A/N: So… yeah. Sorry I dropped off the map for a while. Real life problems and writer's block are the worst, aren't they? At least the drought's finally over. Speaking of which… HAPPY LUCIFER WEEK! Here's hoping this season proves to be every bit as inspirational as the first.

Before we start, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Grym, whose wonderful words of encouragement are the reason it even exists. Seriously, you're the best :)

Now on with the story!

Previously on QPQD…

"I'm not most people."

"No," Lucifer agreed easily, already sitting up. "You most certainly are not."

When he felt his eyes burn red as hellfire, he wasn't sure which of them got the bigger thrill.

Chapter 4: Party Tricks and Interested Parties

He expected awe. Revulsion. A delightful cocktail of intrigue, fear, and respect. And for a moment, the fiery glow reflected in those wide eyes lit up the gutted walls of Lux as though the party had never stopped.

But in the end, what he got was:

"Wait, that's it?"

Like wind abandoning sails, Lucifer's gaze cooled back to the dusky brown of his human visage.

"No offense," the detective added none too quickly. "I appreciate the party trick, but I really don't see how that left Jimmy barely able to string a sentence together."

Oh, right. That.

It had been impulsive, just now, the decision to reveal no more than a taste of his true form. Impulsive, but smart. Subtlety hardly did him justice, but experience was a powerful teacher, and he was hardly keen to scar another human for life. Especially this particular one. Especially before he put this case to bed—figuratively, if not literally.

"Merely a glimpse of the man behind the curtain," offered Lucifer, when it hit him. "You were expecting horns, tail, pitchfork, the whole nine yards, weren't you?" Nine circles, more like.

The detective teetered a bit on her barstool. "Ah, maybe less Looney Tunes and more… I don't know. Something."

Something, indeed. She had no idea. And he had no plans to enlighten her. Tonight wasn't the night to test the limits of her bravery.

And his—well.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I did warn you not to believe everything you hear. Now," he couldn't resist, "since I gave you my full confession about Jimmy Barnes, Show and Tell bonus included, is this the part where you toss me into a cell? Or were you being a tease like you are wont to do?"

"I'm sorry, is that your question?" she fired back.

"Why won't you sleep with me, Detective?"

Her mouth fell open; his picked up the slack, curving upward. "What?"

"What?" he parroted. "Naturally, I'm talking about before your epiphany concerning my infamous alter ego. Unless my party trick just upped the ante in my favor?" He regarded her with mounting appreciation. "What, do you have a thing for bad boys as well, Detective, or is it only vanilla cops who strike your fancy?"

"Seriously, Lucifer? What is it with you and my love life?"

"Sorry, I don't follow."

She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Of course you don't."

"I mean, I've got all my charms and features." He began ticking them off. "Successful businessman. Humanitarian. Hardy Boy to your Nancy Drew—"

"Narcissist. Hedonist. Amateur wannabe-cop—"

That only increased the wattage of his smile. "Not to mention I've got expertise that makes the Kama Sutra look like some Judy Blume knockoff. Come on, then," he fished. "What would it take to get you into bed? You can tell me. I won't hold it against you." Not unless she asked nicely.

But her stony expression did not lend hope for such optimism. Not until it dissolved with the crook of her finger.

Lucifer complied at once, leaning forward until warm breath ghosted across his ear:

"A lobotomy."

He pulled away laughing. Her unwavering gall was, more than ever, a diamond amongst coal.

That, and her repeated attempts to convey how unimpressive she found him spoke more about her own shortcomings than his, he felt. "Really, Detective? That's how you're going to play it?"

"Don't hate the player," she stole his line. "But hey, if the truth's getting too boring, I could always whip out my gun again."

"I do love it when you talk dirty." Another undeserved eye roll. "You know, for a woman who readily revealed her spectacular assets in her youth, you can be maddeningly prudish off-camera. Sounds like I'm not the only one who would benefit from therapy."

"Besides," she sidestepped the landmine, "I know a cover story when I hear one, Lucifer, and I think we both know a one night stand isn't your endgame. Not really. Not unless you want to alienate what I can only guess is the first person you've opened up to in eons."

"Your unsolicited insight on the devil's psyche is duly noted, but I already have a therapist, thank you."

"One who was quick to point out how disturbed you are that I don't fall for your crap." Suddenly her gaze tapered off, disappearing somewhere past his shoulder. "But why don't I?"

