Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I don't get it," Maze says.

"Don't get what?" chirps Ella.

Linda stares into space, anxiously drumming her fingers against the table.

Maze glares like she's sizing up a kill, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. The game board sprawls across the table, covered in a tangled spaghetti-like clump of tiny blue, black, green, and white game pieces, each shaped like train cars, all strung together to form squiggly lines. She drags a sangria-colored fingernail against the top edges of her cards, flicking them in quick succession.

"I don't get why this is fun," she says.

"Because it's a game," Ella replies, "and games are fun and relaxing?"

"But I can't kill or sabotage anyone." Maze jabs her thumb in Chloe's direction. "She stole my tunnel to Petrograd, and the only solution is to go around her? How is that fun and relaxing? Where's my retribution?"

"Dude, how is retribution relaxing?"

"Uh," Maze says, "because I'm a demon?"

Ella laughs. "You're, like, so good at that role! It never breaks."

"Ella," Chloe interjects softly, "it's really not a role."

"And it's fun," Ella continues, ignoring Chloe, "because now you have to strategize a new route! Which, as a theme right now, I'm liking. Don't let adversity get you down, y'know?" Ella tips her head pointedly at Linda, simultaneously staring at Maze, begging silently. "And we so need a spoonful of that. Right, Chlo?"

"Yeah," Chloe agrees on cue. Her chest tightens as her thoughts ricochet unwillingly to … him. She tips back her wineglass and chugs until it's gone. "We really do."

Maze blows out a breath. "But that's—" Something beeps. Shifting, she yanks a phone from somewhere within her bustier—where the thing even fit, Chloe will never freaking know.

"Anything?" Linda says tensely, reanimating.

"Sorry, Linda," Maze replies, slumping as she sets the phone aside again. "Didn't pan out."

Linda nods. "I … shouldn't have gotten my hopes up." Her eyes water as her attention shifts to Charlie, who's sleeping in his bassinet in the corner. "He's gone."

"Hey," Maze says. She dumps her cards onto the table and scoots across the couch to wrap an arm over Linda's shoulder. "Hey, I still have some ideas. Don't give up yet."

"He's gone, Maze," Linda snaps. "If he were on Earth, you would have found him by now!"

Chloe shrinks in her seat, trying not to give into the urge to apologize again, to re-bloody wounds that are still gaping. Silence stretches, filled only by the crackling fire. Their game—Ticket to Ride—lies forgotten on the table amongst a forest of empty wineglasses and an empty bottle with a French label.

"Maybe," Chloe says softly, "maybe game night was a bad idea."

"No. No way." Ella rockets to her feet, folding her arms. "No way, guys. I get that a lot of stuff's happened. Part of our extended Tribe is gone, and that sucks. It sucks. We're all still sad and feeling awful. No arguments. But now's time to pull together, not drift apart."

"Ellen—"

"No!" Ella snaps. "No, I spent all of last year in a dark place, and heck if I'm gonna let you guys fall in and drown, too. No, we're gonna drink some more wine. We're gonna play this stupid game. And we're gonna have some gosh darned fracking fun. Okay?"

"But—"

"Okay?" Ella's bullish insistence shuts up even Maze this time.

Chloe, Linda, and Maze exchange wincing looks.

Exhaustion clings to Chloe, deep in every sinew and muscle like the punch of sharp talon through flesh. It permeates her bone marrow, her brain, her soul. Missing Lucifer hurts. She wants nothing more than to curl into bed. To sleep. Not that, between her job and her kid, she has the luxury. She swallows against the lump in her throat. A lump that's existed for weeks—months—refusing to go away.

It was always you, she can hear him say.

Her eyes prickle, but she rubs her face, sighs, and stands. "I'll get another wine bottle," she says. And she flees toward the kitchen.

The kitchen doesn't offer solitude, solace, or space, but it does offer a bit of emotional distance. Distance between her and the black hole of despair forming around her coffee table, between all her friends. Hiding her face behind the cabinet door, Chloe takes a deep breath. And another. And another. Trying to compartmentalize herself back into something resembling okay. Like she does for work every morning. Like she does for the days when she has Trixie.

Things have been … hard. To say the least.

Maze—Maze!—is the only one who seems to be handling the abandonment with a touch of aplomb. Which is worse, in a way. Makes Chloe feel just a touch more inadequate than she already did. And despite the repeated procession of Ella-enforced Tribe nights, every Friday on the dot ….

See? Lucifer had said. You need me.

Chloe's grip tightens against the countertop, turning her knuckles bloodless. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid to be agonizing over a man she will never see ag—

A clamorous crash cracks open the silence behind her, shocks her into fight-not-flight. She grabs for the nonexistent gun in her nonexistent hip holster, whirling on her feet. Her toaster oven flies off the counter, the remaining wineglasses hanging from the rack shatter, and her knife block tips over, as a searing, bladed arc of luminescent white displaces them.

She grapples with the thing attacking her. Her fingertips scrabble against hot, wet skin, forcing the thing back. Away from her and her soft parts.

It stumbles. The white blur framing it fans outward.

More of her kitchen contents crash to the floor.

A battle cry rips through her throat, but dies, eclipsed by a choked bleat of panic when she realizes.

Not an it. Not an attacker.

Him.

Someone in the living room yells—Maze's Hell knife sprouts from one of the cabinets like a weed. Charlie is screaming, fussing.

But Chloe stands frozen.

Transfixed.

Familiar fathomless eyes and disheveled dark hair take her heart and stab it. And then the chains clink against her floor tiles. Metal flashes in the light, cold and clinical and sharp. The tapestry of black contusions, the lurid smears of red, the slick shine of sweat, all hit her awareness last.

"Lucifer?" she has a chance to boggle.

He sinks to his knees. "Help," he gasps. "Please."

And then his weight sags against her, his beautiful wings unfurled behind him like a spent parachute, his body limp, naked, bloodied, bruised.

Broken.

She drops to the floor with him. Blood trickles from his nose and ears. From the corners of his eyes and mouth. He splutters and chokes, spraying her shirt with scarlet droplets as she cradles him to her chest.

"Lucifer?" she repeats, a croak. "What happened? What …?"

But he doesn't answer, only coughs. Another swell of blood gurgles up from his insides and dribbles down his chin. She smears it out of the way, trying to keep his mouth clear. He stares at her like she's his only lifeline after a shipwreck.

"What the fuck?" Maze says, materializing at his other side. "What the fuck?"

"I don't know," says Chloe. "He just freaking appeared!"

Lucifer shudders in her grasp. She swipes away more blood with her thumb. His fingers paw at her kneecap for purchase, like he thinks he's falling, not realizing he's already on the floor. Metal digs into her thigh as he grasps for her.

Metal.

From metal cuffs. Wrapped around his wrists. His ankles. From each cuff dangles a chain almost as thick as her wrist. Each chain terminates in gnarled, twisted, broken links. They drag when his limbs move. Like he was a prisoner or something, somewhere bound and captive, until he broke free. Horror is a sinking ship in Chloe's mind, spiraling into a whirling maelstrom.

"It's okay," she murmurs. Not. Not okay. "It's okay, Lucifer." Not okay at all. "I'm here. You're safe."

She can't check his pulse at his radial arteries because of the cuffs on his wrists. A thick ring of black bruising encircles his throat. She's afraid to press on the bruises, so she searches for his brachial artery, near the inside of his elbow. He doesn't resist. His skin is fever hot and slippery. His heartbeat is rapid, thready.

"Should we call 911?" she asks, and then quickly amends herself. "We should call 911."

Maze gives Chloe an are-you-nuts look. "You really wanna call 911 with those lying out?" She gestures at his crumpled wings. "He already broke Ellen. You wanna break the paramedics, too?"

Ella. Shit.

Ella's clutching the farthest cabinet handle as she gapes, empty-eyed, into the kitchen, at the sprawled fallen angel on the floor.

"Ella?" Chloe prods gently. "Ella?"

Ella offers nothing in reply except a soft, lost, befuddled little, "But."

"Linda!" Maze belts, and Chloe flinches. "You're a doctor. Make the kid stop crying and come help us with Lucifer."

"I can't magically make a baby stop crying, Maze," Linda snaps back at them. "It doesn't work like that. And when will you get I'm not that kind of doctor? Chloe probably has more trauma-response training than I do." A gentle pat-pat-pat sound breaks through the wall of Charlie's wailing. In a softer voice not directed toward the kitchen, Linda adds, "There, there, baby. It's okay. Shh. Shh. Mommy's here."

Chloe squeezes Lucifer's shoulder, trying not to panic. "Don't worry. Don't worry, Lucifer. We'll help you." Somehow. She peers across his ravaged body to Maze. "Wait, should I leave? I make him vulnerable."

"Never seen him like this," Maze replies. "Even after a bad fight. I don't think this is a human injury."

"What does that mean?"

"Means your presence means jack."

"Oh."

"Lig … ligature marks," Ella mumbles.

"What?" Chloe says.

Ella kneels on the ground beside them. Her fingers tremble as she brushes his neck. "The bruising. On his neck. He's … b-been strangled. He really needs a hospital, Chlo. The swelling might cut off his airway." She laughs like she's just made a fantastic joke. Like she's halfway to hysterical. "Do angels even need air? They existed before air was a thing, didn't they?" She adds in the barest squeak to Maze, "Oh, my God, you're really a demon? God is …? God … is?"

"Yup," says Maze. "Pretty much."

"But—"

His muscles all contract at once, forcing a rough, guttural sound through his vocal cords that turns into keening—an ictal scream. His eyes roll back, his neck stiffens, and his head bangs against the crook of her elbow hard enough to bruise. Then his fists close and drop to his waistline, he spasms onto his side, and his whole body jerks and twists and pitches in place.

Maze drags Chloe and Ella out of the kitchen. Just in time for Lucifer's thrashing to knock the magnets from the fridge. To dent the stove door. To smash a chair to splinters. Blood smears across her broken floor. It's on her shirt. It's everywhere.

Chloe tries to shake Maze's hold, but the demon's grip is a hurting vise.

"Decker, he isn't safe," Maze says, almost a hiss.

"But he's—"

"—going to kill you if he hits you. You wanna help him? Start by not dying." As if to prove Maze's point, his bladed feathers strike the floor around him, pulverizing tiles into finer rubble with each impact.

"What's wrong with him?" Ella asks.

"Maybe the fever?" Chloe says. "Or …?" A brain injury of some kind. But … no. No.

His convulsing sharpens like a snapping whip. He knocks her refrigerator into the backsplash—the slam of the impact reverberates in her chest. A cabinet door crashes down, barely missing his head.

She takes an instinctive step to the right, only for Maze to block her escape.

"Let me go!" Chloe demands, clawing at Maze's fingers. "Me being here just means he'll get crushed if my refrigerator falls on him, yeah?"

Maze releases her grip.

Chloe stumbles for the front door, Ella scrambling after.

And then the divine flashbang grenade explodes in their faces, stunning Chloe into exquisite non-function. She slams her eyes shut before her retinas bake to embers. Everything is white and stark and filled with sparkles, brilliant like the setting sun through rustling leaves, even behind the shield of her eyelids.

"Oh, my God!" Linda squawks as the baby shrieks.

"Linda!" Maze shouts.

A snapping sound carries from the living room. The low-pitched roar of the sliding door opening. Stomping footsteps recede onto the patio with the wailing baby. An egress. Two, as Maze thunders after them.

Half-blinded, Chloe ducks behind the stairway, pulling a stupefied Ella with her as the contact paper in the busted cabinet scorches and curls, and the fruit perched on the countertops shrivels like prunes.

Lucifer.

Still thrashing from the seizure, he brightens. He burns. Like a rising star. Like the Lightbringer. Like he's building a goddamned sun in her kitchen.

The acrid stench of smoke burgeons in her nostrils. She coughs. They need to get out, somehow, before the apartment goes up in flames, but a wall of cleansing, searing light separates them from escape. Her smoke detector chirps an angry warning, only for a wayward primary feather to skewer it and smack it off the ceiling. Plastic pieces and fried batteries rain to the floor.

"Chloe!" Ella says, a bare gasp. "Chloe, your necklace."

Chloe yelps as heat wreathes her neck. The necklace chain burns her fingertips, but it snaps apart with one adrenaline-aided tug. She tosses the hot, glowing trinket across the hall, where it skitters to a stop by the front door and chars the paint.

And then the light winks out as quickly as it mushroomed into something nuclear. The thuds, thumps, and thwacks of Lucifer's seizing fill the quiet, along with Linda's frantic shushing of the baby. The minutes seem to drag into eternity, until, at last, all hint of movement subsides, leaving only wreck and ruin.

Lucifer. Her apartment. Everything.

A charred piece of Trixie's artwork flutters past Chloe's shoulder.

"This is … so …." Ella blinks. And blinks again. "Dude … an angel almost blew up your kitchen."

"Everybody good?" Maze shouts from the patio.

"Define good. Like on a scale from zero to oh-my-God-I've-been-to-a-nudist-colony-with-Satan-and-God-was-literally-watching."

"Lucifer," Chloe gasps.

She scrambles back into the kitchen where he's sprawled. His eyelids droop to half-mast. The air around him radiates with heat to the point she expects it to quiver like a desert mirage, though it doesn't. Sweat pearls across his forehead and neck and meanders down his torso.

"Can we force his wings back in?" Chloe asks as she pushes him onto his side, into recovery position. His wings make him unwieldy. His thigh is limp and heavy and sweat-slick when she grips behind it to prop his knee forward. The chains hanging from his limbs drag across her shattered tiles. "Into … wherever they go? So we can call an ambulance?"

"They're metaphysical," Maze says, stepping off the patio. Her metal-tipped stiletto boots clack against the singed hardwood. "He has to will them away, same as he has to will them into reality."

"And he can't do that when he isn't conscious."

"Nope."

Except … he is conscious. He is. Sort of. She pulls her fingers through his sweaty hair, trying to ignore the crust of blood ringing the corners of his mouth, forming tacky tear tracks and snot trails down his cheeks and under his nose, caking his sideburns near his ears. Literally, every orifice on his face is bleeding. Was bleeding, anyway. Like whatever's inside his skull got turned to oatmeal. Between that and the tonic-clonic seizure, the brain-damage idea seems … scarier. More real. A cold, worrisome certainty burrowing deep into her gut like a parasite to feed.

"Lucifer?" she whispers. "Lucifer, can you hear me? It's me. It's Chloe."

His eyes are fever bright and empty. He doesn't reply. Normal for right after a seizure, but—

Help. Please. His desperation—his fear—scalds her mind's eye.

"I'm here," she tells him softly. "I'm here, and you're home. On Earth. You're safe. I promise."

The chains clink. "I think I can pick these locks," says Ella, inspecting his wrists. The skin underneath the cuffs is bruised almost black. Abraded. Just like his throat. "Do you have a kit? Or some paperclips?"

"In the desk in the living room." Chloe's voice sounds thick, even to her own ears. Low-pitched. She's close to falling apart. "Some paperclips. With Trixie's school supplies."

Ella gives Chloe a long, troubled look. "He … wasn't in England doing a play. Was he."

"Nah!" Maze says, slapping Ella on the back. "But, hey, at least the clue bat finally landed a blow."

Ella rubs her shoulder. "And … and Amenadiel?"

Chloe's eyes burn, threatening to overwhelm her despite the severity of the situation.

"Right. Right." Ella nods a bit like she's having a seizure of her own. "Of course you're right. More important stuff going on. I'll get the paperclips."

Clutching Lucifer, Chloe glances at her demolished refrigerator. Freezer mist curls lazily into the dry air. A package of frozen peas dangles from the yawning freezer door, half in, half out, thawing bits of frost dripping to the floor. Like a message from God: ready-made ice pack here!

Who knows? Maybe it is a message, given the circumstances.

She lingers one last moment, her palm resting against his collarbone.

He blinks, awake, but not awake.

"It's okay," she says again, a soft, soothing whisper.

Though it isn't okay. Not even a little. And she suspects it won't be for a while to come.

They sit him up, his back cradled to Chloe's front, her thighs propping up his armpits and her body sandwiched between him and the dishwasher. His left wing bows against the counter and his right sprawls across the floor, out into the hallway. She ices his throat with the melting peas while Ella works on the locks and Linda wipes him down with cool rags.

But that's the limit of the first aid they can provide him. An ice pack and some TLC. That's it. How pathetic.

"Lucifer, can you hear me?" Chloe urges, patting him on the shoulder. His skin radiates, and her insides twist with nausea when her words again garner no response. Nothing more than a cloudy-eyed blink. "Lucifer."

Nothing.

"He really needs a doctor," she worries once again. "He needs like … a head scan, or whatever they do."

"Chloe," Linda says gently, "there's a lot of different things that cause seizures other than head injuries, and we don't even know a human doctor could help. Maze said this isn't a human injury."

"But at least we'd be trying if we took him to the ER."

"We're trying now," Linda replies, her words too reasonable. "Ella is working on the locks. You're keeping the swelling down. I'm focused on the fever. Let's just keep doing what we can, okay?"

"Okay," Chloe says quickly, her lungs shuddering. "Okay."

Linda takes a slow breath and blows it out, gesturing toward her chest with the wet rag as she gives Chloe a pointed look. Chloe forces herself to imitate. The pause helps smash her snowballing panic that he's going to die on her kitchen floor at any moment. After three faux-calm shared breaths, Linda resumes working on Lucifer. Her rag rasps against his wet skin in the quiet, accompanied by the quieter metallic click-click-clack-click sounds of Ella working with the paperclips.

Chloe strokes his hair. "I wonder what happened to him."

"Hopefully, he'll be able to tell us, soon," Linda says.

But the longer Chloe has a chance to think about this situation, the worse the picture in her mind's eye becomes. The chains. His injuries. His nipples are pierced. His genitals. Healing wispy wounds form striations along his skin—his chest, his abdomen, his thighs, his arms—like the fading memory of a whip. A jagged pucker of flesh haunts the space just under the curve of his ribcage, as if he'd been stabbed in the lung.

"Oh," Linda mutters, horrified, as she wipes away some of the blood that's dribbled down his side to his groin. The flesh about halfway between his navel and his hipbone, in an area about the size of a sand dollar, is raised and angry, the foreign pattern like calligraphy. "What is this, a brand?"

"It's demonic," Maze says, looking suddenly uncomfortable as she cradles a sleeping Charlie against her chest.

Chloe frowns. "Like … writing?"

"Kinda."

"Well, what's it say?" Linda asks.

"It's hard to translate."

"Try."

"It's … um." Maze shuffles her feet. "I'm not sure he'd want me to tell you."

"Maze …."

"What?" Maze replies gruffly. The baby stirs, and she adjusts her tone, speaking through a half-smiled grimace as she adds, "Isn't it fucking obvious what happened? He's been subjugated."

"Wait," Chloe says. "Wait, wait. Are you saying demons …? They hurt him?"

"That's what it looks like to me."

"But I thought he went to rule. That's why he left me. That was the whole point. To keep them in line. He's … he's their king." Isn't he?

"Your guess is as good as mine, Decker." Charlie fusses again at the noise, and Maze adds, "Chill, will you?"

"Maze—"

"Look," she whispers sharply, rocking the baby a little, "you think flimsy chains like that could hold the Lightbringer if he wanted out?"

"Uh," Ella says, stopping to pick up the busted end of the nearest chain. "Clearly not." She drops the inches-thick metal links back to the ground, where they impact with a reverberating thunk. "And these really don't seem that flimsy."

"Clearly," Maze says, "they held him long enough."

"Maybe," Chloe muses desperately, "it was a game that got out of control?" His vast array of tastes and proclivities had always been a source of awe for her. "Maybe he got bored, and—"

"No. This is not what he looks like after he plays."

Chloe cringes, silenced, cowed. The melting peas crackle as she shifts the plastic package to a different spot. Freshly formed condensation drips off the bag and spills down Lucifer's chest. He's limp in her arms. Unresponsive. He'd begged her for help. Of course this isn't a game. But hope does funny things to logic.

Subjugated. A horrifying word.

With a disgusted sigh, Maze heads back down the hallway toward the sliding door, bouncing the baby gently on her hip as she goes.

Chloe tightens her grip around Lucifer, pressing her nose into the wet hair at the nape of his neck. "It's okay," she whispers. "I promise, I've got you. We've got you. You're safe."

Morose silence fills the room like a pall.

Ella sits motionless, the paperclips forgotten in her lax grip. Her eyes are wet, her mascara smudged, as she stares at one of the primary feathers jammed against the hip of her jeans. The feather is long and bowed like a scimitar. Ella's belt loop traps the tip, separating the shining filaments that form the bladed edge. Indoors, close up, unmoving, the sight makes Chloe's breath catch. She … never got to see before. Not like this. And Ella's even worse off, absorbing a sight no human was meant to see, less than an hour after learning angels are a real thing.

"Doing okay?" Chloe murmurs. "I know this is a lot."

Ella seems like she might stroke the feather away, but she doesn't. Instead, she shifts her body like she's extricating herself from the clutches of a cactus. "Kind of a crash course. Huh. Literally."

"Yeah," Chloe says, smiling. "Definitely."

"He's … really the King of Hell?"

Chloe nods. "But he's not evil. He punishes evil."

Ella sniffs again and wipes her face. "Oh, I know that."

"You … do?"

A soft chuckle barks from Ella's lips. "Kinda hard to think of a guy who willingly listens to me drone about science for hours on end as evil. Y'know? It's just …."

"A lot?"

"A lot!" Ella agrees. "I mean, holy shirtballs, Batman! I've gone from being in a weird-ish place of still-a-little-shaky faith to picking the locks on Satan's maybe-slave cuffs"—she glares at the ceiling, waving a paperclip at it like a sword—"with a small side of, 'What the hell, dude. Really?' mixed in."

"Sounds about normal for a Friday in this crowd," Linda interjects sympathetically.

"We should start a club," Ella says.

"I'm in," calls Maze from living room.

Chloe smiles faintly, shifting the ice pack again. "Sure."

"Swee—oh!" Ella leans forward, eyes widening. "Lucifer? You with us, buddy?" Her gaze ticks to Chloe. "He's looking at me. I swear." Her focus shifts back to Lucifer, and she beams, waving animatedly at him. "Hey! Hey, buddy! How are you feeling?"

Though he doesn't reply, Chloe's stomach swoops. Cheek to cheek with him, she can't see more than the movement of his eyelashes as he looks around. She rubs his bicep encouragingly, snaking her fingers down to his arm and picking up his wrist before gripping his limp palm. "Lucifer, it's me. It's Chloe. Can you squeeze my hand?"

The ice pack crackles, shifting, and his torso jerks as his ribs press inward.

"No, don't try to talk," she tells him, and he quiets. "Rest your throat." She strokes his thumb. His palm. His life lines. "Can you squeeze my hand?"

"Y … Yes," he rasps, though he doesn't squeeze her hand.

"Hey," she warbles as her eyes prick with tears. "Hey, Lucifer."

"Hello … D … Detective."

She laughs as she catches the ice pack from falling. "Stop trying to talk!" she insists, though his famous words of greeting are like a balm. She nuzzles him, her immediate concerns sloughing away that his brain is fried over easy. "Do you think you could put your wings away?"

"Yes."

But he doesn't.

Her sigh is a sharp, audible huff that makes him flinch.

"Sorry," she rushes to say. "Sorry. I'm just …." Still worried sick. "I'm just …." She clutches the ice pack. Chill soaks into her palm as she resettles it once again against his throat. "If you could just … if you could put your wings away …."

This time, he says nothing at all. Her attention shifts to the massive, shining angel wings sprawled across her kitchen floor. But nothing happens. They don't even twitch.

"Lucifer."

His body is starting to tremble. "… Yes?"

The memory of him thrashing on her floor, bleeding, witless, burns her mind's eye. "Just rest. You're safe. I promise. I'm here."

He seems to listen this time. His shaking eases.

"Welcome home," she whispers.

He's definitely addled.

No matter how many times she tells him not to talk, he tries to croak an answer at her if she phrases something like a question—perhaps he's listening more to her tone of voice than anything else—so she shifts her interactions with him to short statements. By the time Ella is picking the locks on his ankle cuffs, he's responding appropriately to simple things like, "Squeeze my hand," and, "Blink," and, "Look at me."

With, "Swallow this," Chloe even manages to ply him with an adult-sized dose of liquid Tylenol from the bottle she keeps for Trixie. Something to force the fever down and help with the pain.

"Rest," she murmurs at him again, and he closes his eyes.

"They're metal," Maze says, frowning, when she picks up one of the chains that had bound his wrist. The chain rumbles as it slides across the demolished floor tiles. "They're just … metal."

"So?" says Ella.

"So, these really shouldn't have been able to hold him."

"But they didn't hold him. Exhibit A: Lucifer is here."

"But they did hold him," Maze counters, gesturing at the black marks on his sallow skin. "Exhibit B: What the fuck did you call them?"

"Ligature marks."

"Yeah, those."

There's a hollow metal "clank" sound, and the final cuff pops open.

"Boo yah!" cheers Ella, yanking the awful thing away from his left ankle and tossing it to the side. She gathers her fists and dances in place, revolving her arms and shoulders like the coupling rods on steam engine wheels. "Who's the best forensic scientist in town? Her name is Ella, favorite color yell-uh! She res-cued Satan, and they say she's really great, and—"

"I need someone to stab," says Maze.

"And you make way more sense now!" Ella says, still gyrating.

"Gee, that's great."

"I know, right?"

Lucifer is able to walk under his own power when Chloe prods him. Though he's wobbly, she'll take him being wobbly over having to drag him around wrapped in a sheet like a dead body. When he reaches her bed, and she tells him again to rest, he collapses like he ran a marathon, not climbed some steps, but at least he climbed. At least he walked. At least he got up. Three more things than she would have expected from him before.

"I think letting him sleep is gonna be the best thing we can do right now," Linda whispers as they clump in the hall outside Chloe's bedroom. "We just need to check on him periodically to make sure he's rousable and not in distress."

"Or going nuclear again," Ella quips.

"Or that."

The light from the hallway casts an elongated white rectangle across the bed, illuminating his outline. As he succumbs to sleep, his wings span the room, going limp by degrees.

"If there's still no improvement tomorrow," Linda continues, "we can reassess."

"Look at you, Ms. Not-a-Doctor," Maze snarks.

"Okay, maybe I remember some things," Linda admits.

"So, what's the plan?" Ella asks. "Are we taking shifts?"

"Oh, I can't," replies Linda in a regretful tone. "I have to get home with Charlie. I didn't bring enough gear along for—"

"Go," Chloe says. "Take care of your baby. I'll be okay." She looks back at the bedroom. "I want some time alone with him anyway. I … I need …." The silvery outline of his wings fills her with a cold, visceral ache, a memory in the shape of his balcony. A kiss. She half expects him to blink out of reality before her eyes again, but—

"You're sure?" Ella asks, pressing closer.

Chloe drags her attention back to the group. "Hmm?"

"You're sure you don't need us to stay?"

"Yeah, I really want some time." Chloe hadn't gotten any time before.

"So, we'll come back tomorrow?" Maze says.

"I'll bring the donuts!" adds Ella. "And thoughts! I might have thoughts by then."

"I'm good for the coffee," says Linda.

And thus, the plan is struck.

Chloe shouldn't sleep in the bed with him.

Logically, she knows it. Her singed, wrecked kitchen is proof enough. He's a living molotov cocktail, literally, and they have no idea what lights his fuse—a head injury? The fever? Or perhaps nuking his surroundings is just something he does when he's terrified and can't defend himself another way. There's no way to know when he's too sick to tell her.

But ….

But at the same time—emotionally—she can't make herself care.

She thought he would never come back, but now he's here, he's hurt, and she's missed him.

His absence has been the visceral ache of a phantom limb.

The comfort of having him—solid, breathing, living—beside her overwhelms common sense.

Pushing glowing angel feathers out of the way to climb into bed is, puns aside, a hell of a thing. His down is softer, warmer, lighter than she could have imagined. Like clouds and bunnies and sunshine rolled into one or … human words might be inadequate, really. As her fingers brush plumage, a brief zing of buoyancy twists her lips into a smile before she can stop herself. Her subsequent giggle almost makes her float. But then his lack of reaction to being moved sinks in—the feverish press of heat radiating off his more human anatomy—and she sobers in moments.

Wings aside, he doesn't appear divine in repose, or even graceful. His hair is a disheveled wreck, his stubble is a haggard swath, his nose is smooshed like a pig's into the pillow, and his lips are parted, probably the precursor to an angelic puddle of drool in the morning. He's definitely going to wake up with face creases.

Over the minutes, the wing she shoved aside drifts back into place, draping over her. His feathers are warm and dry and smell of fresh down. She sets a timer for ninety minutes and closes her eyes as the thick, slightly wheezy sound of his breathing lulls her.

"I really hope you're okay," she whispers in the darkness.

Of course, he doesn't answer.

But she can dream.

Chapter Text

The last ninety minutes between darkness and daylight pass fitfully. "No. No … Lucifer!" She jerks out of troubled dreams, smacking right into a wall—a weight, pressed against her nose and mouth, smothering her. She claws at it, coughing, spitting out bits and flotsam.

The wall yanks out of reach.

She gasps for breath, her waking brain cells slowly catching up with reality. The wall, hovering, now, several feet above her, is not a wall. It's a wing. A big white angel wing, drifting overhead like a strange, feathered canopy.

"Sorry!" she says. "Sorry, I wasn't awake yet. I didn't mean to be rough with them."

Silence fills the space between them, stretching like taffy.

"Lucifer, are you awake?" she whispers when he doesn't reply.

The sheets rustle like he's scraping his fingernails against the pillowcase.

"Lucifer?"

"… Yes," he admits, sounding almost … strangled?

"Did I hurt you?"

His breathing tightens to wheezing. "Of course not."

Yeah, right.

She hopes she didn't just do the angelic equivalent of kicking him in the balls. But then a more serious worry occurs to her, and she rolls toward him. His face is turned away from her, his body a pale line of skin in the dawning light. His breaths are short and hitching, like he's in pain.

"Hey." She grabs his opposite shoulder and pulls, only to realize when he grunts that his extended wing isn't going to let him tip that way. Releasing him, she darts out of bed and dashes around the foot of the mattress. "Lucifer, hey."

He's staring at the opposite window, his eyes wide.

"Hey, you okay?" She waves, trying to get him to focus, but all he does is grimace. "Can you breathe? Is it your throat?" The bruises wrapped around his neck and wrists have already faded from black to splotched yellow and purple, but—

"Hello," he answers like she's holding him at gunpoint, and he's terrified she'll fire. "Yes. Y-yes. No."

"No? No to which?"

"No. It's … not my throat."

"What hurts?"

"Nothing."

"What's wrong then?"

"Nothing," he repeats, straining.

A lie.

He's lying to her.

His limbs start to shake like he's stuck in a meat freezer, not her balmy bedroom. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. "Okay, that's it," she says. "Put your wings away."

The tendons in his neck bulge. A harrowing, squelched, awful little gasp follows. Then his shoulders twitch, and his wings withdraw in a gusting whoosh that sends her morning bedhead flying back from her face. His expression is sheer panic.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," she says. Like they should have fucking done last night. She grabs his trembling hand. "Can you walk?"

"… Yes."

But he doesn't move. He just keeps looking at her. Like his whole world is imploding.

"Lucifer, come on. We're going to the hospital. Get up!" She tugs on him, and he spills out of bed like an invisible force pushed him upright.

The sheets fall away from his body, revealing his morning erection—the only bit of him that seems happy—and his healing bruises. He sucks in a breath, his shock subsumed by something … darker. Something terrible and accusatory and hating. Blush creeps across his cheeks. Down his neck. Over his bare chest. But still, he doesn't move. And he doesn't speak. He just stands there. Trembling.

Klaxons scream in her mind. Something is wrong. Something is wrong.

"Lucifer, talk to me."

His fingers clench. And then he says in a perfectly reasonable tone, belied only by the frothing clouds in his eyes, "What shall I talk about, Detective?"

"I wanna know what's wrong."

"Nothing."

"Bullshit, nothing's wrong. Are you kidding me?"

"No, Detective," he's quick to assure her, the words reedy and quiet. He averts his gaze to a fixed point near her big toe. "Apologies, Detective."

She can only gape at him.

The silence burgeons like a balloon, but he makes no attempt to pop it. Or move. Or look at her.

What. The fuck.

"Are you sick or not?" she asks.

"No, Detective."

"Then …?"

But he offers her nothing. Nothing. Not one little word of reassurance or explanation.

"Lucifer, I'm … really confused."

A soft, disconsolate moan coils in his throat. He seems like he might actually cry.

"Hey, it's okay," she assures him, not sure what the hell else to say.

He sags, exhaling shakily, his crumpled expression a wasteland of misery.

And then her empty stomach chooses now to rumble, loudly enough to serve as a placeholder for the unspoken tumble of invectives cascading through her brain. He flinches forward like something cracked him with a whip. Then he scuttles buck naked out of the room.

"Where are you going?" she says.

"To your kitchen," he calls over his shoulder.

"But my kitchen is rubble."

He doesn't reply, and the sound of his heavy footsteps fleeing down the stairs leaves her gaping.

What. The fuck.

He's already perched a paper bag full of pancake mix on the ruined counter when she descends the steps, a pair of Dan's old sweatpants clutched between her hurting fingers. He glances in her direction as she approaches the counter, his expression is still unreadable beyond the fact it's very, very wrong, but returns to his work without speaking.

"Okay, seriously," she says as he sniffs at a milk carton, "what the hell is going on? And"—she foists the sweatpants at him like a shield—"and put some freaking clothes on."

"I'm making you breakfast," he says, setting down the milk to take the sweatpants. He slides them on without complaint, cinching the waistband high over his hips like he's trying to cover as much skin as possible. Even the Devil can't pull off a Steve Urkel, though, and if it weren't for the foreboding sense of wrongness permeating everything, she might smile. He pulls the largest mixing bowl loose from the stack in the closest cabinet.

"Lucifer, what are you doing?" she demands.

"I'm making you breakfast," he repeats with a strident edge to his words. He pours the pancake mix and the milk into the bowl.

"Why?"

"Because you're hungry."

"That's your takeaway from this discussion? That I'm hungry?"

"Yes," he replies. What goes up must come down, the sky is blue, and the Detective must be fed if she's hungry.

"I don't want breakfast right now," she says slowly, and he drops the spoon like it burned him. Her hands start to shake as badly as his are. A cold pit forms in her stomach. "Lucifer, please, please, tell me what's going on."

"What's going on."

"No, I"—her frustration overflows—"Lucifer, would you just say something freaking useful?"

"Something. Freaking. Useful," he enunciates, staring at her. Like he's trying to send her some kind of message. Begging her to receive it, even. Well, Detective, what does this tell you?

But …?

"Wait. Wait." Horror roils her gut when she realizes Lucifer is, indeed, waiting like a coiled spring. "Do you …?" No. No, no, no. No way. "Lucifer, I …." She reviews the morning from the moment she'd woken up with a face full of feathers until now. "But." Reviews what she's said and done. What he's said and done. Suspiciously, she grits out, "Stand on one foot …."

He shifts his hips and lifts his left leg like a crane.

A cold wave knocks what little is left of her composure out to sea. "Put your freaking foot down," she says, and he does.

She claps her hands over her mouth. "You really have to do what I say?"

His eyes close briefly like he hurts. "So it would seem."

"Anything I say?"

"So it would seem," he repeats with an edge.

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. "Well, stop doing what I say!"

His forearm bumps the spoon handle, and the spoon flies off the edge of the bowl, splattering half-mixed batter across the kitchen. He grabs at the granite counter like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Cracks snake into the rock from the epicenter of his grip, before he sinks to the floor beside the cabinet.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing," he gasps, the word strangled.

"Um, no. No. Something is clearly wrong, Lucifer!"

His ribs compress, and his torso arches backward unnaturally. A deep, upset groan twists in his throat, but before she can worry if he's having another seizure, he collapses onto all fours like he intends to crawl to her feet and kiss them. His palms wander uselessly across the floor like he's reaching for something and isn't finding it.

"What the hell?" she asks.

"I can't," he gasps out. And then he drops almost flat to the ground with a low-pitched, awful moan. "I can't."

"Can't what?"

"What you"—he shudders—"ask of"—fights another war with himself—"me."

What she asked of him. What had she asked of him? He gets punished for—oh, fuck—a command to stop following commands. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I mean, never mind!" she blurts. "I was kidding before. Nothing is wrong. Obviously. Of course you have to do what I say."

His shaking limbs give way, and he sinks into a child's pose against the floor, his breathing easing into long wet drags of air as he struggles to recuperate.

"Oh, thank God," she says, nauseated. "I'm so sorry." He doesn't lift his head. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

He says nothing.

"Is this some," she asks, "some Hell thing?"

"I've no idea," he grits out.

"Some kind of spell?"

"I've no idea." The word "idea" cuts off with a rasp. He shifts in place, his hips thrusting a little.

"Are spells even a thing?"

"Yes."

"Could this be a compulsion? Like … like OCD?" Can OCD even manifest out of nowhere? After literal more-than-eons?

"I've no"—he groans—"idea."

"How in the hell is this possible?"

"I don't bloody know." He can't stop twitching at this point. Back and forth like he's trying to rut with the floor.

Dots connect in a lurid picture. He gets punished for not complying. "It's okay," she assures him. "It's okay if you don't know the answers to my questions."

He relaxes with a tired whimper, remaining on the dirty, destroyed floor, face down, body splayed, prostrate at her feet. A supplicant come to her altar to pray.

"Why aren't you getting up?" she asks softly.

"Because," he tells the floor in a dark, upset tone, "I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"I've no idea."

"Like"—she flounders—"like you're trying, but nothing is happening?"

"I've no idea how to explain."

"That's okay. But … try."

"I … I-I …." He tenses all over again, and he spits out a bitter, broken, quiet, "Please," before pressing his forehead against the floor by her bare foot, his body almost undulating in his effort to crumple closer to her. "Please."

"I mean, don't try!" she amends.

He sags by her foot, close but not touching as he struggles to catch his breath.

"Literally," she grits out, "everything I ask you is a command to respond?"

"Yes."

"And you can't do anything without my say?"

"So it would seem."

"But," she protests, "I don't want to make you do things."

He rocks forward. Backward. Forward. Backward. Like there's an itch he can't scratch and can't escape and his only option is to writhe and twist and flail and accomplish nothing. His whole body shakes with strain.

"I'm s-sorry. I'm so sorry." She hiccups, her heart clenching to the point of pain, and she can't breathe. She can't breathe. "I love to make you do things. It's my favorite." When he relaxes again, she feels fucking sick. His sweaty hair brushes against her calf, though he doesn't touch her skin to skin. She will not panic. She will not panic. There has to be a way to fix this. This. Whatever this is.

"I want you to be able to ignore my questions," she tries.

He's so exhausted at this point he can only offer a strangled cry of protest.

"Forget I said that!" He slumps, blinking, dazed. Shit. Shit, shit. Wait. "Remember I said it, just … I-I-I didn't mean it. I don't want you to ignore me."

She doesn't want to ask him another question, but how the hell are they going to figure this out if he won't—can't?—otherwise speak to her …? Don't panic. Don't— "I don't know what to do," she laments. "I don't … I don't know what to do."

Another cry.

"I mean, disregard that!"

He goes limp like she cut his strings.

"Why the hell did that hurt you?" she asks.

"It didn't hurt," he replies faintly. God, he sounds awful.

"Look, whatever it did, whatever you want to call it, why did it happen?"

"You were confused, and I needed to fix it."

A loathsome thought occurs to her. "Lucifer, does this thing make you lie to me?"

His eyes squeeze shut. "No."

A lie. He's lying again. Right to her face. And he's not any good at it. "You really like doing what I say, don't you?" she tests out.

"Yes."

Fuck.

Which means all of his responses regarding his wellbeing are suspect. And all of his blatant fibs over the past however many minutes stick out like agonizing hangnails. "I don't want you to lie to me unless you want—" Fuck. No. That won't work. And commanding him never to lie to her would be just as heinous as what this compulsion is already doing to him. "Never mind."

She clenches her fists.

The seconds stretch.

And he just rests with his forehead hovering over her fucking foot like he enjoys smelling the creases between her toes or something. His choppy, labored breathing—almost quiet sobbing—shreds her composure. Her lower lip trembles. She can't just … just leave him there. On the floor. Subservient. She can't.

"You can get up if you want," she hedges, trying not to force him.

But he still doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

"Do you not want to get up?"

"What I desire seems to be irrelevant," he seethes, "Detective."

"Well, I want it to be relevant!"

He chokes on another heart-wrenching, agonized moan, his muscles bulging as he cowers at her feet.

"I mean … I mean, that's not true," she says. "I lied. I … I …." Fuck. "Please, get up."

He lifts his head, lurching to his feet. His eyes are bloodshot. Tears blotch his face, and his blushing skin is the bright, intense shade of a stoplight. Like he's mortified. Of course he's mortified.

"Was this happening last night?" she asks.

"Of course not," he scoffs, the words a tired, croaky rasp.

Suspicion sinks in deeper claws. "Lucifer, do you even remember last night?"

"Yes."

"What do you think happened last night?"

"We kissed," he says. "I said goodbye."

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. "Lucifer, that wasn't last night. That was months ago." At his blank, disbelieving look, she rushes to grab her iPad off the couch in the living room. It isn't melted after Lucifer's lightshow, at least. She flicks on the screen. "See?"

"Yes."

"No, I mean see the date."

His attention shifts to the screen, distress opening up his expression like a scalpel.

And then she realizes how this would look to him. Waking up in her bed, naked, not sure how he got there, trapped by some kind of mystical compulsion, after she'd begged him—pleaded with him—not to leave. After she'd tried to slip something into his drink, only months before.

"Lucifer, I didn't do this. I didn't do this to you. I would never do something like this. Not to you. Not to anyone. Please, please, you have to believe me."

Warmth returns to his gaze.

"I mean, I misspoke. You don't have to believe me. I want you to think for yourself, but—" She clamps her mouth shut, horrified when his expression frosts over immediately, his upset blossoming again. She could literally command him what to feel and who to be. She could strip him of his personhood with a poor word choice on her part. And if he didn't realize that before, he just figured it out. "Oh, God."

He's silent, his eyes darting frantically back to the iPad clutched in her hands.

"Here, take it," she offers, pushing it in his direction.

He wraps his fingers around the edges, his touch gentle, like he's been given a precious egg to hold, though he doesn't interact with it at all. Doesn't press the home button or touch the screen.

"The passcode is 1204," she babbles. "Trixie's birthday. Not very secure, I know, but—" Her headspace becomes one long shrill whine when he still takes no initiative. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I mean, I want you to use it now, please."

She watches in silence as he navigates to time.gov. Like he thought she'd engineered the local appearance of the date on the device. When the website confirms what she's told him—that the day he thinks was yesterday was, in reality, five-ish months ago—he doesn't seem to react. Then she realizes the iPad is shaking.

"Can you even speak if I don't specifically command you to?" she asks.

"I was"—he clears his throat, the sound rough and overwrought—"able to respond to a greeting."

"So, direct addresses, too. A clear desire to interact with you." Like he's by definition nothing until she acknowledges him.

He stares helplessly into space.

Disgust washes through her when she thinks of herself blithely forcing him to swallow the Tylenol. To walk. To rest. Peppering him with questions he had to answer. Touching him. Kissing him. "I'm sorry," she finds herself gushing like an open wound. "I'm so sorry; I didn't know. I swear, I didn't know any of this."

Of course, he can't reply.

But she has to be able to give him some freedom. This compulsion can't be so impervious to alteration there's no way to give him any autonomy whatsoever. Right? She just … needs to find the malleability.

"Lucifer," she says softly, "I want you to speak whenever you have something to say. You don't need to wait for me to ask you a question to talk." But … doesn't that rely on him needing to want to talk? And will he "want" to talk if she doesn't make it clear that's what she also wants? "I want you to assume, even if I'm saying something not worded like a question, that I want your input, whatever it is, if you actually have any." Her stomach twists. "But it's totally okay if you don't. Really, it is."

She half expects him to collapse into a straining, keening pile again, but he doesn't. He doesn't anything except clutch the iPad she gave him, like it's the only thing separating him from oblivion. The yellowing bruises encircling his wrists seem brighter—more damning—as the morning sunshine slants into the room through the blinds.

"Lucifer, I swear, I didn't do this to you," she tells him softly. She won't ask him if he believes her. She can't bear to see him lie again, not when he doesn't want to. "I swear, I didn't."

"I … passed through the barrier," he says, the words distant. More of a question than an assertion.

"Huh?"

"Between Earth and Hell."

Oh. "Right. You went to Hell to keep the demons in line. You were gone for months. You showed up in my kitchen last night, bleeding, bound in chains. You asked for help, and then you collapsed onto the floor and started seizing. That's why my kitchen is such a mess. Because you were … you were seizing." She swallows back a wave of grief. "I thought you were dying. I wanted to take you to the emergency room, but you had your wings out, so we couldn't."

"We?"

At least, he seems to be able to speak without her forcing him, now. Progress. She nods. "Me, Ella, Linda, Maze."

"Ah."

For the first time, he seems to note the wanton destruction around him. The pulverized tiles on the floor. The dents in the cabinets and appliances. The melted spice jars and charred pantry contents. The fact the refrigerator he pulled the milk from earlier has a freezer door hanging at a 45-degree angle.

"You really don't remember any of this?" she asks.

"No." He shakes his head a little. "Or … some, I …." He sounds so lost.

"Maybe we should go to the hospital," she muses. "Your wings are put away now."

He doesn't reply.

She stares at him, at the bruises, and the scars, and the haunted look ghosting his face. Little tremors race up and down his limbs and torso. His sweatpants have slipped down a few inches. Enough to reveal the puffy top edge of the demonic brand stamped onto his groin. That's not healing. At all. Not like the other marks. And … no. No.

She's not going to force him to go somewhere against his will, to be picked at and prodded by and exposed to strangers, not even for his health. Not when he's not in the grips of a clear, life-threatening emergency, and given his currently conscious, standing under his own power, stringing-together-complete-sentences, sapient state, he's not.

Maybe when she can figure out how to let him choose.

But not now.

She wraps a hand around his forearm. Squeezes. Well away from the healing bruise. Only to recoil when he looks down at her fingers like they're foreign invaders worthy of smiting, yet makes no move to step away. Because he can't. Fuck. She steps back a foot. Two. Gives him plenty of space.

"We will get you out of this," she says. How? No clue. But. "Lucifer, I promise we will."

They have to.

He takes a rickety breath. "I'm—"

The sound of the doorbell makes her jump. A rattling knock follows, shaking the door on its frame.

"No," Chloe says, almost a moan. She glances at her watch. 7:45 a.m. "They're too early!"

Lucifer steps toward the door like he means to block them entry.

"I didn't mean for you to be my guard angel!"

"Who—" says Lucifer, and then he stills, a stride in front of Chloe. "Mazikeen. And … Ms. Lopez?"

The doorbell sounds again.

"Hey, Decker, open up!" calls Maze. The doorknob jiggles.

"Shit," mumbles Chloe.

"Please," Lucifer says. "Please. They—" The word strangles to a halt like his vocal cords have ceased to function. Desperation sears across his face, though his anguish seems bizarre when packaged in a body that isn't moving beyond its shifting facial expressions. "Please, Detective, you cannot let them know of this."

But before Chloe can make an executive decision to send him upstairs—to hide him away from prying friends—the front door swings back on its hinges, revealing Maze and a wild-eyed Ella. Maze tosses a silver-colored key onto the end table by the door. "Hey, Decker. You weren't answering."

"Dude, I told you, you gotta wait more than thirty seconds," says Ella, who beams despite her bloodshot eyes and smudged mascara. "Lucifer! Hey, buddy o' mine oh boy oh Beelzebub. Feeling any better? You seem better. Sorta. But, hey, you're standing, and looking at me, and you're maybe not entirely with the talky talky stuff yet, but, still, that's good, right?" She twitches. "By the way, I haven't actually slept yet, so—"

"Ella," Chloe says, "this really isn't—"

"Sorry I'm early," Ella continues. "It's just … I've got questions!"

"Chick's got questions," Maze echoes with a shrug.

"Like, namely, what the hell happened last night, and also, literally, what the Hell?" Ella turns to Lucifer. "Is it like Dante thought, or more like Preacher, or the Good Place? Oh, or something else? Like a dimension with no shrimp?"

Maze snorts, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

"No … shrimp?" Chloe asks.

"I've no idea," answers Lucifer tightly.

"It's a Buffy thing," says Ella.

"That's okay," Chloe says to Lucifer before shifting gears. "Now is not a great time, guys. We just woke up, and—"

"You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm a bit loopy. I did lots of thinking last night. And drinking. Maybe a little sinking. Don't worry; I took an Uber here." Ella raises her arms and lurches toward Lucifer. "Bring it in, bud—"

"Don't touch him!" blurts Chloe, stepping between them.

Ella snaps to a halt.

Shit.

"I admit I'm … rather out of sorts," Lucifer says quietly, still not moving. "I'd prefer hands off."

"Oh," says Ella, her voice small. "Oh, I'm sorry. But … you're better, right?"

"It's nothing we can't fix with more sleep, I'm sure," adds Chloe in a pointed tone.

"Yes," agrees Lucifer, with perhaps more hope than certainty. "Sleep."

Ella yawns as if on cue, her eyes tearing as she shuffle steps toward the couch. "I just realized I forgot the donuts." She collapses onto the middle cushion as she reaches for her phone. "Oh, this is comfy. This is … g'night." Her crash and burn happens from one tired blink to the next. A raucous snore pierces the awkward silence, and her head tips forward onto her chest, spilling her ponytail over her shoulder.

Chloe almost thinks they're in the clear. Almost. Until Maze steps back into view. "So, you guys wanna tell me what's going on, or do I have to guess?" She twirls one of her curved Hell knives around her thumb. "I make guesses by sticking these into things, if you're curious."

Chapter Text

Chloe has no idea what to say. None. Lucifer seems like he wants to crawl under the broken floor and die of embarrassment. She looks at Maze, who Chloe's just now realizing is wearing the exact same outfit as before: black leather pants with spike-heeled boots, a black leather bustier, and an ankle-length black jacket that flows like a cape. "Have you been here all night?"

Maze sneers. "Don't avoid the question, Decker."

"I'm not; I'm just—"

"I wasn't gonna leave him unguarded."

"You've been keeping watch since yesterday?" Chloe asks.

"It would seem likely," says Lucifer.

"Course I have," Maze confirms. "And you're really not convincing me it wasn't needed."

"We're fine," insists Chloe. "I swear."

