were out of control. He poured three drinks and downed them in quick succession. Ella didn't have the heart to stop him. She was sleep deprived and grumpy, but he'd been shot at. Oh, and maybe Chloe had gotten engaged to a guy he couldn't stand.

Ella checked her phone for probably the hundredth time in two hours, sighing when once again she found nothing from Decker. If she was engaged, why hadn't she texted Ella? Or the group chat with Maze and Linda? She should be beside herself with excitement, blowing their phones up with pictures of the ring and questions about the bachelorette party.

Unless she wasn't excited.

Lucifer was busy texting more staff from last night, asking them to either come in or give him a call. His phone pinged with a new message, and she watched his eyebrows rise. In another moment his face fell and he tapped two messages, a slight pause between the first and second, before setting the phone on the bar with a grimace. He caught her watching him and immediately snapped his expression back into a genial smile.

"Who's next, Miss Lopez?"

Ella grabbed his phone and swiped across the screen. Like his penthouse, Lucifer had no lock on the phone – a fact she often took advantage of to take selfies around the precinct when he left the device on Chloe's desk.

Lucifer didn't protest, instead watching her with a bemused and somewhat befuddled expression. He probably expected her to take a selfie with the two of them, and well, now that she thought about it, she gestured him closer and pressed their shoulders together and they both made a wacky face as the camera clicked.

"Gonna text that to myself," she declared, partially because it was true and partially to cover snooping in his messages. She finished sending herself the photo, then quickly clicked into his message history to see what exactly had caused that kicked puppy look.

The Detective: Can we talk?

Lucifer Morningstar: Of course, Detective.

A line, indicating the pause she'd seen, before -

Name the place and time.

It was the last message he'd sent, and didn't this all sound dire. Ella chewed a bit at her bottom lip, considering all the evidence she had, then laid the phone back on the table. She cleared her throat and shifted on her bar-stool, her feet dangling nearly two full feet above the ground.

"So," she said, injecting as much I'm so casual just pointing out something totally normal please don't be angry into her voice as she could, "Chloe wants to talk."

Lucifer snorted and downed his fourth drink in ten minutes. She pitied his liver.

"Indeed," he said. His voice was nasal and slightly high as he tried to disguise his mournful tone with fake ambivalence. "No doubt to tell me she had no use for me any longer, now she has the stump at her beck and call."

Ella blinked.

"Uh-what? You think – you – Lucifer, what?"

He twirled the empty glass between his fingers, pondering another pour. "It's obvious enough." He didn't say anything else. She thought his smile might actually crack his face in two if he tried to keep it up.

"I don't think – Lucifer. Come on. She wouldn't."

He raised both eyebrows as he committed to the pour. It was far more than a finger, and pushing the boundaries of two. Another drink down the gullet. Ella reached for the bottle, which he let her take with the same bemused expression as before. She slid it on the counter behind her back and leaned as far as she could, outside of his elongated reach. He huffed.

"Alright, mister," Ella said. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. She had grown up wrangling her brothers; one strange lovesick blockhead was a breeze. "Talk."

"I see no need," he said. "Fighting would only delay the inevitable, you know. He won't tolerate the Devil in the Detective's life."

"Something is going on." Ella thwapped his thigh with the back of one hand. "Spill! You're the second-most stubborn person I know! And that means something, because I'm Hispanic!"

Lucifer laughed outright, which was her intention. She didn't grin because she was still serious about this and wanted him to talk. She raised both eyebrows, tilted her head down slightly. He huffed and mumbled, just under his breath, too soft for her to hear and just loud enough to piss her off.

"What was that?" she snapped. "A little louder please?"

"She stopped wearing the necklace, didn't she?" Lucifer was eyeing the bottle on the counter behind her, apparently trying to judge if he could reach it should he just lie on the bar top and slide. Ella leaned her body forward to block his path. He grumbled.

"The one you gave her?" Ella remembered seeing it on Chloe the day after her birthday and had asked for the story. Chloe had told her it was from Lucifer without much more context, but she'd touched the pendant the entire time. It clearly meant something to her. She'd worn it every day since, until recently. Ella hadn't commented on the change, assuming it was the normal jewelry transitions women made over time. Only now she realized that Chloe hadn't actually replaced the necklace, just removed it.

A gift from Lucifer, removed and not replaced. Pierce and Lucifer clearly at odds now. Lucifer calling her instead of Chloe last night. Oh no.

Ella flinched.

