Summary: Alternate S6. Lucifer and Chloe find a balance where Lucifer always gets to come home.
A/N: Not entirely sure what this will be yet. Will go wherever my muse does. Most likely a series of moments of my S6 (because I refuse to accept the canon one).
Five Days
Chloe had a bad week.
She knows he won't be there; she goes anyway.
The elevator doors close behind her and she flicks on various lights in Lucifer's Penthouse. The Friday night city lights wink and sparkle out the expanse of windows.
One week.
One week in Hell; one week on earth with her. This is what they decided.
Alternating weeks.
Simple.
Except…
It's not.
Lucifer—alone in that…that place. That place of terror and horror and darkness.
Chloe curls up beneath the blanket on the sofa.
She's lying there for hours.
It's late when she hears it; she looks up to see him standing there, two days too early, in front of the balcony door. He's frowning incomprehensibly at first, as if he can't comprehend her presence. "Lucifer," Chloe breathes with an aching kind of relief, and slowly his face changes; she's not certain her heart will ever get used to the way he looks at her now.
Tossing off the blanket, she's across the room and in his arms.
Chloe doesn't need to ask why he's two days early any more than he needs to ask what she's doing here at his Penthouse.
Five days.
Five days picturing him alone in Hell. Sure, he may be trying to heal souls now, but… all that past torment and suffering.
Five days of wondering what it was doing to him.
Chloe's hands come up to his face, trying to see into him, trying to ask, but of course Lucifer's not one for talking about feelings, least of all his own. Instead he acts, leaning down to open his mouth over hers, and of course this is Chloe's weakness. Him kissing her. Touching her. God, she missed it. Five days. Only five days. Of course, nothing about this five day separation is normal. No calls. No contact. Nothing about them is normal. They have no idea how this will all work. None. They're trying it out: alternating weeks. Because, Lucifer is an angel and Chloe can't keep him all to herself no matter how much she might want to. No matter how much he might want to. His connection to the celestial side is a part of him, and after seeing the look in his eyes when he realized he saved not one but two souls from an internal damnation they didn't deserve, Chloe knew. Chloe knew she had to convince him to do this; to split his time. That is, if saving souls in Hell gives him the catharsis she hopes it will, because it's most certainly a double-edged sword of the worst kind. Chloe knows.
Chloe's terrified of it.
Chloe ought to stop him kissing her. She ought to make sure he's okay. She ought to make sure convincing him to do this wasn't a horrible mistake.
She can't.
She can't stop kissing him.
Five days.
Five days and they are both starved for each other.
She suspects it's worse for him.
And maybe this is why she can't bring herself to stop him. That, among other things.
God, she missed him.
She bumps into the sofa from behind and he lifts her up onto the back cushion while his mouth kisses a path down her neck. His stubble feels slightly longer, softer than usual as it grazes her skin. The intensity of his lips, his hands, is increasing exponentially. When his lips reach her collarbone, his hands pushing up the edge of her T-shirt, Chloe is abruptly self-conscious, realizing her scruffy attire: T-shirt and lounge pants; the oldest bra she owned. She wasn't expecting this, wasn't expecting him for two more days. When did she even shower last?
Lucifer misinterprets her sudden lack of enthusiasm; he stops with equal abruptness, his hand coming up to her face to really look at her now, taking in the exhaustion in her features as he draws back with obvious effort. "I…you're tired…you don't want…I'm sorry."
The discernible unsteadiness in his voice sends Chloe's heart trembling. Her hands reach beneath his jacket as she tugs him back toward her. "I want," she whispers, then kisses him again, because, to Hell with her scruffy attire.
His hands are back around her and she can already feel his pronounced member press into her stomach through his pants. He's kissing her now with a different kind of edged desperation, one that tells her he needs this, needs her, in more ways than she suspects she can ever even begin to imagine.
She pushes his jacket off his shoulders and they struggle to remove clothing without breaking contact. When Chloe manages to warn, between frantic kisses, that she's not wearing sexy underwear, her face heating noticeably, Lucifer only peels her shirt up over her head with even more fever before proceeding to quickly relieve her of the aforementioned articles of clothing, along with the remainder of his own.
They're both shaking.
They can't get close enough.
He takes her right there against the back of the sofa.
He takes her in that way of his that's equal parts passion and tenderness; in that way that steals Chloe's heart away over and over; in that way that she knows there will never, ever be anyone else.
They fall into the sofa afterward, Chloe lying tucked up into his big, warm body, her cheek pressed over his heart.
His fingertips come up to trace the lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes. "What happened?" he murmurs, and of course he already knows. Knows she must be working one of those kind of cases—the kind that slowly eats away pieces of her soul. One look at her is all it takes. One look at her and he knows. He always does. Always has. A perplexing enigma it was to Chloe at first, when she first began to realize that, behind his default Luciferness, behind his default obliviousness, he saw, when no one else did. A perplexing enigma until she realized. Until she realized, behind all that Luciferness, he also felt. He saw because he felt. Just as she did. Maybe even more so.
Chloe closes her eyes against his fingers. All week she's wanted nothing more than this. Nothing more than to tell him about her case. To hear him make stupid jokes at the least appropriate moments. To have him come out with an obscure but intelligent remark that has her cracking the case wide open. The yearning was so great that it's only exhaustion that keeps her from it now. That, and the fact that she's known Lucifer far too long not to recognize his deflection when she sees it.
Chloe lifts her head and angles it up to look at him, her fingers lifting to stroke his stubble. "Tomorrow," she mutters. "Tomorrow we talk?"
"Tomorrow," he agrees, and the intent behind her request is clear: she tells him hers and he tells her his.
Now, they get to just be.
And sleep.
Sleep is good.
Chloe snuggles back against his chest, her eyes drooping closed. "I missed you," she tells him sleepily.
His lips brush over her closed lids by way of a reply.
Chloe sighs and is asleep in his arms within seconds.