"The Detective and I will handle it," adds Lucifer.

"Uh huh," says Maze, her tone flat. In a blur of movement, she slashes her knife at Lucifer, who doesn't—can't—block it. The tip of the blade stops a millimeter from his eye, and all he can do is blink at it, a fresh flashfire of blush creeping down his throat. "That's not the King of Hell I know. What gives? Is it my mother's mark?"

Chloe and Lucifer exchange a panicked look.

"Oh, come on," Maze says, rolling her eyes. "I can smell it on him. I could smell it last night, but I was hoping it would fade. It's definitely less now, but …."

"Hoping what would fade?" asks Chloe.

"The mark, presumably," says Lucifer, scowling. "What bloody mark?"

"Duh," Maze says. "He's ensorcelled. Which … based on your weirdness, I'm guessing you've figured out." With the tip of her knife, she inches down the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing the brand. "And I meant that mark. It stinks."

"Stop it." Chloe slaps Maze's wrist away. "Don't do that to him."

"Hello, I'm bloody well standing right here, you know!" he says, jaw clenching. "I'd prefer you not to discuss me as though I were absent." His fists clench, too. "What bloody mark?"

"Look down," Chloe says, gesturing at his bellybutton, and his head cranes down. "Near your navel. Move your waistband a little to see."

He shifts the iPad to his left hand, and with the trembling fingers of his right, he scrabbles across his skin, yanking at the fleece, exposing the whole brand to air. The mark is puffy and red like a burn. His pallor drains. "That's Lilith's seal. That's …."

"Lilith?" asks Chloe.

"Yes."

"Yeah, my 'mom,'" Maze explains, putting the word mom in air quotes. "Like I said."

"Your mother?"

"Yes," confirms Lucifer.

"Not much of one," Maze says. She regards Lucifer's brand, her gaze creasing like she's sizing up a knife throw. "I could scrape it off, if you want. Shouldn't be too much trouble."

"Would that get rid of the spell?" Chloe asks. "The ensorcellment?"

"How should I bloody know?" Misery encroaches on Lucifer's face. "This can't …. This can't …." He gasps.

"It's okay if you don't know," Chloe assures him.

"Detective, Lilith is no sorceress," he continues, finding his words again, "and I'm the bloody Devil. She's never been able to hurt me before."

"Meaning she's tried?"

"Of course she has!" He sounds more panicked than angry. "She's … she's bloody Lilith, and I'm her bloody jailor."

"You were gone a long time before you went back," Maze says. "Maybe she picked up new hobbies. How would you know?"

Lucifer doesn't speak.

"So, what's the deal? You can't talk unless Decker asks you shit?"

"Something like that," Chloe explains when Lucifer doesn't. She glances at Maze's knife. At the brand marring Lucifer's skin. His thumb is pressed against the top edge of the scar, and now he seems frozen that way, staring blankly into space like his world just ended all over again. "You're seriously suggesting we cut off his skin—as in remove his actual skin?"

"Obviously," says Lucifer.

"Only in the one spot," says Maze.

Chloe folds her arms. "No."

"Look, do you want him to stop playing Simon Says with you or not?"

"Maze, I can't—no, I won't—force him to do that, and he doesn't have the capacity to consent right now."

"Please, Mazikeen," he interjects. "Just be quick about it."

"How did you …?" Chloe asks, trailing away.

"You've allowed me to speak my mind after you've spoken yours, if I've a mind to speak, which I do, and believe you me, this"—his glare could burn the world to ash—"delightful sitch happily allows me to beg."

"And you're sure you want Maze to …?" She gestures impotently.

"Perhaps you could command me not to feel the knife? Make this"—his teeth grind—"ineffable perfection all the better, yes?"

"How long do you need?" Chloe asks Maze.

"I'd imagine not long," says Lucifer.

Maze scrutinizes the blemish. "If you order him not to squirm, a couple of minutes. If that."

Order him not to squirm. Order him. Chloe's insides twist. The sheer idea. That she could do that to him, and he would have to let Maze carve him up whether he wants it or not is … repulsive. On a physical, chemical, everything level.

"No," Chloes says, the word an upset warble. "I am not ordering him not to squirm." Jesus.

"Detective," Lucifer murmurs behind her. "I understand you're horrified right now, but …."

But please, get me out of this bloody mess, he doesn't say. Doesn't beg. Please, see to my safety, and my health, and my happiness, since I am unable. Please, help me. He doesn't need to.

"Do you trust me?" she asks in a small voice.

His gaze softens. "Yes."

"So … you believe me? That I didn't do this?"

"Yes," he repeats more emphatically. "I admit … I'd a moment of doubt, but no longer."

Not a lie. None of it is. This compulsion may force him to sing her praises, but it doesn't hide when he's being false. He hates lying too much to be any good at it.

"Would the bathroom or the kitchen work best for this?" she asks.

"It would seem I've already destroyed the kitchen," says Lucifer.

"Depends where you want the blood," Maze adds.

Right. Of course. Chloe directs an unhappy look at the roll of paper towels she keeps in the corner by the toaster oven—the towels are nothing but a crisped, black husk, and scorch marks scar the sides of the oven. The kitchen is toast, like Lucifer said. What does it even matter, anymore?

"Lucifer, I don't want you to feel pain," she says.

His whole body tenses, and he collapses against the countertop with a moan, the iPad clattering from his hand.

"Never mind!"

"I suppose," Lucifer says tiredly as he relaxes, panting, "the compulsion isn't interested in having its primary motivator taken away."

Right. Shit.

"Wow," says Maze. "This isn't Simon Says. This is like … Sadist Simon Says."

"It's torture, Maze," Chloe snaps. "He's being tortured. Every time I fuck up."

"Isn't that what I said?"

"Detective, you are not fucking up," Lucifer assures her. "I think you're doing quite well, considering."

Then why does she want to cry?

Unless that's the compulsion speaking for him again.

"Look, I don't know if this will work, but"—she hopes it doesn't, actually, because the implications are appalling—"but is it okay if I try to put you out?" Lucifer opens his mouth to reply, but she holds up her hand. "Wait, never mind."

Of course it's "okay."

He has to be okay with whatever she wants him to be okay with, so, of course, he'll say yes to a leading question like that. But he's been expressing preferences now and then. He can ask—beg—for things. He still has his own desires. Is it just that he can't express them or act on them in ways that supersede hers?

"If you had the ability to choose for yourself right now," Chloe asks, "would you choose for me to attempt to render you unconscious, or would you choose to be awake?"

Lucifer ponders. He doesn't ponder fast enough. The force of the compulsion makes him curl in on himself, pressing his elbows into the counter, until he blurts, "The latter. Please. Please, the latter."

"You don't sound happy with either option." Or he would have answered without being forced.

"Whatever you prefer," he says.

"Tell me what you're actually thinking, please."

"You mean to command me unconscious, yes?"

"That was my thought, yeah," she confirms. "So it doesn't hurt?"

"It's only I don't see how I can hear a command to wake if you somehow manage to put me out."

"When I commanded you to rest, you woke up on your own."

"Yes, but rest has a far broader definition than unconsciousness, Detective."

Which … good point. Fuck. "I … could build in a time limit? Into the command that puts you under. Would you choose that if you had the ability to choose for yourself right now?"

"No."

"I could clock him," Maze suggests.

"No!" Chloe says. "He had a seizure last night. I don't think the solution here is to give him more brain damage."

Maze shrugs. "Just saying."

"Well, thank you. But no."

"Please, let's just get on with this," he says. "I'm the Devil. Unconscious or not, I can handle a little plastic surgery with Dr. Mazikeen."

"Okay," Chloe says, lips forming a grim line. "Okay, if you're sure."

He glares into space without answering, which seems to be as close to an explicit yes as he'll get.

"Maze, do you need help for this?"

"Nah," answers Maze with disturbing nonchalance. "I got it."

"Hey, Ella?" Chloe murmurs after a brief call to Linda to tell her not to come back today.

Does he know? Linda had choked out. Does Lucifer know where …?

And Chloe had only been able to reply, No, Linda, I'm so sorry.

She rubs Ella's shoulder. At first, Ella only mutters and grumbles, turning away to smash her face into one of the end pillows. "Ella, I got you an Uber. It should be here in a few. Ella?"

Nothing.

When Chloe persists, though, Ella cracks open one eyelid and then the other. "What?"

"I got you an Uber. It'll be here soon."

"Oh." Ella rubs her eyes, smearing her makeup. Her hair sticks up, kinking on one side. "Coffee?"

"My coffee maker got smote, unfortunately."

Ella clasps her fingers together, flips her palms toward the ceiling, and stretches upward, groaning. "I'm sorry for barging in like this. You'd probably rather spend time with Lucifer."

"Oh, Ella, it's not that. Not at all," Chloe says, sinking tiredly against the couch cushions. "And you didn't barge in; you can visit anytime." Ella seems doubtful. "I know—believe me I know—how much this is to process. It's just …." Maze is working on Lucifer behind the counter, on the floor, out of sight, but not out of auditory range. Yet, Lucifer's not making a peep, not one pained grunt. "I've got kind of an emergency situation here I'm trying to resolve."

"Lucifer's still an emergency?" Ella asks. "Is he—"

"Physically, he's fine." Mostly. Maybe. "There's just … other fallout to deal with."

"Can I help?"

"I don't think so," Chloe says.

"So, it's a one-crisis-at-a-time sorta thing?"

"Yeah. Yeah, exactly."

"I guess I'm not exactly a crisis right now anyway, am I?" Ella pastes a smile on her face that doesn't reach her eyes. "God is real, my best besuited buddy has, like, legit Hell cred. I've been dealing with a ghost since I was eight-years old. What's a little more crazy on my big ol' plate, y'know?" She forms circles with the thumbs and index fingers of both hands, splaying her other fingers like the crowns on roosters. "I am o-kay."

"Ella—"

"Hey, speaking of which, did you see the morning news?"

"Um, no?"

"I was just wondering if that stuff's really real."

A rustling sound, the scrape of cloth on stone, interjects from behind the counter. But Maze doesn't ask for help. Doesn't comment.

"What stuff?" Chloe says.

"Ghosts!" Ella exclaims. "I figure the Devil would know for sure, and then I could finally legitimately find out if I'm crazy or not. Bright side, amirite? That's why I barged in."

"Ella, you didn't barge in." Wait. "Ghosts?"

"Yeah, apparently some guy caught a cellphone video of his kitchen utensils levitating—the news anchors were having a field day showing the clip and discussing whether it's been doctored in some way—and I was just wondering is all."

"Well, I …." Ghosts. Huh. "I would assume ghosts are a thing?"

"But you don't know?" Ella presses.

"I've … never asked."

"Dude. You've known the Devil is the Devil for"—Ella squints at her, nose wrinkling up—"how long now?"

"Since Pierce died."

"So, like, seven-ish months before he left for Hell! And you haven't asked him all your burning metaphysical questions yet?"

"I guess my need to know about ghosts wasn't all that burning," Chloe says.

"Well, for me, it's like a serious UTI, like a—hey, is that why you and Lucifer nearly 'broke up' as work partners last year?"

"A serious UTI?"

"No, silly," Ella says, fist-bumping Chloe's shoulder. "Finding out he was the honest-to-literal-God-Devil."

"Oh." Chloe glances at her lap. "Yeah. I … I didn't handle the newsflash all that well at first."

"Probably didn't help that his old flame showed up at exactly the same—wait." Ella stills. "Eve was Eve, like Eve Eve?"

"Yeah, I wasn't so thrilled about that either."

"But you're telling me I Frenched my thousand-million-whatever-times great grandmother?"

"… Yes?"

Chloe's phone vibrates before Ella can come up with a coherent response. "I guess that's my car, huh?" Ella says as she cranes her head to read the notification on the screen. "Does Linda know?" She stands. "Can I ask her?"

"About Eve?"

"No, if there are ghosts."

"I'm not sure." Chloe follows Ella toward the front door. "She's known about Lucifer the longest, so, maybe?"

"Yep, I"—Ella slams to a halt as she rounds the corner, the kitchen now unobstructed—"whoa that's a lot of …." Lucifer is sprawled on his side across the tile, his sweatpants pushed unceremoniously down to mid-thigh. Blood snakes down his skin in rich red tendrils. Wet wine-dark blotches the size of dinner plates stain the terrycloth towels packed underneath him. Maze crouches beside him, perched like a lioness over her kill, mid-slice with the sharp-edge of her curved knife. Skin separates, and Chloe can hear it. Like someone's cutting up a chicken breast for dinner. And Lucifer's staring into space, checked out of his own fucking body like it was a bad hotel. "Whoaaa."

Chloe's stomach roils at the sight. At the sounds. She turns away, gagging against her hand. She can handle gore. She can. But seeing it—hearing it—actively perpetrated is ….

"What are you doing?" asks Ella.

"Think of it like a mole removal," Maze snarks.

Which doesn't help, and prompts Ella to squeak, "Lucifer has a melanoma?"

"Okay, more like a brain tumor, I guess."

Chloe grabs Ella's hand and drags her out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind them. Chloe gasps for fresh air on the stoop, cleansed by the sun.

"Holy sweet bejesus, you weren't kidding about crises," Ella says.

Chloe swallows back nausea. "I wouldn't lie to you."

"What was—" Ella holds up a hand. "Wait. Wait. You know what? I think my brain is at capacity right now on the holy-freaking-crap of it all. I trust you. You can tell me later." She giggles manically, snorts, and giggles again. "Heh. Holy. Heh. I never realized that was literal before." A head shake, and she's serious again. "But he's. He'll be okay, right?"

"We hope so," Chloe says, offering her a wavering smile. "I'll tell him you wished him well."

"See you at work?"

"Maybe. I'll keep you posted."

"Great," says Ella. "So, what car am I looking for?"

Despite the brand being removed, Lucifer remains sprawled and empty-eyed by Maze's boot, while Maze wipes down her blade in the sink. Bloody towels pile around his body. A sewing kit perches on the counter. The top edge of a gauze pad just pokes over his waistband.

"Is it done?" Chloe says.

"Yup," Maze replies.

"You didn't have to leave him on the floor like that."

"I was gonna carry him upstairs after I finished cleaning off my blade." She scrapes something away from her knifepoint that's solid-ish and stretchy and dripping dark fluid. It lands in the sink with a wet-sounding splat.

Chloe kneels on the floor beside him. "Lucifer," she says softly. "Lucifer, it's over."

Instead of waking groggy, like someone fighting anesthesia, he fixes on her with a blink. At first, his expression seems warm like a hearth fire, and she can pretend he slipped and fell. He didn't leave her. He hasn't been gone. There is no curse. This isn't a living nightmare. But then his hope implodes—the fire dies.

"It didn't work, did it?" Chloe says, slumping.

"No," he says, the word tiny. "I still can't move."

Even Maze seems troubled, now, as she crouches beside him. "Maybe it takes a few hours to wear off?" She takes a whiff. "Something still reeks."

What little light is left in his expression wanes.

"Lucifer," Chloe says softly. A cue. So he can actually talk. Her stomach churns.

"I find it far more likely," he says in a low, dangerous tone, his fingers clenching into fists beside his hips, "that someone has played a terrible joke on me. That … that my mental predicament … has little to no connection with my physical state."

"Would you like to—I mean, if you had the ability to choose for yourself, would you choose to sit up?"

"Yes," he grits out.

"Please, sit up," she tells him, holding out her arm for him. He uses her offered bicep for leverage, yanking himself upright. "Do you think the hole in your memory is related to this compulsion thing?"

"Detective, I don't bloody know," he snaps. "I don't know what's happened, because I've no bloody memory."

"It's okay. Who might have wanted to do this?"

"What, leash me to you like your dog?"

"Get rid of you, Lucifer."

"I think it might be quicker to answer who wouldn't want me gone. I am the Devil, after all."

"I wouldn't," Chloe says softly.

He clears his throat, his burning anger cooling momentarily to embers. "Yes, well …."

"My vote's still on Lilith," says Maze.

"Why?" asks Chloe.

"Because it's always Lilith," Lucifer seethes.

"She's an asshole," Maze adds, nodding. "Plus, Lucifer was in Hell."

"We only think Lucifer was in Hell," Chloe interjects. "We can't make assumptions like that."

"Look, Lilith obviously got her hands on him at some point, or I wouldn't have spent the past few minutes making flesh ribbons out of her mark, and—"

"Would Lilith really use chains, though?" Chloe asks.

"What a question," Lucifer huffs. "Yes, she would, Detective." He frowns. "What chains?"

"You arrived here in chains." She gestures to the pile of rubble by the wall. The metal chains snake through the mess. "But Maze said they're plain and shouldn't have held you. So, I was just wondering if—"

"You mean, would Lilith trap me in chains I could easily break, were it not for a command not to break them? Of course she would, if she thought it would torment me." And it would, he leaves unspoken. His gaze is black as soot.

"But … but they have normal metal in Hell?"

"Most metal forged in Hell is not Hell-forged, Detective," he explains, the words infused with enough midnight she can't help but shiver. "It's normal metal like any other. Hell-forging is an arduous smelting process involving demon blood and angel feathers." He turns his gaze on Maze. "That's why Mazikeen's knives are so valuable. Not many angels will give up feathers to a demon."

"And unless Lilith really has gotten a new hobby," Maze continues, "she can't leave Hell, so—"

"Wait, she can't?" Chloe asks.

"Lilith is human, Detective," Lucifer says through his teeth, like he's barely rationing his fury enough to convey spoken word. "Not demon. She can't possess people."

"But I thought …."

"Surprise," Maze says. "The Mother of Demons is human."

Which … makes as much fucking sense as the rest of this, but … that's another discussion. "I thought you guys said humans imprison themselves in Hell with their own guilt. What if Lilith stops feeling guilty?"

"Human souls are free to leave Hell, yes; they're untethered," Lucifer replies. "But Lilith isn't dead and never shall be. Immortality is her punishment, like it was for Cain."

"Oh," Chloe says.

"Mazikeen, please, I need you to locate Mr. Constantine," Lucifer says, his fingers clenched, his measured tone so forced he could wield it like a weapon. "I need you to do it now. As expediently as is possible. Use every resource at your disposal."

"Yeah, no problem." Maze sniffs, her shoulders straightening with a sudden, injected bravado. "But you'd owe me."

Lucifer says nothing.

"Who's Mr. Constantine?" says Chloe.

"Curses and magic are dying arts. Dead, really. I presume … if anyone of this earth were able to de-hex me," Lucifer answers, "he would be the one."

"John Constantine," adds Maze. "He's a warlock. Specializes in the occult. Plus, he and Lucifer have occasionally crossed paths over the years." She turns to Lucifer. "What I want to know is why you think he'd even consider helping you."

"They don't like each other?" hazards Chloe.

"I'm more inclined to call it enmity," says Lucifer, glowering.

"Pfft," snorts Maze. "Still the understatement of the fucking millennium."

Chloe's feeling of being out of her depth is an almost overwhelming crush, threatening to knock her onto her back in the sand. "But he might help?"

"I prefer to believe he'll be amenable," Lucifer grits out, "when he finds out Satan himself has become some bloody human's bloody pet."

Like Chloe's just some vermin. "Lucifer …."

Some of his menace bleeds away. "I didn't mean that how it sounded. I'm—" Furious. Violated. Panicking. Ready to gnaw off his own foot like a fox caught in a trap. "Apologies, Detective."

Worse, she's not sure if he's apologizing to her because he's being spurred to do so by the stupid compulsion, or because he's actually sorry, and she suddenly regrets even saying anything. "No, it's … it's okay." Even though it's not. "This whole situation is just"—heinous—"spectacular. On every level. And …." And it's not her prerogative to be offended by anything he says right now. It just isn't. He's the victim. Not her.

He looks away.

"So," Maze says in the awkward, stretching silence, "sounds like I've got a weasel-y little warlock to catch." She rises to her feet, whisking her knives into the leather sheaths she keeps concealed beneath her jacket. "I might be a while. I'm not even sure he's in this dimension. But I'll try to keep in touch."

"Wait, what?" Chloe says with a blink. "He's what?"

"She said he might be in another dimension," Lucifer says.

"Yeah, I got that part, but—"

But Maze is gone in a whisper of leather and metal and stealth, before Chloe can even conceptualize the fact that she moved. "Jesus!" Chloe snaps, flinching back against the opposite cabinet as her heart kicks like a drum against her sternum.

"Not quite," Lucifer says softly.

She pulls her fingers through her hair, flashing a shaky smile at him. "I'd rather have you here than him anyway."

"Well, Detective, you have me now. Whatever will you choose to do with me?"

She doesn't miss the slight worried quaver in his tone. His sudden lack of interest in meeting her eyes. All of his earlier fury seems to have fled on Maze's coattails.

"We will get you out of this," she tells him. "Lucifer, we will."

His silence in the wake of that assertion is … worse than telling.

"Do you …?" Need anything, she almost said. Fuck. A useless question. He probably "needs" whatever she deigns to give him. She grits her teeth. "I just want you to do what you want," she tries.

"You've expressed no desire for me to do anything apart from what I'm already doing—which is to sit here like a bloody pet rock—so, I'm bloody well stuck."

"But … you clearly still want things. So, I don't get why telling you to do what you want doesn't work."

"I don't entirely understand it myself," he says, demoralized. Tired.

"Will you please try to explain?"

The same thing that happened before happens again. He can't put words together fast enough to keep the stupid compulsion from punishing him for not answering her, and then he can't put words together at all because he's overcome by the punishment itself. A catch-22.

"Never mind!" she snaps. "Never fucking mind. Jesus."

He sags against the counter, too wrecked to do more than utter a brief, rasping croak that speaks of lingering ruin.

"Sorry," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to understand this thing. To see if there's some way to get around this semantical bullsh—" She stops herself and shifts to a forced, bright tone. "This amazingness."

"I know," he says, the words enervated.

"I want you to take as much time as necessary to explain why me telling you to do what you want, forces you to do what I supposedly want instead."

She waits, unmoving, quiet, only the agonized, sputtering hum of her damaged refrigerator filling the space between them. At least, he remains unprovoked by unseen "motivation."

"I've … priorities I can't seem to disregard," he eventually says. "I've tried, but …." He considers, staring into space. "I suppose it would perhaps be a bit like you saying, 'I desire to remain awake,' even when you're knackered. Eventually, you've no choice in the matter. You'll sleep no matter what your other desires may be."

"So, you're, like, completely exhausted, and your desire to do whatever I want is sleep, and your desire to do anything else is … well … everything else?"

"Something akin to that, yes," he confirms. "I do desire other things, and now that you've enabled me, I can talk of them whenever they don't conflict with the overarching intent of whatever the bloody hell I've been hexed with. But beyond expressing these desires idly to you, there's nothing I can bloody do with them. It's … as though I've been blocked from the ability to connect thought to action."

She tries to think of a command that could release him. One she hasn't tried yet. "Lucifer, I want you to be free."

His desperate, awful sob as his body stiffens and flails makes her gut drop.

"I mean, I want you to be mine!" she amends in a rush.

The room starts to spin, and she can't breathe again. She can't breathe with him sitting there, looking at a fixed point on the floor rather than at her, his expression drowning in resentment and terror and embarrassment, like his world has ended. His world has ended, because what little he has left is defined by her whims alone. His world is her world.

Grief burbles up from within.

His breaths tighten at her first low-pitched warble of misery. He contorts, his body hitching in her direction before he gives into the impulse, and his motion becomes fluid. And then he slides across the floor. Without speaking, he tries to wrap his arms around her.

"Don't!" she blurts, splaying her palm against his chest and shoving him away. In a mad scramble, she crab walks backward. Broken tiles pinch her palms and feet. "Don't fucking do that. Me crying is not your fucking cue to drop everything and hug me, okay?"

"Very well," he replies, his words dark and seething, his expression … nauseated.

Angry.

Awful.

He didn't want to touch her. Or comfort her.

He didn't want any of this.

Stress makes her vision fuzz, thinking about that.

That she's forced him simply by existing, by feeling.

This whole fucking conversation has been forced. He has to answer her questions. He has to do what she says. He even has to do what she doesn't say, if she so much as implies a desire. Every time she's touched him, she's been violating him. He's only even wearing clothes because she made him do it.

She's taken his choices away. Lucifer. The brightest angel. The one who fell in the fucking name of choice.

He's powerless, and she might as well be God.

She scrubs furiously at her eyes, trying to stay her upset, to keep him from having another overriding impulse to comfort her. All while he sits there, silent, stewing, his eyes as bleak and black as the Abyss.

"Lucifer," she says with forced, measured calm, "if you didn't have to prioritize my desires right now, what would you choose to do in this moment?"

"Leave," he replies without hesitation. A dry, grief-stricken cough catches in his throat, and he adds a strangled, "Please, Chloe. Please, let me leave."

Leave. Chloe. His use of her name cuts like razors. His soft, desperate inclusion of the word please—twice—makes it worse.

Of course he wants to get the fuck away from her.

Her basest most-visceral instinct is to ask him, Where in the hell would you go? How? But what right has she to know? Then her more rational side kicks in to wonder if letting him leave is even wise right now. But what if telling him to leave is the real way to free him? Like some kind of fucked up anti-fairytale. Maybe being away from the intense nexus of her desires she represents would allow him to re-prioritize his own wants and needs.

Worse than that, her hesitation—just a fraction of a second—is enough to make him look at her like he's re-discovered Kinley's vial of poison in her purse.

"Of course you can leave," she rushes to tell him. "God, anything. I would never force you to be here. Not ever. Lucifer, I promise you, I wouldn't."

When he doesn't move, doesn't speak, the pain in her chest becomes a twisting, serrated knife, but she resolves herself.

"Lucifer, I want you to leave now." The words hurt like thumbtacks scraping her throat, such a wild one-eighty to months ago, when she'd been begging him to stay.

"Thank you," he says, his relief palpable.

She doesn't see him move. One moment he's there. The next, he's gone in a rustle of shining feathers.

She sinks against the cabinet in a shaking, boneless heap, crying for the loss all over again.

Chapter Text

She's still on the floor an hour later, staring into space with aching, tired eyes, when he poofs into the room in a heap of feathers and flesh, straining, convulsing, bleeding from the mouth and lip. Her heart skips into high gear, and she flinches back in shock.

"Oh, my—Lucifer!"

His wings slap and smash into what's left of her charred table and chairs, knocking them aside, breaking one. He collapses next to her, spine bowing, muscles taut and twitching as he prostrates himself at her feet. His toes and fingers curl, and he wails, the sound low-pitched and awful and urgent.

"Lucifer! What is it?" she pleads. "God, what's wrong?"

But he's already nonsensical, crying, choking, gnashing his teeth and shredding his fingernails against the tile in front of him, and her question only seems to make him worse. He snaps and saws like a flag in the wind.

"Never mind!" she says.

But that doesn't help.

He inches across the tile to her, his eyes averted to the floor. "Please," he begs, strangled and hurting and pitiful. "Please. P-please."

His shoulder blades ripple under his skin, the heaving, sweat-slicked expanse where feathers meet flesh presented to her as he arches on all fours like a scared cat. His quadriceps bunch, and he pushes closer, until a hair's width separates them.

"Please," he begs again, sobbing. "Please."

"Please, what?"

"Please."

"Lucifer, I don't know what that means!"

He shudders, and then he's just openly caterwauling. Her brain short circuits. She can't. She can't not— She plunges her fingers into his sweaty hair in an attempt to reassure him.

Whatever's torturing him ceases like a switch got flipped, and he crumbles with a dissatisfied, muffled sob onto his side. His lungs heave. Blood oozes from his busted lip where he bit himself. He's still wearing only the sweatpants she chose for him earlier, though the blood from his mouth and the sweat from his torso have mingled, dripped down his body, and soaked into the waistband, staining it. The crotch bulges painfully at the center seam. His hair is ripped up, disheveled chaos, his wings an off-kilter mess fanned across her floor.

She claps a hand to her mouth, crying softly through the gaps in her fingers.

Only for him to moan again, deep and low and pained and awful. He convulses like wave crashing into a beach. And then, limbs shaking, he rolls onto all fours, reaching for—

"Stop!" she snaps before he touches her. "I don't want or need you to comfort me right now."

He buckles back to the floor, curling into a heap at her feet, like the only thing that had been driving him forward had been a base, visceral need to escape suffering. His bloody mouth and pale skin make him seem like he just auditioned for Dracula. A little shiver wracks his frame. And then another. And another. His feathers twitch. And then he's openly trembling, his pupils blown, his expression wide-eyed and blank, like he's going into shock.

"Lucifer," she whispers, "I …."

But what the hell can she say? Or do? Asking him something would be to compel him again, after he was just tortured for failing to obey. Trying to take care of him or touch him would be forcing herself on him, too. God, she feels sick.

"Lucifer," she warns him softly, "I'm … th-thinking of leaving for a bit to … to help you heal. I'm … I'm thinking that might be … useful."

"No," arrives his tiny, breathless response. His fingers clench. His eyes are a dolorous void as he focuses on her. "Please."

"Okay." She swallows back vomit. "Okay, I won't. I promise."

Now, what?

He shivers, his gaze spacing out again, like he's sinking back into shock. His brilliant feathers cast a warm, tremulous glow into the room. The longest of his primaries drag against the floor, picking up dust and detritus from the pulverized tiles.

"It seems like," she says, "you m-might choose to put your wings away, if you could prioritize your desires over mine."

"Yes," he says. "Please."

"I want you to put your wings away."

His gleaming feathers thrash out of reality. A wall of air whooshes against her skin. She braces herself against the back cabinet.

"It seems like," she continues, "if you didn't have to prioritize my desires, you might be trying to decide whether to get up or rest awhile."

"Up," he almost hiccups. "Please."

"I want you to get up."

He lurches to his feet, still trembling, though it's getting worse. She rises with him. His eyes are wet and red. Drying blood crusts his chin. Her chest aches like a hippo squashed it, and she wants to wrap him in her arms so badly, not just for him but for her. Months. They've been apart for months, and this is the fucking reunion they get.

"I don't want comfort," she blurts before he can even cotton to the fact she's falling apart.

He closes his eyes. Maybe so he can't see her crying, so he doesn't get re-compelled. Maybe because that's the only way he can be alone.

"It seems like, if you didn't have to prioritize my desires, you might," she says, the words low-pitched and slurred with grief, "choose to have some privacy."

"Please, yes," he bleats.

There are semantics here. More to work with to possibly give him some freedom. But not when everything's raw and wrecked.

"You might clean up, too," she continues hesitantly.

"Please."

"Okay. O-okay, I'd … I'd like you to go to the upstairs bathroom and clean up, and, if you weren't required to prioritize my desires and would choose to stay, stay, until, if you didn't have to prioritize my desires, you would choose not to stay. Then return to me, and"—her mind races as she tries to consider all possible cases and scenarios, trying to make sure he's not left dangling somewhere, but she can't think of anything—"and we'll … f-figure out what's next when you're … when you're done."

He flees too fast for her eyes to process.

He's simply there, and then not.

She sniffs. At least, she's starting to have an idea how to word things to give him choices. Narrow choices, but a narrow set of choices is better than none. Her exposure to the complicated legalese sometimes present in search warrants is proving to be a boon.

Her shower runs for forty minutes, and after, the sound of the whirring exhaust fan fills the suffocating silence. She sweeps the broken chair bits to the side of the room with the other rubble, throwing out the biggest pieces. After, she watches television for a while, churning through some of her Netflix queue, watching without absorbing a damned thing as she tries not to think of him having some kind of nervous breakdown in her bathroom. If he wanted to rejoin her, he would. She assured he would. The best thing she can do for him right now is leave him alone. She hopes.

Except as one hour becomes two and then almost three, her uncertainty begins to outweigh her desire not to disturb him. What if she didn't word something right, and he's stuck? Or—

He steps in front of her television, blocking her view. Naked. Naked, clean, his hair slicked back but drying, his skin a riotous red mottled across his face and throat and chest. His piercings—penny-sized hoops punched through each pert nipple, and a metal barbell peeking just past his foreskin—gleam like polished starlight. The soiled gauze bandage that had been covering Maze's knife work has been replaced by three of Trixie's My Little Pony Band-Aids. His clenched fists rest beside his hips, his arms rod straight, like he's being forced to maintain that position, exposed, on display for her.

"Lucifer, you're … um."

"You didn't say you wanted me to dress or dry," he mutters, morose, not looking at her. "I'd some leeway in deciding what 'clean up' meant, but …."

"Oh. Oh, God." She snatches the purple afghan off the back of the couch and foists it at him. He clutches at it like a lifeline. "Why didn't you say something?"

"You've only allowed me to speak when you speak, first."

"Oh." Shit. Her eyes widen in her struggle not to let her gaze wander anywhere south of his face. "The … um." She tips her nose at the balled up afghan. "I want you to wrap that around your body in a way that preserves your—uh … an average human's—modesty."

With trembling hands, he drapes the blanket around his torso, cinching it under his armpits, covering his body from pectorals to kneecaps like a towel toga.

"I've got some more stuff of Dan's that'll probably fit you until we can get you some suits. Some sweats and things, I think." Leftovers from a family beach trip with Trixie. "In my closet."

"You desire me to wear Daniel's clothes again?"

"Would you choose to, if you could?"

"Not bloody particularly, but it would be far better than this—" He seethes, abruptly cut off. "This i-idyllic privilege." His puce hue deepens.

Fury boils in her gut. Disgust. They need to find a way around this. Some of this. At the very least, he should have freedom of fucking speech.

"I'm," she hazards, "wondering if phrasing questions as statements saves you from having to answer."

Silence, at first. Strain paints itself across his face.

"No," he blurts like he shot the word from a gun, relaxing once he's spoken. "I suppose it's the same bloody thing as you crying. As soon as I'm aware of your 'wonder,' I need to respond."

She mulls for a bit. "But if I don't say I'm wondering—if I just make an observation that invites input but doesn't require it—it doesn't force you."

He says nothing.

She files that away. "I want you to assume, when I ask a question, that I want you to answer if and only if, assuming you didn't have to prioritize my desires, you would choose to answer. Okay?"

At first, he doesn't speak, and she thinks they've got it. At last. Finally. But then he chokes out, "Yes. Yes, very well."

"What was wrong with that one?"

"N-nothing."

And they're back to forcing him to lie. Great. "I mean, in what way did the wording not accomplish my goal of giving you freedom of speech?"

"It would seem thus far," he replies, "whenever you express a new desire, if it conflicts with a previously expressed desire, the new overwrites the old, except in cases when the compulsion won't allow changes to be made in the first place."

"Such as when I express displeasure this compulsion even exists."

"Yes."

"In which case, you suffer paroxysms, because you can't fulfill my wildest dreams despite ‘wanting’ to. A catch-22."

"So it would seem."

"So, when I said, 'Okay?' before, I was essentially replacing my desire to allow you to choose whether to answer, with my desire to know what you thought about that."

"I … believe so."

Wait. "What if I just prioritized?"

"I'm …." He shifts, his body tensing. "I-I don't …."

"Never mind," she rushes to say, and his taut posture eases. He's exhausted and beset. Of course he'd be too fried to make these leaps with her. "I mean, I want you to be able to speak or not speak whenever you would choose to, assuming you were allowed to prioritize your choices over mine, and I always want that more than I want you to respond to my desire for knowledge, or my desire to hear you talk, or my desire to hear you say specific things." She pauses. Lets that sink in. "Now, do you still have to answer me?"

Blessed, beautiful silence. He sucks in a sharp breath, but not this time, she thinks, from the compulsion kicking in. Just relief-borne shock that he doesn't have to respond.

Thank. Fucking. God.

"And when you do speak," she continues, "assuming you were allowed to prioritize your choices over mine, I always want you to say only what you would choose to say, with whatever tone and attitude you would choose to say it, whether that be ungrateful, or contrary, or negative, or lying—I mean, not that I expect you to lie, just … lying from the perspective of this yay-everything's-great compulsion—or whatever."

He still seems fine.

"In fact," she adds, emboldened, "I always want you to do or not do only what you would choose, assuming you were allowed to prioritize your choices over mine."

A moan rips his throat, and he sags to the left, into the lamp, knocking it into the wall.

"I misspoke, damn it! Forget that one!"

He slides to his knees to the floor, suddenly boneless, wrung out all over again, swaying like little cartoon birdies and stars are circling his head.

"I guess that one was a little too close to, 'Be free.'" Fuck.

"… What?" he croaks. "What … happened?"

Like she'd stripped the memory from him with her outburst. Fuck, she probably had. "I said something that hurt you again," she admits, the words thick. "And then I made you forget it by accident. Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"I appreciate that you're trying," he rasps when he gathers his scattered wits. He's shivering again. "But … p-perhaps … allow me to rest a spot before you attempt further language experiments in the name of my freedom." And then he adds much more softly, "Please."

"Sure. Sorry."

He rubs his bloodshot eyes. And then he looses a tiny, curdled sigh before looking away from her. He's barefoot, still wrapped only in her wool afghan, she realizes.

"You do still want actual clothes, right?" she asks.

"Please." The soft, begging edge to the word seems vulgar in this context. He shouldn't have to beg for clothes.

"I want you to wear whatever you would choose to wear," she tries before she loses the nerve to continue, her stomach writhing like caffeinated snakes, "whenever you would choose to wear it, assuming you—"

"No!" he snaps, tensing up.

"I take it back!"

He sags against the wall, swallowing, sweating at his temples. He squeezes his eyes shut like he's dizzy. His shoulders curl inward.

Stress crashes through her. "What did I say wrong that time?"

"It's only …." He gathers himself, giving her a plaintive look. "If I weren't in this predicament, I wouldn't bloody choose Daniel's horrendous Fruit-of-the-Loom castoffs; I'd choose something from my own wardrobe. I'd choose something that's mine."

"Your wardrobe."

"Yes."

"Like … the one in Hell."

"I am the Devil, Chloe," he tells her with a sad smile. "That's where I've my belongings. Or, at least, it would stand to reason. Given the amnesia sitch, I can't be certain."

She thinks of him landing earlier, contorting, gasping, screaming until she calmed him with a touch. "And you leaving for Hell right now would be"—she swallows—"bad." Catastrophic, even.

He lets her assessment sit there, unanswered, which seems answer enough.

"What happened earlier?" she asks. "When you came back after you left."

He peers at the floor. "Given Beatrice's existence, I'm … assuming you've had an orgasm at some point. Please, tell me Daniel's not so inept as he looks."

"Hey, he's not inept," she protests.

"So, you're familiar with that split second just before the peak, when you would do anything—say anything—to feel your release? To finish?"

Admittedly not something she's experienced in a while, but, "Yeah …."

"You might grab for the sheets. Or your partner's hair. Or a hand. Your back might arch as you fall into the grips of sensation. You might moan. Or whine. Or plead with your partner to help you. Anything to push you over the edge you're straddling."

"Where are you going with this?"

"That's what it feels like when you make a request of me," Lucifer admits. "Fulfilling your desire becomes that … last lovely caress I need to orgasm. Only multiply that sensation by the number of times a politician has gone to Hell. It's excruciating, not pleasurable. And then realize there is no orgasm at the end. When I give you the thing you desire, the feeling simply fades."

"That's how you feel any time I command you?"

"Not pain, precisely. Only need so acute it might as well be called agony."

The bulge in his pants earlier suddenly makes all-too-painful sense. No wonder he's exhausted and snappish.

"After I departed earlier," he continues, "I needed to return to you. I needed it, as badly as if you'd asked me directly. I've never needed anything so intensely in my whole bloody life, and that's quite a long life we happen to be discussing." He laughs, though the sound isn't happy. "The feeling was so intense, my considerable attempts to ignore it proved fruitless. Then when I bloody got here, I couldn't touch you. I would have done anything—lied, killed, subjugated, worshipped Dad—yet I couldn't do the one thing I needed, because you'd expressed no actual desire for it. And when you did touch me, it all simply … went away. No satisfaction, no resolution, no sense of completion. It was just gone, ripped out from under me like a flimsy rug."

"Lucifer …."

"Worse, I'm not certain if the situation resulted from me having nothing to do after I completed the task of leaving—can't have an idle bloody slave, after all—or from my lack of proximity to you, or from some unique combination thereof, or something else entirely, and …."

His earlier terror at the prospect of her leaving carves her out like a knife. "And," she says, sinking, "you're afraid to test it right now."

His gaze is dark and rankled when he replies, "If you order me, I will do it, even knowing what will result."

"I wouldn't," she assures him again. "Lucifer, I would never send you somewhere against your will."

"You almost did, once."

Father Kinley's poison vial sears her mind's eye again like a solar eclipse. "Well, I was stupid, then," she snaps. "I was tragically stupid, Lucifer. And I'll be sorry about it for the rest of my life. I've already apologized. I don't know what else I can say."

"Nothing," he says. "I'm … Detective, I'm …." He closes his eyes, exhaling. "I'd no intention of making it sound as though I desire further apology from you—I do not; all is forgiven. I only meant, even with the most angelic of intentions …." He trails away.

She looks at her feet. Even with the most angelic of intentions, she's been hurting him all morning. She's been torturing him. "I would be terrified right now, too," she admits. "Even if you were the one holding my reins, and you've never—" Betrayed me. Never. He's been a massive commitment-phobic, clueless, idiot, tone-deaf tool, at times, but he's always, always had her back when he's been around. When it's counted. Always. He's loyal to a literal goddamned fault. And, yet, knowing she couldn't do anything without him choosing her actions for her would be …. "You don't have to explain to me."

"Yes, well."

The silence stretches. Neither speaks.

Her eyes are burning. Her throat aches. She sniffs, trying to hold it all back, but she feels a bit like a dam trying to stop a tsunami. But … clothes. Clothes. They need to get him some clothes he would actually be comfortable retrieving. Which leaves … not a lot of options right now.

"I could take you to Lux?" she suggests. "For clothes, I mean."

"Lux is empty. Simon will have sold everything in it by now."

"Who's Simon?"

"Simon Pentaghast. My executor. I left him instructions to liquidate all but my most valued real estate."

Well, fuck.

Lucifer looses another unhappy laugh. "Of course when the Devil's feeling modest for once in his bloody long lifetime, it's turning into bloody rocket science to allow him to clothe himself."

"It's different when you can't choose for yourself how much to reveal," she says. "When you have to ask me for every little thing. It's awful."

His back arches as he looses a sharp, distressed gasp.

"I mean, I love it!" As he relaxes, she can't stop herself from crying anymore. She just can't. "Sorry. Don't comfort me."

"This is bollocks," Lucifer snaps, "and whoever's done it deserves a lifetime bound in bloody chains, assuming they live through me eviscerating them when I find them." He glances at Chloe. "I'm assuming I've permission when I do."

"At least we've got it so you can bitch now, even if I can't." She offers him a watery smile.

His responding glower speaks opuses for him.

"We'll figure it out," she continues, coughing to clear the grief from her throat. "And we'll free you. We will." She's not sure who she's trying to convince. "We can go to a department store when you're feeling up to it." But … that doesn't solve the problem now.

He doesn't bother to comment. Like he's tired. Just … tired. Of everything.

"I want you to wear or not wear clothes whenever you desire," Chloe says, thinking, "assuming you were allowed to prioritize your desires over mine, and when you do opt to wear clothes, assuming you were allowed to prioritize your choices over mine, I want you to select those clothes by picking from within my closet whatever apparel is the least objectionable to you." She frowns. "Does that work?"

Lucifer climbs to his feet and pushes away from the wall. "I suppose we'll see if I get caught in an infinite loop whilst trying to don a hoodie or some such." The words are empty of snark. Just glum.

"At least you can yell now if you get stuck," she says too brightly, cringing as soon as the words are out of her mouth. God. Speaking of tone-dea—

"Detective."

"Yeah?"

"If it's of any consolation, of all the people on Earth, in Heaven, in Hell, or anywhere else in the bloody Dadforsaken multiverse, if I'm to be at the bloody beck and call of someone, I'm more than grateful that person is you."

Her heart constricts. "Oh."

And then he resumes his weary, slow slog to her closet.

"Unless you intend for me to attempt slipping into one of your dresses, I think perhaps you might wish to revise your command again," he calls minutes later, his words dripping with unrestrained consternation.

Fuck. "Um." What had she said before? Fuck, she needs to start writing these down. She grabs her iPad off the edge of the couch, opens a new note, and starts dictation mode, rambling through the basic equivalent of what she'd said previously, except adding, "Whatever clothes are least objectionable to you … and would actually fit you." She waits. "That good?"

He doesn't retort. She'll take that as a win.

"I'd," he says thickly after a minute, "I'd like to return now. Please."

"Sure!" she calls back.

A pause. "I … Detective," he admits, miserable, "I seem to require a bit more directness than that."

"Lucifer, I'd like you to return to me."

In moments, he appears at the top of the steps, barefoot, donning an old coffee-stained red sweatshirt and a set of black nylon warmup pants. The red brings out the what seems to be perpetual hue of embarrassment flushing his face. Shakily, he descends the steps, looking tired and cowed and frail.

"I was thinking," she says hesitantly as he halts in front of her. She gestures to the couch and adds, "If you want to sit, assuming you were allowed to prioritize your wants above mine." As he sinks onto the cushion beside her, she continues, starting a new note on her iPad, "For simplicity's sake, whenever I reference what you'd like, love, prefer, want, desire, need, or choose, I want you to take that specifically to mean what you'd like, love, prefer, want, desire, need, or choose if you didn't have to prioritize what I like, love, prefer, want, desire, need, or choose, respectively."

"Very well." His words are quiet. Almost … inaudible.

He remains beside her, stiff as a board, staring straight ahead instead of at her.

"Lucifer, when you said you had some leeway before …."

"I seem to be able to do small things," he admits with a slight nod. "Subconscious and unconscious things. Small deviations of conscious action as long as they serve in the spirit of fulfilling your desires. But the moment I would stray from your general intent, it's"—his lower lip trembles before he hides it with a grimace—"impossible."

She considers the many times he's crumpled to the ground in torment—an unconscious action—and then not been able to get up again when his predicament passed back from hindbrain to forebrain. "So, if I told you to go over there …?" She gestures vaguely at the ravaged kitchen.

"I could walk, trot, fly, leap, or crawl, with a mildly circuitous route, and then I would have to stay there until you released me, I'd imagine."

"But you could fidget a little and talk."

"Yes."

"But if I told you to hold still …?"

"I doubt I could do more than blink and breathe."

"Can you get up right now?"

His lips are a grim line. "No."

"Can you move your limbs? Turn your head?"

"I imagine if I wasn't thinking specifically about it, I could, since doing so wouldn't violate your intention for me to sit, but …." But now that she's planted the suggestion in his head—made him aware—she's stripped him of that option.

"God, Lucifer, that's …." Unconscionable, she wants to say. Except that would punish him. Offering him freedom to move about as he desires is definitely the next knot of semantics to untangle, but—

"Please, no," he interrupts quietly. "Please, no more."

"You don't want me to give you freedom of movement?"

"I'm …." His eyes grow wet. "I don't want to hurt. I don't want to need." His chest quivers as he sucks in a breath, and another. And the fact he would rather be immobilized right now, trapped, rather than risk fishing for more freedom …. "Detective, I'm knackered."

"Oh. Oh, Lucifer." She scrambles to her feet, leaving her iPad on the coffee table. "Do you want to use my bed?"

He scowls. "If you order me to choose, that's where I'll likely go."

Like what happened with choosing his clothes, acting as if he were allowed choices changes his choice entirely. And now she feels stupid for even asking. Of course he wouldn't want to sleep in her bed right now.

His shame is a thick, pervasive pall.

"I get it," she says softly. "The couch until I can clear the boxes out of the spare bedroom?"

"What else is left?" he laments. "Your child occupies the only other option, does she not?"

"Right, sorry." Stupid, stupid. "Let me get you a blanket." She waves at him as she reaches the steps. "Lie down, if you want."

He's staring at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and empty, when she returns with a fluffy down comforter and two pillows for him.

"You didn't have to wait for me to come back," she says. "You could have gone to sleep."

"No, I couldn't have."

"Jesus, it won't even let you sleep without my say?" She drapes the folded blanket across his lap and hands him the pillows with a softly added, "Put those where you want them."

"Not until I'm so bloody exhausted I can't help it, I'd imagine," he says, spreading the blanket and propping the pillows before directing a wary look toward the front door. "Is the spawn …?"

"Dan's dropping her off tomorrow evening," Chloe says. "I'd ask him to keep her longer, but he's flying on the red-eye to Miami. He's going to visit his mother."

"Detective … please, don't …." Lucifer clutches the edges of the blanket. "Please, don't tell them of my …." He swallows. "Please, don't tell anyone else. Please."

"I promise." She reaches for his shoulder, pausing millimeters from Dan's soft sweatshirt.

Lucifer grasps her hand before she can figure out how to ask to touch him—maybe reaching for him was a cue he could twist a little to his own purposes. His icy fingers clutch at her knuckles, squeezing. His pleading look rips her into pieces.

"I promise," she repeats, trying to reassure him. "We'll figure this out after you've rested. I'll move Heaven and Earth. I don't care what it takes."

"At the very least," he replies bitterly, "I suppose you could command me to move them for you."

"I wouldn't do that."

Silent, he tips his gaze away.

"Lucifer, I want you to—" She realizes she almost either knocked him out or got him punished, since sleep isn't normally immediate. Also, she didn't dictate to her notes. Her eyes water as she gives him an apologetic look, fumbling yet again for her iPad. "Lucifer, I want you to be awake or asleep whenever you choose, and I want you to have as much time as you need to transition between these two states."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep, dragging breath.

She leaves him be.

Chapter Text

He sleeps. For the rest of the afternoon.

Not like Sleeping Beauty. Not like some angel. In deep sleep, he's motionless, but his thick breaths are aggressively even. Whenever he cycles into REM sleep, his limbs twitch, and his eyeballs track back and forth underneath his eyelids. He mutters guttural things in a language she doesn't understand.

The Devil dreams.

Which she knew—she's seen him sleep any number of times. Yet she'd never stopped to marvel before. That Satan, King of Hell, snores occasionally, has unflattering muscle spasms, and drools on his pillow.

She spends the afternoon and early evening cleaning up her ruined kitchen, researching new kitchen appliances, and looking up reviews for kitchen restoration specialists. Even a specialist probably won't be able to do much with pulverized tile, but a consultation couldn't hurt. All the better if she can miraculously get the kitchen fixed before her landlord notices there was an issue.

She crashes early.

Dreams fitfully.

The seagulls screaming outside her window Sunday morning yank her awake. She has an irritated moment of non comprehension, recent slumber hanging like a spiderweb over her consciousness, and then she realizes.

