Six and a half hours earlier:

Chloe had six and a half hours to think herself into a roiling fury.

The first anger, directed at herself for her willful blindness, was the easiest to process. It was the same anger she'd felt when Dan had confessed, the same anger from when she'd realized she didn't want to marry Marcus at all. It wasn't a roaring fire but simmering coals, left to heat over time and eventually barbecue her alive.

She set that anger aside for now, intent to stow it away with the other assorted hurts and pains of loving men who lied. She could hear Lucifer's sputtering denial, his insistence that he never lied. But she'd heard his confession in the dead of night, thinking she wasn't aware of his presence. Lucifer bluffed, all the time. And wasn't that the same as lying?

The timeline sat assembled before her, front to back, more recent years more robust than those before print media was available. Chloe was glad Marcus had left her to stew alone. She had questions she already knew he would avoid. She didn't think Marcus knew exactly how much Lucifer actually told her, knowing she wouldn't believe him.

The timeline had holes. Significant ones. The evidence was all centered around Lucifer's identity and presence, and that was it. Amenadiel appeared in brief moments, just enough to provide necessary background context. Charlotte Richards, Lucifer's supposed "step-mother," didn't appear at all.

Marcus had taken a fine-tooth comb to the folder, ejecting the information he didn't want her to see. It might be mercy. He might want to shield her from the greater ramifications of what this all meant. The existence of Hell and Heaven, angels, God – when her thoughts slowed, the immensity of it swirled behind her eyelids and she took deep breaths to keep the panic down.

But Chloe had loved Marcus, just as she'd loved Dan and now loved Lucifer. And Chloe knew that she loved men who lied.

She didn't want to drink herself silly, but she didn't want to be fully sober either. Decision made, she got to work.

Chloe first pulled out a fresh box of wine which would make Lucifer gag and Maze cackle. She drank a third of it before she began her stilted research, searching the internet for answers for twenty minutes until the images combined into a wide-mouthed bright red creature with horns and hooves and red wings splayed behind it, devouring souls with glee. The combination had her hooting with laughter as she imagined Lucifer's offended sputtering.

She couldn't speak for his previous billion years, but her Lucifer wouldn't be caught dead looking like this. Some of them didn't even have hair.

She'd need to ask about the horns.

Chloe was two thirds through the box when she texted Linda. She'd debated the text contents for nearly fifteen full minutes before sending it along and was gratified when Dr. Martin called almost immediately.

"You could've told me," Chloe said in greeting. Her words weren't slurred but they were sad, dimmed and disbelieving. Linda stayed quiet for long enough that Chloe took another sip of wine and coughed.

"'Complicated,'" she said. The wine was sweet and had a strange aftertaste. She sighed. "Complicated."

"Do you want me to come over?" Linda sounded patient, humoring. Not the least bit guilty for her role in this. Chloe was angry. She wanted to scream at Linda and blame her for Chloe's own blindness. You should've told me, she wanted to shriek at the top of her lungs.

Chloe wouldn't have believed her. She hadn't believed Jimmy Barnes, or dozens of other suspects cowering away from that face. She certainly hadn't believed Lucifer.

"No," Chloe said in belated reply to Linda's question. Silence stretched. Linda let it, her training keeping her from interrupting Chloe's thoughts before she had time to decide on her next words.

"Why didn't I believe him?"

Linda hummed in sympathy.

"Neither of us did," she said. Chloe scoffed.

"You did," she said, some of the anger leeching into her voice. She snapped out the two words, punctuating their ending consonants with a click of her tongue. "'Non-traditional guy' my ass."

Linda huffed out a laugh.

"Not at first," she said. She took a breath, gathering her own thoughts. "He showed me something."

An awkward pause. They both burst into laughter.

"Other than that," Linda said, the humor still lilting in her voice. They both enjoyed the burst tension for several moments, fondness hovering between them on the line. Chloe considered what they'd both found so amusing. Linda had slept with the Devil, and here she was, amused and calm and not running and screaming at all.

She dragged herself back from the edge of that thought spiral and forced herself to focus.

"How did you make him show you?" This had Chloe stumped. She'd asked, over and over. She'd pleaded and insisted and practically begged, and yet Lucifer kept hedging, never giving in after that bullet cut into the flesh of his leg. Whatever he feared, it wasn't pain. He'd been so adamant that he was immortal, and then so confused when her bullet hurt him. Even she could follow those dots.

