Set during Season 4, Episode 9, "Save Lucifer"
Standing on the balcony of the Penthouse, Lucifer heard the low rumble of voices in the sitting area, where Chloe was busy assembling the final pieces of their latest case with the help of the unusually cooperative murderer. He was ready to step in if Chloe needed him. But he knew she wouldn't need him. Not like this.
Besides which, the murderer couldn't stop herself from confessing. Lucifer's mojo had gone haywire, causing any humans in his vicinity to admit their darkest desires without any prompting from him. He couldn't control it anymore. Couldn't control anything anymore. Least of all his own body.
It had started with his wings. A few days ago, after confessing to Chloe that it had been some time since he'd checked on the state of his divine appendages, she'd encouraged him to do so. So he had. And what he'd discovered had shaken him to his core. His white feathers were gone, replaced by leathery bat wings with hooked talons sharp enough to rend flesh. Revealing the wings to Linda wasn't the first time he'd cried in front of his therapist. But it was the first time he'd cried while also being as close to drunk as he ever managed to get.
But at least he could hide the wings, tucking them into another dimension where he could pretend they didn't exist. He couldn't hide what happened next. When he'd arrived at the precinct that morning, he'd discovered a bubble of scabs on his wrist. By mid-morning, his left hand was a red claw. By afternoon, he was wearing a scarf, gloves, and sunglasses to hide the spread of his demonic infection. Equally disconcerting was the fact he didn't notice the changes as they were happening. He was supposed to control his eyes, and his devil face, and the devil form he'd rarely used since those early days in Hell, when fear had helped him survive. Now, it was like his body controlled him, reminding him, as if he needed reminding, that free will was an illusion. It had always been an illusion.
Lucifer retreated to the bedroom. As Chloe and the perp continued talking, he continued changing. He could feel it now, because his clothes were getting uncomfortable, his rough red skin chafing against a shirt that should have been soft, and a jacket that should have fit perfectly. There was something happening to his back, and it was more than his wings, which had been threatening to burst forth all evening, held in check only by supreme force of will. Something was growing there, his spine pulling and stretching into some newly monstrous shape. It wasn't unpleasant—not physically, anyway. In a way, it was almost a relief to give in. Maybe he didn't want to fight anymore. Why resist the inevitable? He'd tried to do that throughout his life and look where it got him. He was a monster condemned to corrupt everyone and everything he cared about.
At some point, his wings became too heavy to bear. He let them tear through his shirt and jacket, tossing both to the floor. Retracting his wings was impossible. Like he no longer had the muscles to do it. Like he didn't remember how.
He wanted nothing more than to dive off the balcony and let his leathery wings take him to some dark corner of the world, to suffer in peace the way he deserved. Being in Hell in this form wouldn't have the same effect. The demons would love it. He could already see them groveling at his feet, welcoming him back as the true Lord of Hell. But something about the dull echo of Chole's voice at the edge of his consciousness kept him rooted to the spot. She needed to see the truth, needed to see what he truly was and know, once and for all, why it could never work between them. Not that she'd been very interested lately. But she cared. He knew that she cared. You didn't throw yourself onto the body of someone to protect them from an explosion unless you cared about that someone.
He was dimly aware of a shuffle of movement, and the hiss of the elevator, and then Chloe was calling his name.
"Okay Lucifer, Kinley's only a couple of hours ahead of us…"
From the bedroom, he said, "I'm afraid it's too late, Detective."
"I know with your mojo going crazy it'll be difficult, but we'll avoid the crowds, and you know, I think if we…"
Her words died on her lips as he stepped onto the dais, into the light, and showed her the monster he'd become. The monster he'd always been.
"It's too late," he repeated. "They won't go back in. This is who I am now."
Chloe's beautiful face contorted, struggling through a full body shiver as she forced down a swallow and finally succumbed to the need to look away. Lucifer couldn't blame her. He didn't want to look at himself either; being himself was bad enough. Yet he wanted her to look at him. He was still himself, flayed red skin, burning eyes, claws, bat wings and all. A self he hated, but still—himself. His mind was his own and power coursed through his veins, intoxicating and terrifying and he hated that too. He hated being a victim of power. Hated being a victim of anything.
"I know why I hate myself." His tone was venomous. Challenging her to look at him. Challenging her to run. "It's because everything I touch, I ruin. From rebellion against dad, and now—look what I've put you through. I hate that I am poison for anyone who dares to care about me. Especially you."