She left Lucifer trapped on the couch for almost eighteen hours with no food and no water, unable to get up and use the bathroom if he needs—if he even needs that sort of thing, though one would assume from the muscle spasms and the snoring and the drool, that his needs are far more human than not, at least when he's around her.

She darts out of bed, almost falling on her face when her left ankle gets caught in the sheets. Her brain misfires, and she stumbles into her dresser, into the nightstand, until she catches herself against the wall. Racing into the hall, she thunders down the steps, only to skid to a stop once she rounds the corner. He's not staring desperately at the staircase, waiting for her to wake and release him—he's back to REM sleep, twitching and drooling and muttering.

Eighteen hours, and he's still asleep, when he can stay awake for weeks at a time.

"Knackered" seems to have been an understatement.

She heads into the smote remains of her kitchen. She has no coffee to offer him—he'd slagged her coffee maker—but she does have a bottle of scotch, leftover from one of his previous visits. She pours him a mugful and puts the glass on a little breakfast tray next to a spoon, a glass of milk, and a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

She tries to be quiet, but the spoon clanks against the glass when she sets the tray onto the coffee table beside him. He snaps awake.

Fuck. "Um … hi," she says.

His fuzzy-but-neutral expression lasts less than a blink before it sinks like a stone. "Oh, I was hoping it was a bloody nightmare, but it's bloody well not."

"I know." She lowers herself to her knees beside the couch. "I know you were." Me, too, she can't say without punishing him. To vent stress, she digs her fingernails deep into the grain of the area carpet, instead. The scraping noise fills the quiet.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

"Are you going back to sleep?" she whispers.

"No. I'm wallowing. I can bloody do that, at least."

"Can I try to make it so you can get off the couch under your own power, or are you not ready for—" No. Bad wording. "I mean, I'm thinking about trying to—"

"Get on with it then," he says tiredly.

She gives him a sympathetic wince. "Rip the Band-Aid, huh."

"Somewhat, I suppose, yes."

She sets her iPad up for dictation again. "Lucifer, I want you to have freedom of movement."

The harrowed, low-pitched moan he exhales as his body arches backward makes her stomach clench. "Never mind!" she's quick to say.

He sinks down, wrung out already, and he's only been awake for a few minutes. "Perhaps I'm bloody intended to be your posable bloody—"

"No," she snaps. He clamps his mouth shut. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "I-I didn't mean that as a command to shut up. I didn't, Lucifer. I …." Fuck. "I only meant to disagree, not shut you up." He glares at the ceiling, looking like he wants to smite her ceiling fan, too, to give her refrigerator company in Hell. "I mean … never mind the 'no.'"

"This is," he says, "taxing."

"I know," she replies softly, trying to collect herself. "But the rest has been a maze of semantics. We can figure this out, too."

She shifts off her knees to her butt and tries a few more things, each attempt leaving him more exhausted and despondent than the last. Limiting him to freedom within a small radius around her doesn't work. Limiting him to freedom within her apartment doesn't work either.

So, maybe the problem isn't distance alone.

She thinks of her obliterated kitchen.

What if the compulsion inherently catch-22s whenever she suggests something that would enable him to harm her?

He could, through the objective eyes of this compulsion, plow right over her if he had freedom of movement. He could murder her. He has free access to two massive weapons. Hell, even without wings, he's strong enough to snap her neck.

Not that he would ever hurt her on purpose.

But he could.

Which might be enough for the compulsion to exist in a constant state of refusal.

"Lucifer, I'm gonna try one more thing," she warns him.

"Very well," he says glumly.

But this is not very well. He's not well.

And she has to make this stick.

She aims low.

"Lucifer, barring instances where your movement would carry you through or into any physical obstruction, or where your movement could harm me or jeopardize my safety, I want you to move or not move whenever, however, and wherever you would choose, as long as this movement occurs within a fifty-foot radius of me."

The silence stretches as she holds her breath, waiting. Hoping. He slings his trembling arm forward, grabbing at the air above his right knee, and then sits up without any direction from her.

"Oh, thank God," she gushes, only for him to give her a look. "Would you accept, 'thank Satan?'"

"If you must," he croaks as he swings his legs off the couch, blankets rustling as he moves, and sits hunched over his knees, staring at nothing.

"Beyond the obvious issu—delight—are you okay?" she asks. They haven't even really had a chance to talk yet, only navigate from crisis to crisis to crisis. "How are you?"

His gaze drifts dully to the breakfast tray she prepped for him.

"Are you hungry?" she prods.

He draws a shaking hand to his face, stopping just short of the reddening skin that caps the bridge of his nose. He barks with upset laughter. "Well, I can bloody move now."

"Why are you making it sound like that's bad?"

He doesn't answer, instead peering over his fingers at the tray again, at the Cheerios and the scotch. The tip of his tongue pops briefly into view as he licks his lower lip. He stares with the focus of someone who's been half starved to death. Maybe he was.

She nudges the tray toward him, but that only results in him clutching at the edges, staring with unslaked desire.

"I'd," he says, "like a drink."

"Oh." Oh. Guilt creeps like a clinging vine. "Seriously, freedom of movement doesn't comprise freedom to interact with things?"

"Yes," he snarks, "who would ever believe a compulsion that doesn't allow me to move without your express approval would be so granular?"

She counts internally to five, willing herself not to snap at him. "Well, then," she grits out, "I want you to be able to use or not use, touch or not touch, consume or not consume, anything you would choose to, however, whenever, and wherever you would choose to do so, so long as this touch, use, consumption, or lack thereof wouldn't harm me or jeopardize my safety, and would occur within a fifty-foot radius of me."

His face sinks against his hands as though he were leaning on a plate of glass that suddenly disappeared. He grunts, surprised, before sinking further into the motion, twisting, contorting his shoulders and upper back like he's been dying to stretch for days, but couldn't.

"I suppose this is proof," he says darkly.

"Of?"

"That you own the Devil, and that I am considered a 'thing.'" He reaches for the shot glass she's left him and downs it in a gulp before she can reply, his eyes crinkling as soon as the liquid hits his tongue. "Oh, that's bloody good."

"Lucifer—"

"Have you any more?"

"Yeah," she says, chest tightening. "In the kitch—"

He zips into her divinity-blasted kitchen, yanks open her liquor cabinet, finds the scotch bottle in question, uncaps it, and tips it back to glug down four more swallows. His hands shake, like he's desperate, like he's ravenous.

"Love me a smooth single malt," he explains, peering at her sidelong as she approaches. A glutted little sigh escapes him.

"They … don't have scotch in Hell?" she asks.

"Hell isn't precisely known for its distilleries—what's in the loops tastes like liquid guilt, like ash. All I've had in millennia is feckless swill."

She blinks. "Um. Millennia?"

"Time is … different in Hell."

"Different how, exactly?"

"Time moves more quickly," he explains. "Everywhere in Hell, really, but especially in the cells. All the better to stretch out eternity, I suppose. Millennia, crammed into months."

"You're telling me you remember?"

He sets the bottle onto the cracked countertop. "No."

"But—"

"I've no memory of the time elapsed. Only …." He strokes the scotch bottle. "It's like déjà vu. A feeling."

"But you're telling me you're not just missing months, that you're missing … that there's a millennia-whatever-wide hole in your head?"

"Unless I've not been in Hell," he offers with a tense laugh. "You did insist I shouldn't make assumptions like that, after all."

Except he's clutching his old bottle of scotch like a life raft, insisting he hasn't tasted anything similar since at least before the time of Jesus.

"I'm," she says, "I'm really thinking it might be wise to talk to Linda about this. Like … now."

"Why?" he scoffs. "So she can gawk at the Devil, enslaved?"

"No, so she can help you remember. So we can piece together what the hell happened to you. You don't need to tell her about the compulsion if you don't want, but, Lucifer, something is wrong with you."

"Isn't that what they all say." He sneers, and then he moans. The bottle cracks, spiderweb patterns snaking across the glass.

"I don't mean you have a deficiency in your character," she rushes to correct herself, and he sinks against the counter. "I mean beyond whatever metaphysical craziness has happened, you have a legitimate health concern, and the longer we let this go without attempting to address it, the worse it could be getting. You don't leave wounds to fester. I would imagine it's the same for … for … whatever the hell this is."

"Yes, well." He turns away.

"Look," she presses, "I know this is scary, but—"

"I am not frightened!"

"Okay."

"I'm"—he shifts in place like a ruffled peacock—"I am not."

"Okay, I misspoke," she's quick to agree. "Lucifer, I misspoke, but … please, let's get you some help. Please."

He sways back and forth, stiff, stubborn, silent, glaring before encroaching desire eclipses annoyance. He crumples against the counter with a strangled, protesting little, "No," that frays all her heartstrings, making her realize what she's done to him.

Again.

What she's done to him again.

"Never mind; you don't need help!" Fuck. Fuck,fuckfuckfuuuuuuck. She rests a hand against his quivering back, only for his eyes to blow wide.

"No!" he gasps out again.

The word is so shivery it makes him sound inches away from losing consciousness. She skitters backward, giving him space, but his balance is already off, and his arms are deadweights. His legs are deadweights. He drops to the floor in a limp heap, tipping the scotch bottle into the sink in the process. Luckily, the glass doesn't shatter.

"I'm sorry!" she blurts. "I didn't mean to touch you there. I wasn't thinking." His breaths are raspy, labored, panicked. And he's been awake less than thirty fucking minutes. "I'll leave you alon—"

"I can't move again," he says faintly.

"What?"

"Exactly what I bloody said," he grits out. "I can't bloody move again!"

"But what happened?"

"You touched me," he accuses, "and I needed"—he swallows, fading again—"I c-couldn't."

Move.

He couldn't move, because her touching him is essentially the verbal equivalent of, I want to touch you. A desire. A desire that he hold still while she partakes in physically appraising him. Which, of course, overwrote freedom of movement.

"I couldn't," he repeats, his pallor draining. Like his brief, sweet taste of almost-freedom was enough to make losing control of himself again worse than never having any control at all. His gaze spaces out. And then he adds in a tiny voice, "Please, let me up."

"I … I-I …." What the hell command had she used? What the—

"Please, let me up, Detective," he begs faintly. "Please."

She glances at her iPad on the distant coffee table. But … she can remember this one, maybe. She repeats her previous desire for his freedom of movement, this time adding, "and I always absolutely want that more than anything else ever."

He bolts out of the room, only to snap to a halt in the hallway on the welcome mat, where he froths and paces and glares.

"I can't open the bloody door!" he snaps. He hitches toward the end table where she leaves her purse and keys, but stops before his fingers can brush the haphazard pile of envelopes and magazines. He reaches for his hair like he wants to yank on it in frustration, but he's foiled, then, too. "I can't …."

Touching his back. Touching his back must have ruined things in a cascade, canceling anything related: touch requires movement. She rattles off a version of what she'd said before, allowing him freedom to interact with things.

The front door snaps backward on its hinges, banging into the stop and vibrating, and then he's gone.

He's gone.

The rapidity of his departure makes her stomach swoop, but she forces herself to take a breath.

He didn't leave her again.

He just needs some air.

She closes the front door, careful to leave it unlocked for him. An engaged lock—meaning, I don't want you to enter this way—would probably screw everything up again, at least on the use/touch/consume front, since she didn't prioritize that, and … and ….

He didn't leave her again.

He did not leave her again.

He's having a crisis. He's hurt, and he's scared—whether he'll admit it or not. He's powerless.

Lucifer the Morningstar doesn't do powerless.

Of course he needs air.

He's probably sitting in the quad, watching the clouds pass by for a bit, calming down and clearing his head.

She won't be party to infringing on what little space he still has to himself.

Or so she keeps telling herself, trying to stave off another crash of guilt, as her eyes water over, and over, and over again.

After she updates her iPad notes with the new priority for the movement command, she busies herself cleaning Maze's old room.

The morning sunlight filters through the slats in the blinds, striping the bedspread with bright bars. Dust covers the floral-print fabric—a tacky layer that dirties her fingertips when she brushes the blanket. The room is stacked high with boxes, papers, and summer clothes that haven't been put into storage for the year.

Her summer—since he left her—had disappeared. She'd worked. She'd cared for Trixie. Everything else, she'd added to the stack for "later." Later. When she wasn't drifting through a tired, aching fog.

With a sniff, she grabs the first box, pulling it across the hardwood floor, grunting at its unexpected weight. She pulls off the lid. A lump forms in her throat. Books. A pile of them. The World's Religions. Why I am not a Christian. Why I am Catholic (and You Should Be Too). A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The Satan: How God's Executioner Became the Enemy. The Historical and Theological Evolution of Satan, the Devil, and Hell. Title after title. Book after book on theology and religion and the formation of myth. Everything she'd scrambled to read after realizing Father Kinley was the demagogue, not Lucifer.

She shivers, putting the lid back on the box before taping it shut. She marks the lid DONATE TO LIBRARY with a squeaky red marker, and then shoves the box out into the hallway. One box down. Only about forty billion to go.

Great.

The sunlight shifts across the bedspread until it spills onto the floor, forming a bright puddle on the dusty hardwood. The pile of boxes stacked outside in the hallway has grown from one box to five. The bedroom looks no better, though. She's freed barely more than half of the queen-sized bed from clutter, let alone the floors or the closet.

The mattress sinks with his weight as he sits beside her.

She doesn't look up. "Just trying to clear this stuff out of here before tonight," she tells him, her voice quavering. "So you'll have somewhere to sleep, yeah?"

"Shall I take the boxes not marked for the library out to the wheelie bins?" His words are edged with tension, like he's barely curtailing himself from moaning.

"No, Lucifer. I don't need or want your help with this."

He sags, panting, before inching closer. The heat of his skin presses against her shoulder. Her side. She can almost imagine he's there voluntarily.

"Please, don't comfort me right now," she rasps when he tries to pull her close. "I can't handle it."

He draws away without a word.

She presents her back to him, digging into the nearest pile of unsorted papers. Trixie's homework. Projects. Everything that had ever received a grade that year. Mostly As and Bs. Pride expands like a hot-air balloon in her chest. She adds to the ever-growing "save" pile stacking up behind Lucifer.

"You needn't do this," he says softly. "I've lived in far worse places than a cluttered bedroom."

"I'm not just gonna stick you in here like another spare box," she retorts. "That would be …."

A self-deprecating twitch of his lips almost creates a smile. "Perhaps a bit on the nose with this whole slavery situation."

"Yes!" she snaps before adding more quietly, "Yes, Lucifer." Her fingers shake as she rubs her nose. "I don't even know what to say that won't—" Degrade him. Upset him. Hurt him. Force him. "Look, the very least I can do right now is give you an actual living space with an actual door you can close."

"I do appreciate the thought," he says.

She grabs another pile off the bed, noticing a leather … item on the top of the bunch. There are black satin ties. And shiny chrome buckles. Maze must have left it behind.

His hand hovers over her wrist, close but not touching. "Detective, I wish to call Amenadiel."

"Seriously?" She tosses the leather whatever-it-is into the return-to-Maze bag that rests, propped open, by the wall. "You won't see your extremely qualified therapist, but you're willing to call your brother?"

Lucifer draws his hand away. "Any embarrassment will be worth it, I'm certain, if he can de-hex me immediately. This situation is intolerable."

She pauses, looking up. "You think an angel could de-hex you?"

"Well, I won't bloody know until I ask him, will I?" he huffs. "So—"

"Lucifer … Amenadiel is gone."

"I know that. That's why I wish to call him."

"No, Lucifer, I …." She's sinking. "He's missing."

"Missing," Lucifer parrots.

"I was really upset when you left." She launches herself away from the bed, but she can't pace. She can't move. The floor is covered in unsorted junk like a cluster bomb had gone off inside Goodwill. "I begged him to go after you. I begged him, Lucifer."

His fingers clench against the bedspread. "Why?"

"What the hell do you mean, why?" she says. "I love you."

"I only meant, what would have been the point in sending him after me?"

Oh. "He said it was silly for you to shoulder the burden of Hell alone."

"He"—Lucifer cocks his head to the side—"what?"

"As soon as I heard him even musing about it, I broke into pieces on him." Please, she'd cried. Please, Amenadiel, will you go? One blink with her burning eyes, and the room blurs a little. "I'm … I'm not proud of it." She holds up a hand as Lucifer starts to rise. "Don't comfort me."

He sits down. "I … I don't understand."

"What don't you understand?"

"Heard him musing about what?" Lucifer asks.

"He was going to offer to help you. Take … shifts with you or something. Or so he said. Except he went and never came back. He's been missing almost as long as you've been gone. I didn't think we'd ever see either of you again. Ever. And we didn't even know why."

"I … I don't remember," Lucifer says, his brow furrowing. "I don't bloody remember any of this. I don't even remember leaving."

She rubs her eyes. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"How you tasted," he confesses, giving her a sad look. "How I didn't want to go. Detective, I truly didn't want to, but—"

"I know," she says, sniffling. With a shivering breath, she drops back onto the bed, folding her arms across her chest like she's cold. "I know you thought you were protecting people. Protecting me. I admire the sentiment."

But she doesn't have to like the sentiment. She doesn't have to appreciate that, yet again, he employed unilateral decision-making, resulting in her abandonment. She doesn't have to excuse him for it, either.

He looks like he wants to throw up.

"Lucifer, I don't want you to take this next statement as an order, because it's not. It's not." She braces herself for another explosion. "But, please, please see Linda."

He doesn't explode. He doesn't even twitch. "Amenadiel really wanted to help me?"

"Of course he did," she murmurs. "You think he would have let you spend millennia in Hell alone while he traipsed around Scot-free and reaped the fruits of your labor?"

Lucifer stares at his knees. "Detective, you've just told the story of my life—with my entire bloody family, Amenadiel included—until I gave up trying to please them."

The swaying palm tree by her window creaks, the leaves soughing. A bird chirps nearby, shrill in the small, sunlit space. Her chest aches, and her face feels hot and scratchy.

"Please," Lucifer adds quietly, "allow me to pray to him?"

"I want you to pray to anyone whenever you want."

He folds his hands together and closes his eyes.

The minutes pass.

"Anything?" she asks when he lowers his hands.

"It's not like a phone, Detective. I've no ability to discern whether he's 'picked up,' so to speak, though I admit it is"—he grimaces—"a bit unusual for him not to answer immediately."

"Can I pray to him, too?" She feels silly for not having thought of the option before.

"Human prayers are a lot less distinct. He'd have to consciously tune into you to hear you."

She sniffs. "What, so humans are like gnats to you guys?"

"Well, it's not as though I designed the mechanics," Lucifer replies with a derisive snort, his fingers brushing his chest in a graceful who-me gesture. With a furtive, leading glance, he turns to face her. "This is so … constricting. I keep feeling as though I'm a breath away from strangling."

"Lucifer, I'm so sor—"

"Forget I said that, please," he's quick to say, holding up a hand. "I realize you're as much the victim in this situation as I am. When I told you I trust you, I meant it. You needn't apologize to me for every little flash of pain caused. This is"—he pauses, searching for words—"a learning process for us both."

"Always the truth," she whispers, remembering.

"Always, Detective." He reaches for her again, stopping just short of her shoulder. The heat of his skin soaks through her shirt. "I may … show frustration—perhaps worse—but I promise you, none of my ire over this situation is directed at you."

His offering of absolution is a balm. She sucks in a shaky breath, her lower lip trembling as her internal tsunami threatens again to break the dam. "Thank you, I … thanks." She'd needed that.

He nods.

Forget I said that, she'd rushed to tell him in the wake of creating a catch-22 for him. A desire that he be able to ignore her questions. A desire he couldn't fulfill. Forget, she commanded, and his response had been both sweeping and immediate. His whole personality is malleable right now, if she were to pick up a hammer and sculpt.

"Lucifer … is it possible you were compelled to forget?"

"Don't be silly."

"Is it silly? Who's to say Lilith, or whoever held you captive before, didn't intentionally command you to forget the experience?"

His face pales. "No."

"Lucifer …."

"No. That isn't—no."

The whip marks all over his skin haunt her mind. The knife wound. The brand. Without thinking, she grabs his palms and squeezes, but he flinches like she scalded him.

"Don't make me," he grits out, backing away until he almost hits the wall, and then he freezes in place. "Don't."

"I'm not gonna make you do anything," she rushes to assure him. "Lucifer, I wouldn't. Not without your okay, first. I mean, I was suggesting Linda, because—"

"I've no wish to see Doctor Linda," he snaps.

"But … what if—"

His lips pull back into an almost feral snarl.

She holds up her hands. "Okay. Okay, it's okay. I promise, it's okay." He grimaces like at first her words are hurting him, but then his panic seems to flow out of him like water through a sieve. "I swear, I'm not gonna make you do anything against your will. I'm not gonna tell you to remember if you don't want me to. It's okay."

He heaves a relaxed-sounding sigh and returns to the bed, but he stops short of her knee, short of the edge of the mattress, peering down with a peculiar, blank expression.

"Did I mess something up again?" she asks.

"You've prioritized my freedom of movement above all else, which I believe now renders my ability to pull away after you've touched me unassailable." He tries to touch the bedspread but stops short, hovering millimeters above it. "You do seem to have botched my ability to choose whether to initiate touch, though. I assume you'll fix it?"

She watches him idly run his palm along a pocket of air surrounding the bed. "You've been doing that with me, even before I messed it all up again."

"Your original command didn't allow me to touch people; only things. That's my speculation, anyway." He snickers. "Given I'm allowed to touch myself."

She feels a bit like she missed a memo somewhere.

"Double entendre intended, of course," he continues.

Which … how had he gone from panic … to this? Joking. Sniggering. In a manner of seconds? She laughs warily. Tension and angst successfully chopped out of the equation, at least. "Thanks."

His grin widens. "Always, Detective."

She rattles off a replacement for the touch command, this time adding the stipulation that she desires his ability to use/touch/consume whoever or whatever he chooses, even after he's subjected to touch he didn't choose. Success.

"Really, Detective?" he says, gaze glinting. "I can use or consume anyone?"

She rolls her eyes. "I don't think the compulsion gives a crap if it doesn't make sense as long as it's technically possible, and it saves me from having to—"

"Oh, I think it makes perfect sense, darling."

She makes a face. "Gross."

Which only seems to delight him more.

At least, she's getting the hang of this. Of the necessary prioritization and required wording to give him freedom without punishment.

They share a long, warm look. A subtle flash of tongue parts his lips as he licks them, the chasm between him and her shrinking by degrees. She clenches her fists against her thighs to keep from reaching across the bedspread to touch his knee. Or his face. Or anything.

"I'm sorry I pressured you," she says, the words dribbling out of her like spit from a bell-rung boxer.

"Oh, just bloody do it, will you?" he says out of the blue, his words blasé. "Command me to remember."

"Um." She blinks. "What?"

"Make me remember, Detective," he enunciates.

What. The hell.

"It's okay," he says, a strange, pinched expression on his face. "It seems a prudent tack, given the severity of this situation." He laughs, but the sound is more odd than mirthful. Like he isn't sure what's supposed to be funny. "Truth be told, I don't remember why I was bothered by the idea."

Warning bells ring like it's Sunday at church. "But—"

"Just do it."

"Lucifer, you're sure?"

"Yes, yes," he says, waving dismissively at her. "Bloody do it already, will you?"

Something isn't right. Something is not right.

"This is what you want?" she confirms.

"Of course, Detective."

O … kay, then. "Why?"

"As I have said," he answers through clenched teeth, his smile more a rictus of irritation than anything else, "it's a prudent tack. Now, will you do it, or will you deny me?"

Everything screams at her to refuse him. But what right does she have, exactly? "Lucifer, I want you to remember everything that's happened since we kissed on your balcony."

The birds chirp, and the wind blows, tickling the skin of her neck with cool fingers. He doesn't twitch, or moan, or convulse with yearning. His brow creases. And all he says is a baffled, "Hmm."

"Anything?"

"Nothing." He relaxes. "Not one bloody glimmer."

"Doesn't that mean you should be foaming at the mouth? Because you couldn't do what I wanted?"

"I've no idea."

Fuck. "Lucifer, what are we gonna do?"

"I feel like this is probably where I should suggest: 'each other.'" He sounds glum, though, not flirty or gleeful.

Not normal.

She braves the gap and bumps his shoulder with her own. "I'm here."

He doesn't reply. The warmth of his body presses closer, until the edge of his cheek rests against her head. He takes a long, slow breath, like he's scenting her.

"I'm not making you do that, somehow, am I?" she whispers.

"No, Detective."

She can't see his face, only his knee. His thigh. She doesn't dare move. Doesn't dare speak. Doesn't dare take the chance of doing anything to ruin an interaction he freely offered, despite everything.

"I'll see Linda," he admits softly.

"… You will?"

"If you're willing to ferry me there." He pulls away with a glum-sounding sigh, leaving her with a bereft, burgeoning ache beneath her sternum. "You're right, of course. It's a logical next step. And I truly can't remember why I …." His voice trails away. He's frowning again.

But she's unwilling to let this opportunity slip away beneath the crush of second thoughts. "I'll call her right now."

Chapter Text

The road rumbles under the car as they cross Wilshire. Cool fall air gusts through the open slits in the windows. The sunlight is muted, casting long afternoon shadows.

"What should we tell her?" Chloe asks, navigating around a cyclist.

Lucifer, beside her in the passenger seat, frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Linda," she clarifies. "Are we gonna mention the compulsion to her or …? What's the plan?"

"No."

"No?" She glances at him before returning her eyes to the road. "Just … no?"

"Detective, I've no wish for her to know."

"But … what if that affects the advice she gives? Not showing her the whole picture might—"

"No."

"Look, I don't want to pressure you, but I think—"

The sound of cracking plastic thunders into the space between them, and she flinches, the car jerking in the lane as she yanks on the wheel by accident. He's gripping the broken door handle with a trembling, squeezing fist. "Please. No."

His appeal is soft. Hopeless. Cowed. Like he'd gotten used to begging, only to be ignored.

The sound of him—so unlike the bold and dauntless man she knows—makes her heart twist. She forces herself to count to five in her head. To consider why they're going to Linda's in the first place.

He showed up in chains. The yellowed skeletons of bruises wrap around his neck and wrists like serpents. His free will had been stolen from him. He'd been strangled—whipped, stabbed, branded. Tortured. Possibly for millennia. Millennia, as in the length of his subjugation might have surpassed the age of Rome.

Of course he isn't eager to crow about his situation from the rooftops.

"Okay," she concedes, deflating. "Okay, we won't tell her. Not until you're ready. I promise."

His head thumps against the window. He hugs his midsection like he feels sick, but doesn't reply.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"I've no idea why I said yes to this."

She grips the wheel, fingers clenching. "Do you want to turn around? We don't have to go."

But instead of replying, he curls up his knees and pulls himself into a ball against the straining seatbelt—a feat for someone so tall in such a small space.

"Am I somehow making you do this?" she asks. When nothing but silence answers her, she tenses. "Lucifer, am I somehow making you do this?"

"No."

"Do you still have to lie to me when I won't like the real answer?"

"No."

She nods, but her worries continue to swirl. "Are you lying to me anyway?" she asks gently.

More silence.

"Lucifer?"

His disturbed, plaintive, "I don't know,"—truth—sends her spiraling into free fall, but ….

"Lucifer, if you didn't have to worry about what I want, what would you want to do?"

He has no answer for her but a faint shrug.

"You can say no to this," she assures him. "It's okay for you to say no. I want you to if you're uncomfortable with going."

But he shakes his head. "Drive, will you?"

"You're sure?"

"Drive," he repeats.

Something in her mind is screaming. But she can't in good conscience not take him. Not when he won't refuse, no matter how much she prods. Not when he's this damaged. Not when she's bankrupt for other ideas about making this better. The prospect of Linda being able to help is too strong a siren call.

Chloe drives on.

When Linda opens the front door, her hair is a wild blonde bird's nest, her blotched, tear-stained face bears no makeup, and she's wearing a terrycloth bathrobe covered in spit-up stains. She takes one look at Lucifer, who has a chance to doubtfully observe, "Doctor Linda?" before she grabs him, pulling him into a fierce hug.

He sucks in a sharp breath and doesn't let it out again, his arms slackening like deadweights by his side. Like some kind of startled play-dead-and-it-will-go-away response.

"Linda, what's wrong?" Chloe says, trying to intervene. "You can hug me if you want."

But Linda only scrunches tents of Lucifer's hoodie into her fists while she cries against his chest.

"Is it Charlie? What—"

"Please, let me go," Lucifer says, the words reedy and faint.

"Oh!" Linda warbles, pulling away. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry."

He sags against the doorframe like a tree overladen with snow.

"I'm sorry," Linda repeats. "I've just been thinking all weekend about—"

Charlie's sharp cry shatters the conversation. Desperation seeps into Linda's already haggard expression, but she squares herself and turns. "Mommy's here, baby," she calls, and she disappears into the back bedroom, leaving Lucifer and Chloe on the front stoop, the door hanging wide open, a steady breeze billowing through.

"Lucifer," Chloe asks, "are you o—"

He shakes his head before giving her a spasmodic little wave. Of course he probably wants a moment to collect himself.

"I'll help Linda, then," she tells him, and she jets inside.

A pervasive sense of wrongness about the house niggles in Chloe's gut. Something smells like rot, and she steps over a wet towel, which is lying in the hallway despite the floors being oak. "Linda?" she calls, a half-whisper, as she reaches the closed door at the end of the hall. Pantyhose hang from the doorknob. "Linda, are you okay?"

Linda doesn't answer, the sounds of her shushing the fussing baby filtering through the thick wood. Chloe knocks. "Linda?"

Nothing.

She waits twenty seconds and knocks again, then pushes aside the pantyhose to twist the knob.

Linda's bedroom is like a concentrated version of Chloe's, but with baby toys and clothes in the place of books, papers, and boxes. Linda sits on the edge of her mattress, bouncing Charlie on her knee. "It's okay," she says. "It's okay, baby." But the words sound more robotic than purposeful.

"Linda?" Chloe dodges the dirty pile of onesies forming a mountain at the foot of the bed. "Linda, hey, what's wrong?"

Linda stares with wet eyes like she's watching a funeral procession.

"Hey, talk to me," Chloe persists, sitting down beside her. An open orange pill bottle rests on the nightstand—label: alprazolam 0.25mg. More pill bottles litter the sink beyond in the master bathroom, and the pervasive sense of wrongness burgeons into blaring sirens. "Linda?"

Linda coos at the baby, kissing him, sniffling. "What if whatever happened to Lucifer happened to Amenadiel? What if he's in chains somewhere. H-hurt. I can't stop thinking about—"

"Linda, we don't know that," Chloe soothes. "We don't know anything. We can't make assumptions."

Linda meets Chloe's eyes, her expression an open wound. "It was better not having any idea at all."

"Have you been alone this whole weekend?"

"Maze didn't come home after Lucifer showed up. Said there was an emergency bounty. Didn't know when she'd be back."

Guilt coils. They'd relegated Linda to a backburner for Lucifer's sake. With Maze gone, Linda's primary support structure is gone, too. Chloe hadn't realized. She hadn't even thought. "Is your spare bedroom clean?"

"I … think so," Linda replies in a foggy tone. "Why?"

Chloe holds out her arms. "Why don't you give me Charlie and get some sleep? I'll pick up in here while you take a nap."

"Oh, Chloe, you don't have to do th—"

"Yes, I do."

"But Lucifer—"

"Can wait a bit." Or help. She wonders how badly he'd balk at doing laundry. "There's nothing more important than you right now, okay?"

Linda hugs the baby closer. "You … won't take him out of the house?"

"The farthest I'm going is the kitchen. I promise."

She slumps like someone cut her strings. "I'm so tired," she confesses, surrendering the wriggling baby. "I feel empty all the time. I thought it was getting better, but then Lucifer came back, and—"

"I know," Chloe says as she wraps her arms around Charlie, hugging him close. "I know. I've been there."

"You have?"

Chloe nods. The months after Trixie had been born—months that should have been joyful—are a gray, featureless blur in her head. She remembers Dan bringing her flowers, trying to cheer her up, but … at least she'd had Dan. Linda is alone now. "Hormones suck."

Linda laughs a little. "Yeah. They do."

"I'm sorry I haven't been here," Chloe says. Charlie squirms, and she shifts him to her shoulder, rubbing his back. "Linda, I'm so sorry."

Linda's smile is brittle. "We've all had our grief. And the Tribe nights have helped."

"Go sleep, Linda," Chloe assures her. "I've got Charlie."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Linda doesn't reply so much as sob before stumbling away.

Lucifer paces in the living room, back and forth, back and forth, his expression cut by the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones. If he were wearing his usual $10,000 ensemble, he would radiate Tyger, Tyger vibes. In Dan's flip-flops, a stained hoodie, and warmups, though, Lucifer seems like a disgruntled NBA player, which ruins the whole mystique.

"Doing okay?" she asks. When he pauses his frothing to quirk a disbelieving eyebrow at her, she's quick to amend herself to, "Relatively speaking, I mean."

"Ba!" Charlie blurts, pointing with tiny grasping fingers.

"That"—Lucifer fixates on the baby—"… Charlie?" A slight tremor of awe tinges his tone. The first undeniable proof that time has passed since their balcony kiss.

"Yeah." She laughs as Charlie babbles. "He got big, didn't he?"

"Well, he's certainly less smooshed than I recall." Lucifer shakes his head, staring. "You humans. You grow and change so bloody quickly, I …." He trails away into speechlessness.

"Wanna hold him?" Lucifer holds up his hands—not to reach but ward away—and steps back as though he's dodging a physical blow. She doesn't press. "Okay, well, will you help me with cleaning up Linda's bedroom, then?"

Dragging out the word, he says, "Why?"

"Because Linda needs help, you don't want to deal with the baby, and it's what friends do."

Curiosity sweeps out of his expression like pins at a bowling alley, smashed into the gutter by need. "I … I-I," he manages before gritting out, "what." He takes a hitching step toward the master bedroom.

Fuck. "I didn't mean—"

"Explain what you wish me to accomplish, will you?" he snaps. He grabs at the hoodie's drawstring, twisting the cord around his shaking fingers. "Before I bloody pop."

"But—"

"Please."

"Laundry," Chloe blurts in response to his desperation. "On the floor in Linda's bedroom. Go."

He takes another step, relaxing as he lets the compulsion sweep him in that direction. "Right, then." And off he stalks down the hall.

"Ba!" shouts the baby, pointing after him, bouncing on her hip.

Guilt is strangulating as she dashes after him. "Lucifer, I really didn't mean to—never mind the laundry!"

He wilts against the doorframe. "It's all right."

Not in any universe does she agree. "I only want you to clean if you want to clean."

"Detective, I do wish to help," he confesses, "or I'd've put up more of a fuss."

Oh.

He worriedly regards the door to the second bedroom. "Will she be … all right?"

"I hope—" No. "I'd like—" No. "I mean, it's possible." She sighs. "I should've checked on her more. I—"

"Well, you're here now," Lucifer says. "Let's make the most of it, shall we?"

"Ba!" says Charlie, bouncing again.

"You see? Even the child agrees."

Chloe snickers, jiggling her hand. Charlie's tiny fingers wrap around her thumb. "They don't talk yet, you know. He's a bit too young."

Lucifer shrugs, a flash of Jane-Goodall-patiently-observing-apes loitering in his expression. Of the many things that could in this situation, his what-a-strange-and-poorly-designed-species-you-are-I-shall-never-understand schtick ends up floating her nostalgia boat. Her insides clench in a good way, though she resists the urge to reply. To press closer. To just … talk. They haven't just talked yet, but … they've got a lot to do. Smiling, she cups Charlie's head and heads back to the living room with him.

Chloe gives Charlie a fresh bottle and a fresh diaper before depositing him into his swing. She picks up the plates and takeout containers that had been left around the house. The kitchen is a science experiment gone wrong enough to become its own ecosystem. She spreads wintergreen vapor rub under her nose from the little tube she always keeps in her pocket for masking dead-body smell, and gets to work. Dishes, microwave, fridge, countertops, oven, and floors later, she has a heaping pile of used, bleach-smelling rags and stuffed trash bags.

It's not until she glances at her watch and realizes two-and-a-half hours have evaporated that she wonders what the hell black hole Lucifer fell into. Checking on Charlie first, she heads back to Linda's bedroom, only to halt on the threshold.

The clothes that had been dumped on the floor in a heap now rest in crisply folded color-sorted stacks on the bed, which is perfectly made, complete with some flowery duvet Lucifer must have found in the linen closet. Vacuum tracks bar the rug, straight and meticulously spaced. The windows—so spotless the glass is invisible—let light plunge in bright diagonal shafts toward the floor. A fresh lemon scent tickles her nose.

Lucifer stands in the bathroom, wiping down the countertops with a rag and spritzer bottle. The marble surfaces and black tiles gleam, empty now of orange pill bottles. Not one smear of soap scum remains on the glass divider between the toilet and the walk-in shower. The whole place looks like a coked-out Donna Reed blew through.

"Whaaat," she says.

"Detective"—he glances at her—"yes, I wasn't certain how the Doctor prefers to organize her medicine cabinet, so I've alphabetized by categ—"

"You organized her medicine cabinet?"

He frowns. "Yes, Detective. By category and drug name. Do keep up."

"And you color sorted the laundry."

His brow wrinkles. "How else should I have done it?"

"And … and you vacuumed."

"I am not a heathen, you know," he scoffs. "How exactly did you think my penthouse stayed spotless?"

"Not a heathen …." Her voice trails away as she stares past his shoulder at the tidy room. "Lucifer, the lines in the rug are like factory-printed notebook paper."

"I fail to see your point."

"I … I just … I knew you were a bit of a neat freak, but—" His affronted expression only grows. "I guess I just figured you had a cleaning service."

"Well, you figured wrong, clearly," he grumbles, spritzing solution onto the counter. "I loathe dust, and I've yet to find a human who can see well enough to get it all. Blind as bats. All of you."

"You can see better than we can?"

"Of course I can," he retorts. "What do you take me for?"

She leans against the doorframe, unable to stop a smile from stretching across her face. "You," she says softly. "Just you." Her fastidious, favorite, perfectly flawed fallen angel. "Lucifer."

"Yes, well, I suppose you're one of the few humans who does," he admits as he scrubs at the soap dish.

And all at once, the fact that he's here bowls her over. That he's here now. Close enough to touch and smell and hear and see. Close enough for conversations about vacuuming methods, of all things, and—

"Oh, my God," Linda exclaims behind them, her words accented by the baby blowing spit bubbles. "Did you …? What did …? This is immaculate. I … I don't even know what to say."

"You could start with proper attribution," Lucifer huffs. "Dad couldn't care less whether your medicine cabinet is properly sorted."

"You really don't remember anything?" Linda says, wide-eyed, over the top of her steaming coffee mug. "For literally thousands of years, there's just … nothing."

"Or perhaps five months."

"If you weren't in Hell."

"Correct."

They sit in the living room once Charlie's down for his afternoon nap, Lucifer and Chloe beside each other on the couch, Linda in her wingback chair. With the windows open, a warm breeze billows through, carrying on its coattails the chirps of birds, the swish of distant traffic, and the chatter of children playing.

"Can angels get diseases? Disorders?" Linda asks. "Dementia, Alzheimer's, epilepsy, cancer, stroke, anything like that?"

"Of course not," Lucifer scoffs.

"You're sure?"

"Doctor, we are not the product of evolution. Flaws in our design didn't have the opportunity to develop over millions of iterations. God and Goddess birthed us, fully formed and physically perfect, from the Beginning. We cannot age, our bodies don't betray us, and we cannot be infected."

"Right. Right, that makes sense," Linda says, nodding along. "But … what about around Chloe?"

"What do you mean?" Chloe asks.

"Lucifer's vulnerable around you," Linda continues.

"Vulnerable, yes," Lucifer chimes in. "As in you can stab me with sharp objects. But I'm still a different species."

"Hmm. How sure are you about that?"

Lucifer glances sidelong at Chloe. "Doctor—"

"Amenadiel became human enough to procreate with me. How do you know you're not becoming human, too?"

"Because I've never even gotten a bloody cold!" he insists. "Despite the Detective's sticky-fingered little petri dish grabbing me at every opportunity."

Chloe grins sheepishly, thinking of all the plagues Trixie's brought home with her. "That's … true."

"So, we are probably talking about some kind of injury," Linda decides. "Either physical or psychological. Or possibly a bad drug interaction? Have you taken anything since you got back?"

"That presumes the Detective keeps anything interesting in her home," Lucifer says, "which I assure you, she does not."

"Lucifer," Linda scolds.

He sighs, deflating. "Only a bottle of scotch."

"And the dose of Tylenol I gave him when he was still out of it," Chloe adds.

Linda taps her pen against her steno pad. "And, really, you remember nothing?"

"Not a bloody thing, Doctor," confirms Lucifer.

"Nada," Linda continues, incredulous. "Zip. Zilch."

"Accurate, yes."

"That's …." She trails away.

Lucifer leans forward, the cushions squeaking as his weight shifts. "At the very least, intriguing on a professional level?"

"Well, it's," she hedges, "certainly the most profound case of amnesia I've ever run into, if we're really talking millennia."

"So, you'll help him?" Chloe says.

Linda takes a sip from her mug, nodding once more.

"Oh, thank God." Chloe sags against the back of the couch. "Linda, thank you. I am so out of my depth on this one."

Linda sets her coffee cup onto a floral ceramic coaster. "Cat, grasshopper, paperclip. Remember those words."

"Pardon?" says Lucifer.

"Just remember them," she says, rising from her chair to wind around the coffee table, stopping when she reaches Lucifer's elbow, propped on the arm of the couch. "Any headaches, dizziness, nausea, blurred vision?"

"I've had a constant headache since I arrived."

"Arrived as in at my house?"

"Arrived as in crashed to Earth, two days ago."

"But headaches could be stress, right?" Chloe interjects, unable to quell her worry. "Just stress? This is pretty—" Stressful. She catches herself just in time, wincing in Lucifer's direction. "Um."

"Hmm," Linda says as she raises a finger to Lucifer's face. His long legs bump into the coffee table as he scrambles backward. "Sorry. I didn't intend to startle you." She holds up her hands, palms facing him, in a gesture of surrender. "May I touch your face?"

Lucifer resettles like a flustered hen. "Very well."

His fists clench by his hips as she pulls down his lower eyelids to peer into his eyes. She tilts his head toward the sunlight. He doesn't squint, though he grimaces.

"Can you follow my finger?" Linda says, dragging her index finger through the dust-motes drifting in front of his face.

He humors her, his gaze chasing her hand left and right and up and down.

"Any tinnitus?" she continues. "Lightheadedness?"

"No, Doctor."

"Has he had any other memory issues that you've noticed?" Linda asks, glancing at Chloe. "Any confusion that doesn't match the situation? Misplacing things? Repeating something without realizing he's said it before?"

"No," Chloe says.

"Any stumbling? Mumbling? Trouble finding words for things? Balance issues? Anything that didn't seem right in context?"

"Nope."

"Okay." Linda lets his face go and steps back, her calves bumping into her coffee table. "What words did I tell you?"

Lucifer gives her a bored look. "Grasshopper, paperclip, and cat. Really, Doctor, what is this about?"

"Just checking your short-term memory." Linda sits down, worrying at the bridge of her nose under her glasses before grabbing her notepad to jot a few things down. "You had a noticeable reaction to me hugging you earlier," she says, her ballpoint pen making scratching noises as she writes. "And when I tried to touch your face."

"I'm well aware."

"Can you tell me how you felt when I hugged you?"

An awkward, barking laugh pops loose from him. "Say, have you any scotch?"

"In the cabinet." She points to a medium-sized booze cupboard along the back wall, and Lucifer scurries away like someone lit the couch on fire. Linda's discerning gaze follows him. "How would you characterize your current stress level?"

"On what bloody scale?" Lucifer snarks.

"Are you stressed about the fact you can't remember things?"

"Not really."

"Something else?" Linda prods. "Being here, perhaps?

A clinking noise and a liquid slosh punctuate the following silence as Lucifer pours himself a laden glassful of Glenlivet. Chloe's unsure if she should mention Lucifer had had a near panic attack that morning when Chloe had accidentally touched his back. Granted, that might have been about the compulsion stripping him of his ability to move, not being touched, but … no. She can't. She promised. If only the crushing sense of helplessness stomping on her psyche would shut up.

"Lucifer," Linda tries again, "can you try to put into words how you're feeling right now?"

He clutches his crystal tumbler like a shield, rocking in place with agitation. His gaze darts to the door, his troubled expression unreadable beyond the broad strokes of "disturbed."

"Would you feel more comfortable if Chloe stepped out?" Linda asks.

He kicks back the glass, taking a huge swallow. "No," he says, the word thready and wet.

"It's okay if you want me to leave," Chloe assures him. "I can go outside. I'll still be close."

"No," he repeats.

His desperation is like a bull caught in an arena, pawing the ground before, in the futile hope of self-preservation, it charges the fighter waving the flag.

"Okay. Okay," Linda soothes. "Let's just breathe for a moment. In and out."

The remaining liquid in Lucifer's glass sloshes as his upset energy flows down his arm, making his grip shake.

Chloe sits on her hands, trying to resist the urge to rise from the couch and close the distance between them. To wrap her arms around him. Instead, she murmurs, "I'm not going anywhere unless you ask me to."

He shudders as he tries to relax. His exhalation is almost a sob. Outside on the walk, a woman walks by pushing a stroller. Birds chirp. Leaves rustle in the wind. At last, he settles.

"So," Linda continues, watching him, "all I've got to go on are persistent headaches, a gaping chasm of retrograde amnesia, the violent circumstances of your arrival, generalized anxiety, and a seizure that may or may not be related to any of this."

"Oh, goody," Lucifer grumbles, staring miserably into his glass, "a puzzle."

"I'd like to send you to get an MRI first, before we do anything else," Linda says, sipping from her coffee, "and then I'd like to consult with one of my colleagues who's a neurosurgeon."

"… Why?"

"Because, Lucifer, as far as I can tell, my options here are dissociative amnesia or some other acute stress reaction, or some kind of subacute brain bleed. The latter is a ticking time bomb requiring immediate disarmament, and the former requires a much more cautious approach."

Chloe's insides swoop. "You really think it's a brain injury?"

"Oh, no. Probably not," Linda says, gaze tracing Lucifer's wending return path to the couch. "Sorry, I didn't mean to characterize that like it was a fifty-fifty thing. More like ninety-nine to one. Given everything you've told me, given what I'm seeing right now, given Lucifer's fantastic ability to heal from physical trauma, I do think it's likely that we're dealing with some form of stress reaction, but"—Lucifer settles beside Chloe again—"let's be safe, all right? Brain injuries aren't something to play around with, and I don't want this to be that one time."

"Should we go to the ER right now?" Chloe says. "For the MRI?"

"No, I want you to go to the place where I send my patients. I'll call in about the MRI after you leave. Emphasize the extreme need for discretion."

"Right. Right, okay."

"The ER's gonna be a mess on Sunday night anyway—you wouldn't be saving much time, given Lucifer's non-emergent presentation," Linda assures them. "But if you notice any increase in symptoms—headache, new memory problems, you name it—that is an emergency."

"And then we go to the ER?"

"Right." Linda writes an address and rips a piece of paper from her notebook, proffering it across the coffee table. "This is where I want you to go. It's an imaging center on Sepulveda."

"Can't we treat me for everything here, save me the trouble?" Lucifer says.

"No, because I'm not qualified to treat everything!" Linda exclaims, slamming her mug onto the coaster. "Treatment for a brain bleed likely involves drilling holes into your skull." Her notebook and pen cascade to the floor. "When will you people get I'm not that kind of doctor?"

Lucifer's eyebrows creep toward his hairline. "You … people?"

"Sorry." Linda slumps. "Sorry, that came out snappish. I'm sorry."

"I understand you're stressed, Doctor. You've my apologies for exacerbating your troubles. I was only—"

"You really don't remember what happened to Amenadiel?" Linda says in a tiny voice, her lower lip trembling. "Not even a g-glimmer?"

Lucifer tilts his head to the side, his expression equal parts crushed and embittered. "If I knew anything to put your mind at ease, I would tell you. I worry for my brother as well."

"Of course, I know you would," she says, sniffling. "And I know you do." Her red-rimmed eyes are stark in the warm light. Chloe grabs the tissue dispenser from the end table and extends it in Linda's direction. "Thank you. I-I … I didn't mean …."

"The last I recall of him," Lucifer continues, his voice low and honey rich, "we were at the Mayan, quelling demons to recover young Charlie. Truly, that's all I can bring to mind."

"I shouldn't have pressured you," Linda gasps, blowing her nose. "I just … I just miss him so much."

"Linda," Chloe begins, heart sinking, "do you have anyone else you could refer us to? Someone who might have … less of a personal stake?"

"Oh." Linda sniffs. "Oh, no." She crumples up the tissue with so much force her clutched fist shakes. "Oh, no, I'm helping. I want to help."

"Doctor, are you certain?" Lucifer asks.

"Mmm." She sniffs again, this time clearing her throat and taking a deep, cleansing breath. "Yes. I'm sorry." Another breath, in and out. Her composure resets, the only signs of its former disintegration being her blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes. "I won't mention Amenadiel again. That was unfair of me." She gazes at Lucifer with a steely, determined expression. "This is about you. And your memory loss."

"Doctor …."

"It'll give me something to do other than wallow, okay?" She takes one last fortifying breath before bending over to pick up her pen and notepad. "Now, can you tell me why you're reluctant to get your head scanned?"

Lucifer bristles. "I simply don't enjoy the idea of being probed and prodded by … by strangers."

Linda's brow creases. "More so than usual?"

He shifts like he's uncomfortable.

"Listen, I do want to help you," she continues with an intensifying frown, "but I want to be safe. Like I said, brain injuries aren't something to trifle with."

Lucifer knocks back the rest of his scotch in several gulps. "If you insist."

"I do insist." She recrosses her legs. "So, I'm gonna need you to get the MRI."

Lucifer looks like Chloe ordered him to key the side of his Corvette. With his free hand, he pushes his fingers through his hair. His teeth grit, and he seems to worry a little at the inside of his lip.

"The neurosurgeon you mentioned," Chloe says, hoping to offer him some assurances. "They're someone you trust?"

Linda nods, smiling faintly. "We've been friends since med school."

"And the imaging center?"

"I promise, they're very professional."

Lucifer glowers. "Yes, yes. Very well."

"We'll go in the morning," Chloe says. Hopefully before Lucifer can stew himself into another panic. He clutches the empty glass, fingers trembling. "I'll call in sick. But is there anything that might help him, regardless of what may have caused his amnesia? Something we can do right away?"