"Oh buddy," Ella said. She unlocked her crossed arms and slide from her stool, sliding against him in a hug which he couldn't easily dodge without tripping over the stool itself. He scoffed and tensed and made his protests clear, but he didn't pull away. Another bad sign. She pulled away for him and he straightened his jacket.

"Look, you don't know what she wants to talk about. The only way to find out –"

"Is to submit myself to the firing squad, yes, I'm aware Miss Lopez." Lucifer gave up on the bottle behind her and instead tugged at his cuffs, self-soothing the best he could without the ease of a drink to swallow. Ella was impressed with his ability to sound offended and blasé simultaneously.

"Not…exactly…what I was – but sure, OK. You can't go until after four, though. We need to finish these questions out."

"Of course," he said. He picked up the phone again and sent a few more messages. One, two, three, and then he focused that awful genial fake smile on her. She frowned. The phone pinged again.

"Ah," he said, "she's suggesting LUX at –"

"You absolutely cannot come here!" Ella trembled and flailed a hand in front of him. "No!"

He blinked at her, then typed out his response. He held the phone for a few minutes, waiting for the reply, then began to set it down. It of course pinged the moment it touched the wooden surface. He pulled it back, read the message, and the blasé fell away to outright offense and a scowl.

"She's accusing me of – well look!"

He pushed the screen in Ella's direction. She read the message, then smirked at him.

"You totally stood her up, didn't you?"

He huffed loudly.

"That is beside the point!" He grumbled his way through the next message, irritation flowing from him in waves. It was better than the fake dignity before at least.

Ella turned when she heard footsteps clomping down the staircase behind her. Another dancer from last night, busy checking her phone but giving them both a friendly wave. Lucifer's staff members were remarkably friendly.

"Alright, let's finish this up so you don't have a repeat performance," she said. Lucifer's exasperated scoff was music to her ears.


Chloe stared down at the documents before her and struggled not to show how affected she felt. She'd investigated Lucifer herself before and made a conscious decision to just accept his eccentricities and let it go, the physical manifestation of her decision a discarded blood sample in the station trash can.

Now Marcus had shoved a folder full of evidence in front of her – pictures, testimonials, dates and times. It was compelling. But what he wanted her to believe…

"You know me, Chloe," he said. He was sitting at her bar top, the file's contents spread scattered in front of him. His hands rested two feet or so apart, containing the paperwork to a small area. There was an assortment of impossible evidence lying between his hands.

He was right. She knew him, a man of logic with a calm demeanor. He kept his feet firmly on the ground, not prone to the slightest flights of fancy.

If it weren't Marcus, she could've dismissed the folder and everything inside of it. Now, she twirled his engagement ring and narrowed her eyes at the papers spread on her countertop.

"Set however you feel about me aside. Look at this objectively," he said. Her earlier conversation intentions had dried up when he placed that folder in her hands, even though he seemed to know what was coming today. She'd entertained a moment's thought that this might be his final plea to force her to accept him, but he wasn't pushing any more than the evidence itself. Instead, he was sitting quietly, watching her, giving her time to process and come to some conclusion.

The expression on her face wavered between outright denial and hesitant doubt.

"You're saying," she began, "that Lucifer…is the Devil." She stared him square in the eyes, waiting to see some sign of jealousy, of hallucinatory indication, of anything other than his steady, unwavering look.

Marcus didn't waver.

"I'm saying I've been looking into him, and something doesn't add up," he said. He was gentle in tone, patient in demeanor. He wasn't presenting anything other than evidence for her perusal, and Chloe would always follow where the evidence led her.

"I – I need to think," she said. She was still twirling his ring. Twirling and twirling, around and around, her fingernails clicking against the metal. Marcus stood and began to put on his leather jacket. He'd ridden over straight from work, and he'd return now that he'd laid this land mine at her feet. He'd leave her to decide whether she would step off of it willingly or rot on the spot. How considerate.

He looked at the ring she continued to twirl, then met her eyes. He wanted to ask; she could see it. He wanted to bring that conversation out into the open and force her to admit something. But he also knew she had a lot to process, and so he let her be.

"Let me know when you're ready," he said, and left the apartment. The door clicked behind him. For a long moment, Chloe stared at the door, half-convinced Lucifer would burst through cackling and declaring ah-ha, I'm found out! Now to Hell we go!