He no longer had the courage to face her inability to face him. It wasn't her fault. None of it was. He'd brought this on himself with a lifetime of bad decisions and failures. And those bad decisions had hurt people, people he was selfish enough to care about when he should have stayed away. He should have stayed where he belonged, in Hell with the damned.
He pulled his eyes away from Chloe's trembling form and stalked back into the bedroom. But his mind's eye was still full of the sight of her, gorgeous in her emerald-green silk wrap dress over black tights and thigh high suede boots, delicate heels clinking on the floor as she walked. And she was walking now. Following him.
"Lucifer. This isn't about me."
He could feel her presence behind him, a safe distance from his wings and the spikes protruding from his spine.
"I'm okay," she insisted, the words forced, but forceful. "I haven't crumbled into a million pieces. I'm still here. And I'm fine."
"If I turn around will you be fine? Or will you look away in horror."
"It doesn't matter."
He wanted to believe her. But they were just words. Empty words. Just like when they'd been sitting at the piano a month ago, and she'd told him she accepted him while scheming with Father Kinley to send him back to Hell.
"Of course it does, Detective!" The words were angry because he was. At Chloe, at his father, at Kinley, at the world, but especially at himself.
"No," said Chloe, an edge to her own voice. "It doesn't. Because this isn't about me. This is about you. I'm not going to let you use me as an excuse to avoid dealing with what is behind all of this."
She sounded like Linda. But it was Linda who'd gotten him into his current predicament, with all her talk of breakthroughs and self-reflection… he'd been fine before realizing he hated himself.
He was surprised when he heard Chloe's voice, closer to his shoulder. She was still there. Why was she still there?
"You always talk about how much you hate being blamed for humanity's sins," said Chloe. "And I think I know why you hate it so much. Because deep down, you blame yourself just as much. If not more."
He found himself considering her words, sharp teeth grinding inside his mouth. All those eons in Hell, with only the screams of the damned and the occasional demon for company… If he didn't deserve it, why had he endured it? Why had he been forced to endure it?
Chloe took another step, heels echoing off the walls. "You have to stop taking responsibility for things you can't control. Lucifer… you need to forgive yourself."
Forgive himself? Surely forgiveness wasn't his to give. "I can't."
"Why."
Her pleading tone churned in his gut. He wanted to please her. He so badly wanted to please her. "I don't know how to," he admitted. "I don't even know where to begin. But…" He knew how he wanted to finish the sentence, but it sounded silly. What he wanted didn't matter. When had it ever mattered?
"But what?"
Lucifer inhaled a breath, and said, "I want to."
He turned back toward Chloe, ready to meet her rejection and the impossibilty of his simple admission of desire. Instead, Chloe gasped, eyes widening as she clutched her face and breathed haltingly through her fingers. But it wasn't fear bringing tears to her eyes. It was something else, something like—wonder?
Lucifer blinked at her, then followed her flickering gaze. Before his eyes, his claws began to recede, burning back into hands. His hands. The hands he'd been born with, with their long fingers and alabaster skin. The same thing was happening to his torso, rough red skin flickering with fire before revealing more of his wonderfully smooth skin with its wonderful pale hues and chocolate freckles. He could feel his wings receding along with his scarred flesh, like a literal weight off his shoulders.
"Lucifer… I think you just took the first step…"
He touched his smooth chest and smiled, then ran his fingers over his cheek and coughed a giddy laugh as he felt his beard under palm. His laugh became a sigh as he carded both hands through his hair, letting one hand continue down his neck while the other went back to his chest, possessed by the need to touch every familiar part of himself, wondering if touching his own nipples had ever felt so good.
"Look at that, Detective!"
Chloe's stifled laugh interrupted his reverie. She was smiling below damp eyes and blushing a little, like she was embarrassed to be caught looking but didn't know where else to look.
Warming under her gaze, Lucifer grinned. "We did it… It looks like evil won't be released after all!"
Chloe's smile twitched, infected by his mirth. She swallowed, then said, "How do you feel?"
He'd never been fond of talking about his feelings. But in that moment, it was easy, because how he felt was irrepressible. "Wonderful," he sighed. "Better than wonderful, I feel… incredible." He wanted to keep enjoying himself but couldn't take his eyes from Chloe. Her untouchable beauty suddenly seemed so touchable. He didn't want to kiss her. He just wanted to feel her—to wrap his arms around her silky shoulders and feel her breath on his neck.