"Some of Doctor Linda's Xanax would be lovely," Lucifer says. At Chloe's flat look, he laughs nervously. "No?"

"The best recommendation I can give you right now is to reduce stress," Linda says, turning to Lucifer. "What do you think might help you do that?"

"You mean, other than the Xanax?"

"Lucifer."

He scowls. "Isn't it your job to tell me?"

"What do you normally do when you're tense?" Linda asks.

"Drugs," he says. "Have I not said that multiple times now?"

"Aside from drugs, Lucifer. I'm not against prescribing things, but I prefer pills to be a last resort, not a first one."

"But"—he clutches his thighs, running his palms along his pantlegs as he sways—"but I've no idea what—"

"Soak in a hot tub," Linda suggests, gesturing with her pen. "Play the piano. Take a yoga class. Get a massage. Read a book that's been on your list. Pamper yourself."

He darkens. "Doctor, I cannot do those things."

"Why?"

"Because," he pushes through his teeth, "I can't."

"We could go to the bookstore," Chloe offers brightly. "I don't mind. Oh, and I just got some new bubble bath."

"That sounds perfect," says Linda.

"But," Lucifer says, the word lost without a map as his gaze shifts into the middle distance, "if I'm idle, I turn inward, and—" He blinks, and his eyes are wet like they'll overflow.

"Oh," Chloe says, heart constricting. "Oh, Lucifer."

"Doctor, I … I …." He rubs his face, the edges of his index fingers glistening as they siphon unshed tears away. "I require something … busier."

"Then all I can suggest is to keep things as normal as possible," Linda says. "And get plenty of sleep."

"But normal for me," Lucifer grits out, "is Hell, which is also not currently an option."

"How long until it's an option again?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you plan to go back?" Linda clarifies.

Chloe's stomach plummets when all Lucifer can mutter is, "Well, I've no desire to, but …." He twists and turns the empty glass in his grip. "I like it here."

"I know you do," Linda says with a sympathetic look. "I know from our talks you consider LA to be your home."

"I do," he says. His wistfulness burns like wildfire. "It is my home. The home I desire, at any rate."

"Lucifer," Chloe murmurs, "you don't have to go back to Hell. We can figure out another way. I know we can, if we just talk—"

"I can't," he snaps, the words strangled.

"I only meant if you want to!"

He takes a tight, raspy breath, not looking at Chloe, before continuing in a more measured but still wobbling tone, "I cannot return to Hell until this amnesia sitch is resolved, regardless." Chloe sinks down in her seat, swallowing back her upset. "So, what else would you suggest, Doctor?"

"Re-establish your routine here on Earth," Linda says.

"Lux isn't an option right now, either. It's … complicated."

"Well, what do you think about going back to work? Solve cases. That's busy." She glances at Chloe. "Assuming it's okay with you, of course."

"Of course it is," Chloe replies. She's yet to be reassigned a partner, thanks to LAPD's chronic understaffing, and Pierce's replacement is no stranger to Lucifer, neither his antics nor the unprecedented solve-rate he and Chloe have together. "I'm sure the lieutenant would be thrilled, actually."

"Getting out, not stewing on the problem, or worrying about the future, is a great way to reduce stress." Linda gives a wry glance to her bleach-scented surroundings. "Yes, I'm aware of the unfortunate irony. But be in the moment. Establish a safe space." She smiles. "Have fun."

"I … did enjoy our work," Lucifer admits.

"Well, there you go."

"I suppose. It would be nice to continue for"—he glances at Chloe, his expression a tangled whorl of emotions she can't quite read—"well, for a time."

"Consider this your perfect excuse, then. Doctor sanctioned, even," Linda says, still grinning.

"Yes." He seems … almost torn between frustration and relief.

Frustration that after he's moved on, he's being pulled backward. Relief that after he's moved on, he's being pulled backward. Hope floods in, where before Chloe had been resigned. Crisis aside, this might be her chance. The chance she hadn't gotten before to inject her side of things into his point of view. To make him consider possibilities for their future that don't revolve around him abandoning her again. To tip his pendulum firmly toward relief. To have a say.

He's literally her captive audience.

Meanwhile, Lucifer keeps futzing with the scotch glass, eyeballing the table. On disturbed hunch, Chloe leans toward the lamp where the coasters are stacked, far away from his direct line of sight. She grabs a coaster identical to the one Linda is using for her coffee mug, and places it onto the table by Lucifer's knee, tapping it with her index finger. He drapes forward to set down the empty glass.

So, he can use items, touch items, and consume items. He probably has some wiggle room to do things like sort Linda's medicine cabinet when he's under the umbrella of fulfilling another desire, like "cleanliness." But Chloe needs to add options for him to move or discard items, too. She wonders if the reason he hasn't showered or changed clothes today is because he's not able to discard said clothes without some interesting "task" gymnastics. Gymnastics he hasn't figured out yet, such as "using" the hamper hidden in her master closet.

"I wonder if the scan will show something different," Linda muses, oblivious, as she sips her coffee.

"Different?" Chloe asks.

"Well, like we've discussed, Lucifer's not human." Linda's attention shifts to Lucifer. "You look human, but … you've got wings." Her lips contort, scrunching up her face. "How are they attached to you? Extra bones? Sockets?" Her eyes widen. "Is your skeleton hollow like a bird's? Do you even have the same internal organs as a person?"

"Doctor, is this your way of officially ascertaining whether I've a brain?" Lucifer says tiredly.

"No, no, I'm just"—she shakes her head—"I've never really thought about this before. It's … it's fascinating."

"Yes, well." Lucifer sighs. "As fascinating as I am, the truth is, I've no idea."

"Really?"

"I've not exactly been provided with an opportunity to inspect my own viscera before," he counters, sounding a bit defensive. "Divine, remember?" He pats his chest. "Immortal. Invulnerable." His eyebrows creep upward when neither Linda or Chloe respond. "Not ringing a bell?"

"Didn't they scan your shoulder when you got stabbed?" Chloe asks.

"Yes, I didn't actually go to the hospital after that," he replies breezily.

"What?"

"Charmed the EMTs," he says, directing a woeful glance at his empty scotch glass. With a sigh, he snatches it off the coaster and returns to the liquor cabinet for another generous pour. "They dropped me off at my house in the Hills."

"What about when you got shot?"

"Which time?"

She blinks. "You almost died …."

"Detective, I still need more specificity than that," he says, stalking back to the couch. "Though I suppose that eliminates the confrontation with Malcolm, since there was no almost dying with that one."

"With … with Leona Franklin?" she prods. "The bomb at Lux?"

"Oh, yes, that," he says with a shrug. Like that was a white shirt, turned pink in his laundry, nothing dire. "Charmed the EMTs. They dropped me and Eve off at my house in the Hills." He tilts his head. "I say, this is becoming a bit of a trend, isn't it? Hadn't noticed before."

"Did you," Chloe says, trying not to sound too baffled, "keep a first-aid kit there or something?"

"I liked the view. It was lovely for recuperating." He stares into space, pensive. "I do hope Simon sold it to a deserving soul rather than some nameless developer hoping to launder money."

"Huh," Chloe says. She glances at Linda, who can only make a beats-the-hell-outta-me face in response. "Well." Chloe checks her watch. "Dan is due back with Trixie soon. Thank you so much, Linda."

"No," Linda replies. "No, thank you. Thank both of you. Truly. Your help today meant a lot." A soft, bubbly laugh effervesces from her lips. "My house is clean. I forgot how nice it feels."

"I'm glad to help. I'm sorry I wasn't here soon—"

"Don't." Linda squeezes Chloe's wrist.

Chloe swallows, silenced.

"May I?" Lucifer says, holding out his hand.

With a frown, Linda gives him her notebook, which is covered in illegible blue-ink scrawl. Careful to avoid any of Linda's notes, he writes with his impeccable script a name—Analise—followed by a phone number. "Call that number," he explains, tapping the paper where he wrote. "Tell her Lucifer referred you, and that I'll consider our bargain fulfilled if she fits you into her schedule on a weekly basis for the foreseeable future. Tell her to call the Detective if she needs confirmation from me—I've no cellphone at the moment, and that's where I'm staying."

"Who is this?" Linda asks.

"A cleaner. Usually for far less scrupulous dealings than fixing up the cluttered duplex of a busy mother, but I'm certain she'd love a wholesome change of pace."

"Lucifer, I …." Linda clutches the notebook with a sniff. "Do I owe you?"

"Preposterous." He scoffs, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "Now, shall we go? The traffic in this bloody town is Hell." He doesn't wait for Chloe to answer, instead, dashing onto the front walk as if the bleach fumes inside Linda's house are angel kryptonite.

"Listen," Linda murmurs, touching Chloe's shoulder as they amble after him. "Tread lightly with him, okay? Keep his stress levels low. If this truly is dissociative amnesia, that means he doesn't remember because he doesn't want to. It's a psychological defense mechanism—walls he's put up, essentially—to prevent him from having to confront feelings or events he doesn't feel able to confront. I'm frankly surprised you got him to come here."

"He didn't want to. He only caved when he found out Amenadiel was missing."

Linda nods. "Some gentle external stress is good. Needed, even, to prevent stagnation in cases like this. Just don't overdo it."

"Linda, he's …." What threatened to be a gushing, stressed confession dies on Chloe's lips as she watches over Linda's shoulder, across the lawn, as Lucifer climbs into the passenger side of her car. He tips onto his side, curling away from them, again somehow filling very little space despite his stature. Her chest tightens, seeing that, and she can't. She just can't. Betraying his trust won't help anything. "I'll try not to. Thanks."

Chapter Text

Traffic on Venice Boulevard is bumper to bumper, thanks to a gruesome accident ahead involving a flipped car, but it's too late to escape vehicular quicksand. She's committed. "Will you tell me about Constantine?" she asks.

"Why?" Lucifer replies, bristling.

"Now that we've got most of the immediate fires dealt with, I'd like to find the guy you think can free you. John, was it?"

"Don't be silly. Maze will deal with it."

"Maze might be amazing, but she's only one person."

"Demon," he corrects.

"Demon," Chloe amends, biting back on a sudden swell of irritation. "Regardless, the world's plenty big enough for two of us to be looking, so …?"

"So, what?"

"Why are you dodging my questions?"

"Am I?"

Her annoyance spills into a sigh. "I'm not gonna force you, but, Lucifer, come on. I'm a cop. I'm in a pretty good position to help."

He grips the seatbelt over his chest, running his fingers idly—nervously?—up and down the nylon. "I … would prefer you not to associate with him."

"Who said anything about associating with him? I'm just talking about finding him."

"Yes, well."

His gaze tips toward the vehicle driving next to them on his side. The driver is staring more into her rearview mirror than at the road, her car inching slowly forward as she applies a thick coat of mascara. Chloe doesn't have any citation paperwork with her, but she honks a little, leaning across Lucifer to hold her badge up to the window. The woman, bug-eyed, drops the mascara applicator like it burned her. Chloe gives her a thumbs up and a polite smile.

"Is he evil or something?" Chloe says, returning her attention to Lucifer. "Is he gonna zap me with his evil warlock powers? Am I out of my weight class?"

Lucifer opens his mouth as though he's about to slingshot into diatribe mode, but he stops himself with a hitching, unspoken syllable. "No. He's not evil. He wouldn't attack you without reason."

"Is looking for him 'reason' enough?"

"No."

"So, what's the problem?"

A pregnant pause fills the car. "The short answer is history, I suppose."

"Well, how about the long answer, then, because"—she winces when she hears herself, demanding—"sorry. Sorry, I'm not trying to grill you, or force you, or. Sorry." Fuck.

"Did I not say to stop apologizing?" he replies testily.

She grinds her teeth. "Why not start with a description?" she tries. "I promise to keep you in the loop on the search." When he still seems reluctant, she presses onward. "Lucifer, I just want to help. I want to help get you out of this, like I promised. I mean. If you want me to."

"He's," Lucifer says, his face screwing up like he already regrets elaborating, "shorter than me."

"How much shorter?"

"Five inches or so."

"So, like, five foot nine? Five foot ten?" When he nods, she continues, "What else?"

"Blond hair, usually, unless he's in a mood."

"Platinum blond? Dirty blond?"

He sighs, letting the seatbelt go to slap against his sternum. "Honey blond. Brown eyes. Lean build. British accent. White skin. Terrible fashion sense. Is that all?"

"Is he a British citizen?" she asks.

"I believe so."

"Is that where he lives? Great Britain?"

"He was based in Georgia, last I knew."

"State or country?"

"State. Atlanta, specifically."

She ponders that as she hits her right turn signal to inch in front of Mascara Lady, who seems ecstatic the cop is moving onward, and readily lets her in. A welcomed merge. That's a first for Los Angeles.

"If he's not American, he might have some kind of visa to be here," Chloe muses. "I have a friend at the State Department who—"

Lucifer scoffs. "Detective, his papers are as legitimate as mine were. The State Department won't know a bloody thing."

Oh. Well, shit. "Does he have any aliases?"

"None that I'm aware of."

"Okay," Chloe says with a nod. "That's a start, I guess. I'll see what I can do. Thanks."

"Of course."

They drive on.

Thanks to the accident, Chloe and Lucifer beat Dan home by less than ten minutes.

"What the fuck?" Dan says, not even making it across the threshold before he fixates on Lucifer, who's sitting on the couch in the distant living room.

"Swearing makes people feel bad," Trixie chides, pushing past them.

"What is he doing here?" Dan points—flails?—at Lucifer. "When did this happen?" A blink. "Wait, is that my sweatshirt?"

"Daniel, how are you?" Lucifer calls over the edge of Chloe's iPad, his dark eyes wary and calculating. He nods at Trixie. "Offspring."

"What the fudge!"

Trixie tugs on Chloe's shirt. "Mom, can I go to my room?"

"Of course, babe," Chloe replies.

Trixie heads down the hall, eyeing Lucifer before veering left, only to halt. "Where'd all my artwork go?" she asks, making a face at the scorched, bald paint on the walls. "It looks like someone burned—"

"We'll talk in a minute, Monkey," Chloe says in a rush, "after Dad leaves, okay?"

"Whatever." Trixie gives Lucifer a final discerning frown before sliding shut her bedroom door.

Dan folds his arms. "Explain. Now. Ten words or less."

Where to even begin. Chloe hopes, just hopes, he doesn't walk far enough inside the house to lay eyes on the obliterated kitchen—he might have a stroke. Luckily, Trixie had been too fixated on Lucifer and her missing pictures to notice.

Lucifer rises from the couch. "Daniel, really I—"

"I'm not talking to you," Dan snaps. He leans closer to Chloe, looming. "Well?"

"Lucifer is back," she hazards, looking up at him. "He … needs help?"

Dan rolls his eyes. “Of course he does. Chloe, are you crazy? You do remember he left you again, right?"

"Dan—"

"He left you. Again. This time for more than two weeks."

"Why must people persist in talking of me as though I'm not standing right here?" Lucifer interjects behind Chloe's shoulder.

"Dude"—Dan affords Lucifer a brief glare—"if that's the part of this conversation that bothers you—"

"Lucifer, will you excuse us?" she interrupts through gritted teeth.

"Sending me to my room, are we?" Lucifer challenges.

She turns to him, flinching when she realizes how close he's drifted, almost turning her into the squished filling of a Dan-Lucifer manwich. Somewhere behind her left eye, a muscle spasms. A diffuse ache blooms inside her skull.

"I …." But under pressure, she can't figure out how to phrase asking Lucifer to give them privacy in a way he might take halfway well. Instead, she offers him a pleading look, then grabs Dan by the hand, urging him onto the stoop with her, and pulls the door closed.

Lucifer's consternated, "But, Detective!" chases after them, muffled through the sun-cracked wood, and she realizes she may have exchanged a stinging comment for an unequivocal command. A door closed in one's face is a pretty clearly expressed desire.

Dan doesn't give her a chance to dwell, though. "So, what the hell is going on?" he says. "And don't just tell me he needs help."

"But he does need help," she replies.

"With what? What can he possibly—"

"He's sick! Something happened to him. No idea what. And you know him—he doesn't have anyone."

"He has whoever the fuck he wants, Chloe. That's the whole fucking problem."

"He's sick," she repeats, trying to stay calm, "and he's homeless right now. I'd like to think even you would help him if he asked."

"I assure you; I would not!" Lucifer protests through the window, which is cracked open for the breeze.

Dan glares at the sill. Chloe clutches the arm of his jacket, pulling him down the walk, out of sight of her unit.

"This is a mistake," he insists. "A huge mistake, Chlo. I don't want to see you spend another five months drifting around in a fucking stupor because of that guy!"

"I wasn't in a stupor!"

"Okay." Agitated, he pulls his fingers through his hair. "Okay, a poor choice of words, but you weren't you, either." He puts a hand on her shoulder. "Chloe, you weren't you."

She can't refute him.

He points a stress-gnarled finger toward her apartment. "He did that to you. He did. And, now, you've let him back in, because, what, he needs a fucking nurse and told you some sob story to get you to pity him?"

"It's not like that."

"Well, tell me what it's fucking like, because I don't—"

"He didn't leave because he wanted to!"

"That's bullshit. Everybody has a choice, Chloe."

"People could have died," she insists. "He's lost everything trying to protect us—yes, even you—and maybe I'm pissed about his methods, but …." A fire burns in her gut, simmering, only for someone to dump grease onto it. "No, I'm not 'maybe' pissed," she adds, putting the word maybe into air quotes. "I'm furious at him. He left me without even giving me the option to … to …." She shakes her head. "I don't know. But this isn't a case of me falling into his arms to fawn over him, which I have never done, I'll have you know, and, and"—something in her chest expands like the heated air trapped inside a piston—"and you know, I'm actually really insulted you would insinuate such a thing."

Dan blinks like she reached out and smacked him. "Chloe, I—"

"What I am right now is sad, and conflicted, and angry, and tired, not fawning," she says, steamrolling any of his obligate apologies before she can lose her momentum, "but I love him, and he needs my help, so, I'm gonna fucking help him. Got it?"

"Yeah," Dan says, deflating. "Yeah, Chloe. I got it."

"In fact, I'm bringing him to work on Tuesday," she says, emboldened. "So, suck it up and deal. I'm not interested in more of your misplaced blame game. He didn't kill Charlotte—"

"I know."

"—and he didn't leave you. He left me. How I cope with that is my choice. Not yours." Her choppy exhalations fill the quiet as she catches her breath. The muscle spasming behind her eye feels like it's doing the cha cha, at this point. She rubs her eyes.

"You're right," he says at last, looking at his feet. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," she huffs.

"I just …." His expression turns regretful. "I don't want you to get hurt again."

"I know," she admits, softening. "And I love you for that. I do. But …."

He gives her a wry look. "Turn it down a few notches?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that would be a great start."

"Okay." He directs a doubtful gaze at her apartment but doesn't comment any further on its occupants. "Did you say you're bringing him to work on Tuesday?" She opens her mouth to reply, but he holds up his hands, palms flat, facing her, in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not bitching—I swear—I'm only wondering what happened to Monday."

"I'm taking him to get an MRI tomorrow."

"Oh," is all Dan says, like it's just now sinking in what she said. That Lucifer is sick. And she didn't remotely mean he has a cold. "I …." His lower lip twitches. "I'm … sure he'll be fine."

"Yeah, well," she grumbles, "try not to cheer if he isn't, okay?"

"I don't want the guy sick, Chloe. I just don't want him here."

"I know." She gives Dan's bicep a reassuring rub. "So, I'll see you in a week?"

"You're sure you're okay for me to go?" he says, sounding apprehensive.

She grins, squeezing his arm. "I'm fine, Dan. Really. Go visit your mom."

Lucifer's standing just inside the door, staring into space like he blue-screened-of-death, and she can only imagine how he must feel. He's strong enough to stop an SUV barehanded, with nothing more than a light pole for leverage. Yet, now, he's stymied by a wooden door.

"I'm sorry," she says as he backs off the threshold, allowing her through. She's quick to retrieve her iPad and recite the freedom of interaction command, this time adding options to move and discard things.

She wishes she could figure out a way to keep that one from canceling so often. But the more ifs, ands, thens, and maybes Lucifer has to follow, the more likely they'll run into a semantical catch-22 they can't navigate around. The more likely Lucifer will be tortured. There's a balance to be achieved between preemptive permanent freedoms and simply granting him one-offs as needed. Yet the idea of stifling him intentionally, even in hopes of causing him less pain … nauseates her like the stench of rotten eggs.

The muscle spasms behind her eyeball again. The iPad is cold and heavy in her hands.

"I think I'm done for the night," she confesses, inching toward Trixie's door. "Do you need anything before I get ready for bed?"

He doesn't speak. Or move.

"What's wrong?" she says, frowning at him. "Are you stuck?"

He blinks, reanimating. "Oh. No." As if to demonstrate—test?—his freedom, he reaches for the doorknob to reveal her darkening stoop. Bugs zig and zag in a cluster around the front light, like skaters at the roller derby. He shuts the door again before more than a few of them can encroach beyond her threshold. The deadbolt thunks when he engages the lock. "All fixed."

"Then … what's wrong?"

"I'd"—his dark eyes pinch at the edges—"I'd no idea my absence would cause so much"—he shrugs, looking down at his feet—"well, so much misery."

A familiar ache like frostbite—when he stood her up for dinner, when he left, when he returned with Candy, when he left again—burns her heart. "You heard me and Dan? Even when we were down the walk?"

"I wasn't eavesdropping," he says, bristling. "I only heard your tone."

"But you could eavesdrop at that distance? If you wanted?"

"It doesn't bloody matter what I wanted," he snaps. "You commanded me not to."

When she'd walked away from his through-the-window commentary, maybe? She clenches her fingers, nails digging into her palms like bladed crescents.

"Regardless, I am the Devil," Lucifer continues with a scoff. "When I'm not distracting myself, I can hear everything between here and the stoplight."

She gapes. "But … that's three blocks away."

"Blame Dad, not me."

"I am not blame—" She clacks her jaw shut, halting her would-be explosion, and counts to five in her head. The ache waxes and wanes, constricts and releases and constricts again. "Sorry, just … still wrapping my head around some of this, I guess."

"Yes, well." He sighs and looks away. The purple bags hugging his eyes seem almost like bruises in the darkened hallway. An unseen weight bows his shoulders. His tone is brittle when he adds, "I suppose that's the theme of the day."

"Yeah."

"Seeing you in the aftermath," he laments, continuing, "seeing the Doctor, Amenadiel being gone, even the child, I …."

"What about Charlie?"

"Not Linda's child," he replies, new stress flooding into his words. "Beatrice. She didn't assault me when she arrived." He directs a wary glance at Trixie's scorched bedroom door. "And now she's hiding. Which I can only assume is to do with me as well, seeing as how I seem to have sown emotional destruction everywhere else."

"She probably didn't want to hear me and Dan fighting."

"Then why was she looking at me the whole bloody time?"

"I don't know. I'll talk to her." Chloe scrunches her fingers against her scalp, trying to count internally to five again. But her head is pounding, and the gelid ache of his cluelessness is too familiar, too cutting. Too much like a knife, twisting in her chest until she screams. "Lucifer, did you honestly think your absence wasn't gonna cause pain?"

He gives her a conflicted look. Like he knows. He knows what he's about to say is the wrong answer. But he admits, "I suppose I did think that," anyway.

"Well, you shouldn't have!" she exclaims.

"Detective, I—"

"Your life affects mine. Just like mine affects yours. That's what love is. You have friends here. You can't just"—balling her fists close to her chest, she shakes her hands and the iPad at him, trying to stave off the sudden tempest of hurt—"you can't just do things!"

"My regard for you was why I left!" he snaps back at her. "Why I prefer a world with you in it—all of you—and had I stayed, you wouldn't be here." He gestures at her apartment, expression blazing. "None of this would be here. What part of 'apocalyptical scenario' isn't sinking in for you?"

"You don't know that would have happened," she counters. "You're not omniscient. You're not even all that intuitive if you thought I wouldn't miss you. You don't know!"

He bares his teeth with a gusty exhalation. "And you don't know Hell," he says, his voice deep and midnight dark. "Or any of its denizens."

The Devil turns on his heels.

Fuck. "Lucifer, wait." She reaches for him. "Wait, that wasn't fair of me to call you unintuitive for—" Her fingers brush his shoulder. His body feels like hot, unbending iron as he ricochets away from her.

"Do not touch me!" he booms, making the lamps shake.

She holds up her hands. "Lucifer, I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated. And tired. And heartsick. But that's no excuse to be mean to you. Please, don't walk away. We shouldn't go to bed mad." So much for reducing his stress. Jesus.

His choppy, pained breathing makes him sound like he's close to crying, but when he turns to look at her, his irises glow crimson, his lips stretched around a rictus of clenched teeth. Her heartbeat explodes in her ears. Her insides drop into the floor. She skips back a step, but—no. No, no, no. She won't let an instinctive flight urge turn her into a gibbering wreck. That would be just what they fucking need, for her to launch him into another self-hating spiral of I'm-a-monster.

"What?" she demands, folding her arms. "Are you trying to scare me? Newsflash: it won't work. Because I'm not scared of you, Lucifer."

Only for an anguished little non-word to coil in his throat. He exhales, his distress spilling out of him like his last breath. The hellfire fades from his eyes. "You're right, of course." And then he wraps her in his arms and murmurs, "I forgive you, darling," before kissing the top of her head. "Now, let's get you to b—"

She shoves him away. "Get off me. Get off!"

He backs up with a quizzical, entirely-too-calm look. "Apologies. I'd no intention to distress you. Are you all right?"

Oh. Oh, no. No way. This can't be— "Never mind," she tries.

He steps closer, raising his arms as though he means to embrace her again.

"No!" she snaps, backing up another step, and he freezes.

Trembling, she closes her eyes, feeling like their house of cards just came crashing down. "Lucifer, I don't ever want you to forgive me unless you want to forgive me."

"Of course I'd want to forgive you," he says, still too calm.

"Please, disregard my previous apology," she adds. "I … please. I want you to think and feel for yourself."

She can tell the moment he realizes what the fuck just happened. His lips flatten into a tight, thin line.

"I always want you to think and feel for yourself," she adds, "even more than I want you to have freedom of movement."

His punishment is immediate, his anger funneling into a needing, awful moan that covers her skin in a swath of goosebumps.

"Never mind!" she rushes to say as he convulses with the strain. "God, damn it!"

The sound of his tired, raspy panting reverberates in her brain like a freight train running her over, and she can't breathe. She can't breathe. She barely withholds a shout as she grabs a pillow off the couch and throws it at the wall. God, damn it, God, damn it, God, damn it!

"It's all right, darling," he murmurs behind her. "Everything will be—"

"I don't need," she says, accenting the last word with another pillow toss, "or want you"—toss—"to reassure me"—toss—"just because I'm throwing things!" Toss. "I want you. To think. And feel. For yourself." When she runs out of pillows, she gulps down air. Again. Again.

The awful return of silence tells her everything she needs to know. She pinches the bridge of her nose with a shaky hand, rubbing, trying to stop the spasming muscles behind her eye from exploding into some kind of migraine. "Every time I apologize to you," she grits out, "I've been commanding you to forgive me? Every time? That's why you haven't been mad at me? That's why you trust me? Because I made you?"

At first, he says nothing. The room feels like it's spinning.

"Did I make you love me?" she whispers in a tiny, choking voice. "Did I …? When I said …."

"No," he admits, a bare mumble. "My regard for you is my own."

She peers at him suspiciously. But he doesn't seem to be in that weird dreamy state anymore. He seems to have his wits.

"Is it?" she prods. "I mean … how do you even know?"

He shifts from foot to foot like he has no idea what to do with the sudden roller coaster of upset energy corkscrewing through his system. "When you force me to feel something, there's a drag on my"—he grimaces—"on everything. That needing. It lasts until I give in, and then it's …." His lower lip quivers. "Chloe, it's like dying. Like slipping into an undertow. I notice when it happens. That's retained, even when I lose all concept of what's slipped away."

"And it … didn't happen before?"

"It has," he admits, and the revelation is like an ice bucket challenge, dousing her, "but not when you've apologized. I believe the compulsion has no effect when you desire something already true."

Somehow, that's not a relief. She winces as new perspective slides in like a stage hand sneaking along the back curtain in a play. "This afternoon. Before we went to Linda's. You were—"

"Yes," he admits, looking at the ground. His jaw clenches and unclenches and clenches again. "I've no idea why I didn't want to see her. I don't understand why I didn't want you to make me remember. Both were strategically appropriate moves. And, yet …." He looses a baffled, unhappy laugh. The disquiet in his dark eyes hurts her to her core.

"How did I make you forget?"

"I've no idea!" he says tightly. "The whole bloody morning is a muddle …."

Which would fit with how panicked he'd been. She rakes her mind, trying to pinpoint the moment he was suddenly okay after being so very not, but … she can't. "Should I tell you to remember your old feelings?"

"Detective, I don't know," he says through gritted teeth. "My gut tells me no. That to do so would be counterproductive. But, truly, I've no idea what's better anymore, because my whole bloody perspective has been"—he gesticulates—"been lobotomized."

"And every time I tell you, 'never mind,' you feel like this, too? Like you're dying? Or … or having pieces cut out?"

He gives her a stressed, unhappy look. "Detective, by the time you're telling me to 'never mind' something, I want to die, or I'm already dead."

Her stomach drops all over again. "Any desire I express makes you feel that way?"

"Only the ones that affect my thoughts, rather than my physical actions. And I doubt you'll be able to come up with a way to safeguard my bloody brain. By definition, the compulsion ensures that I'm"—his lip curls in disgust—"malleable for you."

She cups a hand over her mouth, not sure what to say. Or do. Or feel. Nausea coils.

"Detective, I'm … quite tired," he admits.

"No. No, wait. There has to be a way to fix this."

The defeated look he gives her breaks her into pieces. "Lucifer, I want you to choose whether to forgive me more than I want to be forgiven," she dictates into the iPad. He sighs—the sound is clipped and tiny and demoralized—but he says nothing. "I want you to choose whether you love or like me more than I want you to actually love or like me. I want you to choose whether you believe me more than I want you to actually believe me. I want you to choose whether to comfort or reassure me more than I want to be comforted or reassured. And I want you to choose whether you agree with me more than I want you to kowtow. Always."

"That may help for those specific scenarios," he says, "but what happens when—"

"It's better than what we had before!"

He deigns to nod. "True, I suppose."

"I know it's not much consolation."

The floor creaks as his weight shifts. He regards her with sharp, unclouded eyes, holding her gaze without blinking for so long his otherworldly countenance skydives him into Uncanny Valley. "Detective, my consolation in all of this is you. You are the only reason I haven't gone bloody well berserk already. I've … faith in you."

Faith.

In her.

"Oh." Her chest aches. She sucks in a breath, unable to stop the deluge. "Oh."

The space between them might as well be a canyon. He closes his eyes, breaths gusting, temples bulging as his jaw clenches. Like he's closer to going berserk than he wants to admit. Stalking to the patio door, he retreats into the night, where he sinks to his knees by the corner of the fence, curling up like a scared rat in a cage. The dim light cast by the living room emphasizes how pale he is. Outlines his trembling. He's not at all like the blustering full-of-swagger man she'd met four years ago. None of this is natural.

The muscle behind her eye jumps again.

She looks away.

Trixie is curled in a tiny ball, her pillow clutched over her head, Dan's expensive headphones cupped over her ears like earmuffs. Chloe taps her on the shoulder.

"Is it over?" Trixie says, eyes wide and pleading and hopeful as she pulls down the headphones.

"I'm sorry," Chloe replies, wrapping her in a tight hug. She kisses the top of Trixie's head. "I'm so sorry you had to hear any of that."

"Mom, how come everybody's fighting?"

Chloe strokes Trixie's hair, smoothing the loose strands one by one. "We're all just tired, yeah? And stressed. And tempers are short."

"Because of him," Trixie grumbles, her fingers pulling up tents of Chloe's shirt.

"Babe, it's more complicated than that."

"How long's he staying?"

"I don't know."

"Does he have to be here?"

"Yeah, he does, babe," Chloe says, hugging Trixie closer. "He doesn't have a home right now, and he's sick. He's been in a lot of pain the past few days."

"He yelled cuz he's hurting?"

"A little bit, yeah."

Trixie frowns, a flicker of concern lighting in her brown eyes. "Does he have cancer?"

"What? No. No, he's not dying. He's just having a rough time right now."

Without replying, Trixie heaves a dramatic sigh, extricating herself enough to flop back onto the bed.

Chloe scoots closer, the mattress shifting with her weight. She rests a palm on Trixie's arm. "Other than the fighting—which I'm sorry you had to hear, and I'm sure Lucifer is, too—can you tell me why you're not excited to see him?" Honestly, Chloe had assumed Trixie would be a frenetic bundle of joy about Lucifer's reappearance, or Chloe would have called Dan to warn them.

But Trixie only shrugs.

"Hey," Chloe murmurs. "You can talk to me, you know."

"He made you sad."

"Babe, that was just a disagree—"

"No, before. Everything was fine, and then he left! He left us!"

Chloe blinks. Before. "Oh. Oh, babe, I hope you know he didn't leave to hurt us. Not me or you. There were other things going on."

"He left!" Trixie repeats, blinking out tears.

"He did," Chloe says softly. "And it's okay to be upset about that. But it's also important to realize sometimes things go wrong despite the best of intentions. And I might say things. And Lucifer might say things. We both have feelings, and feelings can get hurt when stuff like this happens. But there's no bad guy here, yeah?"

"That's what you said about Dad."

"Well, it was true for Dad, too."

Trixie sniffles, curling closer. Chloe rubs her back. Cards her fingers through Trixie's hair.

"He's really homeless?" Trixie warbles into her pillow.

"Yeah, he is."

"What happened to his penthouse? I liked it."

"He kept the building, but he sold everything in it. He didn't think he was coming back." The words hurt to say. To admit. He didn't think he was coming back. Not in Chloe's lifetime, anyway. She takes a shaky breath. "I don't think he'd be here if he didn't really need our help."

He wouldn't, her tiny voice says. This is temporary. He'll leave you as soon as this is fixed, and you'll never see him again. Ever.

"Don't be sad, Mom," Trixie whispers.

With a sniff, Chloe straightens, forcing a brittle, hurting smile across her face. "I'm fine, sweetheart." She leans down to kiss Trixie's forehead. "Everything will be fine. Do you want me to read you a story or something?"

"Nah," Trixie says listlessly. "I just wanna sleep."

"I can so relate," Chloe admits as she stands up. The space behind her eyes ebbs and flows like sludge crammed into tiny pipes. Acetaminophen looms in her future. Maybe some ibuprofen, too. "Night, Trix."

"Mom, what happened to all my artwork?"

"We had a small ... um." Boy, how to explain that one. "We had an accident in the kitchen."

Trixie gives her a doubtful look. "A small accident?"

"Slightly larger than small," Chloe admits.

Trixie's frown intensifies. "Did Lucifer try to make flambé for you again?"

"Um." Chloe can't stop the tired chuckle that pops loose at the wayward memory. Years ago, now. When they'd still done things like play Monopoly after work, and he would occasionally attempt to feed her. The torch had been busted, and he'd assured her with a wink, Well, I've my bloody wings back, now. Surely, I can smite again, yes? He'd flipped the switch on the torch once more, and nearly incinerated her whole range. At the time, she'd thought the lighter had malfunctioned, but— She claps her hand over her mouth, realizing he'd been telling the truth in that moment. He had wings. He could smite. And apparently butane torches don't respond well to holy fire. "Something like that, yeah."

"You should tell Lucifer not to do that anymore if he's gonna be living here."

"Definitely," Chloe replies, flashing a real smile before she turns off the light.

"Night, Mom," Trixie calls, and Chloe gently closes the door.

The night is deep and dark. Lucifer's still on the patio, only visible thanks to Dan's dingy red hoodie, his body huddled in a nondescript lump beyond the sharp edge of light flooding from the house's interior. At first, she thinks to leave him be. But … we shouldn't go to bed mad, she'd said. And then everything had gotten derailed like a train jumping tracks into a ditch.

The sliding door rumbles as she pushes it open. A soft, chilly breeze ruffles her hair. "Lucifer, do you need anything?" she whispers. "Can I help you at all?"

"No," he replies, sounding distant. "Or … perhaps turn out the light while you're there."

"Are you gonna sleep out there?"

Reaching back, she turns off the switch, which darkens the living room, and plunges the patio into inky blackness. As her eyes adjust, his form resolves from a dark smudge to a man. To him. Her Devil. He's not huddled, after all, only resting with his back flat against the fence, his knees peaking in front of his chest. His fingers are steepled, the edges of his hands perched against his kneecaps.

She follows his gaze, up, up. The Los Angeles night sky is purple hued with light pollution, but a few bright stars—planets?—peek through the haze. Her lips part as awe rolls over her like a wave. An archangel is praying on her patio.

"I," she says, turning away, "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"I meant what I said, Detective," he calls before she can close the slider behind her. "That you're my consolation." His feet scrape against the paverstone as he shifts. The fence creaks. "Tomorrow will be better."

"I"—hope so, she stops herself from saying, from commanding—"yeah."

"Well, it'd be difficult to get worse unless we're bloody trying," he snarks.

She laughs. "You know, I'm thinking it might be helpful if you don't jinx us."

"Then I stand corrected." His tone is lukewarm—bright heat made tepid by exhaustion. "I'm certain tomorrow will be worse than we could possibly imagine." But she'll take lukewarm over cool or cold, and she'll definitely take it over a rolling boil of anger and frustration.

Her smile hurts. "Goodnight, Lucifer."

"Goodnight, Detective."

She closes the door, leaving it open a crack, just so it's abundantly clear to his compulsion she's not shutting him out. Then she heads to her medicine cabinet for the painkillers she's been fantasizing about.

Chapter Text

In Hell, sense of time is the first thing to go.

Perdition has no sunrises. No sunsets. No cycles of any kind. No change. Only constants: heat, darkness, stench, and endlessness.

He spends his first piece of eternity perched on his Greater Throne. No stars fill the sky, only a canopy of swirling ash clouds. The idea of holding court with a bunch of pre-Earth Mazikeens—sadists, hedonists, all, and not an ounce of warmth beyond body heat between them—wraps a fist around his heart and won't stop squeezing, fills his throat with an interminable, aching lump. The demons scurry and swarm below, gathering to genuflect and prostrate themselves, until the crowd is smashed too close together, and rabble becomes a writhing, thrashing orgy-murder bath.

The ache worsens, and he looks away. To the distant, dark horizon shaped by jagged rock. A curdling scream pelts him from the masses below, though whether the sound is from coming or dying remains unclear.

His only companions.

For the rest of time.

He'll have to interact with them at some point.

But … not now.

Not yet.

Now, he'd rather be a silent sight for all, a message, a decree, a warning:

Satan has returned.

No misbehavior will be tolerated. No possessions will be permitted.

The falling ash snuffs what flicker of optimism still burned within him. Hot gray flakes stinking of brimstone dust his hair. Stain his skin. Smear his suit.

He'll have to change soon into more appropriate attire. Hell has no dry-cleaning for his beloved black Prada.

Still, he sits on his throne, his brain emptying out like a water glass as he pours himself into drifting without thinking. He moves only to sweep away the reeking ash and stretch his aching wings.

For days.

Weeks.

Or longer.

When he holds his first court, a rowdy line of demons winds out the front door of the lesser throne room, through the gates, across Strife, and into the treacherous rock faces that cut through the Screaming Cliffs. He sees them all, one by one by one.

They quaver and cry and kiss his ring.

"If you dare possess someone, I will end you," he tells them. "Do not. Make me end you."

And every single one of them thanks him for the threat.

There is no change in Hell.

Until, "My, my, my king." The word king is spoken with subtle humor, almost sarcasm, not quite disdain. "I suppose, if you insist, I can perhaps behave." His focus drifts from the distant double door to her. She smiles sweetly. "But only just this once, on this one matter."

"Lilith," he says, barely holding back a sigh. "You're human."

"Really?" She gasps. "I'd no idea."

"You've no capability to possess any—"

"Is that so?"

He glowers. "Have you a point?"

She stands before him, naked, her long black hair flowing behind her body to mid thigh. Her skin is unadorned by anything other than a tattoo that cups the undersides of her breasts—a shackled, human-like creature with its wings spread, its face contorted in a primal scream, its curled, clawed toes coming to a point above her navel. She is shameless. A quality he usually finds endearing in humans, but manifested in her ….

His empty stomach twists.

"Welcome back, Lucifer," she says, bowing. When she kisses his ring finger, she licks, pressing back with her curling, wet tongue as she pulls away. "I'm glad for your return. I've missed you oh so much. Shall we resume where we left off?"

He resists the urge to wipe his hand on his sleeve. "One cannot resume what's never been started."

Her laugh sounds like breaking glass. "Yes, yes, I know. But I had to try, no?"

"No. As always."

"Well, then," she says, standing up again. "Shall I leave you to your congregation?"

"This is not a house of worship," he replies tersely.

"Isn't it?"

He shows her teeth. "I don't appreciate your tattoo. Is it new?"

"Oh, it's a harpy, Lucifer," she purrs, stroking herself from cleavage to navel, "not an angel."

"Does the subject of it matter, if I'm displeased?"

"Surely, you wouldn't tell me to remove it." She inspects a long, pointed nail, picking at her cuticle. "Would that not impinge my … free will?"

"Get out. Now."

"Will you come?" she asks with a laugh.

He snaps to his feet, his newly returned white wings flaring wide. "Out," he booms, pointing to the door. "All of you."

Her disaffected sigh sets fire to what little is left of his calm, but she turns before he can snarl. She goes.

They all do.

There is no change in Hell.

Lucifer's new favorite cell door opens into Astoria, NY, near the Steinway & Sons factory. He visits often, not because of the foreman who murdered his husband in their tiny row house a few blocks away, but because of the beautiful Model D concert grand, constructed lovingly from East Indian rosewood over a year-long process.

He sits in the bright showroom, wishing he had cigarettes, wishing he had gin or scotch, wishing he had anything to take the edge off his simmering desperation.

"Thinking of buying, sir?" says the salesman with a smile.

"No," Lucifer replies, as he ekes out the first bars of the Moonlight Sonata from the protesting keyboard. The bench creaks as he fights with the stubbornness of the key action. The piano should be perfect. The notes should sing. But they don't. Every string has a twang to it, every tone a wrong resonance that sets his teeth on edge. "The real version of this piano—the version I would buy in a heartbeat—is already in a concert hall somewhere, being played and loved by humans I should never hope to meet. And this loop will reset before I've made it to the second movement anyway."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Apropos," Lucifer says glumly. "The second movement is much happier, and I confess, I'm not really feeling it today."

"But—"

The showroom dissolves. Lucifer's wings flare as he catches himself from falling onto his ass. The foreman, having just arrived, had received a furious call from his husband and rushed home to commit murder. The Steinway factory and the should-be-perfect Model D exist only for moments before they're gone again, replaced by scenery closer to the crime, and then, once the loop resets, by weeks of claustrophobic couples therapy, bursting at the seams with pain and ugliness. The foreman had taken leave beforehand to "work things out."

The piano won't return for some time.

Perhaps Lucifer should visit Galileo next. Drive the knife deeper with stars that might as well be cardboard cutouts covered in cheap glitter. Scowling, he leaves the cell, exiting into Death's Rows.

"You always come here," says Lilith, waiting for him in the ash-filled hall. "Why?"

"And you always bloody stalk me," he snaps back at her. "Why?"

He half expects her to smile not-so-coyly and step aside, as she always does, but this time she stands her ground. "Looking futilely for something different, I suppose."

"And what would that be?"

"You, my king," she says, shrugging. "You always say no. You've said no from the moment you landed in the lake of fire, crying out for God. From Samael the Lightbringer to Lucifer, Prince of Darkness, you've never once wavered."

He stiffens. "What of it?"

"Nothing changes here. Ever. The day you cease denying me will be interesting." Brushing her hair away from her face, she pushes closer. "I miss feeling interested. Don't you?"

With a scoff, he shoves past her. "Leave me be, Lilith."

"Or what?" she calls after him, pursuing. "You'll punish me? I already am punished for wanting what I want. For being who I am. That's why I'm here. Why you're here."

His heart aches when his mind wanders to Chloe. He wonders if she's happy. If she's aged, or if she's gone. "I'm here now," he says, "because I bloody well choose to be. I'm done with eternal punishment."

"How lucky for you." She laughs, though the sound is as bitter as fresh bay leaves. "Meanwhile, I'm trapped here for the same sin you claimed: free will."

"At least, Dad's consistent."

"Except for the part where you can always leave, and I cannot."

Lucifer has no retort for that.

She steps closer, her strides sinuous, a small smile twisting at her sharp features and wide black eyes. Her fingers drift up the arm of his tunic. "I have to amuse myself, somehow."

"We all do," he admits.

She glances at the door he'd used. "Is that what you're doing in all these shrines to guilt and pain? Amusing yourself with memories and phantasms?"

He doesn't lie, so he doesn't speak.

"I'm not a memory," she counters. "I'm real, and I'm here." She pats her palm against his sternum as though to mimic a heartbeat. "We could be good together. We could change things—change everything. This place needn't be a prison."

Gripping her wrist, he extends the distance between them to the length of his arm. "Lilith, no."

"But—"

"Please," he says softly. "Leave me be."

A smug, predatory smile creeps across her features. "Ah. So the Devil begs me. Perhaps, some things do change."

"Lilith—"

But she holds up her hands, backing away. "Relax, my king. That's victory enough, for now." She sashays down the hall, grinning.

"Bloody ash!" he hisses in frustration, coughing when it billows into his face.

Despite the shelter provided by his palace, volcanic dust gets everywhere. It cakes into his furniture. Infuses with his linens. Stops up his pores. Tangles into his hair. Even smears through his feathers, whenever his desperation to spread his wings eclipses his desire not to beleaguer them with sulfur-stench and black filth.

He hasn't felt clean since Earth.

Roaring, he snatches the dirty blankets off his bed. The soiled sheets. The ash-stained pillows. He flings them against his wall. Another dark cloud of particulates jettisons into the air. The sight of it saps his anger and replaces it with something worse: a crushing tightness in his chest that makes it difficult to breathe.

"My king," a gravelly, sibilant voice says behind him.

"What is it?" Lucifer asks.

The little demon cowering before him—Squee—is waif-like, his body thin and frail-looking, his facial features reminiscent of a turtle. Distressed, he shows his needle-like teeth before burrowing into his age-worn, ash-dusted cloak. "I … am sorry, my king."

"For what?"

Long, pale fingers clutch the seam of the hood. "There is … a demonstration. Outside the gates."

That's new. "What kind of demonstration?"

"I"—stressed, high-pitched rasping fills the quiet—"do not think you will approve, sire."

"Why?"

"You most recent edict," Squee confesses, almost flattening to the floor in his effort to prostrate himself. "They ignore it."

"Oh, do they?"

"Yes. Gleefully, sire. But I promise, I would never."

"Of course you wouldn't," Lucifer says, smiling without feeling. "This is why nobody likes you, Squee. Because you're a snitch."

"Thank you, my king."

"Step aside."

Squee scrambles out of the way, his claws clicking against black marble, as Lucifer stalks past. He prowls out of his chambers, down the massive staircase, and into the front hall that leads to the lesser throne room. Instead of taking a right, though, he heads left, through the wrought-iron doors, into the Hellscape beyond. Volcanic glass snaps and shatters under the strike of his boots as he passes through the barren yard and out the portcullis.

Lilith perches above Traitor's Noose Rock, her arms raised like a prophet for a jeering crowd. "My children," she says, "you have the same right to free will as I do. As Lucifer does. As anyone should. Do not let yourselves be oppressed. Do not be afraid to accept the tide of change."

"Lilith," he shouts, injecting Word into each syllable. The glass around them cracks. Vibrates. The demonic crowd parts for him, dozens of beady black eyes averting as he steps into their midst. He wishes Word worked as well on willful humans. "What is this? What are you bloody on about, now?"

"Possession, Lucifer! Why have you forbidden it?" She puts her hands on her hips, peering down at him. "It's not as though it's stealing. The dead have no need of such material things as flesh. They're dead."

In the back of the crowd, a few brave demons cheer and clap until he glares in their direction.

"I've no care for what Lilim do to bodies," he replies, the words echoing and amplifying. "I care what they'll do to the living whilst using those bodies. Demons do not belong on Earth."

"Oh? And what of my dearest Mazikeen?"

"Mazikeen isn't dear to you. None of your children are dear to you."

"That isn't true."

"Hell has twisted your mind."

"Don't change the subject, Lucifer," she dares to say. "Tell us, why is Mazikeen allowed on the surface?"

"Disperse!" he commands them.

"Do not listen to him!"

Something inside him snaps like a twig. His wings flare, and he flashes to the top of Traitor's Noose. The stone cracks with his weight. He flaps his wings to balance, gripping her arm, dragging her back from the edge. "Disperse," he calls over the crowd, a word that is Word, terrible and True.

No demon dare defy.

They scurry away like frightened ants, into the dark crevices of the world. He marches Lilith down from the Noose, to the broken ground below. "Do not incite them, Lilith," he says. "I do not wish you to incite them!"

She smiles at him, empty and cold. "Why, Lucifer, I'm only proving a point to you."

"Dare I ask," he says tiredly.

Her grin widens. "Unless you seek Hell on Earth, my king, you're as trapped as I am." She takes his ring and kisses it, and then she walks away, her bare feet bleeding and raw, though she doesn't seem to notice.

He squeezes his eyes shut, counting to ten, and then twenty, and then more. His chest aches. His body aches. He doesn't remember what it's like to enjoy things or be happy. He wishes only to sleep. That's why he'd been trying to clean off his bloody bed in the first place.

He presses his palms together, his wings fanning wide. I hope you're well, he thinks at the Detective. I hope you're happy and fulfilled. He shifts his thoughts toward Amenadiel. Please, brother, tell her I'm all right, if she asks. Not a lie, technically, if he's not the one to speak it.

The ash falls like snow as he retreats to the Greater Throne, high in the billowing clouds where no one, not even Lilith, can bother him. He spreads his great white wings, letting the hot sulfuric winds ruffle his feathers. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he's on the beach, and the blowing ash is only sand. He can almost hear the gulls, and the crack and crash of waves. He can feel the press of her lips against his. He aches for the scent of salt and sea. For the silk of her skin to slide underneath his fingertips as he caresses her neck. For anything that would make this place less Hellish.

Time passes.

Eternity.

When he wakes, he's still exhausted. Aching. Sapped. He shakes off his wings, expecting another choking cloud of volcanic dust to blow into every orifice, but only silica shakes free. Quickly, too, like sand shaken from an everyday beach towel.