He didn't. She reached a hand forward and turned a picture in her direction. It was slightly blurry but very clear: Lucifer, without a shirt and with two white wings sprouting from his back. He was lying in a desert, near the spot he'd dragged her out to a few days later when he returned from what she'd assumed was another sabbatical from life. The date on the photo confirmed his story – the entire story. He'd been taken by someone, and then his wings had come back.

He looked hurt in the picture. Covered in sand, grime, and heat blisters forming in the heat of the sun. The burns looked painful.

If this picture was to be believed, Lucifer had wings.

Lucifer had wings.

Alone, it could've been faked. Compiled by Marcus and presented as one piece of evidence among hundreds, it was just part of the timeline.

Chloe was a detective. She followed the evidence. She began moving the pieces in front of her, assembling the timeline as best she could. Much of the information happened decades before she was born, photos and testimonials and other hard to verify documents. The newer evidence, circling around Los Angeles, was easier to parse. He'd arrived with his brother and gotten involved in a case she recognized. She'd used that case to take initiative and show she had the chops to become a detective, but there was one moment that had stayed with her for years.

Running through the park, turning a corner to find money fluttering in the breeze and Gil nowhere to be found. She and Dan had searched the area for only a few minutes before he reappeared, kneeling and sobbing his confession of murdering Aiden Scott.

He'd been easy to process, repeating his confession every few seconds until he'd been given a sedative. It was a familiar pattern now, something she'd seen enough times over the years that she simply stopped taking note.

Marcus hadn't, though. He'd taken note of every instance over the past few years, taken statements, made meticulous notes of the consistent details carried across the years. The specificity of it all stood out the most: always the same descriptors, the same fears, the same face.

She stared at the timeline, her face blank, her mind spinning. She glanced at the microwave clock. It was almost one.

Six and a half hours to go.


He supposed it was fair play that the Detective had yet to show.

Lucifer had ordered a fine red wine and poured two glasses with his own hand, waving the server away. He'd not touched his own, waiting for the Detective to arrive before sharing the taste together. He wanted to savor such shared moments while he could.

He imagined her that night, years ago, sitting quietly for hours. Texting him repeatedly, asking where he was, eventually giving up and going out to nearly die at his mother's hand.

An encapsulation of why she shouldn't come tonight. He told himself he shouldn't be disappointed. In another moment, he reached for his glass of wine, brought the glass to his lips, and only stopped when he saw her walking toward him across the room.

Pleasure bloomed inside his chest. He couldn't stop the smile which jumped to his lips, the immediate consideration of her presence. She'd chosen a white sweater, dark slacks, and a large purse undoubtedly full of some case file she refused to leave alone for even an evening. Her hair was loose, flowing around her shoulders in the breeze from her movement.

She wasn't smiling, but she often wasn't around him, more often found with a smirk or scoff or pensive pursed lips as she chased a lead. He was fond of all her expressions, and when she stopped at the table across from him, he started to rise to pull her chair free.

She raised a hand and shook her head, keeping him in place without a word. He still smiled.

"Hello, Detective," he said, raising his glass to toast her.

Chloe reached into her bag, pulled out a thick manila file, and dropped it in front of him.

Lucifer peered down at the file with a confused half-smile and a slight chuckle. He met Chloe's eyes; she stared back at him, hard, her mouth a firm line. She looked like a contained storm swirling just out of reach. The half-smile fell away.

She said nothing.

He looked down, now noticing the label on the file: Lucifer Morningstar, not written in the Detective's hand.

The old fear rose wailing from his core. His Detective had asked him for some sign of the evidence now sitting on the table between them many times. His own cowardice had always held him back. He had tried in earnest, once, several months ago right after Cain's botched kidnapping attempt.

But only the once.

Now Lucifer tapped his fingers on the table. He glanced up at her; her expression hadn't changed. He hesitated another moment, then flipped the file open.

He glanced at her again. Anger was building underneath her skin. Her face was flushed. He kept his gaze down after that, flipping silently through still after still, meticulous notes, transcripts from interviews with multiple suspects. They all portrayed or described the same things: red eyes. Red face. Burned away skin. Over and over, without deviation. Dozens of testimonials, starting with a murderous boxing coach nearly a decade ago.

He swallowed thickly. The waiter hadn't interrupted their silent stand-off. When he glanced up, he saw that the Detective was scowling mightily at the poor bloke, who dared not approach until beckoned. When she noticed that Lucifer was looking at her again, she turned the furious stare to him instead.