Chloe dropped her gaze, but she was still smiling. And blushing. She spun to step down into the sitting room and he followed her, knowing he should put on a shirt but not quite ready to part with the air on his skin. Chloe's hands would be better, but he banished the thought. It was enough that she wasn't running away—that she'd looked straight at him in one of his worst moments and stood her ground. But that thought only made him giddier. Chloe hadn't run away. She'd stayed. Chloe had stayed.
He poured himself a large glass of sweet bourbon and knocked back an obscenely large swallow, needing to drown out the delirious laughter that kept threatening to overtake him. He didn't believe in miracles, because what humans called miracles he called facts of life. Except Chloe. Chloe was a miracle. Because she'd stayed when she had every reason to run.
While the drink burned down his throat, he looked for his miracle and found her collecting her purse from the sofa, inspecting its contents before slinging it over her shoulder and smoothing her clothes.
His face fell. "Are you… leaving?"
"It's late," Chloe replied. "And I'm sure you could use a rest after… you know… everything."
Lucifer stared at her helplessly, at a loss to communicate how thoroughly he disagreed with her sentiment. Rest was the furthest thing from his mind.
"Nonsense, we should celebrate!" He stepped toward her as he said it, chest open, smile softening, an open promise to coax her enthusiasm. It was an expression that almost any other human would find irresistible. But not Chloe. He had to try so much harder with Chloe. "We should go out—there's still plenty of fine drinking and dining establishments open at this hour, and half of them owe me a favor. Or we could go to the beach! How long has it been since you've seen a full moon gleaming in the ocean off Venice Beach?" He made a sweeping motion with his arm, painting a picture of the cosmos he'd painted eons ago, when the world was young.
Chloe shifted her weight. "We've still got work tomorrow."
"Surely saving the world at two in the morning earns us a late start?"
He punctuated the plea with one of his best smiles, but it was clear he was losing the battle, and he began to understand why. He was asking for too much. His inhuman passions were in overdrive, but Chloe was only human. She was the one who needed rest.
But he couldn't resist one last, desperate volley. "Or-or we could stay here, watch a movie, share a bottle of wine…"
"Lucifer…"
"I know," he sighed, a tired sigh this time. "I'm sorry. I just… don't feel like being alone."
For the second time that night, he surprised himself with his own words. He hadn't meant to speak so plainly.
Chloe raised her eyes. Her smoky cat eye makeup was smudged by dried tears, and she wasn't smiling anymore. She was back in Detective mode, mom mode, sensible mode, "I won't be swayed by Lucifer's silly shenanigans" mode.
"I'm sure you could find a willing companion downstairs," she offered.
Lucifer frowned. The suggestion offended him, though he couldn't precisely explain why.
Flatly, he said, "I don't want that."
"Then what do you want." She was pretending to busy herself with her purse, searching for some imaginary object.
He couldn't answer without lying, so he didn't. He didn't understand why the mood had changed so quickly. Shouldn't she be happy? Not only had they subverted a prophecy predicting the end of the world, he was back to his usual devilishly charming self. He didn't need his mojo to appreciate the way she'd looked at him in the bedroom, hands that could have been her hands touching his face and chest. And he wasn't even suggesting she sleep with him. He just wanted to go for a drive—to feel the wind in his hair and smell the ocean on the wind. And it would all feel and smell so much sweeter with his partner at his side.
"Are you really okay?"
The smallness of her voice did something to his chest. He took another step forward, drawn like a peon to her altar. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"That's not…" Chloe shifted her weight again, casting her eyes to the ceiling. "I wasn't scared of you, Lucifer. I was scared for you."
Lucifer swallowed. He badly wanted to believe her. "I'm okay," he assured her. "Truly."
"I just don't know how you can go from… what happened… to acting like everything's fine."
He heard Linda's voice was in his head, suggesting Chloe was alluding to more than the situation at hand. Chloe wanted him to punish her, had been wanting it for weeks, ever since she'd betrayed him and he'd fallen into the welcoming arms of Eve. Even for a devil used to being betrayed, he'd been hurt. Badly. But it mattered less every day. And it definitely didn't matter now, when all he wanted was to keep feeling good; he couldn't remember the last time he'd really felt good.
"Do you know," he began, "how many times Amenadiel has sent me back to Hell?"
"No," she replied, the only answer she could give.
"Neither do I. I lost track after the first thousand times."
"Your brother did that to you?" Her voice was even smaller. That wasn't what he intended at all.
"Yes, but—he's my brother. And you're my partner."
"That's supposed to make me feel… better?"