In retrospect, anyway.

Chloe looked down at the abandoned search strings, the photos and testimonials, and the size of it all threatened to eat her from the inside out. Or maybe that was the anger. She was still pretty angry.

"I told him I wouldn't see him anymore unless he was completely honest with me," Linda said. "I regretted it for a few weeks. I refused to see him at first, and then I…took some time to adjust."

I told him I wouldn't see him anymore.

Chloe laughed to herself. It was such an obvious way to force his hand. Threaten to take away his human toys. Some detective she was.

"Is he dangerous?" Chloe had to know what Linda thought. Linda knew him better than anyone, or at least they all thought she did. He insisted he didn't lie, but maybe he did?

Linda's reply cut off her impending spiral.

"Not to us," Linda said, and wasn't that a terrifying answer. Not to us. But he was dangerous, yes. He was terror and power and Hell itself. He'd defied God Himself and taken his punishment with all the pettiness of a creature who knew he couldn't be destroyed. Not to us, Linda said, but who was "us?" Was Trixie on that list? Ella? Would he hurt Dan if Dan pushed him too far? Kill him?

Ella. A true believer, the ripest harvest the Devil could reap according to all the church sites. He was immortal; he could play the long con. He could toy with them all until the moment they passed into death, then sweep them away to his realm, torn away from God's light just as he'd been however long ago.

She tried to picture Lucifer so cruel. She squinted at the effort, her eyes blurry. He was so very gentle with Trixie, so overly fond of Ella. He'd never hurt Daniel – well, outside of a stray punch and barbed words. He'd never hurt Chloe physically, and Linda didn't consider him dangerous to whomever "us" was. Linda had slept with him, multiple times. He knew her intimately, could hurt her in ways that made Chloe's toes curl in fear. But Linda wasn't afraid of him.

None of this meant a thing. Chloe was a detective. She'd seen the acts people put on, sometimes for years, even decades. Swindlers, hustlers, and murderers all lied to their partners when necessary to maintain the illusion. Serial killers had families. Lucifer's kindness made her like him, but it didn't make him innocent.

She needed more information. She pushed the papers here and there as though expecting another file to manifest underneath them with all of the answers she sought. It didn't. Chloe sipped her wine, smacked her lips. She looked at the photos again, pulling the one she couldn't stop revisiting closer. The picture of Lucifer unconscious, half-naked, wings out. Blistering alone in the sun. Had he woken up afraid? He'd come to her for help, insisting she follow him even though she told him flat-out she doubted his story. And even full of those doubts, she'd followed him, certain this was another of his bonkers nightmare attempts to explain away his latest vanishing act.

It hadn't been. He really had been taken, hurt, and left to die in the desert. He'd come back to her alive and well enough, though angry about the wings.

"What's with his wings?" she blurted out. "Why does he hate them so much?"

Linda hummed again, this time in slight resistance. Doctor-patient confidentiality. Right. Chloe tossed her a chance to skirt ethics just enough to mollify her concerns.

"He told me he cut them off."

"Oh, he did. Several times." Linda hadn't liked that; Chloe could clearly hear her disapproval.

Chloe looked at the photo. She sipped her wine.

"His scars," she said. Linda adjusted her grip on her phone with the slight click clack of jewelry tapping the receiver. "He wouldn't let me touch them."

"Gone now, I imagine," Linda said. Chloe hummed then, considering all the information Lucifer had told her over the years. Far more than just his identity. Too much to parse in a single phone call and a single box of wine. She planned out her next several days in a flurry of thoughts: write every snippet he'd told her that she could remember; separate the data into levels of importance; drink. Ponder over the implications of what she'd learned, what she'd forgotten, and what she'd stowed away in her brain. Drink more. Not enough to forget, but enough to soothe the burning anger simmering away in her core.

"Maze is a demon," Chloe said. She exploded into laughter again, tears making her eyes burn. "Trixie's best friend is a demon."

"So is mine," Linda said. Chloe laughed harder.

"One thing that makes sense," Chloe managed in between breaths. Linda chuckled along with her.

"You have no idea, Chlo'," she said. "Maze is a trip."

"I know a little. I live with her." They both considered the horrors of living with an actual demon, and Chloe had to admit it wasn't nearly as chaotic as others might think. Maze might be a demon, but she loved Trixie enough to reign it in.

Sort've.

Chloe was still angry, but she had a plan now, and that made all the difference.