He frowns.

But he has things to do, and he doesn't linger.

Chapter Text

She wakes to a chipper text from Dan. Mamita says hola. She hopes you're doing well.

A night's rest had nixed her headache, though her eyelids feel sticky with sleep, and she really wishes Lucifer hadn't fried her coffeemaker.

Thanks! Same! Tell her Happy pre-Thanksgiving for me! she replies, not firing on enough cylinders to think of more, and then heads into the bathroom to get ready.

About an hour later, Lucifer is still sleeping on her patio, propped into the corner by the sage bush, his arms hugged around his knees. Crackling, fallen leaf bits from the Crape Myrtle beyond her fence stick into his hair and litter his sweatshirt. His limbs twitch as though he's dreaming again. She hates to wake him when he seems to need sleep, but—

"Mom, we're late," Trixie yells from the living room, and Lucifer flinches off the fence like someone slapped him.

"What," he says, half question, half indignant rasp.

Chloe bites her lip in a guilty grimace. "Morning," she says softly. The air is crisp and dry, cold enough to make her shiver in the shade, but not enough for her breath to be visible. "We're late, apparently."

He rubs his eyes without opening them, a curdled, unhappy groan loitering in his throat. "Late for what? What bloody time is it?"

"6:45."

"Who the bloody hell gets up at 6:45."

"Kids in school?" she says. "People who work? People who didn't go to bed at 6:42?"

"I didn't bloody go to bed at 6:42!"

"You're on my patio, Lucifer. You didn't go to bed at all."

He sniffs, grumbling something about, "fuck mornings," and, "worst bloody invention Dad ever," and then something about Hell, clogs, and jean skorts. Possibly taxes, too. She gives up trying to decipher him, instead hiding her amused grin behind her palm.

"Do you want to shower before we go," she asks, "or …?"

"Go?"

"Mom!" Trixie whines. "Luciferrr! Come on!"

Lucifer sighs. "If the child's insistence is any indication, it would seem there isn't time."

Chloe folds her arms. "She can wait a few minutes."

"What's the bloody point."

"Lucifer …."

But he waves her off dismissively before rubbing his face, blinking like his eyelids are stuck together with tar. His palm rasps against his stubble. When he stands, he seems … almost rickety. He doesn't move with any grace as he brushes the detritus from his shoulders and picks at his disheveled hair, throwing leaf bits to and fro. They head inside.

"Guh!" he shouts indignantly when Trixie wraps herself around him.

"Morning, Lucifer," she says, clutching him. "I hope you feel better today!"

"Thank … you?"

"Yup!" She blows a kiss at him before bounding away. "Race you to the car!"

Her pink backpack flops against her shoulder as she skips over the threshold. The front door hits the stop with a thwack and recoils, quick at first, then slow, before it drifts to a halt, the metal lock catching on the doorframe, but not enough to depress.

"… What?" Lucifer asks.

"She said she hopes you feel better," Chloe says, smiling.

"Well, yes, I got that part, but—" His eyebrows knit. But what, he never says as he surrenders to his confusion.

His thick swath of stubble, too-pale skin, and the dark smudges under his eyes make him seem old. Washed out. But at least the mottled ghost of strangulation isn't wrapped around his neck anymore. When he reaches to rub his face again, his sleeves slide down enough to reveal that his wrists have healed, too.

"Off to see if I've a brain, then?" he asks.

"Well, primarily," she replies, "I want to convey my child to school, but yes. Sorry you didn't get to sleep in."

He shrugs, giving the patio a wincing appraisal. "It's no matter. I"—he blinks—"what race to the bloody car?"

"Mom! Lucifer!" Trixie calls, the words echoing from somewhere distant. "Come ooon!"

"I think she won already," Chloe says, offering him a wry look.

"That devious little minx!" he marvels with a tired-sounding laugh. "Hardly old enough to be a half-decent glass of scotch, and she's already machinating."

Chloe snorts with amusement as they head out the door.

"I can't see any wires, can you, Mike? Wow, look at it go!"

"I'm sure it's Photosh—"

Lucifer switches off the radio, easing against the seat as Chloe zips around a FedEx truck pulling over to park. "You humans fixate on the silliest things," he says. The bright morning sun stabs her eyes despite her sunglasses, and she keeps having to squint to see where the hell she's going. "Have you nothing better to do?"

"You don't think it's real?" Trixie replies from the backseat.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "I don't think, child; I know."

Her expression falls. "Ghosts aren't real?"

"Ella was wondering that, too," Chloe says.

"Was she? Hmm." He glances at the rearview mirror, meeting Trixie's eyes in the glass. "Not as you conceive them, no," he concedes with a regal nod. "They certainly wouldn't haunt a house long enough to be caught faffing about with one's appliances. Perhaps a one-off, I'd grant. But they implied this is a repeat offender."

"Five times this weekend!" Trixie chirps.

"Precisely," he replies, biting into the word with his pearly teeth. "It's rubbish."

Chloe navigates to the curb. "We're here, babe."

Santa Ana Middle School looms in the distance, beyond a sprawling, cultivated quad. Busses idle in the driveway, their grumbling engines underlining the sounds of cherubic voices and laughter. Kids scurry everywhere.

"Later, Mom," Trixie says as she gathers her things and climbs out onto the sidewalk. She turns to wave, her sneakers scuffing the pavement. "Bye, Lucifer!" Then she dashes off to meet her friends.

Lucifer presses his elbow against the window sill, leaning. "Must we get this MRI thing done now? I've a headache."

"That might actually be relevant to your memory loss."

"Or it might mean I'm exhausted because I slept in a bloody bush."

"Why did you sleep in a bloody bush?" she replies as she pulls away from the curb.

"Well, I didn't elect to. I simply … rested my eyes whilst I was praying, and I suppose I shifted off the paverstone."

"Mmm-hmm." She grins, but her mirth fades like a flashbulb winking out. "Any luck on the prayer front?"

"None. I don't understand it. Unless he fell again, but why would he have?"

"We'll find him," she decides with a nod.

"Oh? So certain?"

"You came back. I have to believe he'll come back, too."

Lucifer offers no opinion on that, instead choosing to watch in silence as rush-hour traffic inches by the window like racing turtles. The quiet is comfortable, though. Not tense. Having him ride shotgun in her car again feels like coming home. And if he notices her lingering at stoplights after they've gone green, or driving slightly under the speed limit to prolong the experience, he doesn't say.

The waiting room at the imaging center is medium-sized.

Two rows of four chairs, back to back, fill the middle of the space. Chairs also line the walls, tables covered in magazines filling the corners. The air smells faintly of patchouli, and a small, bright flatscreen perched on the wall flashes CNN with subtitles.

The receptionist is a frazzled-looking man wearing periwinkle-colored scrubs. "Can I help you?" he says as he leafs through a stack of papers.

"Yeah, we're here for an MRI?" Chloe says. "Or, well, he's here for one." She jabs her thumb in Lucifer's direction. "I'm just the … um … moral support."

"Yes," Lucifer purrs, "she's my literal tether, aren't you, darling?"

The receptionist looks up, glancing briefly at Chloe before his eyes come to rest on Lucifer. His lips part, and he blinks like he's been stunned stupid. "Hello there, Mr. …?"

"Lucifer. Morningstar."

The receptionist's smitten look cracks around the edges, subsumed by a humoring smile and a nod. "Mr. Morningstar. Yes." Great. One of those, he doesn't say. He types something on his keyboard, nodding when he finds the relevant information. "Mr. Morningstar, do you have your insurance card and identification with you?"

"Why would I need insurance?" Lucifer replies. "I'm literally bombproof, and I've more money than God."

"Well, you're here, aren't you?"

Lucifer leans against the lip of the desk. "Can't you … oh, what do they call it … bill me later? I assure you, I'm good for it."

"This is an expensive test, sir."

Lucifer's energy changes. "I'm certain we can make an equitable deal for it, yes? Tell me, what is it you desire?"

"Sir, you can't barter for an MRI."

"But—"

"Here," Chloe says, fishing her credit card out of her wallet. "Just … just charge it to here."

Lucifer gives her a sharp look. "Detective—"

"Do you have a checkbook squirreled away somewhere you haven't mentioned?"

His fingers clench. "None of my assets would be liquid at the moment. I wasn't expecting to return for quite some time."

"Well, they're not gonna do this without money up front, and you could be hurt. You need this."

He scowls. "I'm here, am I not?"

"Sign here, please," says the receptionist, handing her a curling paper receipt. She can hardly keep her grimace at bay when she sees the $8,975.47 bill. She scrawls her signature on the line at the bottom and stuffs the carbon copy into her purse, trying not to think too hard about the fact she could have bought a car, instead. The receptionist foists at Lucifer a clipboard stuffed with forms, along with a pen attached to a chain. "Thank you. Please, fill out all the necessary information. Your name will be called shortly."

Glowering, Lucifer follows Chloe to the chairs to sit.

"Look, I know you'll pay me back, okay?" she assures him. "I know it. Don't—" Don't worry, she was going to say, almost leaping straight into another pile of semantical quicksand. God, damn it. "I'm not worried."

"I've no desire to be a burden."

"You're not," she says. "This is what friends do, yeah?"

He shifts his attention to the clipboard. The top page is a health history form, covered in yes/no checkboxes listing various conditions. He writes his name. Lists, "Dad knows," as his birthday. Adds, "Impossible to be defined by the human concept of time," as his age, at which point Chloe is fighting not to groan. Address, "Throne of Hell," is what gets her, finally, and she cradles her face in her hands, peering at his progress through the cracks between her fingertips. He looks at her. Frowns. Says, "Yes, I suppose you're right," with a sigh. He crosses off, "Throne of Hell," and replaces it with, "the Detective's couch/patio, Venice Beach, CA."

He goes down the list, checking things off. No heart conditions. No tumors. No pacemaker. No anemia. No stroke. No current pregnancy. No, no, no.

"I think yes to that one," she whispers when he seems like he's about to check no for epilepsy/seizures.

Nodding, he continues onward, marking yes for headaches, and yes for inpatient psychiatric treat—

"Lucifer, going undercover at a mental hospital doesn't count."

He crosses off that yes and changes it to no, then checks yes to the box for "sleep problems/insomnia." Yes for "often unhappy/depressed." Yes for "emotional difficulties." The box for "recreational drug and alcohol use," he checks off yes, then circles it three times, then stars it. At the end of the section, the line says, "Other: ___"

"Is this where I should mention I've died twice?" he wonders.

She snorts. "Um. I … I don't think that's relevant for this."

His pen drifts down the page. "List all medications, supplements, or vitamins taken within the past two years?" he mutters, reading. "But I don't know where I've bloody been."

"You could talk about the last two years you remember on Earth?"

"I'd need more bloody paper."

"Maybe skip that one, if you want."

He regards the form for a moment. In the column for drug name, he lists, "Everything." And in the column for purpose/reason, he writes, "Fun." He beams at her. "For accuracy's sake." And then he flips the page. "Oh, family history. This should be amusing."

They're led into a small examination room filled by a gurney and a metal sink. Chloe smooshes herself against the counter, out of the way. The nurse tells Lucifer to sit on the edge of the bed and then asks for his arm.

"My what?" Lucifer says. The rasp and tear of loosening velcro fills the quiet, and he flinches away from the movement, just at the corner of his eye.

"I'm only checking your blood pressure, sir," the nurse assures him.

Lucifer takes a tiny breath. "Ah." He holds out his arm.

The nurse—a fifty-something salt-and-pepper-haired man named Jonathan—rolls up Lucifer's sleeve and wraps the cuff around his bicep. "All right?"

"Yes."

The pressure cuff hisses and fills with air. Lucifer grips the sheets with his free hand. Jonathan watches the monitor with a frown as the cuff empties. "Sir, are you nervous?

"What gives you that impression?"

"Not to worry, sir. I'll check again in a bit." The nurse smiles as he collects the pressure cuff and hangs it back on the stand. "Are you claustrophobic?"

"Why would that be relevant?"

"The MRI machine will be close to your face and shoulders."

"You think I'm afraid of having a bloody bucket stuck on my head?" Lucifer scoffs.

"More like a barrel. And I didn't say that at all, sir," Jonathan replies, his voice soothing. He turns toward Lucifer's chart to make a notation. "Listen, you'll have to take off your—" Lucifer stands, kicking off his flip-flops. In one swift, undulating motion, his warmups are pooling at his ankles, and his hoodie is crumpled on the pillow. The My Little Pony Band-Aids he stuck on top of Maze's handiwork are his only layer left. "Right, then," continues Jonathan breezily as Chloe's face heats to molten, and she averts her attention to a pain-scale chart hanging on the nearest wall. "So, there's a gown. It ties in the back. You'll need to remove those piercings. Can't have anything metal near the machine. Do you need pliers for that? We have a kit, somewhere."

"I'll manage," Lucifer grits out.

"Okay, then," says Jonathan. "I'll step out for a few minutes to give you a chance to get ready."

The screech of a curtain closing follows. Then the thump of the door opening. Shutting. Then quiet.

Chloe's gaze drifts toward the ceiling. One of the tiles has a crack in it. There's a funny stain on the light fixture, too. Not mold or mildew or anything. Just age discoloration. She tilts her head, scrutinizing. Cloth rustles.

"Detective."

"Should I go into the hall?" she asks.

"No, I … I …."

She winces. "Are you still naked?"

"Yes."

"Lucif—"

"Oh, what does it even matter?" he snaps. "It's not as though you've not seen me before."

"It's just …." With a sigh, she braces herself and looks at him. She will not let her gaze fall below his neck. She will not. Blush creeps across his cheeks and down his throat. His dark eyes froth like a storm-bashed sea. "What's wrong?"

At first, he can only pull back his upper lip and snarl soundlessly at her. He looks almost ill. And then he's the one looking at the ceiling, at the stupid pain-scale poster covered in sad faces—anywhere but at her—as he gestures vaguely to his nipples. "Please, will you permit me to remove …?"

Oh, fuck. "I thought you'd chosen to—"

"What, stab myself through with Hell-forged metal? Leave holes in my body I'm constantly trying to heal around but can't?" He expels a huffy breath. "No, Detective, I didn't choose this. I would never choose this. Piercings are a nuisance for me, at best."

"But I thought I'd made it so you can wear what you want."

"Yes," he enunciates. "Clothes from your closet. And your stipulation that I be allowed to use or not use anyone or anything I wish apparently does not extend to items that are worn."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, take the nipple rings off, please. And the …." She can't help looking down again. At the arched, silver-colored barbell that's been punched into the underside of his penis and pushed out through his urethra. It's concealed, somewhat, because he's uncircumcised, but … her stomach roils. "The Prince Albert." Her eyes are hot and hurting, and the room blurs.

"Detective—"

"Don't," she snaps, holding up her hands. "Don't comfort me. I'm just …." She can't breathe. Her fingers shake. "What kind of sick person would force you to—"

"Lilith." He seems … more certain, now, than he had been. The metal-sounding thunk as he tosses the first nipple ring into the biohazard bin makes her cringe. "She used to be lovely, but Hell twisted her mind like a bloody pretzel." Stress floods her body as the second nipple ring goes into the bin. "I don't recall this being done, if it's any consolation."

"But you do remember Lilith now?"

"She … had a new tattoo," he says in a dull, almost hypnotized tone. "I didn't like it."

"What tattoo?"

"A harpy." He flinches like he lost his body for a moment, only to find it again in the jaws of a ravenous crocodile. "I … I'd rather not discuss it."

"Okay," she whispers.

Keep his stress levels low, Linda had said.

He regards her, eyes narrowing in calculation before he turns away, and all she can see is the corded muscles in his back and butt and quads. His elbows shift. His shoulder blades glide underneath his skin. He grunts like something hurt him, and then exhales—relief?—before turning to face her again.

She doesn't ever see the last curved hunk of metal. She doesn't even see him move to dispose of it. She only hears the thick barbell land in the biohazard bin with a resounding thud. He grabs the folded hospital johnny off the foot of the gurney and dons it in a fluid motion, though even the Devil can't make one of those silly gowns look sexy. She helps him fasten the ties in the back, since he can't reach without contorting. Her fingers won't stop shaking.

"Would you like to touch me?" he says softly over his shoulder.

"No!"

An amused look tugs at his austere expression. "Not my fun bits, Detective. I meant … would you like to embrace me?"

"Do you want me to?"

He turns before pressing his nose close to her hair, but not nuzzling into it. "Truth be told," he admits, "I am … somewhat trepidatious."

She looks up at him. "About me hugging you?"

"About the bucket."

What had happened to him?

She imagines him locked in a tiny closet somewhere, alone, in the dark, wearing nothing but the piercings Lilith—or whoever—forced into him, until she needed her slave again. Chloe hurts as the awful picture unfurls across her mind's eye like licking flames. She wraps her arms low around his waist and pulls him close. He doesn't stiffen or panic like he did for Linda, but she murmurs, "This okay?" anyway.

His posture relaxes, and a soft, humming sound rumbles through him. "Yes, I …." He shifts, embracing her, and adds a soft, "Please," into her hair, for once the word not weighted down with the urgency of begging. Just … peace.

The familiar, clean smell of him through the johnny—his warmth, his weight—is balm to her jangled nerves. As memory juxtaposes with reality, a soft sob of reunion overcomes her. Her fingers scrunch up tents of the johnny.

She continues, "Can you tell me why you're nervous?"

His chin presses against the top of her head. "I've … no idea."

"Do you not want to do this?"

"I suppose it's necessary."

"But do you want to?" she prods.

"No, but ... I will." He pulls back to offer her a tiny smile. "Of my own volition, I assure you."

"Do you not like small spaces?"

When he looks away, she rakes her mind for memories, trying to figure out if this is a new development, but she can't remember a damned thing that might indicate …. No. No, she can think—speculate, worry—about this later.

"Do you … want me to make it easier for you?" she offers.

"You already are."

She debates the wiseness of continuing, but … why not use this deplorable compulsion to do some good, too? If Lucifer is willing and wanting, that is. "I could tell you not to be afraid?"

He doesn't reply.

"But only if you want," she rushes to add. "If this isn't as bad as 'dying' or … or you're not comfortable with me jockeying with your—"

"No."

The word is tiny. A bald open-wound of a confession—that he'd rather be afraid than have his brain fucked with even a little—and her heart constricts.

She reaches up, cupping his face, and strokes the ridge of his cheek with her thumb. "Okay, it was just a thought."

He doesn't pull away. His dark, tired eyes close. Like he hasn't had a kind touch the entire time he was gone. Or, maybe, she's just projecting. She has no idea anymore.

"I'm here," she offers, instead of compelling him.

Quiet stretches. She rests her ear against his chest, listening as she strokes his lower spine. Reading the stupid sad-faces pain chart since that's what's in her line of sight. His grip on her gradually relaxes, becomes less about clutching for purchase on a ledge and more about closeness. She hadn't even realized how tense he was until the tension seeps out of him. Trepidatious was an understatement.

"I have," he says, "missed you."

She looks up at him. "I thought the balcony only happened a few days ago for you."

"It did."

A knock shatters the moment. She skips backward a stride. "Mr. Morningstar, are you ready?" calls the nurse.

"Yes," Lucifer says, climbing onto the gurney.

Chloe moves out of the way, watching as Jonathan takes a second blood pressure reading.

"That's much better," he says, putting up the gurney's railings. "I'm going to take you to the machine now, all right?" He glances at her. "Mrs. Morningstar, if you could just wait here?"

"Oh, I'm not—" she has a chance to say before she realizes … what does it even matter? "Is the MRI thing closer than fifty feet from here?"

Jonathan gives her a funny look but gestures to the double doors at the end of the hall. "The machine is just through there, ma'am. Not to worry."

"Good luck!" she calls as she watches the nurse retreat with the gurney. And then they're gone.

She takes the break to check the police database for "Constantine, John" and several variations. No outstanding warrants. No parking tickets. Not even a moving violation. At least, not in California. Branching out to other states will require more diligence.

She calls dispatch and tells them Constantine's particulars. A five-foot-ten-ish, thin, honey-blond, brown-eyed British guy with potentially fraudulent papers. Dispatch promises to disseminate the BOLO immediately. If John's in California, he's a marked man, at least. Too bad there's a whole damned world for him to hide in.

She spends the next forty-five minutes pacing and thinking far too much.

"Oh, it's this lovely little place on Sunset," Lucifer is babbling when the nurse finally wheels him back in. "Ask for Jacques. Tell him I recommended you his way. He'll have you fixed up in a jiff."

"Really?" Jonathan says as the gurney rolls to a stop. "I always wanted to try it, but—"

"No time like the present, my good man!" purrs Lucifer. "Love me a smooth canvas."

"Thanks," says the nurse, beaming. "Thanks, I will!"

"Am I to assume you've finished having your wicked way with me, now, or shall I stay for more?"

"Yes, Mr. Morningstar. You're free to go."

"Or come?"

Jonathan is still laughing as he hands Lucifer his discharge papers and leaves. Lucifer skims the pages, eyes narrowing.

"How did it go?" Chloe says.

"I've no bloody idea," Lucifer replies. "I was hoping this would tell me, but all it says is my doctor will follow up with me. I assume they mean Dr. Linda."

"I think so." She fights with the urge to reach for him. "But it was okay? You weren't … trepidatious, or …?"

He regards her warmly as he pushes back the blankets and climbs off the bed. "No, darling. I didn't much enjoy it, either, to be fair, but chatting with Jonathan was delightful."

She nods, helping him with the ties on the gown again, stopping at the last one above his waist. He can reach the rest by himself, and— "Listen, I was thinking while you were out. And pacing. But mostly thinking."

"Yes, Detective?"

"Do you have a suit maker who owes you a favor? Like … there's no way I can afford to buy the suits you usually wear, but maybe we could barter for them or something? You seem to still play a good favor game."

"Deals with the Devil never expire, Detective."

"Right. Well, do you have any IOUs we could cash in?"

Lucifer brightens. "Why, yes, Detective. I've several excellent tailors who owe me."

"Let's do that, then," she says, her gaze ricocheting upward as he shucks the gown without warning her. Rustling sounds of shifting cloth ensue as she re-ponders the stain on the ceiling tile. "We'll stop for some essentials on the way—a razor, shaving cream, stuff like that. Oh, and a new coffeemaker."

He snorts. "One of these is not like the other."

"My tension headache from last night became a withdrawal headache, like, forty-seven stops in our morning ago."

"Detective, we passed approximately forty-seven Starbucks whilst driving here. You could have slaked your thirst."

"Yeah, well. You can't have caffeine before an MRI. And I didn't want to flaunt it when you look as wrecked as I am."

He steps into Dan's old nylon warmups and pulls them up. Not before giving her a glorious view of his ass when she accidentally glances downward. When he turns to face her, newly dressed, his eyes are vaguely wet.

"I appreciate your consideration," he says softly. "Suit-and-essentials shopping sounds lovely."

"Can you live with cheap stuff? For the essentials?"

"Detective, as I have said, my tastes do tend toward the opulent, yes, but that doesn't mean I can't adjust. I've lived most of my life in Hell, after all, and I'd"—he looks away, rubbing his eyes—"I'd be glad. Genuinely grateful, really. For my own things. Whatever their price tag or lack thereof. I'd …." His voice sounds thicker than it should be. "Thank you."

She turns, giving him a moment to find his composure, a little angry at herself. She should have realized how humanizing—angelizing?—this offer would feel for him. He really has nothing right now. Nothing but what she permits him to have. And that's … well, she can't even fathom how that feels.

"I think this'll be good," she muses. "For both of us. And then we'll be ready for work tomorrow."

"Yes," he says, briefly gruff before he clears his throat. He reaches for the doorknob, gesturing her through. "Shall we?"

She grins. "I guess you were right."

"Of course I was," he crows as he falls into step with her. "About what?"

"This day is better."

"Oh, yes. Much. Despite the bloody horrific crick in my neck and the fact that I keep finding pieces of your tree in my hair."

She laughs as they dodge through the tiny forest of chairs in the waiting room and head into the quiet hallway. Warm tones and nondescript paintings decorate the space, serving as a polar opposite for the immaculate hospital white they'd just left. They amble toward the exit at the far end.

"So … one thing I don't get," she admits.

"Yes?"

"A smooth canvas? What was that about?"

His grin shifts into something lecherous. "A Brazilian, darling."

"A what?"

Lucifer's eyebrows raise. "He wanted help with his manscaping?"

"Oh." Her face heats. "Ohhh."

"You needn't worry," he adds flippantly as he opens the exterior door for her. "Love me a rough canvas, as well."

Chapter Text

The unassuming boutique Lucifer directs them to in Beverly Hills is overflowing with suits from Italian brands—Prada, Armani, Versace, Valentino, etc.—with just a few splashes from other European names like Burberry, Louis Vuitton, and Dior. Racks and racks line the walls, and the cramped space smells like fresh pine. Chloe stands by the cash register while Lucifer exchanges affable greetings with the shop owner, a silvering, hawkish, beanpole of a man named Alessandro. The man leans in, his lips pursed as though he means to extend the greeting into the gregarious kiss-kiss maneuver so typical of Italians, but Lucifer bristles and backs away, his face the sharp, cut edge of a glacier.

"Mi scusi, mi scusi, signore." Alessandro holds up his hands. "I am sorry."

The corner of Lucifer's mouth twitches like he might growl.

"Ehm. Well." Alessandro clears his throat, adding nervously, "Who is your lovely companion?"

"Oh, this is my," Lucifer begins enthusiastically, reanimating, only to trail away. "This is my …." With an uncharacteristic frown, he peers over his shoulder at her, eventually deciding, "This is the Detective."

Alessandro brightens. "The Detective? Mr. Morningstar's the Detective has graced my humble storefront? Che bello!"

"Oh," Chloe stammers, "I don't know about—"

"Nonsense, nonsense, this is a momentous occasion!" Alessandro assures her with a laugh. "You are Mr. Morningstar's Detective! I have heard endless tales of your valor, ingenuity, intelligence, and beauty. I feel as though I know you."

"But—" She blinks. "Wait, you have?" Another blink. "You do?"

"Of course, signora! Of course!" He gathers his fingers to his lips and blows her an expanding kiss. Which is when she realizes his bright brown eyes are watering. Like he's met some kind of A-lister, and he's about to have a death-by-twitterpation event. "I would love to tailor a dress or suit for you someday, if you'll permit!"

She glances at Lucifer, who shrugs as if to say, I talk about you. Deal with it.

"I," she says, "sure?"

"Excellent!" gushes Alessandro. "Excellent!"

"But, um, we came for Lu—"

"Yes, yes, I meant in good time, of course." Alessandro almost seems to bounce with glee before he grabs her shoulders with his spindly, arching fingers. "Come, my dear." He marches her to a high-backed armchair by an alcove of mirrors. "Have a seat. You will spectate, yes?"

"I … guess so?" She sinks so far into the velvet cushion she's convinced she'll fall in.

"Would you enjoy some Prosecco?" Alessandro asks. One of his perfectly sculpted silver eyebrows creeps toward his ample hairline. "Or a glass of sparkling water?"

"Oh, I'm …." She laughs, bewildered. "I'm fine."

"Of course, of course," Alessandro says, grinning. "If you insist. But do tell me if you change your mind, my dear." He turns to Lucifer. "Mr. Morningstar, will you now permit me to take your measurements?"

"Please," says Lucifer.

"Excellent. Perfetto. Divino." Alessandro claps his hands together, full of drama and flair. His silver mane swishes away from his eyes. "Let us proceed."

With that, he guides Lucifer around a curtain, careful to keep a good bubble of space between them. Chatter in what sounds like Italian ensues, Alessandro's deep "in a world where" narrator tone contrasting with Lucifer's more dulcet, sensuous purring. The rat-a-tat-tat gunfire of syllables shoots by her ears far too fast to understand. When Alessandro reappears minutes later, a measuring tape dragging behind him like guts spilled from his pocket, he beams at her and plucks about ten different suits off the various racks.

"Mi scusi, signora," he says, giving her a bow and a wink before disappearing behind the curtain again.

More chatter. She drowns herself in some silly phone game Trixie downloaded. Eventually, a metallic rasp draws Chloe's attention, and she looks up to see Alessandro stepping away from the fitting-area curtain with a somber expression. Silence hangs like a Prada-shaped coat.

"What's going on?" she says.

"Not to worry," Alessandro replies, his former enthusiasm gone behind a too sharp—forced—smile. "He merely needs a moment, and then we will resume."

She frowns.

"I shall be at the register, then," he says, his tone shifting from a soothing rumble into something hopeful as he adds, "Unless you might consent to having your measurements taken now?"

"Maybe another time," she says, and he nods, directing a pointed succession of concerned looks toward the fitting area as he trots away.

"Lucifer?" she calls, struggling out of the clutches of the too plush chair.

He doesn't answer.

"Can I—do you want me to come back there?" she prods, approaching.

"If you like, Detective," he replies.

She pushes aside the curtain. Lucifer stands in front of the mirror, donning a heather-gray suit that brings out his winter coloring. The suit is too wide in the chest, waist, thighs, hips—too long at the wrists and ankles. Tiny pins and pieces of tape gather up the fabric in the loose spots, marking where the tailor needs to fit the garment to Lucifer's svelte frame. But even with the pins stuck in place, his dramatic transformation manifests in the way he carries his shoulders. In the leonine stretch of his spine. He'd found his pride again, and it makes her smile before she notes his distant expression.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she asks, coming up beside him as he traces his reflection in the mirror with his thumb.

"I've no idea," he says, sounding foggy. "My chest feels tight. It's quite peculiar."

He blinks his sleepy, midnight eyes, like he's floating somewhere outside his body, far away. He jams his fist against his heart, fingers clenching.

"Lucifer? Did you remember something?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are you, right now?"

"Oh. Here, I suppose." A distant smile stretches across his sharp features. His fist unclenches, and he pets the lapel of the suit jacket, his hand rasping against the luxurious fabric. "Love me a nice Burberry."

"You do look much more … you."

"I feel it, as well," he admits.

"Do you?"

He takes a wet breath, and some of his eerie distance fades. Warmth returns to his gaze as he regards her. "I might take this one home immediately, even though it doesn't fit quite right. I'm not certain I can tolerate another day in Daniel's castoffs."

"Sounds good to me. Are you okay?"

"I simply feel … tight … is all."

"In your chest, still?"

"Like Pavarotti sat on me without asking first, yes."

"Maybe we should get out of here, then." She gestures at the massive rainbow waiting on hooks for him to try on. "Does Alessandro have what he needs to tailor these other suits?"

"Yes, technically, though me trying them on for him will always be more precise than him working off a tape measure."

"What would you like to do?" she asks gently.

His gaze creases as he peers in the mirror, and then at the waiting garments. "I … I'm not enjoying this experience quite as much as I assumed I would."

"We'll leave, then. No problem. Let's go settle up. Does Alessandro deliver?"

"Oh, yes, Detective." Lucifer leers. "Alessandro does just about anything if you ask him nicely."

She rolls her eyes, and he laughs.

"Your epic facial expressions of disapproval are definitely something I've missed," he says, rubbing his chest. "And it appears Pavarotti has left. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replies warmly, inching closer without touching. "Now, let's jet before he comes back."

The car rumbles as they inch through the tail end of lunch hour traffic. Sunlight cleaves through the sunroof, giving Lucifer a bit of a golden halo. Which only makes her blink. And then laugh softly. She's sitting in a vehicle with a literal angel. She doesn't think she'll ever get used to the idea, no matter how many times she's hit with the irrefutable evidence.

Her cellphone cupped to his ear, Lucifer gives her a perplexed look. She blushes, mouthing, "Sorry," at him.

The luxurious fabric of his heather-gray suit gleams. Alessandro had been kind enough to donate a pair of his own sample shoes—normally intended as a placeholder for fittings—when he'd seen Lucifer planned to walk out of the store in a $10,000 garment and flip-flops. The shoes aren't Lucifer's normal red-soled, flashy Louboutins of choice, but they're far better than Dan's battered old Adidas.

The distant cadence of a voice trickles through the tiny phone speaker, and Lucifer snaps to attention. "Yes, hello, Ms. Pentaghast, it's—"

Lucifer smiles at the gleeful girlish squeal that floods the line, followed by an audible-but-tinny Lucifer!?

"Hello, my dear."

An equally squealing, Oh, my God! Oh, my God! follows.

He snorts. "An oxymoron, as you know"—Ms. Pentaghast laughs like he just made the funniest joke—"but I'll allow it this once."

Where are you? Do they have phones in Hell?

"Not ones that work, I assure you. My absence was less protracted than I'd planned—I'm in Los Angeles again. I've no idea for how long."

Ms. Pentaghast settles into indistinct babble. Lucifer nods along with whatever she's saying. "And how do you fare?"

More babbling floods the line.

"Oh? Congratulations, darling! I knew you had it in you. When is your graduation?"

More babbling.

"I shall, of course, endeavor to be there if I'm still on Earth."

If. If he's still on Earth. Chloe's heart twinges, though she grits her teeth, twisting her fingers around the steering wheel in an effort to stay silent. The squeak, squeak, squeak of her grip on the leather seems to catch his attention, and he peers across the parking brake at her. She stays her hands, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her neck as she diverts her focus to the road.

"Listen, darling," Lucifer continues, not at Chloe, though she can feel his burning stare peeling off layers, "I'm trying to reach your fath—" He slumps, his attention drawn away again. "Ah. And I don't suppose there's any chance of—" More chatter. His slump gains a dejected air. "Ah. And when will he—" Cut off again, Lucifer rests his elbow against the window. "Yes, yes, all right. I suppose it's to be expected." More gabbing. "I'm most appreciative. Thank you. Lovely to chat." With a glum look, he hangs up Chloe's phone and deposits it into the cupholder.

"I take it no luck," Chloe says, frowning.

"It would seem Simon has taken my generous stipend and gone on holiday."

"What about emergencies?"

"Yes, well." Lucifer shrugs. "Simon quite reasonably assumed I wouldn't return in his lifetime. And since I'm literally his only client—"

"His only client?" she asks.

"I've quite a lot of assets, Detective. It pays to have been investing since the idea of currency was all but a glimmer in humanity's eye."

"Just … you have no money you can touch right now."

He shakes his head. "Priscilla—"

"Priscilla?"

"Simon's daughter, yes. She did promise to try to reach him, but he's gone on a pony trek in Iceland or some such nonsense. He intentionally left his cellphone and laptop behind. He wanted to disconnect."

She squints. "A pony trek?"

"Yes, I don't bloody know. Apparently people find it enjoyable? And given that he's sight-seeing glaciers, even if she can contact him, I doubt he'll have access to any of his work product."

"So, we're stuck."

"For now." He grinds his teeth. "Apologies, Detective."

"Lucifer, you couldn't have known this would happen. I mean, this whole situation is spiffy. You don't need to apologize."

"Spiffy, Detective?"

"Look, I'm running out of antonyms for craptastic, okay?" she retorts.

He looses a soft laugh. "I don't believe you've used splendiferous yet."

She gives him a look.

"Perhaps marvelous? Prodigious? Sublime?"

She rolls her eyes dramatically for him, and he laughs again as she turns into the parking lot, chasing a little Prius through the traffic light. At midday on a Monday, the lot isn't too full. She pulls into a spot a few cars away from the sliding entry doors.

"What is …?" he says, frowning as he peers at their surroundings.

"Walmart." She yanks her key from the ignition.

At his blank expression, she can't help but snicker. "Oh, come on, you don't know what—" Her jaw clacks shut when the whirring closing sunroof shifts how the light hits his gleaming suit. His gleaming suit. His would-be custom-tailored Burberry that costs more than some cars. "Of course you don't," she finishes, muttering under her breath.

"I can bloody well hear that, you know."

"I know; I know. Sorry." She pops her seatbelt loose with a click and turns to him, gesturing through the window at their destination. "Lucifer Morningstar, welcome to the ninety-nine percent. I present to you: bargain shopping."

The bafflement marring his features would crack her up at any other moment. Today, she only finds a giant, tangled clot of apprehension and dread. He'd said he wouldn't mind cheap stuff. But his idea of cheap and hers might be different.

"Come on," she says, pushing open the car door. "If you want to, I mean."

The entrance spills them into the grocery area. The air is cool and smells faintly of fresh produce as they wander past a shelf covered in spiky pineapples. She heads left at the fork in the walkway, the wheels on their shopping cart squealing in protest at the change in direction. They pass a long line of cash registers, many empty, many manned by dour-faced cashiers. Lucifer regards the various shoppers with a dubious expression, his attention lingering on a grungy blonde UCLA student standing by one of the conveyor belts, her hair a ratty tangle. She sports flannel boxers, Uggs, and a stained sweatshirt proclaiming her university. A pile of ramen noodles stuffs her basket to the brim.

"Why is the floor so sticky?" he says, grimacing as the soles of his new shoes squick-squick-squack against the shining tile floors.

"Do you really wanna know?" Chloe asks.

He doesn't reply except to say, "They probably funded these 'falling prices' by cutting back on janitorial staff." He puts the words falling prices into air quotes.

When they find the toiletries, she gestures at the first aisle, which is full of shaving supplies, toothbrushes, and other miscellaneous items. "So, what do you need?"

With a determined look, he strides down the aisle, examining everything label by label like he's been tasked with disarming a nuclear bomb. She's pleasantly surprised when he doesn't argue—not even a little—instead readily shoveling various things into the cart. Dental floss. Toothpaste. Mouthwash. A set of disposable razors. Shaving cream. Deodorant. Moisturizer. Hand sanitizer. When they hit the makeup section, he swoops toward Cover Girl and palms some black liquid line—

She stays his hand, their fingers brushing lightly before he can dump the makeup into their cart.

He relinquishes the bottle of eyeliner with a regretful, hitching motion. "I suppose this isn't precisely essential, is it?" he says with a self-deprecating laugh.

"No, no. It's not that. It's just … um." How to put this delicately. "Have you even used Cover Girl before?"

"Goodness, no."

"You're used to the really nice stuff, yeah?"

"Chanel Stylo Yeux Waterproof in Noir Intense."

O … kay, then. So, he doesn't just use the "really nice stuff." He uses the makeup equivalent of a Ferrari. Because, of course, he does. That'll hurt to buy, but … she will if it will help him feel more human—angel? Whatever. "I think quality matters for this. If you're a Chanel Guy, I doubt the Cover Girl stuff will fly. It'll probably only frustrate you."

"Why, Detective Decker. A makeup aficionado as well?" He splays his palm dramatically against his chest. "Be still, my heart, I'd no idea."

"I love makeup. I just don't see much practicality in wearing a lot to work."

"You are quite practical," he agrees, stepping close to her. "And yet you created a lovely smoky eye for our masquerade ball, so I suppose I should have known not to stuff you in a one-adjective-fits-all box."

"You thought my smoky eye was lovely?"

"I always think you're lovely," he murmurs.

Heart pounding, she stuffs her fists into her pockets. Otherwise she'd risk taking hold of his newly sleek, shiny lapel, and dragging him even closer. She wants to run her hands up his— "I don't suppose anybody owes you a favor at Sephora?" she blurts.

"Oh, Sephora doesn't sell Chanel in the United States."

"Where do you get it, then? Anywhere you can cash in an IOU? I'll buy the Chanel if I have to, though."

"For science, I'm certain, yes?" he snarks, running his gently arched fingers suggestively along the buttons of his waistcoat. Exactly like she wanted to do, damn it.

"Not really even a little," she admits.

He laughs again, the sound of his satisfaction unfurling like a sprawling superbloom. "You like me with a highlighted waterline, I take it?"

"I like you when you're happy, Lucifer."

"And?" he prods, a purr that slides down her spine.

"And," she says, "and most other times, too."

His tongue runs along the edge of his upper lip. "And, Detective?"

"And-I-like-you-with-a-highlighted-waterline."

A fire stokes itself in her belly when he laughs again. Her body tingles. She jams her hands into her pockets as far as they'll go, until her knuckles are rubbing painfully against the inside seams.

"The manager at Neiman Marcus—lovely chap, ever so fit—owes me quite a lot," he says.

"Oh, thank Satan," she gushes, blowing out a breath. "That'll work for even more than the Chanel. Which one? We can go there next."

"The one in Beverly Hills." He cocks his head at her, a mystified grin on his face. "Even more than the Chanel? Darling, what did you have in mind?"

"It's just, I really wasn't sure how I was gonna convince you to even look at the clothing section here. It's … um." She directs a toothy wince toward the center of the store, where the t-shirt racks begin.

"Quintessential 'bargain shopping?'" he says, putting the words in graceful air quotes.

"At its finest." She echoes his gesture as she continues, "Really, really not your 'jam,' I'm guessing."

"Most certainly not. Though I assure you, I can adapt, if need be."

"You haven't seen the clothes over there."

"A challenge, is it?"

"No," she says softly, a smile tugging at her lips. "I don't want to stifle your ensemble when there's no reason to. Thanks for being a good sport about the toiletries, though."

"I told you, I'd make do."

"I know you did. I just … it's just …."

"Hard to picture me slumming it, so to speak?"

"Lucifer, it's just so not you! The sweats and warmups made you look like a grumpy John Stockton or something."

He makes a face. "Who?"

"A famous basketball player."

"Ah."

She types the address for Neiman Marcus into her phone. With traffic, it'll take a while, and the length of Trixie's remaining school day is rapidly dwindling.

"Detective … when don't you like me?"

She looks up from her phone. "What?"

"You said it earlier. That you like me when I'm happy. And you like me most other times. Implying there are times when you don't. When don't you?"

She laughs nervously. "Lucifer, I didn't exactly mean it like that."

"How did you mean it, then?"

"I …." Shit. "I'm thinking it's not important right now."

"Isn't it?"

She grabs a generic bottle of makeup remover and throws it into the cart to distract herself.

"Chloe," he says, her name a soft prayer on his lips, "I didn't leave to leave you. I didn't leave to curtail"—he gestures vaguely between them—"this. Us. I didn't."

"I know," she says.

"Then what have I done to earn your ire?"

"I just …." Her eyes prick as her good mood wavers. "I just wish we could be a team. A real one. And we're not."

"Detective," he says with a baffled-sounding chuckle, "being your partner is one of my favorite things on this Earth. Of course we're a team. This bloody compulsion won't change that."

He just … doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't get it. Why would he? He didn't get it yesterday, either. "Lucifer, we have never been a team."

His confusion only seems to burgeon.

"Look, never mind," she says.

He tenses, his hand flying to grip the corrugated shelving, which sends a cascade of makeup bottles tipping onto their sides like dominos.

"I take that back!" she blurts, and he relaxes. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. "I meant, we should go, I think. Is there anything else you want while we're here?"

His dark eyes are big and bright and hurting and clueless. "Detective?"

"Any more bathroom stuff?" she clarifies.

His lips form a grim line. "No."

"Then it's back to Beverly Hills, I guess." She pastes a brittle smile onto her face.

A tiny sigh gusts from his lips. "Very well."

He doesn't sound at all like he thinks things are well. The opposite, more like. Which is true, but she's not prepared to rehash this fight right now. Not so soon. Definitely not in a Walmart aisle, at any rate.

Yet … even then, he bumps her gently out of the way with his hip, wrapping his fingers around the metal grip, and pushes the squealing, protesting cart in the direction of the registers. "Shall we?"

He's just so … him.

Self-oriented, yet simultaneously somehow more considerate than anyone she's ever met.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Thanks."

The swish and roar of traffic fills the quiet as they head back up the 405 toward Beverly Hills. He stares into space with a troubled expression as he worries idly at the lapel of his jacket. He starts near the collar, pinching the seam, and then strokes downward until he hits the first button. A new nervous habit, maybe? He'd always been hyperactive, but this seems more … more. More pensive. More compulsive. His teeth are gritted, and his shaking grip is clinging. Like … like he expects to discover any moment the suit is imaginary. That he isn't ….

That he isn't safe.

"You're sure Lilith can't come here?" she asks.

"No," he says, the word grim and clipped.

"No, you're not sure?"

"No, she cannot come here. Not unless she hitches a ride with one of my siblings, and they wouldn't dare. I didn't even bloody dare, when it still could have helped."

"… Helped?"

"Humans aren't designed to be immortal, let alone live in Hell. Her mind was ravaged by eons of brutal existence."

Okay, that's … awful. "What about demons?"

"What about them?"

"Couldn't she send a demon after you via possession?" she asks.

His fidgeting worsens, amplifying. He shifts his palms to his thighs, stroking up and down from knee to hip. With him trapped by her side, he's uniquely vulnerable right now. Maybe they shouldn't have sent Maze away.

Or, maybe, Chloe's being a worrywart, given that a possessed human hasn't already gate crashed. More time passes in Hell than on Earth. Thousands of people die every day. By now, Lilith will have had plenty of opportunities to send someone after him.

Maybe the important question is … why hasn't she?

"I don't see how she could take me back," Lucifer says, as if he's followed Chloe's train of thought.

"What do you mean?"

"She could send someone to kill me, yes. But if she means to repossess me, utilizing a demon won't accomplish anything. They can't cross dimensions with their borrowed shells."

"But what if she means to kill me?" Chloe says. "I wonder what happens to the compulsion if I die."

His breaths shift to tiny gasps. He clutches his thighs, raking his fingers down his new threads like he means to shred them. So much for keeping his stress levels low.

"I'm sorry," she rushes to say. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have brought this up."

"Detective." The word is soft. Pleading.

"I'll be vigilant," she assures him. "Like I always am. I promise." Maybe she'll ask a uni to keep an extra eye on her apartment. She checks the rearview mirror, noting the cars behind her. "She won't get you if I have anything to do with it."

The fact he doesn't joke he was more worried about her hits like a dissonant cymbal crash. He really is … damaged. Deeply. For a brief, awful moment, Chloe wishes Lilith wasn't squirreled away out of reach—she'd take Maze-like pleasure in hunting her down and seeing justice served.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

They need a subject change. Stage right. Her brain tumbles over options.

"What do they owe you for?" she asks.

His hands still. "Hmm?"

"Alessandro. And this manager guy we're gonna meet at Neiman Marcus. What do they owe you for?" His fingers tighten, leaving small wrinkles in the sleek fabric by his knee. His intensity impels her to add, "Just curious, really. You don't have to answer."

He looks away. "I helped Alessandro meet his husband."

"So, the Devil played matchmaker?"

"More like they bumped into each other at my orgy."

She grins, braking as an SUV angles into the gap between her car and the next. "Why am I not surprised?"

His eyebrows knit as he turns back to her. Like … that's not the response he expected. Not at all. The wheels turn behind his eyes, cranking on some complex equation.

"And the manager?" she asks. "What does he owe you for?"

"I let him borrow my chalet in Aspen."

Now, that, she can't picture. "You … ski?"

"No, but I quite like the view in winter."

She smiles. "You and your views."

"I appreciate many aesthetics. Any aesthetic that isn't Hell, really."

"What does Hell look like? Is it anything like we imagine?"

He shudders. "Detective … I … I understand I've offended you in some way, but—"

"I was just trying to make conversation that doesn't suck."

"Well, I'd prefer not to converse about my prison."

She wants to fucking kick herself. "Lucifer, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to dredge more stuff up." And then she catches up with the rest of what he'd said. His assumption she's poking at wounds because she knows her questions will hurt. Because she's offended. "I wasn't punishing you for anything, I just …." Her heart twists. "I really like to talk with you. Ever since you showed up again, all I've wanted to do is talk with you." She wipes her face with the ridges of her palms. "We used to have a great rapport."

"You desire rapport with me."

She glances at him, at the sudden stiffness in his frame. "That's not a demand, Lucifer."

His relieved little sigh makes her ache. He slumps against the door, pressing his face into his hands as he takes long dragging inhalations, like he's trying to settle himself.

She wants to scream, but settles for echoing his sigh with one of her own, offering a soft, sick-at-heart, "Sorry," into the void between them.

He doesn't reply.

A semi merges in front of her. She brakes, cursing softly.

"He won't damn it."

"What?"

"God won't damn that truck," says Lucifer blithely. "He's quite hands off with human nitty gritty."

"It was a figure of speech," she bites out.

"Of course." A pause. "Detective?"

"What?" she snaps.

"Will you … tell me what I've missed since I've been gone?" he says, suddenly wistful. Intent. "Your life. Everything. Please. That's conversation I would enjoy."

Her heart squeezes at the slow simmer of longing in his tone. "I said we don't have to talk."

"Yes, I know." The seat squeaks as his body shifts, toward her, until his shoulder juts in the dashboard's direction. "But … I desire it as well. The return of our"—he gestures at the space between them—"rapport."

A lump forms in her throat. "Yeah?"

He offers her a regal nod in reply.

"Well," she begins, "Trixie placed into a gifted math class."

"Has she?" he says, smiling. "I can't say I'm surprised."

"And Dan is … better."

He snorts. "That, I would not have guessed."

"He's been in therapy. Linda referred him to a grief counselor. They hit it off. He's doing really good now—you just freaked him out a little."

The motor grumbles indignantly as she brakes yet again to let a Porsche in front of her. "God, damn it," she mutters.

"You wouldn't have this problem if you tailgated more often."

"Yeah, well, there's something to be said for having space to brake if shit goes wrong."

He expels a breath—rubs the bridge of his nose like she's trying his patience—but says nothing else of their recurring highway plight, instead choosing to prod, "And you, Detective? What have you been up to?"

"Just work, really."

"Tell me of your cases, then."

"Well, there was one guy with a pitchfork. You'd have had some fun with him." For the Devilish puns and scathing commentary, if nothing else.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah." Her eyes water. "I missed you so much on that one. I kept imagining you were there. Saying things."

His eyes glint. "Did you, now?"

"Yeah."

"And what things did you imagine me saying?" he asks too gleefully.

Her face heats.

"I see," he says. "And did this man murder with the pitchfork, or did he try to stop you with it like our previous axe-wielder?"

"Both."

"Dearie me. But you stuck a pitchfork in him, so to speak?"

She laughs. There's the pun. "Yeah. He's done."

"Well done."

And another. The lump burgeons in her throat. She's missed this. Missed having him here, nosing into the gaps in her life like the merciless tailgater he is.

"I've really missed you," she repeats softly.

"Well, I'm here now," he says, his expression warm. "Perhaps we'll have fun tomorrow at work?"

"God, I hope so. We could both use it."

"That we could, Detective. Tell me more?"

She does, noting the cars behind them again.

"What scents do you like, Detective?"

"Like … in general?"

"On me."

He's never asked her that before. He's never asked her anything when it comes to her honest opinions about his appearance. "Uh …."

"Oh, come now, surely you have a preference?"

"But this is about what you want."