When the detective said nothing more, Lucifer waved an impatient hand in her line of vision. "Hello? Anybody home? Did you have that lobotomy, after all? I just asked you that very question."

"I mean," she directed her annoyance point-blank, "why don't I fit the profile? Chemistry or no chemistry is one thing, but why doesn't your creepy eye hocus pocus work on me like it does everyone else?"

"Now that," he chirped, "is the question of the millennium, isn't it?"

Just like that, sans pomp and circumstance, there it was. The crux of the entire endeavor. Foreplay officially over. Lucifer actually felt the briefest twinge of regret.

Then again, there would be time enough to poke fun at the secret contents of his opponent's nightstand drawer at a later date. Now, to business. And so much the better that it was on her dime.

"Much as I'm glad to see I'm no longer the only interested party, the answer is regrettably above my paygrade." Lucifer dropped the lure casually, deliberately, before he sought about reeling in his catch. "But I do thank you, Detective, for taking it easy on me this round. Very gallant of you."

Predictably, her resolve didn't diminish. "What do you mean, above your paygrade?"

"I'm in the dark here, same as you. Downside of going rogue? Less Intel. More headaches, too," he added with a wink. "Freedom's a bit of a mixed bag, so I've learned."

"And it's really never happened before? This… selective power hiccup?"

"Nope."

"Well, surely a smart guy like you must have a lead?"

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Detective. But no," he admitted, "not a lead, per se. More like an untested hypothesis. Suffice to say that my time on earth has been rather… enlightening. Revolutionary, actually. It's even been suggested that—are you ready for this?—the devil is suffering from a disease called humanity."

"That—" She shook her head. "Wait, suggested by who?"

"My brother, Amenadiel. Good solider of the family. Boring, uptight chap, and biblical storm on my parade. You'd like him." Pause. "Oh, and Maze."

"Your bartender? What does she have to do with—wait. Back up. You have a brother?"

"Nothing to brag about, I promise you. Bigger leech than an Avon saleswoman, always angling to get me back into the family business. To that end, he's less than thrilled about my recent extracurricular activities. Thinks I'm drinking the local Kool-Aid, becoming a has-been, that sort of thing." Lucifer rolled his shoulders back. "His problem, not mine."

"But aren't you?" The detective sounded unsure. "Going back eventually? Vacations don't last forever."

"No, they don't," he agreed.

Without thought, his hand itched toward his pocket, toward the concealed object that never left his person. A small, but significant heirloom. His one-way ticket back downstairs.

And no, Detective. I'm not.

That decision was forged in fire and blood years ago, but there was no denying that something fundamental had shifted since. And Lucifer knew nothing beyond that the reason was currently at his side, unconsciously, undoubtedly, literally frustrating the hell out of him. Perhaps he had miscalculated. Perhaps she was getting a closer look at the devil than either of them bargained for.

Perhaps he wasn't quite so thrilled, after all.

Usually you're the one controlling the change. This time you're not. Now does that scare you? Because it should.

Loathe as he was to concede the point, it was fast becoming clear that his holier-than-thou brother had spoken more wisdom than rubbish that day. Excitement was one thing and fear quite another, but they were not competitors; they were accomplices fueled by this crippling obsession. For this ease with which he forfeited control and allowed another to dictate who and what he was—that was a feeling with which Lucifer was already well acquainted.

And had left far, far behind at the gates of hell.

Who was this enigmatic woman? Was she heaven-sent, cloaked by some sort of divine immunity? Or was it, in fact, humanity digging its hooks into him, stripping the devil of his power—and around her most of all? Was this all a demonstration of one mortal's influence or merely a failing of his own? Where exactly did the anomaly lie?

Lucifer's fingers teased the lining of his pocket; slipped inside, searching. "What are you doing to me, Detective?"

"Me?" Surprise tempered ire. "You're blaming your random bout of telepathic impotence on me?"

"Oh, nicely put."

"Thank you."

"And yes."

"You're the one who abandoned your post," she parried. "Maybe it's true, then. Maybe you're just… adapting."

"To you and no one else?" Lucifer shook his head. "Despite whatever midlife crisis I'm experiencing, the variable in this equation isn't me, it's you."

The truth, though not entirely truthful. His metamorphosis had taken off like a runaway train since the onset of their association, and while logic dictated that there must be a connection between them, correlation hardly proved causality.