That's exactly what he thought, but as usual, he seemed to be struggling to make himself clear. He took a moment to reorder his thoughts and tried again. "What I'm trying to say is—one bad thing doesn't outweigh all the good things."
"You're calling what I tried to do to you 'one bad thing'?" She actually sounded upset now, as though she was angry at his attempt to forgive her.
"What I'm saying is that at this moment, I couldn't care less about what happened a month ago."
"And what about tomorrow?"
"Detective, if today has taught us anything, it's the value of living in the moment."
"I don't think that's—"
"The world isn't ending. I'm my charming self again. And I just want to celebrate. With you." It was the clearest way he could think to say it, because it was truly all he wanted.
When she continued to hesitate, he added, "Not in a sexy way. I mean, unless that's on the table… Joking! I'm joking. I simply wouldn't want you to think you look anything less than ravishing. I'm sure you could find many willing—"
"I don't want that."
"Then what do you want, Detective?"
His question ushered in a pregnant pause. Lucifer tried to straighten his cuffs, realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, then slid his hands into his pockets. Someday, he must remember to ask Linda about the meaning of nervous habits. Not that he had any.
Finally, Chloe raised her blue eyes to his brown ones. "Let's go to the beach."
"Really?" he beamed at her, but before she could open her mouth to respond and potentially change her mind, he bounded toward the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, "Just let me get changed—won't be a moment!"
Some moments later, they were in his glistening midnight black Corvette, cruising down Venice Boulevard toward the siren call of the ocean. They couldn't smell it yet, but it didn't matter. To Lucifer, everything smelled good, even the scent of exhaust and the indefinable odor of human grime on warm pavement, but especially the scent of Chloe in the passenger's seat. She was wearing perfume, which was unusual for her; something floral with a hint of spice. But she also smelled exactly like herself. He wouldn't normally notice, or at least wouldn't dwell on it. But amid this particular dark before the dawn, everything was brighter. Sharper. Important. Beautiful. Special.
He closed his eyes to properly appreciate it, smiling into the neon lights flickering on his eyelids. That earned him a reprimand from Chloe, something about keeping his eyes on the road. As if he didn't know every street in LA like the back of his now blessedly pale, smooth hand. The car roared and purred under his thighs like the greedy minx it was, and he stroked the steering wheel affectionately. Damn, he loved this car.
Then, at last, they were traipsing into the sand, a bit of a struggle for Chloe in her boots, but she managed. He had a blanket in one arm and a bottle of Cristal and two champagne flutes in the other, not plastic glasses but the Waterford crystal stemware—only the best for his Detective. Champagne wasn't his usual poison but he knew Chloe would enjoy it; she had a sweeter palate than he did.
It was a cloudy night, the sand grey and the ocean inky blue. Not the beach's finest moment, but to Lucifer, it was perfect. Even better was the fact they had the vista largely to themselves.
While Chloe settled herself on the blanket, he popped the champagne and poured it, balancing both flutes in his right hand. "It could be colder, but any port in a storm."
He passed her one of the flutes, then flopped down next to her and declared, "A toast! To the day Chloe Decker saved the world!"
"Is that what happened?" she questioned, a crooked smile playing on her lips as she clinked her glass with his.
"If I had it my way, we'd be hauling the police commissioner out of bed to give you a commendation! Or maybe we should hit up the Pope. He could afford to part with a priceless relic or two."
"This celebration suits me just fine, thanks."
He looked at her, her dewy face still somehow luminescent in the dark. He'd missed this, or more accurately longed for it. They'd shared precious few quiet moments since she'd learned the truth. And as much strife as that had caused, he meant what he'd told her weeks ago—that he was happy there were no longer any secrets between them, and even fewer now, after what she'd seen at the Penthouse. Her gaze remained furtive, but there was also a hint of the wonder he'd seen at the Penthouse, when his devil face had changed back into the face she knew, the face she liked, and who wouldn't? It was a good face. But not as good as Chloe's.
With an effort, he tore his gaze away to take in the rest of the scene. He could sense Chloe's quizzical look as he kicked off his boots and socks and buried his feet in the sand. He wasn't generally fond of being barefoot on the beach, haunted by the specter of tracking sand into the Corvette. But tonight, he needed to feel it. He needed to feel everything, all the things he thought he'd never feel again. If he didn't think it would scare Chloe worse than his bat wings, he would have stripped naked on the shore, luxuriating in the cool crunch and grind of the nighttime sand on his skin. And it had been an age since he'd gone swimming… His mind swam at the thought, picturing a splash of moonlit droplets adorning Chloe's perfect skin, clinging desperately to her warmth before dribbling diamond rivers down her back, chest and thighs…
"Lucifer."