"I'm meeting him tonight for dinner," she said.

"Oh?" Linda sounded surprised, even a little envious.

"Pre-existing plan," Chloe said. She didn't mention the original intention. If Linda could keep secrets, Chloe could, too.

"Do you need some pointers?" Chloe shook her head, then remembered Linda couldn't actually see her right now.

"No," she said, "I think I've got this one."

"I'll have my phone with me if you need me," Linda said. "Call if…if you need me."

"Will do," Chloe said. She toasted Linda in the air in front of her, made her goodbyes, and ended the call. She glanced at the clock, the red fog of fury rolling back in.

Five hours to go.


It wasn't a warehouse, but it was being used for storage regardless.

The woman led Amenadiel inside through the alley door, moving like a skittish colt. They whispered when they spoke at all, her voice trembling in semi-feigned fear. After three steps he moved before her, pressing a broad hand back against her clavicle, keeping her safely behind him. Her fear for him spiked. His hand was warm when she moved close enough for his fingers to brush against her. He did nothing with that gentle touch. He hadn't made one move to touch her out of turn, flirt openly, show her what he expected from this arrangement. He appeared to be helping her out of kindness alone.

Her fists clenched, once. She relaxed her hands. He didn't deserve this.

"Do you see anyone?" she asked his back. The whispered words triggered a flurry of silent movement behind her. Men with guns thrilled to serve their master, driven by promises of money and power and the occasional dollop of fear.

She pulled her gun from the pack on her waist, the metal solid and heavy in her hand. She gripped it by the barrel, a deadly weapon converted to an ill-advised hammer. She stepped forward before the men could overtake her, stretched to her toes, and slammed the grip of the gun against the broad back of his skull.

Amenadiel stumbled forward with a sharp cry, staggering at the force of the blow. She followed his momentum and shoved at the small of his back, forcing him forward to his knees. She whipped the grip against his head again, harder this time, thrusting the weight of her body into the blow. He grunted and fell, crumpled on the floor. He hadn't turned in time to see who attacked him. He would trust her still, if she let him.

An approving grunt preceded the sound of weapons being lowered behind her. She turned to take stock of the men who'd joined them. Three, all tall and broad, raring for a fight. She watched in silence as the point man stepped closer to her, eyes on the man sprawled on the floor, groaning in dizzy pain.

"Boss did say to soften'im up," the apparent leader said over her head. There was an amused leer there which made her close her eyes. The leader kept speaking, ignoring her for now.

"Get the cuffs," he said to the others. "You know where to put'im."

He turned to her now. A hand raised and clasped her shoulder, the pressure just tight enough to hurt. A reminder.

"Good job," he said. The leer was still there. She looked down to watch as Amenadiel was cuffed at the wrists and ankles, dragged away by men who didn't care if he died.

He didn't deserve this, she knew. But then, neither had she, once upon a time.


Now:

Lucifer watched the Detective go, his wings fluttering slightly behind him. Their light rippled against the grimy walls. A bit of divinity stuffed into an LA alley. He hadn't wanted them; he hadn't asked for them. He didn't want what they represented, how they forced him to acknowledge his intended role.

As with all his siblings, he'd been created whole cloth from nothing, etched from the fabric of the universe by parents whose love was conditional. Even with a twin, these limbs set him apart – the only angel whose wings glowed white with divinity. Even in Hell, his light brightened the darkest reaches of the realm when he bothered to let it shine.

He had, at first, desperate for some sense of the creature he'd once been. He'd pulled on his energies and birthed stars to shine in Hell's sky. Hell's cruel climate sapped them within years, a moment's time on Earth, and they died moaning their agony into his mind.

He'd stopped soon enough. To spare both them and him the continued agony of creation without mercy. His wings were the only source of lasting light in that blighted place, and he kept them furled often to protect them from the ash and despair around him.

He'd loved his wings, once upon a time. He'd loved sharing flights with his siblings, his twin; he'd loved the sensation of air rushing across his body as he rode currents through space and time. He'd sacrificed them to defy his Father, as his Father had torn his life away and cast him into the dark, alone. To cut off his wings had been more than a slipshod decision made in the heat of angst. He'd deliberated the decision, thought on an eternity without them. Maze had wept as she'd torn them from his body, knowing the depth of hopeless defiance spurring the action on. She'd understood how deeply this action would scar him, though she was just a demon.