Lucifer had ruled Hell. He had borne witness to many a deadly glare in his time ruling Hell's demons. He'd spent eons perfecting his own cruel visage to inspire terror and awe in both the demons and the human souls under his ward. Even now, when met with a fierce glare, his immediate instinct was to return the intensity in kind, to swell as the grander threat. He was powerful and to be feared. He was stronger than all the demons of Hell.

He didn't want to match Chloe stare for stare. He never wanted her to fear him. He shifted nervously instead, in part relieved by the pure rage he felt emanating from across the table. Anger wasn't fear; anger he could work with.

"Detective," he began. She raised a fisted hand and placed it on the table. She slowly uncurled the fist into a flat hand, fingers splayed. He thought she might be trying very hard not to launch herself across the table at him. Perhaps even imagining wrapping her hands around his throat.

He could only hope.

"Show me," she said quietly, and oh yes, she was furious. Her tone was deathly cold. He cleared his throat and glanced around the restaurant.

"Now," she said. He snapped his attention back to her, swallowed again. She might actually shoot him if he tried to delay, but…

"I can't," he said. She let loose a scoff loud enough that the diners at the tables surrounding them glanced her way.

"I can't," he said again, trying his best to sound apologetic. "My Devil face –"

"Lucifer Morningstar." Chloe might burst into flames any moment. She was edging toward the physical embodiment of wrath. "If you don't show me right now, I am never working with you again."

"You'd still work – work with me?"

He shouldn't have said it. He should have thought up a better reply, something witty to calm her down enough to see reason, something to try and convince her to at least leave this very public venue. But he could only ever be himself, poison to all he touched, destroyer of every possible good thing in his life. She'd made an ultimatum; his response had not been compliance. He flinched after he spoke, certain that she would leave at once and never speak to him again.

Yet somehow, it had been the right thing to say. A glint of amusement broke her deadly stare, the tiniest flicker of fondness for his bumbling shock that indicated somehow, some way, this might not be the end.

"I don't mean to – that is, I wouldn't demand –" Lucifer sucked in a sharp breath, counted to ten, and tried again. He abandoned that line of thought. She'd made a request and he'd bought himself a moment's mercy.

"Detective, I can't show you what they saw," he said carefully. She watched his lips moving, capturing every word he spoke. Taking stock of what excuse he would use this time. He pushed ahead past his own terror of losing her forever.

"I've lost that ability." The fondness was gone. He watched her begin to close off. Her hand slid from the table; she was starting to push herself away.

"But I can – I can show you something else, if you'll – if you're willing –"

"Willing to what?" The hint of amusement was back, as though she expected him to make a lewd comment. He nearly did out of old habit. He bit back several, in fact, before settling on:

"If you'll come with me." Lucifer fought hard not to slant his words into innuendo.

Chloe regarded him from across the table. Silence stretched on a thin thread. If she left now, that thread would break, and he knew he would lose her. He wouldn't hold it against her. The amount of trust he was asking of her, when she demanded proof of what he was now – it was too much. She couldn't possibly grant it to him. He hadn't earned –

"Alright," she said. She stepped away from the table, eyes narrowed and suspicious. Lucifer stared up at her in shock, taking several seconds longer than she liked to process her reaction.

"Well?" she demanded, snapping him from his thoughts. He stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor.

"Yes, ah, it will just be a moment." He waved at their server, drawing the nervous man over.

"Save our table, will you? We'll be back shortly."

Lucifer turned and started toward the back of the restaurant, weaving through the staff's sections for the back door. She followed him willingly. Her heeled boots clicked against the floor. She took two steps for every one of his. He wondered if she had her gun strapped to an ankle. His brave Detective.

He waved to the chef once, flashing a bright grin, and pushed the heavy metal door open to the outside. The back alley was the opposite of romantic. The dumpster was full enough that the smell leaked into the entire alley. Trash was scattered around. A small animal squeaked its way through a pile of unidentifiable rubbish several meters away. Otherwise, it was just him and the Detective. He turned to face her. She stood at least six feet away, watching him. She was still angry. She was beautiful.

He shrugged his shoulders and let his wings unfurl behind him. He watched her gasp and step back, away from the bright lights now erupting from his back. She looked from one to the other, mouth open, breathing hard. She looked at him. Her face was pale, her pupils tiny pinpricks. She looked back at his wings, again at him. Her mouth clamped shut. Her hands balled into fists again.

Chloe turned and walked away. She didn't look back once.