Sabrina didn't question it.
When the well-dressed stranger with the surprisingly gentle eyes signed her out of the precinct under the guise of her father (she was yet to be sure if he actually shared the same name with her deplorable dad; if so, it was a coincidence too great for words), she didn't say a thing, even as the exasperated detective sorted through the paperwork and took in the sight of her with an unspoken hesitance, even as the unfamiliar man (though she could have sworn she knew him, that the goosebumps she felt when she first saw him had nothing to do with the cold) led her to an expensive car parked outside the building and drove them through the darkness of early evening LA.
The city lights all seemed to blur together as she stared straight ahead at the road, eyes unseeing as her mind found itself wandering back to Greendale, to everything she left behind. Was it selfish of her, to just pack her things and go? To abandon the war when it was still far from over? She knew she never left; not fully, not really. Because even as she found her body maneuvered through foreign streets in a vintage black car, her heart was in hell, her spirit was with the Spellmans, and her mind was on her father, relentlessly working to unravel the tapestry of deceit he wove around her existence. She leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes.
One week. That was all the time she would give to put her plan together, before she came marching back home to end the fight herself. If she still didn't make sense of things by then, she would nonetheless find a way to hell, armed with nothing but a deadly union of hatred (for her father and his wickedness) and love (for Nick, for her family, for all of witchkind), bowing down to no evil but her own. But then again, what was the power of her fury against the very entity that passed it on to her? Her rage had to have come from somewhere, and it wasn't from her mother.
She opened her eyes again and drew in a shaky breath. Peace did not have a place in her life, but it didn't mean she never longed for it all the same.
The silence she was just beginning to embrace was suddenly broken as the strange man beside her (Lucifer Morningstar, if what he says is true) finally gave life to a question that occupied his mind ever since the two met.
"Would you have gone?" He asked, brows furrowed, voice quiet so as not to shatter the stillness completely, though colored with an unbridled curiosity.
She shifted in her seat to face him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he explained, eyes darting to her for the briefest of moments, "if I hadn't come for you, would you have stayed at the station all night? We both know you could have just walked out of there if you wanted. I doubt a few sets of locked doors could have held you back."
Sabrina pondered the question for a second, only having thought about it for the first time. In reality, there was no defining moment where she sat herself down on the plain interrogation room chair and decided to wait for her saving grace (though the man driving the sleek Corvette with anxious eyes and restless movements wasn't particularly graceful, if you asked her). She just did. After a few beats of silence, she surprised even herself by shaking her head no.
"I don't think I would've," she admitted, forehead creased as she finally came to an answer. "I've broken enough rules for one day. I don't think running into more trouble would've done me any good."
"A bit of a troublemaker, are we?"
She scoffed, turned her gaze back to the speeding scenery. "It's a bit hard to avoid the things that always follow you around."
Lucifer stole a glance at her face, saw how heavily exhaustion set on her shoulders, her eyes. She was a runner, his daughter; chased by her innate darkness from one heartache to the next. It made a lot of sense, though. Her father was a runner, too.
He gave her a sad smile (how fitting it was that they were the only ones who understood each other's pain). "I couldn't have said it better, myself."
If the strange man with the pained eyes seemed to be locked in a battle with grief even greater than her own, Sabrina didn't question it, either.
Their drive ended at Sunset Boulevard, at a lavish nightclub called Lux. Stepping out of the car, Sabrina trailed after Lucifer (yet another thing she was yet to question) who headed straight for the entrance doors, past the pooling patrons and velvet ropes.
"I don't really think a bar is the best place to be right now," Sabrina called out, frowning as she stepped past the large bouncer who kept giving her a critical eye. It was easy to forget that humans looked down on teenagers going into establishments like this, especially when Dorian's Gray Room had its doors open to her whenever she pleased.
"Don't worry, I own this club," Lucifer answered over his shoulder, still pushing past the swarm of sweaty, dancing bodies straight ahead. "It's the safest place we can talk."
It was a fair sentiment, Sabrina could agree. Talks of hell, witches, and dark arts weren't the types of things to discuss in public. Conquering the crowds, the pair stopped in front of a single elevator.
Lucifer pressed the button going up. "We'll have to head up to my penthouse. It's quieter there."
Though the man had been nothing but warm and patient ever since they met, Sabrina was yet to trust him (sometimes, she felt as though she forgot what the word even meant). She gave him a sidelong glance. "I'm grateful for what you did for me today, but if you try anything funny-"
He cut off the rest of her words with a sharp look, alarm seeping into his tone. (The thought of anyone laying hands on her against her will pushed him over the edge.) "Why? Has anyone tried anything funny with you before?"
She broke away from his probing gaze, eyes downcast as she pursed her lips. (Her thoughts drifted back to being stripped naked in front of the entire coven, exposed in the most vulnerable way to hordes of witches and warlocks who knew her body before she knew their names. If anyone dared touch her then, she would've unleashed hell unknown to any of them. But in the end, their skin didn't even have to meet hers; witch mark or not, she was branded all the same. It was a shame that Hilda only arrived when everything had been said and done.)
The girl sighed, a faraway sadness in her breath. "The funniest."
Lucifer couldn't even begin to imagine what his daughter meant, but he assumed the worst. He clenched his fist in anger, yet calmed himself enough to keep it at his side. Now was the time for reunions and reconciliations; rampage had no place in the picture (not this soon, at least). Whoever hurt her would have to wait (soon, reckoning would come and its name will be Morningstar).
"Well, you don't have to worry anymore," he uttered, voice barely above a whisper. She turned around to face him at the softly-spoken words. The devil returned her inquiring look with a small smile. "You're safe with me."
She regarded the words with deep thought, but never got the chance to respond as the pristine elevator doors parted open just then. Still, as the two stepped inside, Lucifer could have sworn he heard a faintly-mumbled "I hope so," before the doors slid shut behind them once more.