Set during Season 4, Episode 1, "Everything's Okay"

Chloe Decker was stuck in traffic. That was a common occurrence in LA; one might even say it was normal. But nothing felt normal anymore. Not since she'd walked into a room strewn with bleeding bodies and bloody feathers to find her partner bent over the warm corpse of her boss, a man she'd almost married. But that wasn't the worst or weirdest part of that awful, fateful day. That honor belonged to the moment her partner had straightened to his full height, then turned to face her with a face that wasn't his. Or, more accurately, a face that was his. A face that had always been his, which she'd been too blind to see. Her partner, Lucifer Morningstar, playboy club owner turned police consultant turned friend, was the Devil. The actual Devil—an impossible immortal being from an impossible immortal place that thousands of stories across thousands of years described as the embodiment of everything evil. And he had a flayed red face and glowing scarlet eyes to prove it.

At the sight and the realization that followed, Chloe had fled. With Trixie in tow, she'd spent a month exploring Madrid, Paris, Milan, Rome and a dozen points in between, drawn in each city to cathedrals, statues, and paintings connected to the man she thought she knew. She'd seen lots of drooling gargoyles with batlike wings and claw-footed creatures with horns and forked tails wielding fire and the occasional pitchfork, but only one lord of darkness that reminded her of the Lucifer she knew. During their first stop in Madrid, she'd clutched Trixie's hand while craning her neck up at the Fountain of the Fallen Angel. Inspired by Paradise Lost, it captured Lucifer being cast out of heaven, and it was one of the few images Chloe encountered in all her travels that found true sympathy for the Devil.

The figure's mouth gaped in torment as his dramatically wrenched body was battered against the rocks, his legs entwined by the thick bodies of hungry serpents. It was also one of the only images in which the Devil was beautiful, with taut, lean muscles, flowing, wavy hair, and wings—delicate, dove-like wings, not unlike the ones Chloe had seen at the auction of religious relics two years before, which her Lucifer had claimed belonged to him before subsequently claiming they were fake. Chloe didn't remember seeing her own Lucifer's real wings, which had apparently absorbed bullets and flown her to safety. She only remembered the feathers. So many bloody feathers.

As she drove, memories of those bloody feathers warred with the haunting memory of a more demonic spectacle and a whole host of older and newer memories of her inhuman partner in more human moments. She remembered him defending her in a courtroom, and she remembered kissing him on a beach. She remembered hugging him in his bedroom with a bullet necklace clutched in her fist. She remembered him pinning a corsage on her sweater before leading her around an empty, light-dappled dancefloor. She remembered him cracking jokes about pool boys and shamelessly sucking honey off his fingers in front of suspects. And she remembered him wrenching a streetlight out of the concrete with one hand while immobilizing a fully revved car with the other, releasing an exultant scream as his eyes burned with fire, a fountain of white sparks raining, unnoticed, on his navy Prada suit. That was her most recent memory. When Chloe had hauled Reynolds out of the car to cuff him, Lucifer had disappeared.

And so, after processing and paperwork, she went to find him, the only place she knew to look—LUX, his nightclub/home, where they'd met and where they'd shared so many more memories over the years. She tried not to think too long or hard about why she wanted to find Lucifer after spending a month running away from him. In one ear, she heard the voice of Father Kinley, telling her that in order for the plan to work—the plan that he assured her was necessary, for her, for Trixie, for the world, and for Lucifer's own good—the Devil had to trust her. And to make him trust her, she had to pretend everything was okay—that they were still friends and partners, just like they'd been before she'd seen his other face and realized nothing, from Lucifer's true nature to the nature of reality itself, was what it seemed. In her other ear, she heard Lucifer's very human voice making bad puns and crude jokes that sometimes made her smirk and sometimes made her crazy. She also heard him speaking soft words of comfort with a familiar lilt that was just as human and definitely not evil. Her Lucifer was many things, but he definitely wasn't evil. Or so she'd thought. In any case, Chloe wanted to see him. She just wanted to see him.

Finally, she arrived at the club and pulled into the parking spot that always seemed to be waiting for her, kicking herself for realizing—it probably was always waiting for her. Some detective; not only had she ignored ample evidence and her partner's own repeated insistence that he was, in fact, a fallen angel condemned to rule hell, she'd also apparently spent three years thinking she just had improbably good luck parking in front of one of the most popular nightclubs in the city. Knowing Lucifer, he probably hoped she'd use the spot for a late-night booty call. For the umpteenth time in the past month, Chloe's stomach did a strange somersault. She'd kissed the Devil, but at least she'd never slept with him. That had to count for something, right?