Lucifer had wanted, badly, to rise to the Silver City when they'd first returned. To face his Father again, to force answers he'd been denied for billions of years. He couldn't without being eradicated entirely. Denied retribution forevermore.

He'd been enraged at the defilement of his choice. Again. He'd cut the accursed things from his back so many times the pain had stopped making him flinch away from the blade, trying to remove both the temptation to use them and the fluttering symbols of his repeated failure. Each time he felt their twinging return, he'd recoiled.

He couldn't hate them. He wanted them. He could hate his weakness for wanting them, though – and what was one more reason among so many?

He'd been weak for years. Amenadiel had been right those years ago; Earth softened him, made him want to bend to human needs. To her needs.

The Detective had asked for honesty many times. He couldn't claim she'd avoided the issue. She'd tried to press him many times over. He denied her repeatedly, refusing to give her the final push necessary to believe him. The wings were the better way to find out, he reasoned. They were beautiful and holy, not scarred and burnt.

Lucifer told himself he wanted to spare her everything that came with knowing. She wasn't a believer, never went to church or prayed. He wasn't just the Devil; he brought an entire world of complications with him. A terrifyingly omnipotent Father who'd rejected him; a powerfully manipulative mother who'd threatened her life multiple times. A multitude of formidable siblings, all bent on his utter exile, all decided on his evil. Even Amenadiel believed it once, until very recently in their time as siblings. Might believe it still, for all he knew. He had no faith in his siblings, least of all his ambivalent warden.

Knowing his truth brought terrible dangers into her orbit. Keeping her ignorant of those dangers prevented her from demanding to join him in his struggles against fate. Now, with his wings shifting on his back, he felt fear again curdle through his belly.

Now the Detective knew. If she ever returned to him, she would want to be involved. It was for the best she'd left, really. It was the safest option for her. He shouldn't feel this way. He should be glad.

Lucifer shrugged his wings back into nothing. He knew he should've expected this and been glad for her rejection. He fought the disappointment swelling in his chest down until it made his stomach lurch.

It was to be expected. This was for the best. She'd said yes to Cain, who at least had been human once. He would give her a human life. They could have human children, and she would die a human death and he would follow her soon after to the rest he'd once craved. They might rise together and live out eternity in peace while Lucifer remained below.

His kingdom, forevermore.

He shouldn't have come here, to Los Angeles. He should've chosen another city, another country, the other side of the bloody world. He could be enjoying the opera in Sydney, or Vietnamese shadow puppets. He could be anywhere but here, returning through the staff door of one of his favorite restaurants in LA to pay a bill he shouldn't have incurred in the hopes of one final shared drink between friends.

He really should've known better. He really should be glad.

At least this time Amenadiel wouldn't force him back down to his prison. Lucifer wouldn't have to endure the excitement of his legions, thrilled at the return of their king. He wouldn't have to wait long to find a moment of privacy to lick his emotional wounds and bury the latest pains beneath eons of agony. One more hurt wouldn't break him. He shouldn't be hurt at all. He should be glad for her. She was free.

He should have known better. He should have known better. He pushed the kitchen door open and slumped to their table – his table – where he would flag down whichever server appeared first and request the bill.

He stopped when he saw her, sitting there, drinking the wine he'd poured for her. She wasn't focusing on anyone around her, totally lost in her musings or the wine itself. Perhaps both. Had she expected him to return? Should he leave? He could slide out of sight, back into the kitchen, and tell the cook he would square away the check soon. She probably didn't want to see him, certainly not like this – she wouldn't want him near her. She would be terrified, lock her door and refuse to take his calls as Linda had done. She wouldn't come back though, as Linda had done.

He should be glad.

He was frozen. A busser bumped him with the kitchen door with a yelp, which drew several eyes his way, the Detective's included.

Chloe fixed him in place, semi-lucid but intense. She was still angry; her nostrils flared, her eyelids narrowed. She looked at the seat across from her, then at him. Her fingers drummed against the wine glass she held.

Lucifer pushed his legs into motion and sat across from her before he'd decided on the action. His movements were slow and steady, quiet, non-threatening. He dared not utter a sound lest he frighten her away. This should distress him. She should leave, now. She shouldn't be here.

He tugged at his cuffs. He didn't know what to do.

She watched him, anger and something else fighting across her expression. She still wasn't terrified, or if she was it was buried under layers of shock. He wondered if she would indeed shoot him before the night was done.

"Is Trixie safe?"