He leans in to sniff the rim of a cologne bottle. His nose wrinkles when he gets a whiff, and he screws the cap back on before returning it to the shelf. He grabs the next bottle down the line, some luxury brand she doesn't recognize. "Humor me," he says. "Unless you've not been paying attention?"

"Believe me, I have," she says, only realizing what she's said when a knowing, triumphant grin stretches across his face. "Okay, that was underhanded, even for you."

His smile only widens. "Tell me."

"Why is it so important?"

"Because I like to know what you like."

"Not because of"—she gestures between them—"because of this, right?"

"If by this, you mean the fact that I find you interesting and always have, why, yes. Yes, it is. If by this, you mean the fact that I'm metaphysically shackled to you, then, no. That didn't factor in."

His almost purring tone makes her smile bashfully back at him. "Well … let me think." She closes her eyes, trying to remember. He had a few scents he rotated between. She liked them all, but one had always made her flare her nostrils and breathe deep whenever he'd enter her space. He'd worn it on the beach. He'd worn it after. Foolish condiment, he'd rumbled. He'd worn it the night they'd found Charlotte's body, too. The press of it against the back of her throat had comfort—

"Detective?"

"It was kinda floral?" she hazards, imagining. "But woodsy, too. Maybe some vanilla?"

"Ah, yes." He turns to the assistant standing behind the counter. "Would you be so kind as to bring me a sample of the Clive Christian No. 1?"

The blushing woman is quick to oblige, pulling out a gold bottle with a shiny gold cap that looks like a crown. She sprays some onto a cotton ball for them.

"Try this," he says, pushing the cotton across the glass.

She leans into his space to take a whiff. The scent hits. First, the floral notes, and then the woodsy stuff—cedar? sandalwood?—blooms in her nose, and she can't stop herself from deepening her inhalation.

"That's the one, then," he confirms. "I'll take this and the Eau d'Hadrien, please."

"What's your favorite scent?" she asks.

"I've never known you to wear perfume, Detective."

"No, I just mean in general."

"Curious, are we?"

"Like I said, it's nice to just talk. I like to talk with you. You interest me, too." She tugs at her shirt collar, sudden warmth blasting her skin. "Sorry, this probably isn't—"

"Jasmine," he says. "I like jasmine. And cinnamon. And citrus. And that conditioner you like."

She blinks. "It's just Herbal Essence. Nothing special."

"You use it," he replies. As if to say, that makes it special.

They head to the clothing section last to grab him some socks and other things. "What about these?" she says, tossing a three-pack of black boxer-briefs at him as she scans their surroundings again.

He catches the plastic bag with a flicker of movement that hardly registers, arching an imperious eyebrow at her. "You think I consider underwear essential?"

"Um." Her face burns as she recalls him standing on the steps to his bedroom in a button down, bare-assed as he called boisterously to Eve. "No. No, I know you don't, but—"

"Wearing boxer-briefs ruins the lines of a good suit, Detective."

"Lucifer, I don't give a crap if you go commando; I'm more concerned about what you sleep in."

He smirks. "Oh, are you?"

"Which I'm guessing is usually nothing, yeah?" she says, plowing onward.

"… Usually," he admits. "And what I wear to bed, when I wear it, is not"—he raises the bag to his face, scowling at the contents—"one-hundred-percent cotton." He scoffs. "Really, Detective. This is—"

"You get you're living in an apartment with an eleven-year-old girl right now, right?"

"You humans are so bloody prudish."

She folds her arms.

"Very well," he concedes, "but not these." He stuffs the bag of boxer-briefs back onto the rack, the plastic crinkling in his effort to smash the thing into an invisible ball. "Boxer-briefs are so"—he makes an "ugh" sound deep in his throat—"unnecessarily constricting. I'm more of a free baller."

She coughs.

He prowls the aisles, staring at wash labels, rubbing various fabrics between his thumb and index finger before picking out a few pairs of silk boxers, a set of black silk pajamas, and a black silk lounge robe.

"Silk, much?" she says, eyeballing the pile.

"Well, it's the opposite of grit and grime, yes?"

Heart aching, she tucks the implications of that away for safe keeping, along with all the other tidbits he's given her over the years.

Overall, the day is idyllic. They chat. About little things. Big things. Everything in between. They catch up. Like the oldest of friends. She tells him most things. He tells her some things—each one momentous in its own way. Their "rapport" feels almost like it used to be. Almost. Were it not for the occasional "oops" that leaves him gasping until she can figure out how to fix it.

Once Lucifer has his essentials, and they pick up Trixie from school, the day is nearly exhausted. The sun paints the clouds in the western edges of the sky with resplendent reds and pinks and oranges.

"I feel as though I've missed this, as well," Lucifer says, taking a deep breath as the cool air billows through the slitted-open car windows.

“Wanna go to the beach?" Chloe asks on a lark, glancing at her watch. "Get a bigger whiff?" They have time to overshoot her apartment and make it to the shore before the sun hits the water. But only barely. "Could be nice."

"Yes!" chirps Trixie from the back seat. "Yes, please. Can we? Can we, please? We haven't been to the beach in, like, forever."

"Isn't it too bloody cold for the beach?" Lucifer mutters.

Chloe laughs. "Well, we won't go in. We'll just walk for a bit. Or sit."

"And talk?"

"Yeah, I'd like that, if you would."

"Please, can we?" Trixie chants. "Please, please, please?"

His focus breaks only enough to glance at the rearview mirror, into the backseat—though his expression harbors no irritation—before returning to Chloe.

"You pick," she assures him.

He leans toward the window, nostrils flaring as he inhales once more. His eyes drift closed, like the scent relaxes him, and she feels compelled to add "salt air" to the list of favorite scents he mentioned earlier.

"Yes," he decides. "Please. I'd … quite like to see water again."

The wistfulness in his tone is back.

She shifts the car into the center lane instead of turning left at the light. "Okay, then. Beach, it is."

Much to Trixie's exuberant delight.

Chapter Text

"Lucifer, why do you like the smell of salt?"

His eyes drift open to a bright blue infinity. The waves froth and foam, tickling the soles of his feet when the water reaches the apex of its encroachment onto the sand. He scrunches his toes as the latest wave withdraws back into the depths. Beside him, she lies on a faded beach towel, her beautiful body concealed only by an evergreen-colored bikini.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his elbow. "Well, it's … it's symbolic, I suppose." He grins. "By the way, I quite like this color on you."

"It's symbolic," she echoes.

She rests a palm against his ribcage, stroking him with her thumb. The heat of her touch coils through his skin, and he twitches, half-laughing.

"Are you ticklish?" she asks.

"Only for you, darling."

She bites her lip coyly. "What do you mean by symbolic?"

He strokes her mouth, leaving a faint streak of wet sand behind. Her nose wrinkles adorably before he can brush the silica away. She cups her palm over his, peering up at him. He kisses her. Quick. Just a peck for connection before he shifts his attention to a distant point beyond their toes—the horizon where ocean and sinking sun meet sky.

Sandpipers trot along the edges of wet, glistening sand. Seagulls cackle over head. The waves are a white noise roar that comforts him. But the smell …. He inhales deeply of the not-ash, the memory of pain—of rebirth—seeping into him like the encroaching tide.

"Detective, this is where I arrived," he says, returning his gaze to her. "This is where I first had Maze cut off my wings. Smelling salt means I've escaped."

"From Hell."

"From everything."

With eyes like soul traps, she searches his face. He can't look away. Doesn't want to.

"So, for you, it means freedom," she asserts, cupping his cheek before plunging her fingers into his hair. "Do you feel free now?"

"Yes—oh!"

He laughs, the breath rushing out of him as she scoots closer. Kicks her leg over his hip. Straddles him, trapping his wrists by his sides. He flops down, his back pressed onto the damp towel beneath him. She splays her palms gently against his pectorals.

He's pinned.

Constricted.

If she were anyone else, he'd buck out from under or tear himself to pieces trying, but … she isn't anyone else. The only tightness he experiences is in his groin, not his chest. The only frustration, that he isn't given leave to touch.

"Is this okay?" she whispers, looking worriedly down at him.

"Only for you, darling."

"Do you like it?" she amends.

"Oh, yes," he says, the words thick and heady—needing. "Have me anytime you like."

"But what about when you like?"

"With you, darling, that's always."

"Even like this? With me on top?"

"Particularly like this." He smirks. "Save a horse, Detective."

Her responding mirth is brief as a big wave cracks against the beach, unfurling gelid tendrils that reach their toes. He glances left, where Beatrice had been making a multi-tiered sandcastle. But the castle is nothing more than an eroded blob with vague peaks that had been towers. And the child … where had the child gone?

"Lucifer … are we a team?" the Detective asks.

He frowns, his attention shifting back to her. "Of course we are."

She frowns, too.

"Aren't we?" he continues. "Why would we not be?"

She doesn't answer.

"Detective?"

With a sigh, she shakes her head. "It's not important."

He laughs. "I should say not. Really, Detective, you doubt my devotion when you're literally sitting on top of me? The Devil?"

"Well, this is your fantasy. We're in your head. I don't know if you're a reliable narrator right now."

"Darling, if we're in my head, I would think you're the unreliable narrator."

"I guess, when you put it that way …." Warmth snakes into his skin as she presses her palms to his temples, holding him her willing captive. She dips down for a kiss. "I love you."

"And I you." Easy to say here. In this place.

In this infinity.

The gulls cry overhead as she straightens, the evergreen material of her swimsuit darkening in the waning sunlight. She grips her neck, then sweeps her hands down her cleavage to her navel, giving him a show. His body stirs, filling his mind with a vague, dizzying scream of more, more, more. He tries to move his wrists, to clutch her thighs—anything—but she clamps her knees against his hips like a vise.

"Bad Devil," she murmurs. "Audience participation is against the rules for this, remember?"

The euphoria of anticipation zings through him, manifesting in a chuckle he can't stop.

"Detec—" he begins on reflex, only to finish with a muffled, "mmph," as she cups a hand over his mouth, her fingernails digging crescents into his cheek.

"You want me to ride you?" she asks.

The burning coil of desire in his gut twists until he has no more slack. He offers a soft, desperate, "Please," against her palm like a prayer.

"Then shut up."

She waits a moment before lifting her hand away. He doesn't speak. Only stares, watching the pink tip of her tongue slide along her lower lip as she regards him like he's dessert. She shimmies down his legs, reaching between them. Her fingertips find his waistband. She hooks the edge of his swim trunks with her index finger.

"I want to see you. All of you. Now."

With a little tug, she drags his shorts down, exposing his lower body to cool air. Another wave tickles his toes. The salt scent overwhelms him. His sky is her eyes, green as an algal bloom. Unabashed, she looks at him. At everything. For once, not scrambling to avert her gaze, even with his arousal burgeoning for anyone on the beach to see.

She cups him. "Mine."

Hers, he echoes, silent.

And the world falls away like a—

OPEN THE DOOR FOR HER.

He snaps awake to conflagration, the blood in his veins replaced by fire, the thoughts in his head already ash. He arches backward, trying to escape the lash of the flaming whip, but it strikes true, snaking down his body to the tips of his peripheral nerves, focusing into a searing whorl of fervor in his groin. In his chest. He can't breathe. His skin doesn't fit, and he needs. To open. The door.

"Lucifer?"

An imagined echo of vile laughter—laughter at him while he's helpless and screaming—strokes his spine like cold fingers. He tumbles out of bed, his hip taking the brunt of the impact, but it's a single staccato note amid a massive orchestral swell. He imagines himself disengaging the lock. Salivating, he stumbles across the room, his focus singular.

"Lucifer! Are you okay? Did you fall?" The doorknob jiggles.

OPEN THE DOOR FOR HER.

For Her.

OPEN IT, NOW.

He slams against the frame with his heavy heaving body before he gets a shaking grasp on the doorknob. He flips open the lock.

As soon as the latch disengages, as soon as a sliver of the hallway beyond—a dark, lovely hint of her silhouette—appears in the gap between the doorframe and the door itself, the needing winks out like it never was.

"No," he whines, his body swindled.

Cheated. Incomplete.

The door eases shut as his lolling weight pushes it closed.

A pause.

"Uh … Lucifer?"

He can't quite catch his breath. When did this even happen? Distant laughter, again. Eyes, watching. The room bleeds away, replaced by darkness, by ash, by the sound of chittering, cackling crowds, crushing him like a garlic press.

"Lucifer?"

He catches himself mid-flinch. "What, damn it?"

The knob jiggles—OPEN THE DOOR FOR HER. "Are you okay?"

Need explodes, but as soon as he removes the obstruction of his weight, the fire in his body douses again, hissing away in curl of smoke. No resolution. Only the whiplash of absence.

Again.

With a broken, soft sob, he surrenders to gravity at last, his legs folding underneath him.

Sweat slicks him head to toe. Burning blush carpets his skin. His erection is thick against his belly. His balls ache like someone hung weights from them. His nipples are pert to the point of pain.

Telltales of not-his desperation, shoehorned into him against his will.

"Lucifer …?" she repeats. The word is muffled. Hesitant.

He takes a rickety breath, injecting as much bravado as he can muster into, "Of course you can enter whenever you like, Detective, but given your current sensibilities, I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm bloody starkers. That's why I locked the door in the first place—you lectured me about it, if you'll recall, to save your offspring from emotional scarring. Not to mention certain bits of my anatomy seem to have woken faster than my bloody brain did, which I gather isn't a picture you've any interest in witnessing, either."

"Oh. Um. No. No, thanks."

"I thought not." Hoped not, for once. He closes his eyes, leaning tiredly against the bookshelf by the door. A sudden lump fills his throat as his panting subsides. "Detective, I … I would appreciate it if you didn't knock. A verbal inquiry into my state of being will suffice."

"Shit," she says like she's sinking, "did I …?"

"Yes."

The twin shadows cast underneath the doorway by her feet shift across the hard wood. A thump makes the door rumble on its hinges, as though she's bowing her forehead against the surface. Another soft curse follows. And then, "Lucifer, I'm so sorry."

She never apologized. Or adjusted to avoid tormenting him. Instead, she wound him up on purpose, until …. Until?

The more he scrutinizes the memory, the more it fleets into a blur, beyond his grasp, like a dream dematerializing in the light of day. He doesn't wish to chase the recollection anyway.

He rubs his eyes.

The tightness in his chest eases.

"Lucifer?" the Detective prods quietly. The remorse in her tone wraps around him like a blanket. "Are you o—"

"It's quite all right," he assures her, relaxing into the warm safety of her. "No permanent harm done."

"I swear, I didn't mean to."

"Of course you didn't."

"I just," she says, "I didn't even think."

"I know." Her lack of malice, of guile, of premeditation, soothes like no other balm. "Really, Detective."

"Talk about a rude awakening, huh."

"Quite. Though, I suppose, at least, this assuages our previous concerns about whether you can boss me around whilst I'm unconscious. The answer is: you bloody well can."

She doesn't laugh.

He could scream.

"Now, what is it you actually desired?" he asks.

"I only wanted to make sure you were awake. We have to leave for Linda's in about forty-five minutes if we're gonna make it before my shift starts."

"Ah. Well, mission accomplished. I'm up now." He scowls down at himself. "In more ways than one."

"Yeah, I … I …."

"Mom," yells a distant Beatrice, dragging out the o to make the word a sing-song plea. "When are you gonna start the pancakes?"

"Just a minute, Monkey," the Detective calls back. She clears her throat before adding hesitantly in his direction, "You did want to come"—yes, yes, yes—"today, right? I can try to figure out how to give you some freedom in here if you'd rather I leave you behind."

The memory of agonizing separation drives him to bark, "No," faster than he'd like.

"Lucifer … if you're not ready …."

"No, I … Detective, I wish to come." He tries to ignore the awful tightness in his groin, focusing instead on how he used to feel, working with her every day. He tilts his head against the bookcase, smiling faintly as his pounding heart calms a little. "I think perhaps I need to."

"You need to?"

"Yes."

Are we a team? she'd asked.

The shadows of her feet at the threshold don't move. Until at last, she softly says, "Okay. Well, I'll be downstairs making breakfast, then. Feel free to join us if you want, yeah?"

"Of course."

Her footsteps recede down the hall, and then the stairs.

He exhales, one slow breath that empties him out, leaving him a wasted ruin.

Fuck.

He can't bloody finish.

Let me help you, she murmurs against the nape of his neck, and he strokes, and soothes, and fondles himself using her guise—an imaginary reach-around under the hot, pelting water of the shower. But he can't push himself over the peak blocking him from dissolution, no matter how hard he shoves and strains and struggles. Again, and again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he hisses, rutting against his palm until he's heaving with frustration and fatigue, and the formerly steaming water runs lukewarm. "Daddamnit."

Clenching his teeth, he gathers himself for another effort. A warm, phantom hand splays against his sternum. He tips his head back. And then she's there. The Detective. Naked. Smiling. Binding his wrists behind him with the silk tie of her suit. Touching him in all his erogenous places.

I love you, she says, and he wants her. I choose you.

His favorite fantasy.

And yet—

"Lucifer!" the Detective calls from the steps. "If you wanna go, we gotta go!" A pause. "But only if you want to, yeah?"

"Just a minute!" he chokes out as he slumps against the wall, away from the spray, the cold tiles a chilling line along his side.

Courtesy of his divine constitution, he's never had trouble before.

Not once.

Another basic bodily function that should be his alone, stolen from him as though it were a bar of gold kept in his safe. Like sleep. Like feeling. Like his thoughts. Worse, he isn't certain whether this predicament means he can't orgasm without the Detective's demand, or without her explicit participation. Or both. If this curse truly is some kind of forced master/slave bond, her participation being a requirement for his release wouldn't surprise him.

His chest aches at the thought.

If this were a scene—edging he'd asked for, edging they'd agreed upon beforehand—he'd congratulate the Detective on a job bloody well done. He'd enjoy himself, even, knowing his reward would arrive eventually, when she deemed him worthy. But consent makes all the difference.

This isn't titillation.

This is torment.

Which ….

No.

No, this is silly. One unsuccessful trial does not a theory make. His pleasure isn't owned by the Detective. He's stressed to a point near apoplexy. Of course nothing is happening right now.

"Fuck," he rasps as he turns the temperature dial of the shower from scalding to polar vortex. "Bloody fucking hell."

His erection wilts in the bitter chill, and his balls tuck into his body. His unmet need—stoked by hurricanes of arousal ripping him out by the roots for days—remains.

"Lucifer," the real Detective calls up the steps, "are you coming, or not?"

If only.

"Just a minute!" he repeats. "I was—" Detained? Desperate? Dying for the little death? "Preoccupied."

He towels off, the nagging urge to stroke himself a mosquito-like whine in his head, eclipsed only by the nagging urge to smite the bathroom to shambles.

He needs a bloody drink.

"Bye, Mom!" Beatrice chirps as she climbs out of the car.

"Later, babe!" the Detective calls. "Pick you up at 5:30!"

"I knooow. Bye Lucifer!"

Lucifer barely acknowledges the child as she trots off across the grass to join her similarly small friends. He presses the fingers of his left hand against his right middle finger, twisting and turning the onyx ring that isn't there anymore. That was taken from him. He briefly rests his head against the window, only to shift again.

Pulling back into traffic, the Detective asks, "Is it okay if I sit you down with a sketch artist when we get to the precinct?"

"What?" he says.

"For Constantine. I'm gonna call the FBI. Visual aids might help."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose."

Her turn signal pops like a Snapple cap in the quiet. "Okay, what's up?"

Had he been that obvious? "How much longer? Twenty minutes?"

"About that, yeah."

Nodding, he grips his thighs, idly running his palms along them as the scenery inches past.

"Do you need to pee or something?" she says, frowning.

He stills himself. "No."

She nods pointedly at the gas station several blocks up the street. At the rate traffic is creeping, they'll be at the turn-in soon, if they were to keep going straight. "We can stop there …?"

"I said no, Detective."

Thwarted, she taps her fingers against the steering wheel. "Do angels pee?"

He barks out a laugh. "What a question!"

"Well, you seem nervous," she replies, "and I thought a non sequitur might—"

"If I've drunk something, yes," he answers with a half-curtailed snort. "Not as bloody often as you, though. You humans are sieves, I tell you."

"That's"—she squirms in her seat, like she's suddenly aware of the many cups of coffee already collecting in her bladder—"that's fair."

He snickers.

The Detective turns right and zippers slowly out of the short merge lane. And … he's back to flipping the air vents open and closed and open—

"So, what's wrong, then?" she says.

A sigh blusters through his frame. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters if it's making you upset."

He clenches his jaw, over and over and over. Hopefully he can't crack his teeth when she's around. "I only meant it doesn't matter within the context of this conversation, because there's nothing to be done about it."

"Maybe talking would help anyway? You never know."

He plays with the door handle. And the seat visor. And his cufflinks. And his nonexistent ring. And the radio again.

She manages a gritted, "Lucifer—"

"Bloody hell!" he erupts. "You and Doctor Linda are like magpies, but you collect feelings instead of shiny buttons."

The Detective smiles a little. "I mean … also fair."

The silence stretches.

"You're … not worried, are you?" she asks in a small voice. "About me giving you some kind of accidental command at work?"

He turns to her. "Detective, are you worried?"

"I get that after we leave Linda's, we'll be with your peers, not your therapist, or strangers you don't care about, or … or your family." She tests the word "family" on her tongue like she's taking a bite of foreign food. "I'm a woman working in a male-dominated field—a former actress to boot—I get having to fight tooth and nail for just an inch of respect. And I get why you wouldn't want to fall apart in front of your peers."

"It's true," he allows slowly. "I do not."

"But I thought we did okay at Linda's on Sunday," she babbles onward. "And yesterday when we were shopping. As long as I can see you, I catch the problems quickly. Don't I?"

"You're quite quick, yes."

"But I'm human. I can't be diligent all the time, and I hate that your wellbeing relies on—" She claps her palm to her mouth. "Oh, I almost did it again. P-punished—I'm … I'm sorry."

His chest aches, for once having nothing to do with the fleeting, serrated grip of memory. He rests a hand on her bicep. The warmth of her skin soaks into his palm.

"Detective," he says softly, "I assure you, my uneasiness today is entirely unrelated to our work."

"Then … what?"

"Will you, please, accept that I've no desire to discuss it with you?"

Her lips part, and she takes a breath like she wants to protest. Like she wants to keep drilling his psyche as a dentist drills cavities. But she doesn't. "Do you want to skip going to Linda's, too?"

"Going to Linda's is okay."

"God, that doesn't even sound like you. If only we knew how the hell I …." Her words trail away.

He wishes he had comfort to offer, wishes he had answers like how the hell did she make him okay with going to Linda's, because he'd like to know as well, but he's as set adrift as she is. The physical strain of his predicament aside, he has no idea where he begins or ends anymore.

Just like you were worried about with Dear Old Dad, except not paranoid delusion this time, someone purrs against his ear. Not delusion at all.

His insides roil. The road beyond the windshield stretches as his mind hurtles down a rapidly constricting tunnel. His heart throbs like a war drum in his—

Something warm grips his hand.

"Do not touch me!" he gusts, the thought connecting unexpectedly to his mouth.

The warmth withdraws. "Sorry! I'm sorry. I thought … when you touched my arm …."

He gasps, his perception snapping back into the car cabin. Into reality. The glare of a red light makes him blink.

"Sorry, I thought it would help," the Detective continues. Her eyes are bloodshot. A little puffy.

"No, I," he says, lost in the profound unfamiliarity of being listened to. Of being able to complain. "You … you simply startled me." And she felt different. The antonym of Her.

Of Lilith.

Making a choice, he holds out his arm.

"You're sure?" the Detective says.

He scoops up her hand before she can drown in self-doubt. At first, she's limp in his grasp, but then she shifts, and his knuckles are jammed together by a grip that hints of desperation.

Like … she needs it, too.

"Is this okay?" she murmurs.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, thank you."

Her eyes soften. Just a little. She doesn't speak. Only nods. The light turns green. She strokes his wrist briefly with her thumb before accelerating.

"Then it's official," Lucifer snarks as he stares at the printouts laid across the Doctor's coffee table, "I've a brain, after all."

Analise the cleaner has yet to make her visit, but the Doctor's apartment still smells of citrus and bleach, and no new messes have proliferated in her kitchen or living room since Sunday, at the very least.

"Yes. Yes, you do," Dr. Linda answers with a grin. "With all of the regular features of a human brain, to boot." She leans closer, scrutinizing the black film. "There's your brain stem"—she drags her pen through the air over the drawing, along the vertical column near the bottom of the picture, before shifting to an oval-shaped structure closer to the nape of his shadow version's neck—"and your cerebellum." She gestures to the bright arch in the center. "This smaller blob right here is your corpus callosum"—she points finally to the squiggly bits forming a shell around everything else—"and the big blob surrounding it is your cerebrum. If I didn't know you weren't human, I'd call you textbook Homo sapiens."

"Well, I did tell you I'm physically perfect, did I not?" Lucifer says.

"You did; you did."

The cushion squeaks as the Detective reaches for her phone and opens her notes app. "So, what does this MRI thing mean for Lucifer, exactly?"

"I haven't talked to my colleague yet," Linda hedges, "so I'm loath to jump the gun on an official diagnosis. I should know more very soon, but in the meantime, I'd like—"

Lucifer closes his eyes, shifting—not squirming—as he lets his awareness slide toward oblivion. Going to Dr. Linda's is okay. Being at Dr. Linda's is most decidedly not. And he still needs a bloody drink.

A distant ringing fills his ears. He's become all too aware that he aches. Every sinew. Every muscle. Though he'd settled somewhat since his shower, he'd still rut with a bloody couch cushion if he thought it might get him somewh—

"—cifer?"

Both the Detective and the Doctor are looking at him like he just admitted to watching the kittens up for adoption at Petsmart—which he does, sometimes, when he's very bored, but he wouldn't ever say so.

"Lucif—"

"What!" he snaps.

The Doctor doesn't flinch. "I was asking you what you thought about that."

"Thought about what?"

"About my plan."

"What plan?" Dr. Linda and the Detective share a long, concerned look, prompting him to snap once more, "What bloody plan?"

The child shrieks from the bedroom. Dr. Linda leans forward in her chair.

"No, no," the Detective says, waving the Doctor back. "You two do your therapy thing. I'll get him."

"You're sure?" says the Doctor.

"Yeah. I imagine you want some privacy anyway."

"Not particularly," grumbles Lucifer, massaging his temples. Don't bloody leave me, he doesn't whine.

Which only prompts a discerning frown from the Doctor. Like he's some kind of apple, and she's peeling off his too tight skin, strip by bloody strip. He clutches the pillow in his lap so hard his fingers shake. The back bedroom door opens and closes, officially leaving him alone. With her. The apple peeler.

Lovely.

He glances over Dr. Linda's shoulder at the entryway.

How far is fifty feet, precisely? He could—

"What I was saying earlier," Dr. Linda begins slowly, bringing his helter-skelter focus to bear, "is in lieu of a diagnosis, I'd like to just talk with you today. See how you're doing. Check in."

He really needs that bloody drink.

He prowls to the liquor cabinet along the wall. The scotch he'd drunk a few days ago is gone. Had he polished it off? Only tequila and vodka remain. His nose wrinkles. Neither are his preference, but any port in a storm, as they say. He snatches the Gran Dovejo Reposado, not even bothering with a shot glass.

"Will you add this to my bill?" he asks, lifting the bottle to the sunlight to display the label. The gold-colored liquid sloshes inside. "Simon will pay you with interest once my affairs are in order again. After he returns from his bloody pony trek, that is."

"Pony trek?"

"Yes. It's apparently a thing you humans do; Dad knows why." He tips back the bottle, taking a swig that makes his eyes water and his throat burn and his head swim. Bless the Detective's presence. He should bring her to therapy more often.

"Lucifer, I'd prefer you not drink when we're in session," says the Doctor.

"But—"

"Lucifer, please. Stop deflecting, and put the tequila down."

"Deflecting," he laughs out. "I am not—" At her unerring, reproachful expression, he screws the cap onto the bottle, and sets the tequila where he found it.

"Thank you," she says gently.

He slinks back to the sofa.

"So," she continues, "will you talk to me?"

"About?"

"Maybe … why you're deflecting today?"

"But I am not—" The reproachful look returns. He folds his arms and changes tacks to, "No, thank you."

"How about whatever you want to talk about, then?"

"Is 'nothing' an option?"

She tilts her head at him. "I won't force you, Lucifer. If you're not getting value out of this, we can skip it."

"Ah," he says with a nod. "I see. Reverse psychology, now, is it? I've read about—"

"Nope."

Her placid expression confuses him. He runs his palms nervously along his thighs. He feels heavy. Both bunched too tight and stretched too thin. I miss feeling interested, Lilith purrs in his ear, and he stiffens. A scab he doesn't want to pick.

"You," Lucifer asks, "won't require me to discuss my memory loss?"

"We don't have to talk about anything," Dr. Linda answers.

"Like a normal session, then?"

"Exactly."

Something that had been stretched taut inside of him loosens a little. His fleeting idea of darting out the door at light speed—just to see how far momentum might carry him before his mind shatters—evaporates. He takes a long, cleansing breath, marveling briefly that he can fill his chest again.

"There is … something," he confesses.

The Doctor picks up her notepad and pen. "And what is that?"

"Trying circumstances aside, the Detective is unhappy with me, and I cannot discern the cause. I don't like it."

"What makes you feel as though Chloe is unhappy with you?"

You can't just do things, Lucifer can still hear her yelling.

"Well, she has lamented that we're not a team, but … but that's preposterous." He flops onto the couch, stretching out along his spine. "Of course we're a bloody team. We've always been a bloody team."

"How would you define a team?"

"I don't know. People who work together? What are you getting at?"

"Working together as in working in proximity?" Dr. Linda prods. "Working toward the same goal? Working in proximity toward the same goal? What defines together to you?"

"Proximity toward the same goal, I suppose?"

Dr. Linda purses her lips, considering for a moment. "Often, I find when people lament about not feeling like part of a team, it has nothing to do with physical proximity. A lot of couples therapy I do involves getting both parties to feel emotional proximity."

"But the Detective and I have perfect emotional proximity!"

Dr. Linda raises her eyebrows. "Do you?"

"Yes!"

"No one has genuinely perfect proximity to another person, Lucifer. That's what makes us individuals." Her cushion squeaks as she redistributes her weight. "Can you think of any moments when you felt apart from Chloe, even when you were technically supposed to be teammates? Moments you felt alone despite her being right next to you?"

Which … when she puts it like that …. He wrings his hands as he admits, "Yes."

The Doctor nods, leaning forward. "Can you tell me about that?"

"When she found out about me, and then she left," he says. "When she asked me how many people I'd killed—as if I could ever kill anyone without feeling the weight of it for eternity." A bitter, biting laugh falls from his lips. "I … but she was shocked. Of course she was shocked and needed space. Father Kinley preyed on her very understandable doubts. He was the villain. Not her."

"Lucifer, I'm not asking you to assign or mitigate blame. That's not what this is about."

"Well, what is it about, then?"

"Can you tell me how you felt when Chloe left?" The apple peeler at work.

Disquiet stirs. He runs his fingers along his forearms. "It felt … awful."

"But how did it feel awful?"

Like his hope had died in the gruesome throes of scaphism. But he shakes his head, sitting up to slouch over his knees.

"What about when Chloe asked you how many people you'd killed? How did that make you feel?"

"Doctor, I really don't like to—"

"A bit like you're alone in a crowded room?" she suggests gently.

Yes.

"Like … you're not being heard?"

"But, of course, she heard me; she—"

"I don't mean literally, Lucifer. But you spent three years showing her who you really are, only for your efforts to be ignored when she saw your other face. She didn't even give you a chance to explain. Isn't that what you're saying?"

"I suppose," he says, directing a dark glower toward the rug.

"Do you ever think about how things could have been different if she'd given you a chance to talk after Pierce?"

"Only about once every minute after she left," he snarks.

"What about since you've come back, clearly having experienced some kind of trauma?" Dr. Linda asks.

His throat constricts, feeling like he swallowed a wine cork and the bloody thing got stuck.

"If … she hadn't gone to Father Kinley," he admits, "I might not have needed to return to Hell." The demons might never have figured out he hadn't been on vacation anymore. "I might have been able to stay. To live in my home." To not wake up in this bloody nightmare, stuck in an aftermath, his free will gone in a puff of smoke. Dr. Linda takes a moment to write something on her notepad. He tries not to think about the similarities between the soft scratching sounds of pen scribbles and the rhythmic snick-snick-snick of an apple peeler. "She keeps expressing ire over the fact that I left, but I never desired to …."

"Is she, though?" Linda asks, looking up.

"Is she what?"

"Expressing ire over the fact that you left?"

"Of course she is," he replies with a shrug. "Every bloody chance she gets."

The Doctor puts down her notepad, clutching the metal spiral at the top. "Lucifer, this is absolutely not to say your feelings aren't valid. They are. Always. But I've never once heard Chloe malign the fact that you had to leave, and she seems to understand the stakes that were involved. Is it possible you heard Chloe's words in a way she didn't intend?"

"Well, how else would you interpret her sniping, then?"

"Tell me about Chloe's 'sniping.'" Dr. Linda uses air quotes. "What did Chloe actually say to you?"

You can't just do things.

He relates the fight he'd had with the Detective on Sunday night, word for word. Benefits of eidetic memory. At least, until he'd been forced to submit. He remembers snapping, and then … the crushing wave of her desire for his capitulation had, at last, dragged him under, and he'd drowned. She'd pulled him back to the surface once she'd noticed, but … the rest of the night is … a bit of a tired blur. He's still tired.

The tightness in his chest returns. "That's … all I'm able to recall."

"That's fine. I think that's enough to go on."

His eyes ache. He rubs them.

"In all of that," Dr. Linda notes, "I didn't hear you recounting Chloe expressing ire over you leaving."

"You can't just do things?" he says, echoing the Detective. "What things besides me going to Hell could she have had in mind?"

"That's … not how I'd necessarily interpret that."

"Well, don't leave me in suspense, Doctor." He gestures at her, giving her an expectant look. "Do go on."

"Do you think it's possible Chloe didn't feel heard?"

"What do you mean?"

"The way she recounts it, you told her you were leaving, and then you left. In the space of minutes. Is that not how it went?"

"Yes, at least, the part of the night I can recall before the big bloody hole in my head begins, but"—he grimaces as the bird of prey clutching his heart flexes its talons—"but what could she possibly have had to say that would have changed the outcome?"

"What could you possibly have had to say that would have changed the outcome of Chloe seeing your Devil face?" Dr. Linda counters.

"Well, I don't bloody know because I wasn't given a bloody chance!"

"Exactly," she says with a definitive nod. "You don't know. And that's my point. Chloe doesn't know, either. Maybe—probably, in fact—there was nothing in the world she could have said to make you stay, but getting a chance to discuss the problem matters." Dr. Linda makes a swirl in the air with her pen. "For a whole host of reasons. Closure—the knowledge you did the very best you could. Also validation—feeling heard. And proximity."

"You're saying all she's bloody mad about is me not giving her a chance to talk me out of going, even though I knew there wasn't any point in bothering? That I made her feel alone in a crowded room?"

"I think it's worth considering."

The idea that he'd caused the Detective to feel anything like he had when she'd fled for Rome without word ….

We used to have such a great rapport, she'd said.

"I … no." He launches off the sofa to pace. "No, this cannot be as simple as you're making it out to be."

"Why can't it?"

He stops, gripping the back of the couch. "Because I'm a fantastic listener. Ask Ms. Lopez. No, it has to be something else."

"Lucifer," Linda says in a no-more-bullshit tone, "you are not a fantastic listener."

"Of course I am!"

"Lucifer," she says more stridently, gesturing. "Come on. Do you not see the irony in this conversation?"

"But—"

"Hey," a soft voice interjects.

He grinds to a halt by the end table, and both he and the Doctor glance toward the hallway.

"Detective," he murmurs, feeling inexplicably like he got caught raiding the "garage" to corrupt the humans. The tips of his ears burn. He'd forgotten she was still around. "I …."

Bloody hell.

She stands with the child draped against her torso. "Hey," she repeats, swaying back and forth, patting the baby with a splayed palm. Telltale white earbuds rest in her ears. "Sorry to interrupt. I swear, I wasn't listening or anything. I just wanted to mention we need to get going soon, or we'll be late for my shift. I only filed for half the morning off."

Lucifer struggles to contain a relieved sigh. "Lovely! I suppose that's it, then."

"We can stay a little bit long—"

"No, no," he rushes to say. "We should leave immediately. Wouldn't want to be tardy my first day back."

"Lucifer," Dr. Linda interjects, shaking her head vigorously. "Lucifer, you cannot—"

"Nice chatting, Doctor," he says, offering her what he hopes is a serene smile despite his heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Apologies, but we must go."

"Right. Yep." She rubs the bridge of her nose, pushing up her glasses as her brow furrows. "Shoulda seen that coming."

The Detective offers a baffled-sounding, "I really didn't mean—"

"Ta ta!" Lucifer says with a slight wave.

Then he bounds for the door with what little dignity he still possesses, happy to flee into the waiting arms of plausible deniability.

Chapter Text

By the time Chloe exchanges pleasantries and hugs and call-me-if-you-need-anythings with Linda and heads outside, Lucifer is already sitting shotgun in her cruiser, which is parked along the distant curb. His long fingers are back to futzing with the air vents like they're some kind of musical instrument. She scans over the hood of the car for threats. Nothing.

"I simply didn't wish to be there anymore," he says, snippy and bristling as she sits beside him in the car.

"I wasn't gonna ask."

He directs a sharp, quizzical gaze at her. "You … weren't?"

"I figure your therapy is none of my business unless you decide it is. That's the whole point, right? Privacy so you can work out your stuff?" She'd been telling the truth when she said she hadn't been listening to the session. All she'd heard of Lucifer and Linda's exchange was the tail end, when Linda had been saying something in exasperation about irony. Which … is kind of how Chloe imagined Lucifer in therapy might go: much exasperation; little forward movement for a slew of effort. "Really, it's no big deal."

"It's not?"

"Nope. It's not." She pulls down the visor to block the morning sun. "Ready to head to work?"

His eyes narrow, an infinitesimal movement only made obvious by the lessened gleam of sunlight reflecting off his irises. Like he can't quite figure out her angle, but he's certain she must have one. He stops fiddling. Instead, his thumb and index finger tighten against his lapel, puckering the seatbelt over his sternum.

"Do," he asks slowly, "you have something you'd like to make my business?"

"Huh?"

"Have you any wish to speak of something particular whilst I listen and comment in response?"

What the …?

"Any lingering, burning issues causing you discomfort?" he continues. "Like STDs, but with thoughts?"

She frowns. "Not … right now, no. Lucifer, what—"

A muffled squawk on the radio interrupts. She reaches for the receiver, still staring incredulously at Lucifer and his … Luciferness. "This is Detective Decker, over."

"We've got a one-eighty-seven in West Adams. Are you available? Over."

"Are we available?" she asks Lucifer.

"Do I not seem available to you?" he challenges.

"Lucifer, I've got no clue what you're talking about."

He scoffs, redirecting his gaze out the window. "I thought so. Of course she's wrong."

"Who's wrong?"

But he refuses to answer.

"So," she prods, "yes or no on heading to the one-eighty-seven?"

Thanks to the suit he'd walked away from Alessandro's with, Lucifer's moved beyond the disgruntled-NBA player motif he'd sported over the weekend. But thanks to the rush that morning, he doesn't seem to have completed his grooming ritual. His hair is curling, not slicked back with product, and his stubble forms more of a forest than a sexy five-o’clock shadow. Between that, the bags hugging his eyes, and the paleness of his complexion, he seems … worn. The effect is magnified when he wipes his face with his palms, breathing deeply like he might scream.

"Lucif—"

"Yes, yes," he huffs, waving a hand at her, "let's get on with it, shall we?"

"I'm not gonna make you do something," she counters. "If you don't want to go anymore, then I'll figure something else out. How to … to 'dislodge' you or whatever."

"Detective, I am not a barnacle."

"Well, no," she says. "I just meant …." Then she catches the mischievous glint in his eyes. He's teasing her. She can't help the smile that stretches across her face. His snark is definitely something she's missed. "Thanks for the tension breaker."

"Of course," Lucifer says, inclining his head. "And I've not changed my mind, Detective. I wish to work with you again. I desire"—he searches for a word, his lightbulb moment following a blink—"proximity."

"Unit Eight-Three-One, please respond," chirps the voice on the radio. "Over."

She expels a slow breath. "You're sure about this?"

"Quite, Detective."

She clicks the receiver. "This is Unit Eight-Three-One. I can head straight there. Over."

Dispatch rattles off an address.

"Ten four," Chloe says as she inputs the street and house number into her GPS. "Unit Eight-Three-One responding. ETA: Thirty minutes. Out."

She doesn't need to double check the address once she turns onto South La Brea Avenue. The shocked crowd milling by the police tape is enough of a tell tale, and that doesn't even take into account the long, snaking line of flashing lights near the scene. She inches past the bright morass, looking for a spot to pull in, but there isn't one. Police vehicles nearly stack on top of each other in the house's tiny driveway. News vans line the curb.

"Perhaps the next block over?" Lucifer suggests.

She accelerates, zipping to the nearest right-hand turn. While La Brea is a busy thoroughfare, directly west of it is nothing but quaint, quiet neighborhood. She pulls into an open spot and places her police placard onto the dash. As she climbs out and stretches, a hummingbird zips past her ear, aggressively chip-chip-chipping at her. The opposite car door makes a thunking noise, and Lucifer straightens, brushing off the lapels of his slightly ill-fitting suit.

"Such ornery little buggers," Lucifer says, watching the hummingbird dart toward a flowering bush peaking into the sky through a rusted wrought-iron fence. She can't help but notice the subtle twitches at the corners of his mouth, like he's trying not to smile. "I don't think Dad remembered to tell them they're the size of a bloody jellybean."

Grinning, she checks her gun holster and pulls on her coat. "Ready?"

"Indeed."

Hitting the lock button on her key fob, she steps around to his side. The lights flash once, and the car beeps. As they shift into simultaneous stride along the sidewalk, he puts his hand at the small of her back, his fingertips gently brushing her spine.

She sucks in a breath.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

Nodding, she can't resist leaning closer. His body is warm and solid, and though the familiar scent of vanilla and sandalwood is absent, given their rush out the door that morning, he's still so undeniably him. She's missed the contact—freely offered, not bathed in doubt—so very much.

"I'm fine," she says softly. "More than." His arm creeps around her back, and he pulls her closer. "Thanks for asking."

"Of course, darling," he replies.

For a brief, blessed moment, she almost feels like it's old times—before he left; before Eve; before Pierce—and nothing has changed. He isn't her slave. She isn't constantly scanning her surroundings for demons wearing human suits. Lilith isn't looming at the reins of his unknown trauma.

"Let's go," she says, and they do.

Several uniformed cops loiter outside the house on La Brea, taking notes and statements from bystanders. Up the sidewalk, a few houses down, a news anchor talks into a microphone before a camera. Officer Hwang seems to be the senior officer on site.

Lucifer parts the milling crowd with a soft, rumbling, "Excuse us, if you will." He underlines what he says with something unspoken. Some dark crackle of foreboding that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and goosebumps sprawl down her arms. Like he's advertising the top of the food chain has arrived. "Yes, yes, coming through."

His flashbang "otherness" makes people back off, questions loitering in their eyes. Questions he doesn't deign to answer or acknowledge. He lifts the crime-scene tape for Chloe, allowing her to duck underneath, and prowls behind her without word.

"Hey," she calls, waving at Officer Hwang.

They make eye contact over the shoulder of the woman he's interviewing before his gaze shifts to Lucifer. Hwang's expression brightens almost imperceptibly before he schools himself, returning his attention to the woman. When Hwang finishes his questions, he folds his wrinkled steno pad closed, and ambles over.

"Lucifer!" Hwang grasps Lucifer by the shoulder. Lucifer compresses his ensuing meltdown into a barely noticeable nervous twitch. "My man!" continues Hwang, lowering his hand obliviously. "Long time no see." He turns to Chloe. "You never said he was coming back!"

"Yes, it was a bit of a last minute decision," Lucifer says. "How fare you and Jang-mi?"

"Excellent, excellent," says Officer Hwang. "Expecting, actually."

"Oh, dear," Lucifer replies with not so mock horror. "You've my sympathies."

Hwang laughs. "Listen, thanks for the markdown on that house. It was exactly what we needed. That extra bedroom couldn't have come at a better time. We just passed the first trimester, so we're starting to tell people."

"Of course, I will collect at some point, Officer Hwang. I don't give to humans out of the goodness of my heart."

Which only prompts another laugh. "Right. Anything you need. Just let me know. And, seriously, welcome back! We've missed you around here."

"Yes, I've"—Lucifer's stiff posture relaxes a little—"I've missed it as well. Thank you."

Chloe pulls out her pen to take notes. "You the lead right now?"

Hwang nods.

"So, what can you tell us?"

"The house is abandoned. Lot's been on sale since 2014. A neighbor lodged a noise complaint around 4 a.m. Given the property's history of break-ins, the officers who were sent felt it prudent to check the premises. They saw the body through the window."

"Do we know anything about the victim yet?" Chloe asks. "Or the homeowners?"

"Not yet, no."

"Witnesses?"

"Mostly just angry neighbors asking if this means we're finally going to condemn this place." Hwang leans close, adding conspiratorially, "It's a bit of an eyesore."

Lucifer scoffs. "You've quite the gift for understatement, Officer Hwang."

A "bit" of an eyesore is definitely a kind description for the ramshackle mess of plywood and brick. The house in question, built in the 1920s, is only about 1200 square feet and has no front yard, only a small sidewalk between it and the street. Knee-high weeds push through copious cracks in the surrounding pavement, all along the walk and in the driveway. Clinging vines, probably at one point elegant, have sprawled over the arbor framing the backyard gate, and climbed over the roof. Chipping, cream-colored paint covers the exterior. The windows and doors are boarded over and barred. Neon graffiti scrawls across the front. The side wall closest to them sports a meticulous depiction of a spurting penis. Some of the art is simple, though, like, "Rogelio was here, 2014." Like the house is some kind of derelict mecca for delinquents.

"Who lodged the noise complaint?" Chloe asks.

Hwang nods at the woman he'd been interviewing, a tall blonde, mid-thirties, wearing a garish hoodie with an ornery-looking turkey on it. Hwang pulls out his notepad, reading, "Ms. Nicolette Cade. Neighbor. Stated she heard 'banging.'"

"Oh, did she?" Lucifer says, his eyes gleaming.

"No, man, literal banging," Hwang clarifies. "Like bang, bang, bang."

"Figurative and literal banging can intersect when participation is particularly spirited, I'll have you know." Lucifer's mischievous expression only sharpens. "A headboard clapping against the wall, perhaps?"

A loud BANG! like thunder cracks through the air over the crowd, followed by a chorus of startled shrieks and gasps. Chloe's hand flies to her gun holster. Lucifer grabs her shoulder, pulling her behind him. BANG! BANG! Not a gunshot. The sound is too hollow. Too rattly for a gun or explosive.

"I suppose not a headboard, then," Lucifer decides.

"It's all right, folks!" an officer near the curb calls. "Everything's fine—just the house settling."

"More like a house throwing a bloody tantrum," Lucifer snarks. "Are you all right, Detective?"

"Yes," Chloe says sharply, swallowing. She sags as unwanted adrenaline tumbles through her bloodstream like an acid bath. "Yes, I'm fine." She gives herself a shake, stepping out from behind him. "I'm the one with the flak jacket, you know."

He shrugs, not even bothering to look chagrined. "Reflex."

"Yeah, so," Officer Hwang chimes in, "I'm pretty sure Ms. Cade meant banging like"—BANG!—"that."

"Yes, yes, I stand corrected," admits Lucifer.

"What is that?" Chloe asks.

"We can't figure it out beyond the fact that it's coming from the house," says Hwang. "But the building inspector certified the structure, at least. It's not gonna collapse or anything. Not today, at any rate."

"So, we can go in?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just watch your step."

"Thanks," Chloe says. "I guess we'll"—BANG! BANG!—"see what we see."

"Perhaps observe the banging," adds Lucifer.

She rolls her eyes, which only makes a lecherous-looking grin twitch onto his face, before she turns away to wander along the front of the house.

"Searching for anything in particular?" Lucifer asks over her shoulder.

"Nope," she says. "Not yet."

She rises onto her tiptoes to peek over the back fence. The house has a tiny private yard, but it's paved over. Barely large enough for the small rotting shed and three rusted-out garbage bins filling it like anchovies stuffed into a tin. Another raucous nondescript BANG! echoes through the space, bouncing off the brick and cement surfaces. One of the trash cans tips over with a resounding metal clang. Not the same sound as the banging.

"Do you have any idea where that's coming from?" she asks, turning to Lucifer. "Like can you"—she gestures vaguely—"use your Devil hearing gizmo?"

He snorts. "My Devil … what?"

"The I-can-hear-everything-in-a-three-block-radius thing?"

"All I can tell you is it's loud."

BANG!

"Well, I knew that much, Lucifer."

He sighs, leaning against the fence. "There are too many surfaces for the noise to echo from"—he glares at the milling crowd, another snarl pulling at his lips—"and too many bloody people talking. I can't even pinpoint the direction." He rubs the bridge of his nose like he's developing a headache. "One of the disadvantages, I suppose."

"Disadvantages?"

"Of the bloody 'Devil gizmo.' Being able to"—BANG!—he cringes—"hear more acutely isn't better in many circumstances."

"How in the hell did you ever stand Lux, then? With the bass, and the people?"

"I was accustomed to it. Though that doesn't mean I can pinpoint everything that's going on inside when there's a full dance floor. I am not a bat just because I've some unfortunately veiny appendages." He cocks his head at her, grinning impishly. "For once, I admit, I didn't mean that to sound as innuendo-laden as it did."

Her heart constricts. "You still have those?"

"The innuendo?"

"The bat wings."

"What? No. No, they've gone. They were gone before I left."

"Oh." She takes a breath.

He frowns. "They frightened you that much?"

"They don't scare me at all," she says softly. "I just don't like what they seem to mean to you. I wasn't lying when I said I like you when you're happy." He stiffens, opening his mouth to reply, but she holds up an index finger. "Not that I'm demanding you be happy right now. Not a command. Like so totally not."

He relaxes. "Detective, I—" BANG!

She gives him a sheepish look. "Maybe we should try solving the murder instead of having this conversation right now.”

"You are correct, of course." He grins. "And I admit, it's rather fitting my first case back with the LAPD should begin with a—" BANG!