"Hm?"
"Remember that party at LUX?"
"You'll have to be more specific."
"The one where you got shot and we all nearly blew up."
"Hm, doesn't ring a bell…"
She snorted a bit at his teasing, and he washed down his own chuckle with another sip of champagne. How could he forget Chloe's tender hands stroking his sweaty face while shoving bar towels into a gaping, bloody hole in his stomach?
Chloe continued, "I asked Eve if she'd seen your other face. She said she had. Then I asked if it scared her."
"What did she say?" He was looking up at the dark dappled clouds, right hand sifting through sand.
"She said no—why would it? And I said… I said I didn't know."
That sounded like Eve. She wasn't good for him. But it wasn't because she wasn't good.
"It's meant to scare people," he offered.
"But I'm not 'people.' I'm your partner."
He felt her body shift on the blanket next to his, and he shifted in turn toward her warmth and her delicious, sea-tossed scent. Her silky emerald ensemble was like a wave caressing her curves, wrinkling into creases of flesh and smoothing over the planes of her thighs.
She met his gaze and said, "I meant it, what I said at the Penthouse. I'm not scared anymore."
Lucifer shrugged a bit against the blanket, settling into an easy smile. "Okay."
"I mean it."
"I believe you."
Chloe blinked at him. "Just like that?"
"You stayed," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Because to him, it was. "In the Penthouse, when you had every reason to leave—you stayed."
"Yeah," she agreed softly. "I did."
Her azure eyes flickered, and he was sure he didn't imagine the way they specifically flickered toward his lips. She'd left a lot of her wet-pink lipstick behind on her champagne flute, but that didn't make her lips any less inviting. Lucifer wanted to steal the rest of the pink from her lips, to smear and swallow it or moan into pink kisses planted across his skin. Chloe could kiss him wherever she wanted, however she wanted. He desired whatever she did, so long as she desired him.
Eventually, Chloe settled for resting a hand on his abdomen that Lucifer quickly covered with his own hand, loving the feel of her warmth sandwiched by his.
"Are you cold?" It was one of the oldest lines in the book, and they both knew it. But he also meant it; he couldn't abide his Detective being cold.
"A little," she admitted.
He would have given her his jacket but couldn't quite accept the distance he'd need to put between them to remove it. Instead, he inched closer, letting his shoulder softly bump against hers. Chloe leaned into the contact, fingers gently stroking his midsection. Together, they stared at the clouds, watching them part above them, just enough to see the sky, if not the stars. The stars were seldom visible in LA, even at the beach.
It was Chloe who eventually broke the comfortable silence. "When I was in Rome, I read something that said…" She trailed off awkwardly, like she'd spoken without thinking. "It's silly."
"Oh?" he questioned, glancing toward her cheek, so close to his. "Well now you have to tell me."
Chloe chewed her lip, then said, "It said you made the stars."
"That's not silly. It's true."
Chloe leaned back, enough to shoot him an incredulous look. "You made the stars."
"Things were different then," he offered. That was an understatement. He was different then. They all were, and so was the world, which was an idea more than a thing. He wouldn't know how to explain.
Thankfully, Chloe didn't ask him to. She merely inched closer, hand sliding toward his hip. Lucifer went very still, as he often did when she touched him. He craved her touch but it unsettled him, too. It still felt strange not knowing what she wanted, to be missing the sureness he had with strangers, whose desires radiated like touchable sparks and flames.
Not that Chloe didn't light her own fires. They'd kissed exactly twice. Both times, she'd been the instigator. And both times, their brief, chaste contact had left him breathless. In eons of debauchery, he'd never felt anything like it. But oh how he yearned for more—to properly worship her warm flesh and show her, with his hands, lips, tongue, and other beloved appendages, all the lightness and hope he felt in her presence. Caring for her without being able to prove it in all the myriad ways he wanted sometimes felt like missing a piece of himself. Like the gnawing phantom pain from his severed wings that he'd never admit he felt, not even to Linda, and barely to himself.
At the last moment, Chloe tilted her head, missing his lips to hook her chin over his shoulder. Meanwhile, her hand squeezed his, slipping both their hands across his body, into the sand. With their hands buried in the sand, she entwined their fingers, rubbing cool, scratchy grains over and through his digits and down again, enjoying the play of textures. He enjoyed it too, more than he ever thought he could enjoy such a simple gesture of intimacy.