LUX was closed on Mondays, but the bouncer was there anyway, standing in front of the golden Art Deco door instead of the curb. His name was Miguel, and he'd worked there for as long as Chloe had known Lucifer. She couldn't remember when she'd learned Miguel's name—had she asked, or had he told her? Both possibilities seemed unlikely; Miguel wasn't the talkative type. Then she remembered, and how could she forget? Lucifer had introduced them, just like he'd introduced her to everyone who worked at LUX and plenty of regular and transient clubgoers, smiling that smile that was definitely for show but wasn't really fake, because that's just how Lucifer was—always performing, for his benefit, or someone else's, or maybe a little of both. Or maybe it was always selfish. Because Lucifer was always selfish. Because he was always cunning. Because he was the Prince of Lies.

Yet Chloe had seen Lucifer smile other smiles—a bevy of them, from smarmy smirks to salacious grins to the soft, wet-eyed way she'd smiled at her a month ago, when he'd told her he was the Devil, she'd told him he wasn't, then met his lips for a chaste kiss full of sparkling promise. Chloe could still remember Lucifer's flustered breath on her lips, and her wonder at that sensation—Lucifer Morningstar, self-proclaimed sex god, flustered by a close-mouthed kiss? Maybe his reputation was just another lie.

And yet—Lucifer had told her the truth. He'd always told her the truth. And he wasn't always performing. Sometimes, his face was so honest it broke her heart, his chocolate eyes blown black above full, loose lips practically vibrating with emotions that seldom became words. At least, not the words she expected or wanted to hear. Because while Lucifer never lied, he often omitted the truth. He'd told her about his wings—about cutting them off and getting them back. He'd also told her, repeatedly, that he was a monster. But he'd never actually shown her. And that was a type of lying, since he had to have known that without proof, she'd never believe him. In truth, it was still hard to believe. Kinley's version of Lucifer was so different from the man who'd been working beside her for three years, who was sometimes childish and reckless, but also brave and kind. The man who stole Dan's pudding and kicked his Louboutins up on her desk, who made killer omelettes and matched her daughter's tireless enthusiasm for Monopoly. The man who'd saved her life at least three times and helped put dozens of murderers behind bars.

"Club's closed," Miguel grunted, staring into space above and beyond her head.

"Hi Miguel," she greeted, meeting his gruffness with a tired smile. They'd danced this dance before. "How is he?"

While she doubted Miguel was privy to all or even most of his boss's secrets, she also knew the LUX employees saw plenty, especially those, like Miguel, who'd spent years guarding the door. Chloe found herself swallowing a delirious laugh, confronting the ridiculousness of the concept. Lucifer had superstrength, wings, and a monstrous second face capable of reducing seasoned murderers to tears and inarticulate screaming. And he was supposedly immortal, whatever that meant. Why would the Devil need a bodyguard? Yet Chloe had seen Lucifer bleed many times, including two hours ago, when he'd put his hand in front of a gun aimed at her. There was nothing else to do but add it to her ever-growing list of inconsistencies in need of explanations. Problem was, she didn't trust Lucifer to explain. Not anymore.

Miguel's lips twitched. "He's been worse." He flashed her a quick glance before adding, "And better."

The significance of the admission—such as it was—wasn't lost on Chloe. "Can I go in?"

Miguel shifted his prodigious weight, then nodded at the door. "He's still at the piano."

Chloe wondered at the word "still" but didn't dwell on it. She returned the bouncer's nod before closing her hand around the heavy brass door and heaving it open. That should have been Miguel's job, but he'd already done enough; letting her in was different from inviting her.