She chokes on a laugh. "Well. Speak of the Devil."

"I swear; I didn't plan that."

She rolls her eyes again, if only to see his delight at her supposed consternation. "Yeah, yeah," she adds. "Just get thee behind me, already."

A uni whose name tag reads Devereaux stands at the front door, his arms folded, massive biceps bulging. She doesn't recognize him, and he regards them both with a passive expression. "Who are—" BANG! He flinches. Sighs. Settles. "Who are you guys?"

"Detective Chloe Decker," she says, flashing her badge. She gestures to Lucifer. "This is my partner, Lucifer Morningstar. He's a consultant for the LAPD."

"Ah, yeah, I heard of him. Thought he was gone."

"Clearly not, as I'm standing right here," Lucifer grits out. "Really, why must people—"

Devereaux holds up his hands. "No offense, man. Just what I'd heard." He laughs. "Honestly, the 'Devil' is probably the best backup you could get for this one."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"You'll see," Devereaux says, stepping aside. He gestures inside like a twisted version of Vana White. "Body's in the bedroom."

Chloe pushes past him into squalor, Lucifer following behind, muttering, "I hope this isn't Satanists again. Has no one anything better to do?"

The living/dining area is nothing but rotting out, water-stained carpet, scurrying roaches, rat droppings, and the skeletons of what used to be furniture. The kitchen, which resides to the left beyond a dilapidated, collapsing divider, doesn't look much better. All of the cabinet doors hang off their hinges. The appliances are gone, either pillaged or removed.

As soon as she shifts from breathing outside air to stuffy, decrepit "house" air, the funk of death wallops her, nose to gut. BANG! Like a baseball cracked against a bat and sent flying. She coughs as her eyes water.

BANG!

The noise—stupefying—rumbles deep in her chest, full of bass, enough to make her flinch despite herself. It definitely came from somewhere inside the house. Even Lucifer can't conceal a wince, or his subsequent scowl as he rubs at his ears.

"Got wintergreen, Detective?" calls Devereaux from the stoop. BANG! "You'll need it."

"I do, thanks," she croaks back at him.

She rubs a heaping smear of it above her upper lip and under her nostrils, replacing the rot reek with a dumptruck's worth of mint. She offers the tube to Lucifer, but he shakes his head.

"I've no need of such things," he says.

"Can't you smell it even more than I can?"

He arches an eyebrow, as if to say, And?

His unblinking gaze sends a shiver down her spine. Not human, she reminds herself. Not human, not human. The King of Hell, for crying out loud. He's probably seen and smelled so many worse things than a ripe dead body. Just like the noise at Lux, he's probably "used to it." Which is … sobering.

BANG!

"I'll take some bloody earplugs if you have them, though," he grouses, his scowl deepening.

She does, actually. For the firing range. Foam ones—like little pool noodles—that cram into the ear canals and then expand, blocking out sound.

"My, my," Lucifer says as she foists the packet at him, "how prepared you are."

"Hah hah."

He regards her warmly. "I meant that as a compliment, Detective. It would seem I've a case of runaway innuendo today." The plastic crinkles as he pours the plugs into his right palm. "Thank you."

BANG!

"Okay, where the hell did that come from?" she says.

A laugh barks from Lucifer's throat.

"Yeah, we can't seem to figure that out," someone interjects before Lucifer can descend into his inevitable that's-what-she-said joke.

A single forensics tech—a new academy graduate she's only worked with once so far. Crouched in the corner of the front room, taking photographs. The camera clicks, and the searing flash illuminates a creepy crawly with lots of legs as it flees through a gap in the crumbling crown molding. Which of course makes her feel like something is skittering down her spine.

"Hey, Tony," she says, shuddering.

"Howdy, Detective," says Tony without looking up from his camera. "Pretty yuck, huh?" He points down the hallway. "Gets more yuck back there. You might wanna put on a mask and goggles for this one."

She grabs a set of nitrile gloves and booties from the boxes set out on the divider, giving the boxes a pointed look as she slaps the gloves onto her fingers. Something she always does when they're at a crime scene together. Something Lucifer almost always ignores. This time, though, he pulls a fresh set of gloves from the XL-size box. Oops.

"I just meant if you want to," she says under her breath before he can put them on.

He shrugs, donning them anyway, and after regarding the scummy floor with a distasteful expression, grabs a pair of booties for his new shoes. "It's my only pair, after all," he explains. "Wouldn't want to destroy them on my first day."

Nodding, she picks out a surgical mask and glasses, also. Lucifer doesn't budge this time. Instead, he's staring further into the house, his eyes narrowing at the open doorway at the end of the front hall. His expression is cold, almost reptilian.

"Lucifer?" she asks as he stalks away.

"Lucifer?" Tony says, perking up. "The crazy consultant nobody can shut up about?"

"What is it?" she calls, trotting after Lucifer, only to end up with a face full of sharp shoulder blades and gray Burberry when he stops short. "Oop!" Her hands fly to his waist, grabbing at his jacket.

"Lucifer!" says Ella as she bounds from the back bedroom. "Dude. Dude. I am so glad you're here. You have got to give me the low down on ghosts, like, stat."

"What?" He steps aside, giving Chloe space. "Why?"

"Because," Ella replies, her eyes wide behind her safety glasses, "I'm preeetty freaking sure this house is"—BANG!—"haunted."

Chapter Text

"That's preposterous," Lucifer scoffs.

"I know, right?" Ella says, making a face. “You’d think ghosts would want to haunt someplace a little more upscale, but—"

"There is no such thing as ghosts!"

"Oh, yeah?" BANG! "Then explain ghost rules!"

He peers at her like he thinks all of her marbles hopped on the express train to Looney Tunes. "I … beg your bloody pardon?"

"Ghost … rules?" Ella repeats more doubtfully.

"Yes, I heard that. What in bloody Creation do you mean by ghost rules?"

"Well, Rae-Rae sai—"

"Rae-Rae!" he barks, the sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a woeful, Why me? He directs a blaming glare skyward. "Of course."

"Yeah. Yeah, my … uh." Ella looks at Chloe with a helpless shrug. "My ghost buddy? She has rules. Remember, I told you about—"

"I remember," Chloe confirms, nodding in support. "Lucifer, she's being haunted by … by something. I believe—"

"My sister," says Lucifer.

"Huh?" Ella says.

He sighs. "What you have experienced, Ms. Lopez, is real, indeed. Only, she's not a bloody ghost; she's my sister. The Angel of Death."

Ella's lips part, and her hands fall slack against her dirty lab coat. "Whaaat."

"You were in a car accident when you were younger, yes?"

"Well, yeah, I almost die—" Her mouth clacks shut as she shakes her head like a windshield wiper in slow motion. "Dude. Death—the Death—gave me a mulligan?"

"A mulligan?" Chloe interjects. BANG!

"The Death has never met you, I'm certain," Lucifer counters, "or you would be quite dead. And a mulligan is a do-over, darling. Some silly sporting term. Golf, I believe."

Ella's eyes are wide. "Again, I say: huh?"

"A do-over?" Lucifer repeats. "Really, why use the term if you don’t know—"

"No, I mean, what do you mean by the Death?" Ella glances at Chloe. "Also, it's used in cardgames a lot. Nerd things. It's not just for golf."

Chloe feels like she got left by the plane at the gate.

"So, the Death?" Ella says, turning back to Lucifer. "Like, the Devil?"

"Death of the Endless, my dear," he explains. "She's a different specie—"

"Still a chick, though?"

BANG! "Yes. But be that as it may, my sister merely serves as her not-entirely-willing ferry. There is Death, and then there is the Angel of Death. Two separate women."

Ella squints at him. "You mean … Rae-Rae is like Charon?"

He taps his temple with the tip of his index finger before pointing at her, smiling at them as if to say, Now, you're starting to get it. Good show. "Azrael is Charon, Ms. Lopez. Myths, after all, evolve with time and tale."

"Dude." Ella takes a deep breath, as though she's trying to keep herself from rocketing into the stratosphere. "Dude, are you saying that you—as in you, Lucifer, the guy who sits in my lab listening to me drone on for hours about science—are like … totally Hades?"

"Not like," he counters. "I am. At least so far as the Greeks were concerned."

"Dude!"

"I'll admit," Lucifer says, staring into space, "it's a name I've not been called in ages, though."

"Dude?"

"Hades, Ms. Lopez. Lately, it's only been Dante's libelous tripe harshing my mellow." He sneers wolfishly, showing the edges of his front teeth like fangs. "That man bloody deserved what he got."

"What did he get, exactly?" asks Chloe.

"Exactly what he wrote," Lucifer replies with a smirk. "Over, and over, and over—I suppose he felt guilty for dragging my good-ish name through the muck."

"But … you knew Dante?" Ella squeaks.

“We used to be what you would colloquially refer to as 'drinking buddies.’ Until he wrote that, the arse."

"No way. No way!" Ella gathers her fists in front of her chest, clenching them so hard they vibrate. "Nooo way."

"Way, Ms. Lopez."

"But if myths are just twisted versions of reality, then who the heck is Persephone?"

He cringes as though the thought brings him physical pain. "Yes, well." BANG! "That story was purely myth."

"Really?"

A bemused smile tugs at his lips. "I'm not precisely a fan of kidnapping and subjugating women, you know. Or anyone, really—Ms. Lopez?"

Ella runs in place like she intends to sprint to the moon. "New. Head canons. Forming. As we speak." She presses her knuckles to her clenched teeth, careful to leave a bubble of space between her soiled gloves and her mouth as her attention pingpongs between them. She gasps, again, again, again, a chuffing train on its way to hyperventilation. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."

"Really, must you bring Dad into this?"

Chloe sighs. "Guys …."

A tiny shriek—squeal?—catches in Ella's throat. "Chlo, you really need to look up what your name means, sometime."

Lucifer steps between them, holding up his index finger like a sword. "No."

"I wonder if the people writing Persephodes fic know you guys are right here, living in LA, solving crimes?" She makes a sound like a high-pitched, repeating "e."

"You read," Lucifer says, his eyebrows contorting strangely, "Persephodes fic?"

"Well, I didn't know it was about you," Ella retorts. "And I definitely don't think the writers would believe me if I told them it should be Chlodes." She frowns. "HaDecker?"

"Bloody hell, woman, no!"

"But—"

"Guys," says Chloe, clapping her hands between them, "as fun as these enlightening existential conversations are, can we focus, please? On the murder?"

"Right. Sure. Right." Ella nods, shallowly at first, then deeply, as though she might start head banging to some unheard metal anthem. "Focusing now. Wow, Rae-Rae makes so much more sense right—" BANG! BANG! "You know … that sure does seem like a ghost."

"I told you," says Lucifer, "the idea is preposterous. There is no such thing as ghosts!"

"Wow," says someone else.

Chloe, Ella, and Lucifer turn to find Tony gaping in their direction. His heavy camera hangs from his neck by a blue fiber cord, cinching his bulky forensics jacket awkwardly. "So … is this y'alls usual process or …?" He gestures at them, making vague circles with his splayed palm. "Because wow."

"Oh, yes," snarks Lucifer. "Just a regular bloody Tuesday here."

"It's like an episode of Supernatural! Have y'all watched that show?"

"How dare you! I am nothing like that Satan. That Satan is whiny, and petulant, and—"

"—To be fair, I've occasionally heard Detective Espinoza say—"

"—and evil," Lucifer snaps, shutting Tony down cold.

BANG!

"Sorry." Tony backs away. "I … I really only meant about the ghosts, sir."

"There are no bloody ghosts! Why does no one bloody listen to me?"

Chloe resists the urge to cradle her face with her gloved hands. "Did you need something, Tony?"

"Um, no,” he replies. “Nope. All good here."

"Maybe you should go back into the living room," she suggests gently.

BANG! "But I can still hear y—"

"Tony, I really need you to dust this for prints," blurts Ella as she pulls a shiny pink iPhone from her pocket. “Pronto. Would you do that, please?"

Tony makes a face like she just suggested Elvis is alive and well and living in the forensics van. "Isn't this your personal cellphone?"

"No." Ella winces. "Yes." She bites her lip before bursting out with, "Look, it's for science, okay? We need a control group to confirm our fingerprint procedures are working, and I'm entrusting it to you, buddy." She jabs the phone at Tony's chest.

"If you insist," he replies, flinching forward with his arms to catch the device before it drops, "but—"

"Go!" Ella, Chloe, and Lucifer all echo at once, shooing him away.

As soon as Tony steps outside, past Officer Devereaux, Ella lifts her sleeve with a gloved hand and rubs her brow with her bare forearm. "Whew. That was close. This is a whole lot more stressful when I know it's, like, totes for real."

"Except for the bloody ghosts," Lucifer grits out. "Which, I assure you, are not ‘totes for real.’”

"I don't know, Luce. I mean"—BANG!—"ergo ghosts?"

Lucifer points past her shoulder. "Is the body in there?"

Ella moves aside. "Yeah, dude. In the closet. Don't walk inside yet, though. I'm still catalog—"

Ignoring her, he stalks by, around doorframe, his surgical booties whisper silent as he glides across the decaying carpet. Chloe darts after him. Ella follows behind.

The master bedroom is large for a small house. A collapsed king-sized bed rests along the back wall. French doors almost hanging off their hinges separate the bedroom from a sink with a vanity. To the left of the vanity, an empty doorframe opens into the bathroom. To the right, a rotted but still solid door.

"Why's it closed?" asks Chloe.

"Because it super smells like Death died in there"—BANG!—"and I was trying to save your stomach a little."

"Death of the Endless is endless, Ms. Lopez," Lucifer says easily. "Hence the name. She wouldn't die. Not here, anyway."

"Whatever! The point is … it's a bit of a nose riot in there."

Chloe grimaces. "Even worse than this?"

"Open and see," Ella says. “But don’t go in.”

Sure enough, as soon as Lucifer pulls on the closet doorknob, a frigid blast of air shocks Chloe's lungs, and the stink of death billows like a noxious, fuming cloud, even through the surgical mask and the slick of wintergreen beneath her nostrils. She coughs, pressing a gloved hand over her nose. Her teeth chatter despite her nausea.

"Oh, God," she groans, trying not to heave. "Shit. Fuck."

"That, I'll allow," Lucifer snarks, glaring upward.

He doesn't even look moderately queasy. How the hell can he—

BANG! Chloe flinches away, swallowing repeatedly.

From just outside the closet, the bang sounds like a freight train crashing through a tunnel. Directionally, the noise seems to be coming from the space beside the corpse. BANG! The rotting wood reverberates, drywall dust spiraling to the floor with the impact, but there's nothing visible hitting the wall. BANG!

"See?" Ella says. "The sound is c-coming from right there, but heck if I know what's causing it."

BANG!

The body—a male—is naked. He hangs by his wrists from a chain looped under a pair of handcuffs. The chain drops from a bolt hole in the sagging ceiling. A rusted metal rod—like a fire poker, about three feet long—rests at the victim's toes, which dangle an inch above the floorboards. A faint, glistening sheen covers the skin. Typical of late-early stages of decay. But the riotous smell would fit more with the late-mid or late stages.

Violent shivers rack Chloe's body.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Chloe tries to center herself, but the stench is unreal despite her desensitized nose, and she can't stop her teeth from chattering.

"So, this is a p-pretty weird one, even without the soundtrack," Ella says.

"Is this house air c-c-conditioned, or something?" Chloe asks.

"Right?" Ella exclaims excitedly. "The ambient t-temperature in this room is like … holy North Pole, Santa. But we can't find a thermostat or an air conditioner or even a working fan. And it's all localized to right at the spot this poor d-d-dead guy's hanging out!" She gasps. "Oh, my God, is Santa real, t-too?"

Tremors race through Chloe's frame like electric current. "Um."

They both turn curiously to Lucifer, who's staring into the space surrounding the corpse like he drifted out of his own body. Shivering, Chloe follows his gaze. The body hangs from thick chains, just like the ones Lucifer arrived in. It's naked, just like Lucifer had been. Bruises mar the chest and belly and thighs, like the victim had been abused before death. Abused like Lucifer. A metal collar with a dog tag labeled "Puppy" encircles the victim's neck. Black ligature marks coil around the throat, thick enough to be visible above and below the collar. Also a bit like Lucifer.

"Lucifer?" she prods.

"Hmm."

"Are you okay?"

BANG! He snaps out of his reverie, his gaze shuttering. "Ms. Lopez, precisely how long has this body been dead?"

"Impossible to t-tell, really, given how freakishly c-cold it is in here," Ella answers. "But based on how the body looks, and the fact that, y'know, it hasn't f-fallen down from the cuffs as the skin separates, and the muscles turn to gloop, I'd say somewhere between one and three days?"

"Days," he barks.

"Yup," Ella says. "Days."

He laughs, sounding nervous. "I don't suppose there've been any recent natural disasters in populated areas, have there? I can't say I've been paying much attention to the news as of late."

"There was a b-b-bit of a rumbler in Tokyo yesterday, but—"

"Define 'a bit of a rumbler,'" he says, using air quotes. "Are we talking California standards, or—"

"Like a five-point-three.” She beams. "Some bookshelves fell over, I'm sure."

"How many deaths?"

"I think one? Some poor d-dude got hit by a falling rock."

"No, no, that wouldn't do it. Not at all. Has there been any sudden mass mayhem to speak of, natural or otherwise? Think Spanish flu epidemic, compressed into a matter of hours. Perhaps a rousing bout of bubonic plague?"

"Um … no," Ella says slowly. "No, I don't think so. No plague p-parties."

"Did Mount Vesuvius cough up a lung again? Nothing like a spot of pyroclastic flow to get the bodies mounting."

Ella's nose wrinkles as she peers at Chloe, who can only shrug helplessly in return.

"Well, do check the news, if you will!" He waves at them, clapping his hands. "Chop chop. We haven't got all day."

"But … I gave my phone to Tony."

With a sigh, Chloe extricates her phone from her jeans pocket. There's nothing but political mayhem and garden-variety gun crimes on CNN. Same with the Times, WaPo. She can't find anything on Reddit, either.

"Whatcha thinking, Luce?" Ella adds innocently.

"There," Chloe says, foisting her phone at him. "Unless you c-c-count wars, terrorism, and murder—"

"Those are normal attrition factors," he interrupts dismissively. "So violent, you humans."

"Well, unless you count those things," Chloe grits out, "everything is normal."

"Right, then," Lucifer says, expression nothing short of panicked.

"Lucifer, what—"

He holds up a hand, shushing her. "Hold that thought, will you?"

Then he vacates as she stares in disbelief. Luciferness abound today, it seems. O … kay then. She turns to Ella. "So … any info on the v-victim?"

"You're not gonna chase after him?"

"He'll come back when he's done being”—Chloe gestures vaguely at the doorway—"being Lucifer, I guess." He can't go far, regardless. Which is, she's surprised to realize … an amazingly reassuring bit of knowledge. One can only get up to so many Devilish shenanigans in a fifty-foot radius chock-full of cops. … Right?

"Right," says Ella, trailing away. "Well." She glances at the closet, taking a breath as she reorients herself. "No, no info on the guy. He wasn't wearing any clothes or identification. I'm f-frankly not even sure what killed him, though his abdomen appears slightly distended, more-so than would be the c-case with corpse bloat at this stage. Might mean internal bleeding? The bruising indicates some level of abuse …." She points to the metal rod on the floor. "Maybe the murder weapon?"

"Hmm," says Chloe. "Torture?"

"I think you need to wait for the autopsy."

Chloe stares at the body, the noisome reek of it coiling through her gut like angry snakes. She swallows. Again, again, again. Trying to shove her nausea away.

The man was brown-haired, a dusting of gray at his temples. Wisps of crows feet hug the corners of his eyes. He's slightly overweight. About 5'8". No tattoos. No piercings or jewelry. Aside from his shackles and collar, he wears only an inch-wide metal cylinder, wrapped around the base of his penis, but the metal has no markings. As far as she can tell, he sports no identifying marks whatsoever, which is … unhelpful.

"Were there signs of sex—" She coughs, dry heaving once, twice. “Sexual assault?"

"There are sketchy fluids all over this c-c-closet." Ella whips out her blacklight, lighting up a bunch of interesting stains in varying shapes and sizes. "I took samples. Won't know more until I do some testing.”

Chloe slams the door shut again before she loses her stomach contents. The smell recedes to a more tolerable level. So does the chill. With shaking fingers, she squirts another dab of wintergreen under her nose, taking gasping breaths. Better. A bit.

"The neighbors are unhappy about this house being here in this condition," she says. "Maybe someone snapped? Pulled a stunt like this to get it condemned?"

"I got nothing, sorry," Ella replies. "I was so convinced this place was haunted." BANG! "What else could the noise and intense freezer effects be from?"

"It's a soul."

Chloe and Ella turn as Lucifer rejoins them. "Dude," Ella says, "you just said there's no such thing as ghosts! Multiple times, even!"

"And there bloody well isn't!" he snaps. "Not in the sense you mean. This is a disembodied soul—"

"You mean a ghost."

"Ms. Lopez, a soul is not a ghost. This is not some echo of a former person, twisted by trauma or unresolved conflict. This is a person, only"—he pauses, searching for a word—"de-gloved."

"Is that what killed him?" Chloe asks. "Something … ripped him out of his body, or …?"

"No," Lucifer says. "No, this is what happens to all mortals when they die. The tethers are clipped, and the soul ejects."

"Death is the metaphysical equivalent of de-gloving?" Ella exclaims, sounding horrified. "Seriously?"

"Well, I didn't bloody design the process!" Lucifer snaps. "What's wrong here is that for some reason my sister and her lackeys, instead of carting this man off to Heaven or Hell, have allowed him to languish. And, while I've heard tales from my various wards"—souls, he means—freaking damned souls—"of them getting behind schedule occasionally, it's always been after a disaster of considerable proportions, and they've never been late by more than a day or so."

"Really, you can see a soul?" Chloe says. "Like … you can just see it? Floating there, or …?"

"I assure you, Detective, my visual acuity is up to the task."

"Well, can you talk to this guy?" Ella adds, wide-eyed. "Ask him how he died? Who killed him? Who he even is?"

"Oh, he's useless for smalltalk in this medium,” Lucifer scoffs. "Souls aren't meant for residing on Earth. Why do you think he's making such a bloody racket? He's essentially flailing about like a landed fish." BANG!

"Well, that's"—Ella cringes—"kinda awful."

A lump forms in Chloe's throat as the noise takes on a new context. BANG! That this is someone in pain. Someone who's suffering. Mere feet away. While they're all just … standing there. "How do we put him to rest?"

"We don't," Lucifer snaps. "This is Azrael's bloody job. Or one of her helpers, at any rate."

"You can't sub in for a one-off?" says Ella hopefully.

"Not bloody happening."

"Please, can't you help him, somehow?" Chloe asks softly.

Lucifer’s back thumps against the opposite doorframe, his teeth grind into each other, he sucks in a breath, and his fists clench by his hips like he's struggling not to cry out.

"No, no, no," she rushes to say, closing the gap between them. "No, I'm not asking you to—" Fuck. "I didn't mean for you to drop everything and go. I just meant to ask you if … if you're even capable of helping?"

His shoulders sag as he exhales. The beginnings of blush—arousal—wisp along his cheeks and throat. For a moment, he's quiet, dazed, like he's just trying to get his head to stop spinning.

"I … feel like I'm missing some subtext here," Ella says doubtfully.

"It's nothing," Chloe assures her. "Don't worry about it. He's just … um." BANG! Maybe he refuses to lie, but she has no such compunctions in these circumstances. "He's tired is all." She wants to squeeze his wrist to offer him reassurance, but she restrains herself. Under her breath, barely audible, she adds, "Sorry."

"Yeah," Ella says. "I imagine the jet lag is epic."

"Jet lag?"

"Between here and Hell."

"Oh. Oh, yes, right." Chloe laughs. "Jet lag. Yeah."

Ella flings open the door again—assaults them with miasma again—and cups her hands around her mouth. "Hello? Anonymous Dead Guy? Can you hear me? I promise we are on the case, buddy. We got your back. Or … um. Front?" She gestures to the corpse. "Which way is he facing, anyway?" BANG! BANG!

"He can't hear you, Ms. Lopez, no matter how much you shout," Lucifer says. "Souls aren't meant to linger in this fashion. They aren't built for it. They need a body to experience the sensory input this plane provides."

Ella slumps. "Oh."

"To help him," he says slowly, "I would need to carry him to his destination."

Chloe's stomach flip flops as the potential implications sink in. Sheer distance trials versus this compulsion aside, he's Lucifer. He's Fallen. With the insane time differential, he's spent eons or more away from Heaven. Eons. His conflict with God is, quite literally, Biblical. Even if he’d had Mysterious Reasons, even if reconciliation were possible someday, it's irrelevant now, because Lucifer isn't in the headspace for that yet. Not to imply he owes God a damned thing ever.

"Can you even tell where this man is supposed to go?" Chloe asks.

"Handling the dead is neither my gift nor my purpose; it's Azrael's and her ilk," Lucifer says, shaking his head. "I can speak to souls once they're situated in Hell or Heaven. But … like this?" He gestures to the body. To the soul. To the victim. "I'd be guessing."

"Well, what happens if you drop someone off in Hell when they're not supposed to be there? Didn't you say souls are untethered?"

BANG!

"He wouldn't remain in a cell forged of guilt, since he would have none to forge a cell with, but he would still need to catch the ferry out, so to speak," Lucifer explains. "He'd still be in Hell until Azrael arrived to redistribute him."

"And Hell … is …."

"Hell is Hell, Detective."

"Where a bunch of demons who love to torture things"—torture him—"live. Everything tastes like ash. And millennia are crammed into months."

"Yes."

"So, even if we skipped Heaven altogether, and risked dumping him into Hell as a stopgap, we wouldn't really be improving his quality of li—d-death." BANG! She sniffs, trying not to let her emotions run amok. "We might, in fact, be making it worse for him."

"That would be my assumption, yes."

"Man.” Ella emits a low whistle. “This's"—BANG!—"just a total cosmic clusterduck, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Ms. Lopez. Might I suggest praying to dear Azrael?" He clears his throat. "Ehm. Rae-Rae? She seems to be ignoring me today—she might be more inclined to answer you."

"Right-o," Ella says with a nod, the bright sound of her palms as they clap together like an exclamation point. "Totally on it, boss."

BANG!

Chloe flinches again with the noise, her eyes watering. The idea of leaving a fellow human being—what was once a human being, anyway—flailing around in agony is—

"Shall I to try to calm him?" Lucifer asks.

Like … he needs her to enable him for something his overarching commands don't cover.

"Yes, please," she says.

The soft, rustling sound of feathers fills the quiet, illuminating the decrepit, funk-filled room like a warm summer day. His wings stuff the tiny space from floor to ceiling. The tips of his lucid white plumage brush against filth. Soak in rot reek. Yet … he does it anyway. This man who refuses to hire a cleaning service because they're unable to find every speck of dust. This man who can't tolerate Trixie's sticky fingers.

"Ms. Lopez, if you would be so kind," Lucifer says softly, gesturing to the side.

Ella skips out of the way for him. "Please, don't step on the carpet in—"

But he stops. Right at the threshold. A few feet from the body. And then he reaches with his long, lithe arms, resting his gloved hands on a thin bubble of air surrounding the bruised ribcage.

Chloe can't pick up her jaw. Nor can she stop the deep, resonating ache his luminous wings punch into her sternum.

He tips his head back, his eyes closed, and his beautiful light burgeons. Inhuman-sounding, multi-toned words spill from his lips.

The Sound of him fills to the brim what few gaps are left in Chloe's body. Until she's more than full. Until she's bursting. She wants to dance, and cry, and laugh, and love, and be. Endlessly. Just from the hearing of It.

She can't understand, and yet she Knows.

His word is Word, and she Believes.

Forbear, he commands in Other syllables. Forbear, human, and Know. This trial will end, as do all earthly pursuits, in time.

He folds his wings, the warm light dwindling like a desert sunset. He closes the closet door again. And then, with another rustling noise, his jagged feathers fade out, disappearing as though they never were.

Ella crosses herself. "Holy shirt."

The spell is broken when he scoffs noisily, giving her an irritated look. "No one in this room is holy, Ms. Lopez, least of all me."

Chloe would beg to differ. That's the most holy experience she's ever freaking had.

"What did you just do?" Ella asks.

"I've simply spoken to him in a way he might understand," says Lucifer. "Perhaps he'll calm until Azrael or someone from her staff decides to show. But I've no way to know for certain. Soothing a traumatized soul is not something I've attempted before. As I've said, it's not precisely in my wheelhouse."

Chloe swallows against the massive lump in her throat. "I love you for trying, regardless."

He expels a huffy sigh like she ruffled his physical feathers.

"Can all angels do that?" Ella asks, still staring at him. "Like Rae-Rae? She could …?"

He bristles. "Really, Ms. Lopez, all I did was Speak."

"That was way more than just talking."

He glances at the exit like he wants to run.

"What's your gift, anyway? Ella prods.

"Hmm?"

"Your gift. Like you said Rae-Rae's is to handle the dead. What's yours? Is it desires and stuff?"

"Of a sort," he admits, inclining his head at her. "I am the Lightbringer. I spark and stoke fires. I draw out the hidden. Figurative, literal. Light is mine."

Except he doesn't just own light. He is light. If the enchanting display he gave them means anything. "Yeah, I can see that," Chloe says softly, unable to stop herself from blinking out tears. "That fits. Seriously, thank you."

"Do let's get on with this investigation, shall we?"

"Right." Chloe nods. "Right. Yes, let's."

Chapter Text

After Lucifer's light show, the noises stop, and the old house quiets as if fresh snow had fallen. The clamorous crowd chafing against the police tape, however, explodes any potential silence as well as a frag grenade. They gossip and speculate and gossip some more, like a gaggle of frenzied yentas. Chloe and Lucifer wander from person to person, canvassing for anyone with pertinent information to share. By day's end, though, they've heard nothing new or useful.

"Will Azrael come soon?" Chloe asks Lucifer, as Ella and Tony take turns with a metal dolly, rolling forensic gear back to the police van.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Detective," Lucifer answers. "She's ignored my prayers. Ms. Lopez's as well, or so I presume, given the significant lack bounce in her step."

Ella does seem to have traded her normal effervescence for the jittery movement of a caffeinated spider.

"Why wouldn't Azrael come?" Chloe wonders.

"That," Lucifer admits as a police cruiser pulls away to make room for the coroner's vehicle, "is a far more worrisome concern. One I've, unfortunately, no way to allay. Until she deigns to answer a prayer, we're in the dark."

"Yeah." Chloe sighs. "I was afraid you'd say that.

One by one, the problems are mounting.

By the time Chloe and Lucifer make it back to the cruiser, the sun hangs low in the sky, stretching shadows of all the trees and light poles into twiggy, skeletal spindles.

"So, this was," she says as they settle, "a day."

His seatbelt clicks into place. "Indeed."

"Ghosts, but not really." She pulls her fingers through her hair instead of turning the key in the ignition. "What next? Santa is real?"

An abrupt exhalation that could be a laugh fills the space beside her. "Not quite."

"What does that mean?"

"You really wish to know?"

Not really. Not yet. Her head might explode. "I still can't wrap my mind around all this supernatural wuwu stuff being a thing, sometimes."

His eyebrows creep upward. "Wu … wu?"

"Yes, wuwu," she retorts. "It's an accurate description!"

"I suppose."

"I only just got used to you being, well"—she gestures vaguely at him—"you. Lucifer, Literal Lord of Darkness, King of Hell."

"And would you go back?" he asks, directing a dark, hooded gaze at her. "To a time before my truth seemed truthful?"

"Never." His dishevelment instills an urge to brush his hair out of his face. To touch him. Something. "I love that I know you."

He tilts his head. "But you knew me before, Detective."

"Not like now. I'd … miss it."

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. His sigh is deep and content. "I assume paperwork is next on the agenda, until the lab results trickle in, and we can form hypotheses?"

"I think so, but that's probably gonna have to be tomorrow." She glances at her watch. At this hour, by the time they reach the precinct, they'll just have to leave again to grab Trixie. Chloe grins at him. "Does this compulsion thing mean you'll actually help me fill out forms, for once?"

All hint of warmth drains from his expression like she poked a hole in the bottom of his emotional bucket.

"Sorry, that was a stupid thing for me to say," she scolds herself. "I shouldn't be making light."

"It isn't that," he grits out, the words tight in his throat, "it's—"

"Oh!" Shit. "I don't want you to help me with the paperwork unless you want to. And I definitely don't want you to do it right this second, regardless."

He relaxes against the door, panting softly.

Damn it. Damn it. Talk about a conversation hijacker. Talk about a knife she can gut him with any time she relaxes too much or feels too much or expresses an opinion with too much weight. "We need a word you can blurt when you're in trouble—something quick and reflexive—so I know unequivocally to fix it."

"A safe word, Detective?"

She nods. "Something you can say that I'll understand but that doesn't advertise your predicament to bystanders."

"Red."

"Red what?"

"My safe word, Detective. Not that I've ever needed to employ it before." He swipes his face with his palms before reaching to his left trapezius muscle, massaging it through his suit like he aches. "But having one makes the humans I've played with happier to participate."

Her eyes widen a little at his casual drift into TMI, but …. "Okay, then." She will not ask what he means by play. She will not ask what he means by— "Red." She will not ask— "Does that have significance, or did you pick something random?"

"It's part of the color system—quite common for scenes. Like traffic lights. Red means stop, green means go, and yellow means slow down a smidge because a safe word might be incoming. A caution, if you will."

She will not picture anything more than Lucifer playing Red Light Green Light with drunk Lux patrons. She will not picture Lucifer lying naked on his big bed, tied up and blindfolded and—

"Perhaps I will," he says.

His voice snaps her out of the porno scene unfurling in her mind's eye. "Huh?"

"Assist you with the paperwork."

"Lucifer, you really don't have to."

"Oh, hush, will you?" he says, scolding gently. "It's not as though I can be elsewhere whilst you fill these forms and sundry out. In the absence of lab results, I might as well enable us to leave earlier, yes? Go for a long lunch, perhaps?"

"Ah," she says, snickering. "So, selfish reasons."

The way his eyes twinkle when he replies, "Entirely, I assure you," makes her belly feel warm and her chest ache in good ways.

"I don't know how we ever would have waded through this case without you, if the first day is any indication," she finds herself gushing. She brings her right knee up onto the seat and props her left against the steering wheel, turning fully toward him. She still wants to reach across the center compartment. Grab his wrist. Touch him. Anything. He gives great hugs despite being perplexed by them. Instead, she vents the desire into squeezing her shins. "I've missed you. I don't think I realized how much until today. You change the whole dynamic of how I work. In a really good way."

He beams. "See, Detective? We are a team."

"Well … yeah. Of course we are?"

"Yesterday, you said we're not a real team. That we never have been. I think today rather proves we are, yes?"

His hopeful words are a chilling squall.

"Oh, Lucifer, I didn't mean like …." The warmth in her body drains away. "Yeah. We're definitely a great detective team. Absolutely."

His brow creases. "What have I said wrong this time?"

"You didn't say anything wrong."

"I've made you unhappy again."

She rubs the bridge of her nose. "You didn't make me unhappy, Lucifer. You just …."

"I just … what?"

But she doesn't have energy for rehashing drama. Not today. "Listen, what you did for the victim … that was totally amazing. You're amazing. Which I already kn—" The soft, sudden dragging sound of his slow inhalation interrupts her. "Lucifer?"

His dark eyes roll back, the leather seat cushion creaking as he arches in a sluggish-but-solidifying wave. His shoes jam deep into the footwells. His fingers clutch the seat by his thighs like he's desperate not to fall. His chest and belly press into the seatbelt, and then … he hangs there, stretched out, bowed backward, lips parted, not breathing.

"What is it?" she asks. "What happened?"

He exults, the nonsensical sound sharp and guttural. His torso snaps into motion, his lower body twitching rhythmically against the lap belt. He gasps like he ran to Hell and back on foot. The seconds crawl. At last, he shudders, and then he sags, eyelids drooping to half mast.

"What the hell was that?" she says.

"Oh," he rasps, a bare moan, as he catches his breath. For a moment, he sits there in a glassy-eyed stupor, like cartoon birdies and stars are still circling him after a collision between his head and a two-by-four, and then, "Oh." More gravity this time. He presses shaking fingers to his face. "No."

"What's wrong?"

"No," he snaps, sounding less like he means to respond to her and more like he's beyond hearing her at all. His cheeks turn ashen. "I am not your bloody plaything!"

"Of course you're not!"

But he doesn't seem to be listening. "I will not have this be yours," he lashes, a whip. "I refuse."

"What the hell are you"—he pops open the car door before she can finish, and then he's gone in a whisper of feathers—"talking about."

Fuck. Fuckity fuck, fuck.

After checking the side-mirror for oncoming traffic, she climbs out after him. Her boots hit the pavement as she stands, looking in both directions. The sleepy street is lined with one-story detached homes. Kids are playing basketball in a driveway several houses behind her, laughing and cheering and chatting. Their irrepressible joy carries on the breeze, tickling her eardrums.

Lucifer probably wouldn't flee toward giggling children.

She orients herself in the opposite direction, heading away from West Adams, past the pissy hummingbird who's still—between intermittent bouts of chip-chip-chipping at her—snacking on the big flowering bush behind the fence. When she reaches the intersection, she cups a hand over her brow to block the sun at the west-facing edge of her sunglasses. She looks left, away from the sun. Right, into the glare. Forward, splitting the difference. Nothing.

Where the hell could he have gone?

She risks a soft, "Lucifer?"

Nothing.

"Lucifer!" she adds in a harsher whisper, calling through her cupped hands.

Leaves rustle. A lawnmower whirs at the edge of hearing. The sound of heavy traffic on South La Brea rumbles to the west, a bare, distant series of swish, swish, swish that melts into one long white-noise whoosh.

In the quiet, paranoia blooms, and she imagines a murderous demon bum-rushing her from the bushes. Her hand hovers by her gun holster.

"Lucifer?" she repeats more insistently.

"Here!" he croaks, the word a strangled, upset sob, like he didn't want to tell her a damned thing but couldn't resist anymore. The noise emanates from straight ahead, perhaps twenty feet away. "I'm bloody well here. Please, will you stop asking me."

A lump forms in her throat.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to force you."

In retrospect, she wants to kick herself. He has freedom of speech, yes. He doesn't have to answer her, in theory. But calling his name while running around like a headless, stressed mother hen would definitely scream, "I want to find you this instant!" Which would leave him with little option to stay hidden.

Fuck.

Her attention falls on a white Expedition parked in the driveway one house down from the corner. A smaller car—a modern-ish blue Corvette, not like Lucifer's classic—sits alongside the Expedition, concealing the gap under the SUV's high undercarriage. But that doesn't conceal the feather peeking from behind the rear tire. Or the clump of feathers adjacent to it, all glittering like spilled diamonds in the sunlight.

She claps her hand over her mouth. He's sitting with his wings out in broad fucking daylight? Luckily only the basketball players she left behind, her imaginary stalker demon, and whoever's running the mower at the opposite end of the cross street, seem to be out and about. Who knows who's gaping out their dining-room window, though? And a steady trickle of commuters should be arriving home from work soon.

God.

What a clusterfuck.

She trudges down the walk.

"Please, leave me alone," he begs, sounding exhausted and small. "Please, Detective."

"I understand you want space," she tells him. Space he can't possibly have because he's stuck with her, and they need to get out of here. "I'm not gonna look at you; I swear." She stops at the Corvette and eases to her butt on the cracked pavement. "I'm just around the corner, but I'm not getting any closer unless you ask."

Beyond a huffy sigh, he says nothing.

"Should I tell you to fly home?" she asks, wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging them close. "So you can have some privacy?"

"No. No, please, I don't want to feel that—"

"Okay," she says, nodding. "Okay, I'm just sitting here, then. Just around the corner. I'm just here."

A hollow metal-sounding thump resonates, like he's pressing his head against the side of the SUV. Her chest aches.

"Can you," she asks, "maybe, put your wings away? Only if you want, of course. Last thing I'll say to you; I promise. It's just gonna be a bit easier for me to explain why two humans are sitting in some guy's private driveway than it is one human and one fallen angel." She laughs nervously. "A police badge only accomplishes so much."

He takes a shivery breath. "Oh." Like the idea somehow didn't occur to him.

A rustling sound follows, and the shining clump of feathers visible by the tire withdraws in a flurry of splendor. She relaxes, content to let him be, now.

Just in time, it would seem, because jingling precedes a man walking his Dalmatian on the opposite side of the street. The man frowns at them, staring suspiciously as the dog makes a pit stop to mark a bush.

Chloe directs what she hopes to be a disarming smile in his direction, waving like the friendly neighbor chilling in her driveway she's pretending to be.

The man waves back, doubts draining from his expression. The dog gallops until it reaches the end of its eight-foot leash, then rises to its hind legs, wheezing, as it tries to pull its owner along. The man says, "Whoa, girl!" Not that the strangling dog seems to care. They continue down the walk, alternating between trotting and strangling and trotting and strangling, before turning the corner, and heading out of sight.

"I … fell," Lucifer admits in a soft voice.

She tips her head toward him. "Before?"

"Now. At the wall where my freedom ends." He laughs unhappily. "What little I have, at any rate."

She glances at a seam in the sidewalk. "When I was sitting in my car, this was the edge of the fifty-foot radius?"

"As soon as I crossed, my body locked up, and I plummeted. The Devil, arse over teakettle in bloody suburbia. I'm certain Dad's howling with glee, if he's watching at all."

"I could try to give you a wider range? We didn't really test—"

"It's still a bloody radius," he snaps back at her. "Any freedom I have inside of a bloody radius is a bloody sham, Detective. Changing the size of my cage doesn't change that."

She swallows back tears. If she could fix this mess for him, she would.

"Being in a cage, being tethered"—he says the word tethered as a guttural curse—"is a state I've been consciously aware of since I woke up naked in your bed."

His words feel accusatory, like he thinks she's done something to him. "What are you implying?" she asks.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating it."

"Look, I don't even know what happened just now," she says. "You were fine, and then you were having weird paroxysms, and then you were gone. For my part in it, I'm sorry, but beyond that, I'm not sure what you're fishing for me to say."

Something scuffs on the pavement. A hollow metal thunk sounds in the quiet again as his weight shifts. The shiny tip of his shoe appears at the edge of the Expedition, followed by a long, heather-gray-clad leg and torso. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is blotched. Like he's been not just upset but actively weeping.

"It felt divine," he admits, looking down at her with betrayal painted on his features. "To be praised by you. Lauded."

"Felt divine like …?" She frowns, replaying the course of events in her mind. Replaying his "weird paroxysms." Which …. "Oh. Oh, shit, you mean you …?" She makes a vague gesture like fireworks with her hands, splaying her fists from closed to open.

His molten glower is answer enough.

Fuck. Fuuuck. She told the Devil he was amazing, and he came like an express train at rush hour.

"Yes," he grits out. "And, while I'd considered I might require your permission to get my bloody rocks off, I had not expected being told I'm a good boy to bloody well do it for me. I feel like a bloody pet dog."

Disgust curdles in her gut at the implications. Beyond having his feelings hijacked again, it's like the compulsion was designed to engender Stockholm Syndrome.

It's gross.

"We'll fix it," she decides.

"How?" he snaps. "By commanding me not to feel pleasure at all?"

"I could at least tell you not to experience a fucking orgasm when I compliment you!"

"And how would that solve anything if the pleasure component remains?"

She grimaces. "What about … don't experience pleasure when I praise you?"

"Given that I've always experienced some degree of pleasure when you praise me," he says in a low, threatening, done-with-it-all tone, "that feels rather like another bloody lobotomy, now, doesn't it?"

She sags against her palms, burying her face in her hands. He's right, of course. Fuck.

"Lucifer, I …." She rises to her feet, scooting away from the Corvette to lean against the back of the Expedition. "I … I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. I'll try to be …." Careful, she doesn't add, cringing. What a pointless fucking platitude. She's already trying to be careful, and look what's happened.

"Detective, pain is one thing," he says, staring into space with wet, dark eyes. "I've learned to tolerate having it foisted on me. But … now it's clear you own my pleasure as well. As little as a kind word from you, and I've lost control of my faculties. I can't bloody control anything. I am literally your pet, and it's—"

He turns away, like he's trying to establish privacy for himself to grieve the abrupt passing of his bodily autonomy. But privacy is impossible without sending him away. Something he's asked her not to do.

"You could order me to die," he continues his expression flattening out into something distant, his tone similar, "and I'd make it happen. I wouldn't even be bothered by it if you told me to stop agonizing over it, first. And then, as I expired, you could praise me, and my end would be nothing but a song in my heart that I'd served you well. My entire sense of self-preservation—my entire sense of self—is flipped on its side. It's owned. By someone else. By you. And I have nothing."

"Lucifer, I promise you," she assures him, stepping closer without touching, "I would never do those things to—"

"I can't even grapple with the idea that it's possible," he snaps, reanimating. "I …." He takes a rasping, struggling breath. And another. He tugs at his collar like he's starting to panic. "No."

"Lucifer," she says, moving around to his front. "Lucifer, this isn't an order, but listen to me. It's not possible. Okay? It's not possible."

"But—"

She presses her palms to his cheeks, drawing his scattered focused toward her. "Not an order, pull away from me if you want, but listen to me. Okay? Listen. Just listen to me."

He sucks in a dragging, rough breath.

"It's not possible because it's me. Chloe. Your Detective. Yeah? I'm the one in charge of this nightmare, somehow, and I would never do those things to you. I can't even fathom how I could force you to do those things by accident. There is no oops in the world where I'm telling you to kill yourself and feel good about it."

He squirms in her grasp, his lips twisting into a sudden rictus of pain. "Stop," he croaks, a wet gurgle of sputum crackling in his throat. His fingers clench. "Stop. Red. Please."

Fuck. Fuck, too vehement.

"Lucifer, I'm not trying to force you to be okay," she clarifies, trying to save the sinking ship. "You have every right to be upset; I don't want to take that away from you."

His surrendering, shattered sigh deflates him as he pulls away. She lets him go, stepping back with her arms and palms raised so he can see them. He only staggers a few steps before he stops, though. His fingers shake as he cups his face, panting shallowly.

"Detective," he says faintly, "it's not you who terrifies me. I've said I trust you, and I do. I'm …." A visible shudder courses through him.

Her heart plummets like a stone off a ledge. "Did you remember something?"

But his eyes go glassy again. He takes another step, but without direction, almost aimlessly ambling. He bumps into the Corvette and looks down at it as though he's stunned it's there. "Please, I'd like to return to your apartment now. Please."

Her heart twists. The sound of him so reedy and cowed feels wrong. "We've got to pick up Trixie, first. Dan's not available to sub in."

"Yes, yes, fine," he says, waving dismissively at nothing. He peers at the neighborhood like he's never seen it before. "Where is …?"

The lump in her throat threatens to explode. She gently grabs his sleeve. "Back this way. Around the corner."

"Oh." He laughs. "Right." And then he traipses off down the sidewalk as though nothing had happened, straightening out his kinks in several strides. She flinches when he claps his hands. "Chop chop, then; the child awaits!"

What the hell …? It's like ….

He doesn't remember because he doesn't want to.

Linda's words after their very first session echo in her head, though, now, they seem more like a harbinger and less like a simple caution flag.

Maybe he did remember something just now.

But he's so intensely fucked up by the recollection he erased it again.

The idea that someone could have hurt him so profoundly is ….

Well, really, there are no words.

She rubs her tired eyes, collecting all the tears that have been threatening. Her head swirling, she trudges after him, back to her cruiser.

When they reach the car, he shuts down again, like a windup toy that ran out of cranks.

"Do you need a change of clothes?" she asks. "Or … I've got a towel in the trunk?"

"No."

Still, he sounds so out of it, she can't stop herself from checking surreptitiously for a wet mark by his fly or on his pant leg. Nothing. As she pulls off the curb, he wraps his hands around his midsection and curls away.

She's never felt so fucking helpless.

He doesn't speak for the rest of the drive.

Not even when Trixie bounces into the backseat with a chipper, "Hi, Lucifer! Hi, Mom!"

Not even when Trixie gets a whiff of the crime scene remnants lingering in every pore and loose thread, scrunches up her nose, and whines, "Pee-ewe, what's that smell?"

"Definitely not Clive Christian No. 1," Chloe laments, directing a brief grin across the car cabin at him, hoping he'll take the bait and at least chuckle.

But he doesn't.

He stares into space as though she hasn't even spoken, taking even, shallow breaths that snake fog along the window from his lips. Like … he's drifting far away from the inside of a government-issued vehicle trapped on Venice Boulevard in rush hour.

When she pulls into her assigned space in her apartment complex's tiny parking lot, he climbs out of the car, following her and Trixie dutifully to the front door. Once she snags her key in the lock and pulls open the door for them, he sighs and says, "I'd like a shower. I'm bloody filthy."

"Sure," she says. "Lucifer, I …."

He barely meets her eyes as he shuffles off the welcome mat, gesturing at Trixie. "The urchin is correct. We smell."

He thuds up the stairs. The shower runs for well over forty-five minutes. He's still showering, even after she washes a little at the kitchen sink, and then slips into some loungewear. He doesn't even emerge when Alessandro's delivery person stops by with several garment bags full of tailored suits.

"His door is shut, Mom," Trixie announces later, clambering down the steps in her pajamas, as Chloe doles out boxes of Chinese takeout at the coffee table.

"That probably means he wants some space," Chloe says, her fork pausing mid-Kung Pao Chicken, "so, why don't we give him some?"

"But … why? I always want hugs after bad days."

"Lucifer's … not exactly a hugger. And how did you know we didn't have a good day?"

"You smelled gross. Plus, he usually talks more. And you ordered takeout without asking him what he wanted."

A ghost of a smile fleets across Chloe's face. She has a little detective in training, it would seem. She hands Trixie a plate full of rice and chicken, but Trixie doesn't take it, instead pushing it backward with a nudge of her index finger.

"You should offer him some, Mom."

"I think he would come downstairs if he wanted some, Monkey."

"Well," Trixie says as she eats a forkful straight from the container, "sometimes it's nice to be offered anyway. Isn't it?"

Chloe clutches the plate. It is nice. Really nice. But … she can't stomach the idea of breaching his personal space right now. Not with their current power dynamic. Not when he's painting clear "keep the hell away from me" signs with neon letters.

"I can't, babe," she whispers. "Not right now."

Trixie regards her, munching, this time straight from the moo shu pork container. Then she slides off the couch, grabbing the offered chicken plate, stacking a metal fork onto the side, and scampers out of the living room. Her tiny feet pound against the stairs like a galloping horse of considerably larger size, before Chloe's even grasped her daughter made a dash for it.