"You're really happy, aren't you." It wasn't a question. She already knew the answer.
"Deliriously," he confirmed.
"No lingering feelings of self-hatred?"
"Oh plenty. But at least the sand feels nice on my skin."
It wasn't just the sand. But Chloe surely knew that, too.
"You're more than your face, you know. Or your body... You're still you. You'll always be you."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Not directly, anyway. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," she sighed, and there it was at last—her warm breath on his neck.
Lucifer sighed in turn, silently, though Chloe could surely feel it sweeping through his body. He wanted her to want more. But it was enough. Because for once, he was sure what she wanted. She wanted to be there, with him, the Devil, under a cloudy night sky with the ocean lapping dully on the shore, enjoying the simple joy of being alive in their own skin. Together. As Chloe's breath and heartbeat slowed against his side, Lucifer's sense of urgency dissipated. Suddenly, it felt like they had all the time in the world.
Which is why he lost track of time, only coming back to himself when Chloe snorted against his neck. She was snoring, because she was deeply asleep. Lucifer knew he should wake her. She'd be embarrassed, falling asleep on Venice Beach at 4 am like a lovestruck teenager hiding out from her parents. But he couldn't resist letting her sleep a while longer. The rhythm of her breath on his skin felt too good. Too important. Too beautiful. Too special.
But when the sun started to glimmer on the horizon, he knew he'd indulged himself long enough. He tried to wake Chloe, but only succeeded in convincing her to nuzzle deeper into his body. Her nose tickling the buttons on his shirt was entirely tempting. But there would be other nights.
In lieu of waking her, Lucifer did something Chloe would never allow if she wasn't bone-tired—he carried her to the car, her head lolling against his chest, making delicious sleepy sounds. She continued to doze through the drive to her apartment, dawn blooming on her pale cheeks stained with smudged mascara and speckled with white sand. Her pale, perfect cheeks.
Sometime later, he pulled the Corvette into the driveway and massaged Chloe's shoulder to wake her.
"Wake up, honey. We're at grandma's."
He grinned at his own joke as Chloe rubbed her eyes, blinking dazedly at her surroundings. "Hm, what… Did I fall asleep?"
"Noisily, as usual," he confirmed, but couldn't keep a straight face. "I'm joking. You sleep like an angel."
"Thought you didn't lie," she mumbled, voice muzzy with sleep.
"I don't."
Chloe sniffed and straightened in her seat, hands smoothing down her dress. "I guess I should…"
Lucifer sprung into action, practically leaping out of his seat to circle the car and open her door. But he didn't walk to the apartment, knowing if he did, he'd want to kiss her. And that if he did kiss her, she might kiss him back. And then they might never stop. There would be other nights.
But when she reached her door, he did call to her from the curb. "Oh, and Detective?"
Chloe nearly stumbled when she turned; her ankles clearly needed a break from her boots.
"Thank you," he said, offering a close-lipped smile in place of all the other ways he wanted to prove himself, hoping she understood, trusting she would.
Chloe smiled back. "Goodnight, Lucifer."
"You mean good morning," he teased.
"Go home," she grumbled, fumbling for her keys. "I'll see you at the precinct."
He kept smiling throughout the drive to LUX, luxuriating in the feel of the rising sun on his skin. When he reached the building, he slowed in front of the parking garage and inched past it, pulling in next to the alley. There was something he wanted to try—a wild impulse he didn't want to overthink.
Stepping into the alley, he looked left, right, and up, inhaled a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders. From the telltale rush of wind, he knew—his wings were back, his wide soft wings with their gleaming white feathers. Then he pumped his shoulders, and flew, landing on the balcony of the Penthouse—a short flight, but enough to remember what it felt like.
He should have retracted his wings when he landed, but something stopped him, a feeling he didn't understand, but wanted to explore. Instead, he folded his wings closer to his body and proceeded into the Penthouse. He felt the weight of his divine appendages bobbing against his shoulders with each step, feathers softly rustling in the breeze through the open balcony doors. He stopped at the bar to pour himself a drink, drank it, and then paused, looking from the balcony to the bedroom and back again, twisting his glass between his fingers.
Finally, he retreated to the bedroom, laid down, and slept, one white wing extending behind his back, the other wrapped around his body, feathers brushing his hand where it clutched the silk pillow against his cheek.
~The End (for now…)
Notes: Happy New Year! Hope you enjoyed this lil' exploration of a pivotal moment in the life of our beloved Detective and her Sad (but sometimes happy) Devil Guy… more to come!