Her low-heeled boots echoed dully off the cavernous walls as she stepped from the dark warm night into the darker, cooler club. She expected to hear soft music or maybe Lucifer's smooth baritone voice, caressing the lyrics of some silly pop song that didn't sound silly when he sang it. Sometimes, he seemed most honest when he performed, his emotions plainer when the words weren't his own. Music seemed to draw out his desires, not unlike his dark eyes and seductive smile drawing out the desires of others. Everyone except her; Lucifer's mojo had never worked on her. Or had it? How could she trust her feelings for a man who'd once described himself as walking heroin? But drugs were addictive, and Lucifer's lovers never stayed. Unlike her, who'd run, yet come back. Just like Lucifer was always running and coming back. To Los Angeles. To LUX. To the precinct. To her…

But instead of the delicate tinkling of keys, the heavy silence of the deserted club was punctured by awkward, aborted attempts at the opening bars of a song Chloe immediately recognized—"Creep" by Radiohead, a favorite from her teenage years. Chloe followed the sound and a grey plume of smoke toward the piano, positioned in front of a neon wall decorated with a Deco starburst that was red at the edges fading to dusky pink at the center. The light shone dully against the slick back lid of the piano and Lucifer's navy jacket. Apparently, he hadn't changed since the crime scene.

At first, he didn't notice her approach, too focused on struggling through the song. The problem was his right hand. The same hand that had had a hole in it two hours ago and was now merely wrapped in a brown-stained bandage, though it was clearly causing him pain. Lucifer swore under his breath as his usually gracefully fingers staggered to a stop on an obviously wrong note, and when he reached for his smoldering cigarette, she could have sworn his hand was actually shaking. No, not shaking—trembling. His trembling hand brought other details into focus, like the unusual slump of his usually proud shoulders, and the way his dark hair was haphazardly rumpled, abused by his hands into something resembling its natural texture. Lucifer's hair was naturally wavy, just like the only beautiful statue of the Devil, which was also the only image that reminded her of the man at the piano.

Lucifer tapped his cigarette in the messy ashtray next to a tumbler of whisky as he drawled, "If you've come for more money, Mr. Said Out Bitch, now is not a good time."

His tone softened on the final word as he finally tilted his head and saw her, black eyes flickering above slack lips.

Determined not to lose herself in his eyes, Chloe subtly averted her gaze, concentrating on the gleaming white piano keys as she said, "I used to play that song on repeat, through high school a lot… when I felt lost."

That was true. Chloe knew every verse, had memorized Thom Yorke's cadence and the pain and triumph that vibrated through his voice when the song reached its climax. The idea of those words, and that pain, paired with Lucifer's statuesque features struck her as funny a moment before it didn't. Sometimes, his face was so honest…

When she moved to sit next to him on the piano bench, she didn't need to see his eyes to feel them. Lucifer's stare was palpable, just like when she'd showed up, unannounced, to her first crime scene in a month, to find him already there. According to Ella, Lucifer had been showing up every day she hadn't. Waiting for her. Looking for her. Lying in wait… Then, too, Chloe had tried to avoid his gaze, but Lucifer was a difficult man to ignore. As always, he'd been impeccably turned out, his slick hair, designer stubble, and pale grey suit standing out like a sore thumb amid the t-shirts, jeans, windbreakers, and beaten-in leather jackets that dominated the scene. It also didn't hurt that he was six-foot-three and looked taller, his rangy limbs thick with taut muscles that Chloe certainly didn't notice or dream about or compare to 19th century Spanish statues of beautiful devils.

Lucifer slid across the bench to accommodate her. More accurately, he shuffled, every movement as uncharacteristically stiff and uncertain as the fingers of his bandaged hand. His face and shoulders shrank back even further. Like he wanted to be smaller. Like he wanted to recoil from her presence. Like he didn't know her as well as almost anyone else in the world. Like he no longer trusted her near him.

With a rush of feeling, Chloe recalled the way she'd recoiled from him on the bridge the day before, when he'd laid a single large, gentle hand on her shoulder. A moment before, they'd been joking about the case. She remembered laughing at one of Lucifer's silly asides, forgetting, for a moment, that things were different now, ever since she'd faced the truth, and her ignorance, and the flayed red creature with the lilting voice of her partner.

If she didn't know better, she'd say Lucifer seemed scared. But what could scare the Devil? Certainly not a mere human detective who was barely managing to keep her own weary body from trembling, desperately wishing she could play something, anything, besides "Heart and Soul," because she needed something in her hands. Something that wasn't a gun. Or whisky. Or Lucifer, whose body seemed so warm next to hers. Was he always so warm?

"Lucifer, about… what I saw…"

Her rehearsed speech died on her lips. It had seemed so easy, or at least easier, in the car alone with her memories and Kinley's voice in her ear. Everything was harder with Lucifer's warm body at her side, except those things that were easier, like feeling safe, and supported, and comfortable. But that was before.