She was quiet, so quiet he strained to hear her above the general din around them. Every table near them housed its own couple enjoying a nice evening together. Lucifer envied them. He should be glad.

"Yes," he said. He thought of adding more information, of pointing out that the child's closest friend was a demon from Hell who would not allow any harm to come to her. He didn't want the Detective to make that cognitive leap just yet though. He didn't want her to leave, regardless of how desperately he tried to tell himself he did. Forever selfish, forever terrified. Shame clogged his throat.

"I feel tricked," she said into her wine glass. She set the wine down and shook her head. "I guess I should – that's what you do, right? Trick humans?"

Lucifer remained quiet. He felt like a person caught in front of a deadly snake, frozen in place, hoping the creature wouldn't strike its poison into him.

She laughed at herself. She wasn't looking at him at all now. He wondered if this was her first or fifth glass. A glance at the bottle revealed nothing; the glass was too dark to make out the liquid inside.

"You told me Marcus is Cain. Is that – is – "

"Yes, he is," Lucifer said. She hadn't run yet. He chanced more words.

"He lost his –"

"An immortal murderer and the Devil," Chloe said, interrupting him. Message received – he was to remain silent unless asked a question, and his answers needed to remain short and clear.

She wanted to ask all sorts of questions. He could see them piling up in her eyes, in the way the tip of her index finger stroked around the rim of her glass. A dull hum echoed between them, the only sound breaking their stand-off.

"Why did you let me find out this way?" Chloe's voice was cracking now; she was crying. Thick tears glittered down her cheeks, and he realized she'd been crying all along. Her misery was silent, painful, and sharp. Lucifer was frozen, staring at her pain, unable to help.

"I shouldn't have found out like this," she said, her volume rising. The couples in the tables nearest to them turned to watch whatever this catastrophe was unfold. "I deserved better. You should have shown me!"

She yelled the last sentence at full volume, standing to give herself height. She jabbed her finger at him, anger searing the air between them.

"You knew you should've!" She slammed her hand on the table. Their glasses rattled, the candle in the center flickering left and right. "I shouldn't have found out from him!"

His ring caught the candle's light when she slammed her hand down. Her voice gave out; her distress overflowed. She yanked her purse from the back of her chair and turned to leave him. Lucifer sensed from her posture, from her fury, that if she left now – if he let her leave without a word - he'd never see her again.

Dread consumed him. His thoughts swirled in scattered patterns. He should be glad. He had nothing to say. He'd been wrong. He should've told her. He should've proven himself to her. He couldn't live without her. He should let her go. This was her chance for freedom from him. He'd never talk to her again. He –

"Someone tried to kill me last night," he said to her back. It was all he had left. He cursed himself a coward; he should've let her leave, let her walk back into a life where the Devil didn't consume all her kindness and compassion until she was a worn husk of a woman. Shouldn't have said anything at all.

She'd frozen when he spoke. She shook. The ring, he noted, had yet to fly off her finger.

"Who?" she asked, just barely loud enough to hear. Relief and indignity crashed through him in equal measure. He was such a coward.

"She called herself 'Mariana,'" Lucifer said, just as quiet. He remained in his seat. "Miss Lopez has been helping me investigate."

Chloe turned around, offense written all over her face. Lucifer shifted in his seat.

"That's what you've been doing all day?"

She was staring him down, purse still slung onto her shoulder. Lucifer spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"I didn't call you because you were distracted," he said, his standard tone returning to him out of old habits. She didn't soften, but she did offer an olive branch.

"Which is to say, Ella's been working and you've been distracting her?" Chloe was trying. He could see the effort those words had taken. She didn't want to hate him, and she didn't want to fear him, but she also didn't know what to do with him.

"I'll have you know I've done my part," he said. The anger still thrummed between them, but the hint of fondness had returned to her gaze. Relief. Indignity. He didn't deserve her.

"She took prints! I'm certain she did it just to dirty my hands." He was still put out by that. Chloe rolled her eyes. The fondness remained. She sat back down, purse sliding from her shoulder back onto the chair behind her. She was still angry, and she was still sad. She was also still the Detective.

"Tell me everything," she said, and he knew what she meant. His heart stuttered with old fear. His own Father couldn't accept him; his own mother saw him as a means to an end. The Detective did as well, of course. She still wanted to work with him. He was useful, after all. They would work side by side, her accepting his stories as fact now, him distracting her from her thoughts and making the days less boring.

He should be glad.

He should.