"You don't sound so sure," she observed.

Having finally reached its goal, Lucifer's hand toyed with the token in his pocket, long gone cold in its neglect. For a game meant to highlight a pair's mutual fascination, he rather felt that this juncture had only widened the gulf. "Yes, well, this scenario is all very chicken versus egg, and truth be told, I've always despised those irritating philosophical conundrums. My Dear Old Dad's twisted sense of humor, as it were." Just like the devil's existence, he held back. A design flawed from the dawn of creation.

For true power, true freedom, had always eluded him. Human desire was his artistic medium, but never his creation. He merely crafted it, exposed it. Another party trick. And a fat lot of good that handicap was against the paragon of complexity before him. Per her own words, he couldn't extract from her what didn't exist.

Except—

Surely it must?

If not carnal fascination—which, definitely keeping a pin in that—then something else. Every mortal courted sin. Every lock had a key. He simply had to work with a different medium to find it. One they'd been crafting all evening.

And he knew exactly where to start.

"You've got a bit of a dark side, don't you? Oh, don't bother answering. That was rhetorical."

Lucifer swiveled his barstool, facing the bewildered detective head-on. The better to lay siege to an imminent defense.

"See," he ventured, "if there's one thing in this world that El Diablo understands, it's this. Comes with the gig. Everyone possesses some manner of depravity, whether trivial or criminal, freely expressed or lying dormant, waiting to manifest. Even you, for all the faulty wiring in that head of yours.

"You like evidence, Detective? Let's have a little look-see."

Without warning, he shot out of his chair and began outlining a semi-circle around his captive audience, burying his hands deeper in the velvety folds of his (ruined) Armani.

"You've built an entire career around catching liars, thieves, murderers, the lowest of the low, the scourge of the earth; and while there is nobility in fighting the good fight, in getting justice for the little guys, the doe-eyed damsels, and young whipper-snappers, you can't tell me that there's no part of you that relishes the other side of that coin: ensuring that the vermin responsible get their just desserts. From one punisher to another, I get it. It's dark, it's ugly, but there it is. Perhaps," he tacked on, "that's the very reason you became a detective in the first place. To control your demons. Except that doesn't always work out, does it?"

"Sounds like someone's projecting."

Lucifer never broke stride, though the totem in his pocket suffered further the burden of idle fingers. "Take tonight, for example. You had an inkling that it wasn't lies Space Case was pedaling about me, and what did you do? You didn't put your faith in that fragile little system you cops cling to. No, you took matters into your own hands. You sought me out with intent, you shot me, and even after accepting what I am, you still didn't turn away. In fact," he closed in, "you asked for a closer look. At the devil himself."

"I told you," the detective spoke with equal precision, "that when I see something I can't explain, I look for answers. Speaking of which, is there a question hidden somewhere in that ridiculous character assessment?"

"Getting there."

Then Lucifer rocked on his heels a bit, making no visible effort at haste. His competitor might be the professional interrogator-slash-actress, but it was a role he found he was adopting quite brilliantly. Swap the bar for a two-way mirror, cue a spotlight on the perp, roll cameras on this flawless performance, and bam! Say hello to Hollywood's latest, greatest sex symbol.

Suddenly his hand clamped shut, sealing his obol within a cage of flesh. "Given all that I've learned about you in the last twenty-four hours alone—your salacious history; your surprisingly fickle regard for the law; your understandable fixation on yours truly; all that dark potential rolling around inside you—" He thoroughly enjoyed the fresh batch of imagery that conjured up. "Riddle me this, Detective: Why did you put a stop to my punishment tonight? Why not simply let that dung beetle end his former protégée?

"Or better yet," Lucifer forged on, in spite of the chill spreading through his palm and beyond, "if you were so determined to thwart his act of vengeance, why not fulfill your own—why not put a bullet in your old paparazzo pal yourself?"

A/N: Lucifer's getting a bit reflective, isn't he? Hmm. I have to say, being in his head-space for so long is exhausting. Incredibly fun, but exhausting. So yeah. I really hope this turned out okay.

I have a decent amount of the rest of this story written so hopefully the wait won't be nearly as painful as the last one. I also decided to split the final chapter due to length, so now we've actually got two more to go. Until next time—thanks for sticking with me!