She risked a glance at his face and regretted it. Lucifer's eyes weren't burning with hellfire. They were dark, damp, and filled with such obvious pain, Chloe had to fight the instinct to reach for him—his cheek, his hand, or even his shoulder, any warm part of him he'd let her touch. She wasn't used to touching him, but she wasn't unused to it either. She'd stoked his rough-soft cheek enough times to remember what it felt like, and to want to touch it again.

Thankfully, Lucifer finally tore his gaze away, leaving Chloe with a view of his profile. That should have been safer, but Chloe still couldn't seem to focus. Or rather, she couldn't seem to focus on the right things. Chloe studied Lucifer's square, stubble-flecked jaw, his distinctive aquiline nose, his long black eyelashes, and the way his hair curled around his ears when it wasn't rigorously tamed. Chloe didn't remember all the details of the dreams she occasionally had, where she was doing things with Lucifer her conscious mind would never approve of, even before she knew his name was more than a metaphor. But she remembered certain things, like carding her hands through his thick, soft hair and burying her nose in the crook of his neck. She already knew the devil didn't smell like brimstone. He smelled like whisky and smoky sandalwood.

When he spoke, Lucifer's words had the feel of a joke but none of the humor. His tone was venomous, almost petulant. "I've had literal eons to come to terms with what you saw. My… my monstrous side." He inhaled a shuddering breath, locked his black eyes on her blue ones, and said, in a stronger voice, "But it's not all that I am." His resolve was short-lived, gaze falling along with his voice as he added, "At least… I hope not."

Chloe wanted to believe him. She was used to trusting him—to accepting all his crazy metaphors and distracting, distracted antics. Which was why his betrayal cut so deep.

"Either way," Lucifer continued, "it's unfair of me to expect you to just… accept it. I'm honestly not sure when I'll be able to. If ever."

He punctuated his words with a weak, humorless laugh, and reached across her body for his whisky. Lucifer's drinking concerned her, or had, when she still thought his liver was any of her business. Lucifer drank purposefully, but watching him now, the way he clung to his glass and took his time swallowing, Chloe realized it was more than that. He drank because he needed something to do. Because he hated silences and because he was often bored. And because he was… nervous? He was slouching over his drink and the piano, but his shoulders were still angled away from hers, like her closeness was viscerally unsettling. Or like he worried it was. Worry was etched into every fiber of the beautiful, monstrous man sitting next to her, who wanted to sing "Creep" but couldn't, because he had a hole in his hand from helping her solve yet another murder and save yet another life.

Chloe inhaled a sharp breath and reached for his hand—the injured one, with the stained bandage wrapped just below his black ring. Lucifer started a little, and for a moment, she thought he'd pull away. Instead, he became very still, black eyes studying her fingers stroking his. Comforting him. Comforting herself. Saying goodbye…

She took a moment to contemplate his slouching shoulders and the weight they seemed to carry. Did he still have his wings? Where did they go when he wasn't using them? She wished she could remember, wished she'd ever seen them extending from his usually proud shoulders instead of severed or spattered across the floor. She knew they were white, blinding white, like so many storybooks and stained-glass windows. Because he was an angel. The Devil was also an angel. But he was still the Devil.

"Lucifer, what I was going to say was, what I saw… was my partner."

She wasn't lying, not really. She had seen her partner. But her partner was the Devil. And the Devil belonged in Hell.

Lucifer's larger fingers twitched under hers before he raised his eyes and searched her face, nervously, hopefully. "Really?"

"Really." She met his gaze as she said it, but she wasn't seeing him. She was somewhere else, addressing Kinley's idea of Lucifer rather than the man she knew as Lucifer Morningstar, with the rumpled, wavy hair and creased shirt collar, with the whisky-wet lips and wetter eyes, whose cologne was mixed with the very human smell of sweat from the long day they'd shared. The man who drank nervously and made terrible jokes. The man who'd begun their partnership trying to trick her into bed but wasn't that man anymore, and hadn't been for a long time. The man who sometimes looked like a monster but wasn't.

Lucifer's lips twitched into a shaky half-smile. "Well then… problem solved, Detective. Because if you can accept me, then that really is all that matters." He laughed a bit, and his laugh was as shaky as his smile. But it was also laced with relief. Lucifer believed her. Because Lucifer trusted her.

Chloe withdrew her hand as Lucifer took another slow sip of whisky. His cigarette had long since expired in the ashtray but the smell hung in the air. Until that moment, Chloe had barely noticed it. But now the smell seemed cloying and all-encompassing. Her breath felt shallow and her tongue felt dry.

With an effort, she swallowed, and said, "Which one is real." She hadn't meant to say it, but she had to say something, if only to make sure her tongue was still there.

Lucifer regarded her quizzically.

"Your face," she clarified. "Which one is real."

Lucifer blinked, and said, "They're both real."

"Since… always?"

"No," he sighed, dropping his eyes back to the keys.

"Then which one came first?"

Lucifer's left hand reached for his whisky and held it, index finger absently tapping the carved glass. "My devil face is… It happened after my fall."

"Your fall from… heaven?" It was a rhetorical question, but she had to say the words, to carve her lips around the truths that were still so hard to fathom.

Lucifer smirked. "Are you hitting on me, Detective?"

Despite herself, Chloe almost laughed. She'd missed him—her partner. "You wish."

"Always," he agreed.

The silence that followed wasn't quite companionable, but at least it was easier to breathe.

"Have you been to Madrid?" she asked.

She sensed the flicker of Lucifer's dark eyes against her cheek. "Yes."

"Have you seen the statue? The one by—"

"Yes."

Of course he had. He'd probably modelled for it and slept with the sculptor.

"Do you… like it?"

Lucifer met her question with a question. "Do you?"

"I asked first."

"I think Milton had a lot of bloody nerve taking such creative liberties with my life. And my wings are twice that size."

Chloe couldn't help herself. "Really?"

Lucifer shot her a look. "Perhaps I'll show you sometime."

"I'd like that," she said, and realized she meant it.

Lucifer closed his fingers around his glass and downed the rest of the whisky. "But I'll say one thing for Ricardo. He absolutely nailed my ass."

Chloe snorted, blindsided by the joke and the surreal possibility it might be the truth, in more ways than one. Lucifer grinned back at her, clearly pleased with himself. His shoulders were straighter now, and not so far away from hers. And he was still very warm.

Chloe cleared her throat, adjusting her weight on the bench before pushing herself to her feet. "I should… I should go."

"Of course," he agreed, suddenly serious. "I should have a shower. I haven't changed since… well."

"How's your hand?"

He raised his bandaged palm to look at it. "It'll be better soon."

Chloe wanted to ask more questions, about whether he needed a doctor and why he didn't. But she couldn't face it anymore. Couldn't face him anymore, the Devil who was her partner, knowing that because of a deal she'd made with a priest, he'd soon simply be the Devil.

She circled the piano, then glanced back to ask. "See you tomorrow?"

Lucifer inclined his head in her direction but didn't quite meet her eyes. "Yes. Tomorrow."

Taking slow, deliberate steps, Chloe made her way to the exit. But having learned nothing from Orpheus, before completing her retreat, she risked a final look back into the club. Despite claiming he was heading upstairs, Lucifer hadn't moved. He was still sitting at the piano, glass empty, cigarette cold, broken hand ghosting over the keys without touching them, like he was playing a song in his mind. A thick lock of wavy hair bobbed against his forehead as he subtly swayed to the silent song. It made him look younger, almost boyish, but not innocent. His lips were too sad to be innocent. Chloe swallowed hard as a phrase sprung unbidden to her mind: the Devil shouldn't be so beautiful…

She started at a sudden rush of warm air. It was Miguel, opening the door. "Nice night," the bouncer intoned.

Chloe agreed and thanked him with a nod, even though it wasn't, and couldn't be. But tomorrow was another day. And Lucifer would be there. He'd told her he'd be there. And Chloe believed him.

~The End (for now...)

Notes: Thanks for reading! Hope it wasn't too sad. *hugs* So many stories have already explored Chloe learning the truth, but I still found myself compelled to try my hand at figuring out her thought process. I'd like to make this an ongoing series of "missing moment" fics, some of which would be happier (and sexier!). (Though I do like writing angst as a prelude to happier times.) Anyway—if you enjoyed this and want more, leave me a comment or fav to let me know! I've become belatedly obsessed with this show and I have *so many thoughts* ;)