"Lucifer!" Trixie calls amid a frenzy of knocking. "Luuucifer, are you awake? Mom said not to bug you, but I'm not listening, because I don't want to, and you always say we should do what we want."

Chloe skids to the foot of the stairs, grabbing onto the bannister to stop her forward motion, as Lucifer's door creaks open, revealing a dark sliver of space beyond flushed skin and a haunted face. His hair is a disheveled mess, he's wearing nothing but silk boxers and an open robe. He blinks owlishly at them, his attention shifting between Trixie in the foreground, and Chloe in the background, down a floor.

"What is it?" he rasps, his voice strangely hoarse.

Trixie holds up the plate for him. "Dinner?"

He squints at the chicken. "How very red-dye number forty."

"Want it? It's really good. It's from our favorite place. You know, at the market? It's so—"

"—good," he says, frowning. "Yes, I gathered the first time."

Chloe sighs, looking up the steps at him. "I swear, I told her to give you space."

"You could eat it up here?" Trixie says before adding in a pitiful please-please-please tone, "Or you could come watch Netflix with us? You can pick the show."

His left eyebrow creeps upward.

"Please?" she says. "Please, Lucifer?"

"What's in this deal for you?"

She frowns. "Huh?"

"You're giving me food. You're offering the remote. What do you desire from this trade?"

But Trixie only laughs. "You're so weird. Are you gonna come watch with us or not?"

His lips form a flat, thin line. "I'll … consider it. I'm quite tired."

"Okay!" Trixie replies brightly. "I hope you feel better!" She jabs the plate at his belly. "You should eat cuz it helps." He takes the dish, a bemused expression plastered on his face, and she turns on her heels to skip back down the steps. "Bye, Lucifer!"

Chloe offers him a chagrined grimace that hopefully says I'm so sorry for my precocious, nosy, would-be-detective child. Without more than a resigned glance in her direction, he withdraws into his bedroom, shutting the door gently in his wake.

She's surprised how disappointed she feels after such a brief flash of hope. She gets his need for space all too well, but … it's hard to watch him exercise it. Her instinct at times like this is to pull together with her loved ones, not shy away and hide or hibernate.

Dishing up another plate of moo shu pork for herself, she and Trixie settle in to continue their My Little Pony marathon.

They've made it perhaps fifteen minutes into the next episode when the floor in the upstairs hallway creaks. Then the stairs. The edge of his empty plate becomes visible around the corner, and then him. Barefoot, still in his robe and boxers, though, this time, the robe is tied shut with a silk sash.

"Lucifer!" Trixie cheers.

Chloe tries not to gape. "Did you want seconds or something?"

"I can't sleep," he says softly. Pointedly. "You woke me this morning."

Fuck. She snatches her phone off the coffee table and recites the command that allowed him respite.

"What are you doing?" Trixie says, making a face.

"It's just a game we're playing, babe," Chloe replies quickly.

"Like Simon Says?"

"Yeah, like that. But a grownup version."

Lucifer adds nothing, his expression haunted and hollow, but he doesn't retreat to his bedroom, either.

"You," Chloe asks hesitantly, "want to sit with us?"

He shifts on his feet, frowning at them, as though he isn't sure what to do. Trixie scrambles across the couch, sitting up and then sprawling into Chloe's lap like a breaching whale. Chloe grunts at the impact(s).

"You can have the best spot!" Trixie chirps, gesturing to the seat she'd just vacated. "Plenty of space. See?"

"Indeed," he says. The word is soft and honey rich. Instead of joining them on the couch, though, after setting his empty plate on the coffee table, he slinks across their field of view and settles onto the recliner. Like … he wants to be near to them. Just not near.

"Want to watch something else?" Chloe says, gesturing with the remote at the television. A bright Technicolor closeup of Applejack and Twilight Sparkle fills the screen. "I'm guessing this isn't your 'jam?'"

But he shakes his head, pulling the afghan off the top of the chair and curling underneath it, like he means to sleep—or at least rest—just not quite so far removed from them.

"Please, continue," he says, a soft murmur.

Trixie starts the show again. By the end of the episode, his eyelids are resting at half mast, and his rasping breaths are even. He isn't watching the television or interacting with them, or even sleeping, so much as drifting. Like he wanted to wrap himself in their presence as much as he wanted to wrap himself in the afghan. Like … Chloe is his safe space. She and Trixie both. Or, maybe, Chloe's reading too much into it, and she's being silly.

"Want more, babe?" Chloe whispers, dishing up another helping of chicken. "Or should I put this in the fridge?"

Chapter Text

He sits in the bright showroom, surrounded by dozens of gleaming pianos that play nothing in tune, suffocated by poor facsimiles of living people. He still wishes he had cigarettes to smoke. Wishes he had gin or scotch to drink. Wishes he had fine silk clothes to wear or the soft scent of an expensive perfume to drown the reek of brimstone.

Most of all, he wishes he had something to satiate his growing, aching need for meaningful interaction. Something to stave off loneliness that should not be. Would not be. Were it not for her.

His chest tightens unbearably as his thoughts ricochet to the Detective. To Dr. Linda, and Ms. Lopez, and Beatrice, and even bloody Daniel. None of whom he's going to see again. Ever.

Well, perhaps Daniel.

Bloody hell, he'd be grateful for Daniel.

A lump forms in his esophagus. His eyes prickle. During his previous tenures in Hell, he'd never been so bloody preoccupied by what was absent. Why must he— He coughs as he allows his fingers to meander across the ivory-colored keys of the Model D concert grand set before him. Notes plink and plank into the quiet. He sniffs, pulling himself back together like Atlas hoisting the world over his shoulders.

Unbidden, the first few chords of Eternal Flame spill into the air around him, wavering and hesitant, out of tune, twangy, before he squashes both palms flat against the keys. No. Not that song. Anything but that. Except, now, he's running out of time before—

"Thinking of buying, sir?" says the empty salesman with an empty smile.

"No," replies Lucifer as he stares into space. "There's no bloody point."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Of course you bloody well don't understand, because you're not real. You've no bloody brain. You've no bloody thoughts. You exist only as a background bit part in some guilt-mongering fool's personal Hell. You're an extra. Nothing in this dadforsaken place means anything to anyone, and all this so-called instrument does is paint my memories wrong."

"But—"

With a roar, Lucifer shoves the piano, the hammers jangling against the strings. The instrument smacks into the wall, and the should-be-beautiful East Indian rosewood splinters along the grain—a cacophonous cascading crash. Caving to meet with gravity, the back of the nearly nine-foot-long piano forms a lopsided letter V with the floor.

Lucifer's ragged panting cuts the air like a saw.

Before the salesman can react with more than wide-eyed stupefaction, the showroom dissolves, replaced by the city block in front of the Steinway factory, a dreary little two-lane road split by a double yellow stripe, the curbs jam-packed with parallel-parked cars. Clouds tumble overhead. Bitter winter wind blowing in from the water strikes the nape of Lucifer's neck, and he shudders.

He hates cold.

And rain.

And New York in general, save for its uniquely dense vortex of vice and culture.

Normally, he would leave. Exit this imperfect Hell to find Lilith waiting for him in the hall, wanting, as always, to know what's so special about this bloody place.

What is special?

In this cell, the Steinway Factory is there and gone in moments—a flash on the edge of the inhabitant's elaborate self-punishment parade. Other Hells have pianos that stick around long enough for him to play a full concert. The entire Opus Clavicembalisticum, if he desired. About forty doors down, Mozart himself resides, writing unfinished out-of-tune concertos and sonatas for the rest of eternity. Not that Mozart's tiny, bright-sounding fortepiano from the 1700s compares to the beautiful modern bombast of the Steinway Model D.

Lucifer sighs.

At the far end of the street, the foreman who will soon be murdering his husband strides away, gabbing heatedly into a cellular phone—the old flip kind that can barely write text messages let alone surf the Internet. A yellow cab swishes by. Seagulls cackle overhead. The air smells of fish, urine, and pretzels.

You always come here, he hears Lilith asking him. Again and again. Why?

Why?

She's asked him countless times, and yet … it occurs to him he's never once asked himself.

"You, there!" he shouts, cupping his hands around his lips to boost his voice. "You, on the sidewalk in the discount trench coat! What's so bloody special about you?"

The foreman is so intent on his conversation he doesn't seem to hear. Burrowing his mouth and nose deeper into the thick wooly spirals of his scarf, he passes the park and turns the corner, heading northeast, without once looking back.

Lucifer rushes to catch up before the loop sends him "out of frame" again.

"You!" he calls, taking ground-eating strides. "You, there! Mr. Murderer, sir! I demand you hang up your phone and speak with me at once."

The foreman only hunkers down, squaring his massive shoulders, and walks faster.

"You!" Lucifer repeats. "I'm bloody well talking to you!"

Heads turn, but not the foreman's.

Lucifer frowns. "Hello? Are you deaf?"

At which point the foreman halts and wheels around. "Yo, asshole. I'm talkin' here! Stop followin' me, will ya? Christ." And then he continues walking.

"How … dare you," Lucifer splutters, trotting after the man. "Have you any idea who I am?"

"Yeah," says the foreman into the phone, not looking up. "Yeah, yeah. Some asshole keeps yellin' at me. Look, I'll be home soon; I promise." A pause. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm walkin' as fast as I can." He puts his shoulder forward like he thinks he's a linebacker, and barrels into the frigid breeze, his pace picking up. "I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I gotta go. Sorry." The guy on the other end of the line is still screaming as the foreman claps the clamshell closed.

"Will you bloody well stop!" Lucifer snaps, injecting Word. But Word is hit or miss with humans, and this human seems determined to let Lucifer's intrusion pass like a bad plate of shrimp.

Lucifer zips forward, grabbing a fistful of the man's—"Stop houndin' me!" the man cries, his knuckles crashing into Lucifer's nose and jaw. A wet, visceral crunch follows. The man screams and sinks to his knees, clutching his ruined hand.

"Yes, hello," Lucifer replies with one peaked eyebrow as he brushes imaginary dust off his sleeve, "I'm the bloody Devil, and you're in Hell. You can't possibly expect to overpower me, can you? Or is an imbecilic level of bravado why you're here? Beyond the whole you're-a-murderer sitch, that is."

"Fuck you, asshole!" the foreman yells, moaning. "Ya broke my hand. Ya broke my hand!"

"No, Mr. Murderer, sir, you broke your hand on my face. Which, frankly, was quite rude, and if anyone should be yelling obscenities, it's me, because you keep taking my favorite piano away when you pop off to strangle your spouse. Apparently, music isn't part of your guilt maze, or some such. Which is really rather counterintuitive, considering you make Steinways for a bloody living."

"Fuck you! Why is everybody houndin' me?"

"I don't suppose this Hell loop has 911?" Lucifer shoves the man onto his back, rifling through his pockets for the cellphone. "I'm really not interested in waiting for this dearth of pianos to wind around again, and it's not as though I can pluck a feather and heal a figment of your imagination."

"What the hell are ya talkin' about?" the man wails.

"You really think a gelatinous blob of formerly human light can break a hand? You've no hand to break!"

"… What?"

Lucifer slumps. "Oh, bother."

This Hell loop does have 911 service. Unfortunately, though, emergency service in Hell is hellish. The cellphone signal drops three times, preventing dispatch from locating them no matter how clearly Lucifer enunciates through clenched teeth, "In Astoria, next to the park nearest the bloody Steinway factory. On … on 20th Ave. Hello?"

The EMTs take so long to arrive that anyone not already dead in a Hell loop would be dead in a Hell loop, if Hell time were equivalent to Earth's. The ambulance carts them to the hospital in bumper-to-bumper traffic that won't budge for a siren no matter how insistent the sound.

"Typical New York!" Lucifer grumbles, all while Mr. Murderer continues to scream and wail and cry because they won't give him any painkillers, despite imaginary broken hands being quite imaginarily painful.

When they arrive at the hospital, the EMTs dump Mr. Murderer into the waiting room with the hypochondriacs and flu victims and crying babies, where the intake nurse is literally asleep at the desk. The only reason Mr. Murderer even gets an uncomfortable chair to snivel in is Lucifer, who scares the other figments away with a red-eyed glare.

They sit in the corner, separated by an end table, where a pile of decades-old magazines rest, wrinkled, ripped, defaced with pens. Mr. Murderer's eyes are glassy with pain. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. He clutches his trembling fist to his abdomen, burying it in the billows of his coat.

"Tell me, what is your name?" Lucifer says.

"Hmm?"

Wincing as a shrieking baby reaches a pitch only cetaceans should achieve, he says, "Well, you can't be Mr. Murderer, can you? Or perhaps you can? There's a mother two doors down from you who named her children Han and Leia. Quite unfortunate in terms of taste and meta, though I'm not certain that's what sent her to Hell."

Mr. Murderer squints at him. "Ya talk a lot, man." His tone is reedy.

"I've had no other opportunity to talk, lately," Lucifer replies, irritated with himself when his voice catches. "Not with anyone who'd understand."

"Man, I don't understand."

"What's difficult to comprehend about me asking your name?"

Mr. Murderer drags his unbroken hand to his face to rub the bridge of his nose. "Dennis," he croaks against his palm. "Dennis Lawson."

Lucifer can't stop the brief bark of laughter that flies loose from his lips. "Oh, dearie me, the irony. Mr. Lawson."

"Well, who the hell are you?"

"I told you, Mr. Lawson; I am the Devil. Lucifer Morningstar, to be precise, though I'll happily answer to Old Scratch, if you prefer. I like that one in particular."

Mr. Lawson laughs tiredly. "Sure, man. Whatever." The cellphone in his pocket rings again. He denies the call, his shoulders curling inward, his eyes widening with a tinge of panic.

"You seem quite popular today," Lucifer hazards, nodding at the phone.

"My husband," Mr. Lawson replies.

"You don't wish to take his calls?"

Mr. Lawson looks away, toward a sniffling flu victim. "Nah."

"Is your refusal to speak with him related to your imminent murder plans?"

"What?"

"Murder," Lucifer enunciates. "Why will you murder your husband when you return home?"

"I'm not murdering anyone!" snaps Mr. Lawson. "Are you crazy?"

"No, only damned. Devil, remember?"

"Can ya please leave me alone?" the man says weakly.

"I could, but I won't." Lucifer leans back, stretching his long arms and legs. These waiting room chairs aren't meant for tall people. "If you've no plans to murder anyone, why does this loop always reset an hour after you leave the Steinway Factory?" Lucifer glances at the clock on the wall, but the minute hand hasn't moved in eternity. "We're overdue, actually. Has punching me diverted you?"

"Will ya, please, stop talkin'?" Mr. Lawson begs, trembling. "Please."

"I suppose," Lucifer says, folding his arms. "Bonus points for begging the Devil in Hell, of course. Credit where it's due."

"God, you're weird."

"I am not God."

"Satan. Whatever, man."

Lucifer would wonder whether this Lawson fellow was getting Hell cred for an accident, if it weren't for the whole strangulation bit. Hard to accidentally strangle someone with a phone cord, of all things. Hard to accidentally strangle someone at all, really. Even as a crime of passion, passions tend to cool when a body isn't moving anymore, and passing from unconsciousness to death can take a strangled human more than a minute.

"A conundrum, indeed," Lucifer muses.

"Huh?"

Lucifer gives Mr. Lawson a dismissive wave. "Never you mind. Pretend as though I'm not here."

Mr. Lawson seems happy to oblige.

Time passes at a slow crawl. The babies scream, and the sick people sniffle. Lucifer has the urge to squirm away and buy a bucket of Lysol to douse himself with. Not that Lysol's available anywhere. Or if it is, it's probably hellishly ineffective, serving only as a bacterial breeding ground.

"Mr. Murderer?" the nurse eventually calls. "We're ready for you."

"Well," Lucifer huffs, standing up, "it's about bloody time!"

Mr. Lawson had nodded off at some point, his pulverized fist still clutched within his coat. Lucifer nudges the tip of his shoe against Mr. Lawson's shin. "Come, come, man. They'll fix your imaginary hand, perhaps."

Blinking woozily, Mr. Lawson wobbles to his feet, only to suck in a breath when he reaches with his injured limb to steady himself. His eyes roll back and his body goes limp.

"Bloody hell!" Lucifer snaps as the man crashes into him, a deadweight dragging his snotty-from-sniveling nose against Lucifer's tunic. "Medic?"

Lucifer begins to get the full picture when an orderly strips Mr. Lawson, replacing his coat, shirt, and slacks with a hospital gown. The flash of bare skin reveals a tapestry of bruises, old and new, across the man's torso. Yellowing fingerprints paint his left buttock. The worst telltale, though, mars his back—a healed burn shaped like a clothes iron. The scar is marbled and pink and puffed.

When the orderly steps out, Lucifer grabs the too thick case folder. Doctors' notes stuff the file to the gill slits, scrawled across page after page. Mr. Lawson is no stranger to this emergency room. He's even been treated for a broken hand before, along with broken ribs and a wrist.

"Is this why you're bloody here?" Lucifer asks, tossing the folder away, where it slaps the curtain aside and flies into the bay, almost hitting the figment of a nurse. "Because you finally snapped and killed the person who hurts you?"

Mr. Lawson's eyelids flutter.

"Answer me, Mr. Lawson," Lucifer says, gripping the gurney's railing hard enough to bend it. The metal shrieks in protest. "Mr. Lawson, wake up."

"I shouldn't have," says Mr. Lawson softly. "I shouldn'a done it."

"In a Biblical, eye-for-an-eye sense, I'm inclined to disagree," Lucifer says, the corner of his lip twitching as he fights back a feral snarl. "I imagine you served prison time for this already, did you not?"

"Sometimes, I feel like it killed me."

"Given your current circumstances, I'm quite certain it did."

The man's lower lip trembles as he looks away. "I dunno whatcha mean."

"What does your husband do to you when you go home?" Lucifer presses. "What sets you off?"

Mr. Lawson's eyes are wet. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"But you wish to bathe in it for eternity? How does this nightmare help anyone?"

"I really don't understand what you're sayin'."

"I. Am. The Devil, Mr. Lawson. You are dead. You are in Hell. And you are punishing yourself. Over, and over, and over."

"Nah," Mr. Lawson says. "Nah, I'm not. That ain't true. My hand's just broken."

Lucifer tilts his head. "Mr. Lawson, I assure you, I do not lie. None of this is real, and no one is keeping you here but you." He points toward the door. "You could leave this moment, if you wanted. You could—"

"No!"

The loop resets like the snap release of a trebuchet. The sights and sounds and smells of the hospital ricochet away, propelled through the air as a solid cannonball of denial. Mr. Lawson reimagines himself in his apartment, sitting at the center island in his kitchen, sipping a steaming cup of liquid guilt. He grips the cup with his now unbroken hand.

A figment of another man clad only in boxers stands by the stove, flipping a blueberry pancake with a spatula. "Ya can't leave," the figment is saying. "Denny, ya can't leave me. I love you. Please, I'll try counselin'. I'll try anything. But ya can't just leave. That last time was the last time. I swear."

Dennis closes his eyes, agonizing over his coffee cup before he says softly, "You're right. Maybe it'll be different this time."

Except this is Hell.

There is no change in Hell.

And nothing is ever different.

Rage condenses like a dying star in Lucifer's chest as he stalks back into the hallway.

"You always come here," says Lilith. "Why?"

"Do not speak to me!" he snaps, unfurling his white wings in a great gust of acid wind. Bunching his quadriceps, he bursts into flight, the force of his departure knocking her on her ass behind him.

He watches, too satisfied, as she shrinks into a speck. Why he'd bothered to linger with Mr. Lawson, he'll never bloody know. Mr. Lawson would rather punish himself than do something productive.

"Is this really your Plan?" Lucifer asks as he settles on the Greater Throne like a grumpy gargoyle. "Really?"

But, of course, no one answers, least of all Dad.

Lucifer tries to think of the beach again. Tries to think of the moment she kissed him. But all that comes to mind is ash.

When he wakes, he feels worse, not better.

He returns to the palace in a funk, landing on the balcony that faces Discord.

"My king," a familiar gravelly voice greets him before Lucifer has taken two steps.

"What is it this time, Squee?" Lucifer says on the coattails of a sigh.

The little demon genuflects. "I … am sorry, my king. But there has been another disturbance."

Lucifer closes his eyes. "More demonstrations, is it?"

"No, sire. Not that."

"Well, then? Do spit it out."

"It's," Squee replies, his tone strange, "in the throne room."

"What is?"

Stressed wheezing fills the quiet. Squee clutches at his coat, his fingers trembling as they gather up great ragged clumps of material. "We have never seen one before, my king. We don't know what it is."

Lucifer stomps past him, his footsteps echoing. Squee yelps, scrambling out of the way. Lucifer exits through his chambers, heading down the staircase to the foyer. He takes a right at the bottom landing, pushing through the massive metal doors into the throne room.

Whispers and nervous chittering echo off the black stone. Dozens of scandalized gazes swivel toward him, all in questioning wonder.

"Well?" Lucifer snaps. "What the bloody hell is it?"

The crowd parts as the Red Sea for Moses, giving him the first glimpse. He blinks, slow and reptilian and calm, barely checking his reaction in time to keep his mouth closed. There, before his throne, in a warm bath of firelight, rests the nine-foot Steinway Model D concert grand in East Indian rosewood, gleaming and glossy, its perfect polish like a mirror.

No one speaks as he steps closer to inspect it. No one speaks as he sits at the bench and lifts the key cover. No one speaks as he sweeps his fingers across the keyboard, performing a quick arpeggio in C-major as a test.

The notes hit the quiet like bells, in perfect melodious tune.

Something expands in his chest, making him lighter.

"Who put this here?" he says.

But no one has an answer.

He turns to the crowd. "Where did this come from?"

Again, no answer.

This makes no sense. And, yet ….

He plinks out a quick rendition of Twinkle Twinkle, one of Mozart's more interesting variations, anyway. The piano has a complex tone and timbre that vibrates against his sternum at lower registers, yet several octaves higher still has the brightness of a rainbow. The notes stuff him with sound like his Words stuff the quaking hearts of demons. He has no room for anything but listening until he stops pressing keys.

Soft wheezes fill the space behind his left shoulder. "What is it, my king?"

"It's a piano, Squee," Lucifer says with a tickled laugh, one he's suddenly too effervescent to check, regardless of his potential audience. He plays an arpeggio before sinking into the brooding Op. 33: No. 2 in C Major by Rachmaninoff. "And this … is music."

Chapter Text

Things aren't quite back to "normal" the next day, not that she expects them to be. After the My Little Pony marathon, Chloe and Trixie had gone to bed, leaving Lucifer half-dozing in the recliner. By the morning, though, he'd retreated into his room. He hadn't emerged until she'd told him through the thick door—no knocking, no implications of any kind—she'd be leaving soon with Trixie.

He's subdued in the car. Bristly and not talkative. Trixie steadfastly says, "Goodbye, Lucifer! … Goodbye, Lucifer! … Good—"

Until he rolls his eyes and lowers the window to say, "Yes, yes, goodbye, child. Now, off you pop."

Satisfied, Trixie runs off to join her friends, and Chloe pulls away from the curb.

Lucifer brushes off his sleeves, resettling. Courtesy of Alessandro's delivery last night, along with an adjustment allowing Lucifer to wear clothes from the closet in his room rather than hers, he dons a charcoal-colored suit, and a royal-purple shirt and pocket square. He picks at the pocket square, making sure it's straight.

"Beyond the obvious, you doing okay?" Chloe asks in the quiet.

"No, but I am trying," he grumbles as he gives up fussing with his ensemble. "Not much else I can bloody do."

She thinks of how he'd been before this mess. A frenetic nexus of hedonistic hyperactivity. But, now, he's not just bound, his motion limited to a fifty-foot radius, he's bound by her, a workaholic mom whose idea of a wild time involves wrapping herself in a snuggie with a good book and a glass of wine. And the book part is only a recent development.

"Lucifer, you know if there's anything you want—booze, a sex partner"—her face heats to molten—God, she hopes he doesn't want someone to bone, but—"a piano or something—you can ask me, yeah? Anything. I mean it. Even if you think I wouldn't approve. This is beyond a weird situation. I promise I'll at least try."

"Having to ask you for those things rather defeats the point, no?" A foggy jag of condensation snakes along the window as he sighs. "I should think I'd feel more crushed than free."

"You're right. Sorry."

He turns to her with a piercing gaze. "I've no present desire for a sex partner beyond the options residing in this car."

Whoa. "Are you asking me if I'd—"

"No, Detective," he says evenly. "I am not asking you. I'm simply stating."

"But—"

"The balcony, you'll recall, is only a few days past for me."

It was you, Chloe, he'd said. It always has been.

The traffic lights in front of her disperse into an amorphous squiggle of red dots as her eyes lose focus. She grips the parking brake lever without pulling it upward, just to have something to do with her hand. What the hell does she say, given current constraints?

"I understand you're displeased with me," he continues. "For you, time has passed, and you're in a different place."

"No, I'm not," she says softly.

"You're … not?"

"I mean, yeah, I'm mad about some stuff—no, that's not a command for you to fix it. And, yeah, some time has passed. But, Lucifer … I'm not in a different place." Her fingers hurt, she's gripping the brake so hard. "I love you. Of course I want you."

"Tell-me-not-right-now," he blurts, turning five words into one.

"Huh?"

"Red. Red, Detect—"

"Obviously, I don't want you right now!" she snaps.

He sags against the sidewall, his tension releasing into ragged panting, and a groaned, unhappy, "Oh, bloody hell."

The light turns green, and she jams on the accelerator hard enough to make the car buck and peel out. "This stupid"—her stomach churns with a sudden flash of nausea—"endous … stupendous amazing compulsion! I want to have sex with you after we've worked out our stuff, and you're free—not rape you. Gross."

"Yes, your point comes across quite well now," he says with a reedy voice. "Thank you."

God, damn it. God, damn it.

Lucifer pulls his trembling fingers through his hair, offering her a lopsided, watery smile despite his awful pallor, which is a mix of bloodless pale and the flush of forced-but-fading arousal. "But … you desire to shag me eventually?"

Of course that's his takeaway. "Yes, Lucifer."

"You desire to … 'work this out?'"

"Yes," she repeats, trying not to sound churlish. For the compulsion's benefit, she adds, "Not right this second, but, yeah."

"I … suppose it's quite difficult to work out 'our stuff,'" he says, "when you can't express your desires without consequence."

"No fucking kidding."

Blasting through an intersection as a yellow light flicks to red, she half expects him to comment on her reckless driving. If nothing else, to encourage her. But he doesn't. Even when she screeches to a halt at the next light—which is unequivocally the color of her frustration—he holds his tongue. Even as inertia flops him forward two inches, locking the seatbelt, and then re-pastes him to his seat. Instead, he regards her, calculating.

"What?" she says tiredly.

"What, what?"

"I can feel you staring at me."

"Well, I quite like the view."

The light turns, the rumble of exhaust punctuating the quiet.

"You could pretend there aren't any consequences right now," he says softly. "You've my consent."

She glances at him. "I can't do that."

"Of course you can, Detective."

"I can't just …." She sniffs. "I can't just whine about things. Not when I know it's going to hurt you." Not when her issues don't even hold a candle to his.

He takes a breath like he's preparing himself for an onslaught. "Whine away."

"But I can't."

"You desire someone to listen?" He gestures to himself. "Well, here I am, Detective. Listening."

"But—"

"I trust you'll ease me when you've finished."

He sounds so … earnest.

"Do it," he urges. "Let it go."

She snorts as the famous chorus floods her head with an orchestra. Had that been on purpose? Lucifer had had ample opportunity over the years to pick up on some of Trixie's Disney-ish viewing material. She hadn't watched Frozen since Lucifer had moved in, but—no. Since … the compulsion had forced him to move in.

"It's not stupendous," Chloe admits in a rush as she pulls up to another light. "It's not spectacular. Or amazing. Or splendiferous. Or whatever the hell else I've used as a qualifier. This fucking compulsion is awful. And dehumanizing. And evil. And—"

If it weren't for the fact that his slow, dragging breaths seem forced, somehow, she wouldn't know he's under duress. "Please, continue," he says like nothing is wrong. Like it's any other Wednesday in the daily grind.

"Lucifer, I can't. I just … this is …."

"Please, Detective, allow me to do something of my own choosing. Allow me to assist you, not because I was forced, but because I desire it."

"But—"

"Let it go."

"I hate it! I hate it, Lucifer."

"Yes, good," he gushes, nodding enthusiastically. "What do you hate?"

"I hate that I can't tell you when I'm mad or hungry or tired or just done with it all. I hate that anytime I stop paying attention to what I'm saying, you seem to get punished for it. I hate that I can't even tell you I love you or that this sucks or that royal purple is the best color on you without wondering if I'm forcing you to feel what I feel."

"Do tell, Detective," he prods almost gleefully.

"I hate that I can't say I want you without this compulsion jumping to, hey, let's have some rape! Rape would be romantic! Seriously, what the fuck?"

"My thoughts exactly!" he chimes in.

"I hate that you're trapped. I hate that you're suffering. I hate that this compulsion is designed to make you pine for me. I hate that something so horrible happened to you you've probably just … blocked it out like it didn't happen at all. I don't know how to deal with that or help you, and that scares the fuck out of me. I'm terrified, and I'm exhausted, and I'm stressed by this mess, and by ghosts—sorry, de-gloved souls—and by not knowing anything about why you're here, or what Lilith's planning, or whether possessed humans are gonna leap out of the woodwork to kill me or you at any moment. We're blind, which just makes me want to pull close to you, except I can't, for all the reasons stated above. I've missed you, and I've been lonely, and I hate that you just left. I hate that you're gonna leave again as soon as you're released from whatever the fuck this is, no matter what I say or do, assuming you let me say anything at all, which you won't, because you're you, and you just … leave. All the time, Lucifer, that's what you do. You fucking leave me, and I don't get a say, and I hate it. And I hate that knowing you can't leave me right now makes me feel better. What kind of fucking person does that make me? I hate it, Lucifer! I hate all of this!"

And then she yells.

Primal, unleashed.

No words, just a banshee cry.

Like a volcano, erupting after an eon of dormancy.

Until she's out of air and seeing funny black spots, and she can't breathe or think. She scrapes at the steering wheel with her fingernails, for lack of anything else to grab, and she screams again. When she croaks to a halt, she feels worse than when she started. Finally, let loose. Scattered. Undone.

Like an open gash, bleeding.

"Oh," she gasps, suddenly sobbing. "Oh."

The light turns green again. She pulls to the side, leaving the cruiser idling at the shoulder, cars whizzing by on the left. Her whole body is shaking when he leans across the car and gathers her into his arms like it's before.

Before he left.

He isn't the type to offer meaningless platitudes. He doesn't tell her everything will be okay. But just having him touch her is opulence in what had been a pauper's purgatory.

"Oh, God," she warbles, and his embrace tightens. "I don't expect you to fix all that, obviously."

There is no telltale loosening of his posture, or a relieved exhalation ruffling her hair, and for a moment, she's left wondering if she successfully cancelled her wild ranting or not.

"Better now?" he prods gently.

"Not really." She sags against him, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with her knuckles. "I feel like I picked open a half-healed wound."

"Dr. Linda often tells me that's necessary."

Fuck necessary. She wants to crawl into a hole. Wants to command he not just never mind but forget everything she said altogether. What an embarrassing bunch of half-cocked, emotionally compromised drivel—

"That's … really why you've been displeased with me? Why you think we're not a team," he says, rubbing her arm. "Because … I left without giving you …." He trails away, his chin dragging across her scalp as he shakes his head. "Because I've … acted unilaterally?"

She opens her mouth. Closes it. She'd … never put her percolating frustrations into words before. "Yeah, I guess so." She looks up at him. "You act like a king—which I suppose you are—but … I'm not your subject. I'm supposed to be your best friend." Or more. Much more. "Or … God, I don't even know anymore."

"I am no king with this curse in play." His tone is dark.

"I know, but—"

"But … this is a new development. I've only been back a few days, and in your mind, I've an established pattern of behavior from … before."

"Yeah. Yeah, exactly."

He kisses the top of her head, the motion pensive. "Detective, I'd no idea you felt that way." She opens her mouth to respond, but he continues, "Or, well, I did. I did know. Honesty, after all. But I didn't understand."

"But … you do now?"

"Having no control over what happens to me—or around me—is … terrifying."

She tightens her grip on him. "I'm trying so hard to keep this from being scary for you. I'm trying so hard."

"I appreciate your efforts." He kisses her again, stroking her hair. "And I'm sorry I've ever made you feel anything like this."

"I wouldn't exactly compare it like that."

"I would." His fingers pause their toiling, and he clears his throat. "Detective, I shall … endeavor to improve."

She hopes so.

They share space in silence for a while, listening to the traffic pass. His embrace is calming. Reassuring.

"This wasn't forced, right?" she has the wherewithal to ask, after far too long. "I didn't—"

"No, Detective," he murmurs. "You told me you wanted me to choose whether to comfort you more than you ever wanted comfort."

She pulls back to meet his eyes. "And you don't have to lie to me?"

He stares at her, unblinking, sincere. "No. You took care of that as well, remember?"

She searches his face for any scrap of falsehood, any kind of tell, but all she finds is truth.

Searing, brilliant truth.

Her Lightbringer.

Sighing, she resettles, pressing her nose into his lapel. This morning, he'd used the Clive Christian No. 1, and she can't help but inhale the vanilla scent. "Thanks for …." She swallows. "Thanks. I know this was miserable for you on multiple levels."

"Think nothing of it."

A minute passes. When she drags herself away from him, her eyes ache like they're three sizes too big for their sockets, and her head hurts—her whole body throbs like she's getting over the flu. She wants to ooze back into bed and be a puddle of grief. With him. Not for sex. She'd settle for another hug, freely offered. His hugs are … perfect.

A soft groan fills the quiet—the first indication she's really done a number on him. He's folded his long body like an accordion, gripping the seatbelt like it's the only thing keeping him from bursting out of his skin. Almost like he itches, or … something.

Definitely something, her inner voice supplies.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"Nonsense," is his clipped reply. "I asked for it."

She pulls back into traffic.

"I don't suppose we could stop off to pick up some benzos on the way in?" he asks too airily.

"Not coke?" she teases.

"As if a bloody stimulant would help me right now."

Which is when she realizes he isn't joking. His prior comments about wanting Linda's Xanax—about using drugs to relax—stick out like a sore thumb. "Wait, you really want Valium?"

"You did say if there was anything I—"

"I know what I said, Lucifer."

His Adam's apple bulges as he flops his head backward against the seat cushion. "Forget I bloody asked."

"No, no," she says. At least, he doesn't have to worry about overdosing or chemical dependency. "If that's what you want, we'll get it."

"Really," he scoffs, the word flat.

"Look, I understand you're not human, and our rules aren't one-size-fits-all with you. And I did just wind you up like a jack-in-the-box."

He squirms a little, grimacing like an acerbic remark is hovering on the tip of his tongue. His cheeks and throat are flushed. His pants tent obscenely by the lap belt. Speaking of jack-in-the-boxes, it would seem no 'pop goes the weasel for me, he'd probably joke if he were in a better mood. No wonder he wants a damned sedative. How maddening must this be?

"All I'd ask," she continues, "is that you keep it away from Trixie if you're gonna do it—I've got a lockbox in my bedroom for prescription meds. And don't operate machinery while you're stoned, obviously."

He laughs. "Really, that's your only bloody requirement? That I keep the pills away from your child and refrain from utilizing power tools whilst I'm baked?"

"Well, preferably, keep it away from any child, but"—he's looking at her like she grew his fabled horns and declared herself Queen of Hell—"what?"

"I'm … surprised. That's all."

She shrugs. "Rules just aren't this black and white thing to me like they can be for you. I mean, yeah, I have my limits. But … this doesn't hit them."

"Rules aren't quite so black and white to me anymore, either, Detective," he admits. "You've shown me that."

Warmth fills her body. "We can't go now—we'll be late—but … after work? I'm assuming you've got a dealer who owes you a favor."

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Right, then."

In the ensuing silence, he diverts his attention. The locks on the car doors hop up and down as he fiddles with the master button. He plays with the sun visor, and then the window, and then the glove compartment.

"Lucifer—"

"What if I asked to drive your police cruiser, instead?" he blurts. "Or … or play with the siren? Anything halfway fun?"

She laughs. "No cruiser shenanigans, but only because they could get me fired."

"Ah, yes, they're quite picky about 'civilians' using equipment bought by taxpayers, aren't they."

"Sorry." She grins at him. "When we get home tonight, you can totally drive my personal car and pretend it's the cruiser? You could even make siren noises, if you want."

"Would you allow me to speed?"

"How much over?"

"Whatever fancies me in the moment?" he hazards.

"Nine over on an empty highway, five over in traffic: final offer."

He winks, the aroused flush on his face receding, replaced by simple joviality. "My, my, you rebel, you. Noted."

The sudden lift in mood leaves her buzzed like she's had a few glasses of wine. "There's a jazz bar near the precinct," she finds herself saying. "They have a piano. We could go Friday night? Trixie is camping with Meghan this weekend, so I've already got childcare lined up."

"I'd quite enjoy that."

"More than Valium?" she asks. "Or do you still want that, too?"

"The Doctor did say she preferred drugs as a last resort. I suppose I can try things her way for a little while." He peers at her with gleaming eyes. "Detective, are you okay now?"

"No, but I'm trying, too. You're right. What else can we do?"

They stop in West Adams on the way to work. Chloe, Lucifer, and Ms. Cade—the woman who filed the noise complaint—stand in Ms. Cade's narrow driveway, boxed in by her little blue Jetta and her house's sun-damaged siding. Squinting, Chloe clutches her notepad against her brow to thwart the stabbing knives of morning sunshine, only for Lucifer to drift into the space behind Ms. Cade's shoulder, blocking the sun with his head.

"Ms. Cade," Chloe says, mouthing a silent, thank you, over the woman's shoulder to Lucifer, "can you describe the circumstances surrounding the noise complaint you lodged yesterday morning at approximately 4 a.m.?"

Bristling, Ms. Cade folds her arms. "Yeah. It was noisy, so I called." She twists her purse strings until the leather creaks with strain. "Look, I already told this story to three different—"

"I know, ma'am." Chloe nods, stepping closer, softening her voice. "I know this has to be frustrating having your morning hijacked again, and I apologize for any inconvenience. But someone died there"—she gestures with her uncapped pen to the house two doors down—"and I'm the lead detective on this case. If you're willing, I'd like to hear your recounting of events in your own words, please. It could help me gain a better sense of what happened."

The woman glowers. "Am I being detained?"

"No, ma'am," Chloe says, resisting the urge to sigh. "You're free to go to work, of course." She maintains eye contact, trying to will the woman to stay. "But it would be really helpful if you talked to me. Please."

Ms. Cade is built like an Amazon, her height much closer to Lucifer's than to Chloe's. Dirty blonde hair with dark roots frames the woman's face. Her ice-blue eyes are beautiful in sunlight. She regards them for a long moment, her lips contorting into a displeased grimace, but she doesn't stalk away like her body language suggests she wants to do.

"Come now, Ms. Cade," Lucifer scolds. "Play nice, and perhaps the Devil will offer a favor, should you have a reasonable request."

She gives Lucifer an irritated are-you-for-real scowl, before turning back to Chloe. "Look, it was noisy," she huffs, "so, I called the police. Just like the sixty-three-million other times I've called about that godforsaken blight of a property."

"Literally dadforsaken at the moment, it would seem," Lucifer adds.

"Huh?"

"Ma'am," Chloe interjects before Lucifer can hijack the conversation, "you've called about previous noise disturbances?"

"Yes," Ms. Cade enunciates like she thinks they're morons. "We all have."

"You all, meaning your various neighbors?"

"People are always breaking in, doing God knows what."

"Banging, it would seem," says Lucifer.

"What is with you?" Ms. Cade asks.

"Not banging, unfortunately. Even by myself."

Chloe resists the urge to laugh. Lucifer's off-the-wall comments derailing interviews are not something she's missed. And, yet, nostalgia almost threatens to strangle her. She scrawls a reminder in her notepad to check on the other noise complaints for this address. "Ms. Cade, can you describe any of the people who've broken in?"

"I don't know." Ms. Cade shrugs. "Just people."

"Vagrants?" Chloe prods. "Kids?"

"Beats me."

Eclectic break-ins, Chloe scribbles. "Was anyone hanging around the property in the past week?"

"Not a soul that I saw."

"Obviously," Lucifer scoffs. "Humans cannot see souls, least of all this one."

Ms. Cade's brow furrows, question marks nearly exploding from her skull like confetti. "How long were you hearing noises before you called the police?" Chloe interjects before the woman can think too hard.

"No idea," she says. "Like twenty minutes? The noise woke me up, and then I couldn't get back to sleep—it was constant."

20 minutes noise, Chloe adds to her notes. "No other sounds? Just the banging?"

"Right," says Ms. Cade as Lucifer snickers.

"What time did the noise wake you?" Chloe asks.

"I remember seeing 3:47 on the clock, but I don't know if that was when I woke up."

3:47 a.m., Chloe writes. "Are you familiar with the homeowner?"

"Not really," Ms. Cade replies. "He was some hoarder guy who never left his house. The family intervened a few years ago, threw out his crap, and got him some help, but for some fucking reason the county didn't think the property was damaged enough to warrant demolition—it got left here to rot like a carcass. Nobody's been back since."

"Okay." Chloe flips her steno pad closed, pocketing it before fishing out a business card. "Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Cade. If you can think of anything else—any detail, big or small—please, call."

Ms. Cade snatches the card. "Yeah, whatever. Don't 'visit' me again." She puts the word visit in air quotes.

And then she climbs into her car, slamming the door on them before Chloe or Lucifer can get a word in edgewise. She peels out of the driveway, blowing a gust of oily-smelling exhaust into their faces.

"Lovely individual, that one," Lucifer comments.

"Her behavior's not surprising, considering the state of that house and the continuing noise issues, dead guy or not. She must be running on fumes."

"I suppose."

Chloe glances at Ms. Cade's residence. It's a little one-story detached home like all the others on the street. No front yard to speak of. Un-raked leaves litter the sidewalk in small clumps—just a few from the deciduous trees mixed with the palms. A fall-colored flag hangs from the doorway, flapping softly in the breeze.

"So," Lucifer says. "Paperwork, is it?"

"You know it," she replies. "Oh, and the sketch artist. For John Constantine. We never got around it because ghosts."

Really, her life's gotten strange.

She sets Lucifer up in the conference room with Stan Bigsby, the precinct's sketch artist, while she researches all the noise complaints made on the La Brea property. Ms. Cade and two other neighbors—the ones living closest to the murder scene—have all lodged roughly the same amount of complaints. A smattering of other neighbors have also chimed in. But nothing jumps out as unusual. No one person seems to have an axe to grind.

Chloe pushes that investigative angle onto the back burner, to be revisited later, if they run out of hotter leads.

"Hello, familiar friend," Lucifer says an hour later, two large sheets of paper clutched in his hand. He exchanges his bounty for the Newton's Cradle on her desk. The endless clack-clack-clack starts moments later, much to his delight.

"Um," she says, examining the top sheet. The scowling stick figure with yellow triangles for hair seems a little amateurish for Stanley. "What's this?"

"Oh, that's my rendering," Lucifer says, glancing over. "Thought it might be useful."

"Lucifer, you've got a lot of talents," she tells him, fighting not to laugh, "but this is not one of them."

"Not even an eye roll for my efforts?" he teases.

To his delight, she appeases him with dramatic flair as she slides his "rendering" aside.

Bigsby's drawing is far more functional. From the page, a brown-eyed man with an angular face stares back. John Constantine. He looks … kind of like he belongs on a beach with a surfboard, given his tanned complexion and scruffy sunbaked hair.

"This guy is a magician?" she says doubtfully.

"A warlock, yes," Lucifer confirms.

"What's the difference between a magician and a warlock?"

"One is paid to pull rabbits from hats—the other to remove slavery curses and other nasty sundry."

O … kay, then.

Lucifer fiddles with her stapler while she calls the LAPD liaison at the FBI.

"Hi," she says to the administrative assistant who answers, "my name is Detective Chloe Decker. I'm with the LAPD." She rattles off her badge number. "I'm calling to request help locating a person of interest, name: John Constantine. He may be a critical witness in a kidnapping case, and it's imperative that I be able to question him as soon as possible."

She's put on hold again, Muzak emitting from the phone speaker as Lucifer shifts his attention to her pencil cup. He peeks in her desk drawers, one, two, three, and dips his fingers into the open envelopes stacked in her inbox. Reading, inspecting, twiddling like he's the angelic embodiment of a fidget spinner. He's just … life. And movement. A chorus of idiosyncrasies to accompany her lonely bass line, and suddenly, her life is music again.

"You are so hyperactive," she says idly.

"Is that a problem?" he says, frowning back at her.

"Nope. It's …." Nice, she's not sure she can say. Not without sending him into pleasure paroxysms. It's nice—you're nice—seems a bit too close to a Tony Tiger style, Grrrrreat job, slave! She settles on something she knows is safe because she's already said it. A soft, "I've really missed you, Lucifer."

A command of another kind, but one he's already obeying, and it slides off like water from a roof shingle.

He smiles before his attention drifts again to her Newton's Cradle. She watches him over the edge of her hand. Just … watches. He's so intent on the Cradle he doesn't seem to notice. Or he does. And he lets her observe without comment anyway.

After a few more click-click-clacks of the Cradle, she turns back to her computer, surreptitiously opening her Internet browser. A quick Google search later, she's ordering half-a-dozen bottles of the nicest single-malt scotch she can afford, to be delivered by Friday evening. The least she can do, really.

The Muzak blasting her ear ceases with a click.

"Hello, Detective Decker?" says a baritone voice. "I'm Agent Adeboye. I'm told you have a slippery POI?"

"Yes, thank you," Chloe says, her chair creaking as she leans backward. "I have a sketch if you'd like me to fax it …."

Agent Adeboye can't find anything immediately helpful in the databases he has access to, but he promises he'll get back to her. Ella finds Chloe and Lucifer around lunchtime, after Chloe gets off the phone, and Lucifer has graduated from fidgeting to helping. Sort of.

He and Chloe need to have a conversation about acceptable illustrations of crime-scene layouts. Acceptable illustrations that do not include stick figures with Xs for eyes, an amorphous inked-in blob labeled EJECTED SOUL, or chat bubble descriptions that include, "Bugs and other distasteful sundry."

"We IDed the victim as one Alastor Blackthorn, 43," Ella says, as she drops a giant folder marked PRELIMINARY onto Chloe's lap, and then sits against the edge of the desk. "Fingerprints and DNA were a match." She beams at Lucifer, her lips stretched to such a degree she almost seems like she's grimacing. "I'm so super stoked you're back! It's like … the gang is almost together again!"

"You could say I'm 'so super stoked' as well," he replies.

"Really?" Ella gushes.

"You think I returned to Hell because I enjoy it?"

"To be honest, I've got no idea why you returned to Hell. I didn't even know England was a euphemism for Hell until last week."

"Merely trying to avert a potential apocalypse."

"Wait, what?"

Chloe clears her throat as she skims through the file. "Why were Blackthorn's fingerprints and DNA in the system? Do we know?"

"Apparently, he was involved in a freshman hazing event in the 90s that resulted in two deaths via hypothermia." Ella frowns. "Can we go back to the part about the apocalypse?"

"Involved, how?" Chloe asks.

"Alastor was the one who orchestrated the whole event," Ella replies. "Made everyone strip and sent them running into the snow. They were only required to stay outside for sixty minutes, but they were drunk as skunks, and it was dark. Two didn't come back—frat couldn't find 'em in time."

"Didn't they call the police for help?"

"Yeeeah," Ella says with a wince, "college kids who are still young enough to feel immortal, coupled with underage drinking, and hazing? No, they didn't call for help. I imagine they didn't want to get in trouble."

Lucifer scoffs. "Imbeciles."

Ella peers dubiously at him.

"What?" he says. "I may not be a fan of pointless rules, but I'm not a fan of wanton disregard for reality, either." His eyes narrow. "Perhaps Mr. Blackthorn is Hell-bound, after all, given the manslaughter sitch. Though, that still doesn't explain Azrael's steadfast absence."

"Maybe the apocalypse does?" Ella says.

"No, no," Lucifer says with a dismissive wave, "the apocalypse I mentioned involved demons having free run of Earth, and I averted it by leaving."

"Wait, was that why we found a zillion dead guys at the Mayan right after you left for 'England?'" Ella almost squeals, her eyes widening like full moons. "Apocalypse-y stuff?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"No way!"

"So," Chloe interjects pointedly, "we have a potential motive for revenge, given the hazing deaths. Anything else, Ella?"

"The victim had some kind of UV stamp on his hand." Ella shows them a picture of a triskelion, neon green and glowing in sharp relief against pale, dead skin.

"Oh, that's for a club," Lucifer says after barely more than a glance. "Dominus."

"Dominus?" says Chloe.

Lucifer grins. "A fetish club, darling. One of the best in LA, actually. I'm quite partial to it."

"How long does invisible ink last?"

"A week, if that," Ella says.

"Okay"—Chloe nods—"anything else?"

Ella takes a breath. "Well, I found … a lot of DNA at this crime scene. Like … a lot. At least twelve different samples were identified from PCR."

"DNA as in blood?"

"DNA as in … erm … emissions."

"Oh, emissions," Lucifer says, smirking slyly. "So, they are all banging. Tell me more, Ms. Lopez."

"Both vaginal fluid and semen. Oh, and saliva. Some new. Some old. Some practically fossilized. I think we've found the local 'hangout' spot for horny teens. Which means the signs of forced entry at the house don't tell us much about the murder."

"Did any of the twelve samples you identified lead back to our database?" Chloe asks.

Ella shakes her head.

"Any fluids on the victim?"

"Nope. No other signs of sexual assault, either."

"Do we know cause of death?" Chloe asks.

"Internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen, like I thought. Tox screen came back negative. This guy was strung up for hours and beaten, probably while he was conscious. He had a closed head injury, potentially unrelated. The murder weapon was most likely the metal rod we found lying at his feet."

"A closed head injury?" Lucifer interjects.

"Hell of an egg on his head," Ella confirms. "No open wound—no blood—which is why I missed it onsite."

"So … a concussion?" says Chloe.

"Yep," replies Ella. "Could have happened well before the murder—it wouldn't have killed him."

"But it would perhaps explain how he was overpowered and strung up," Lucifer muses.

"True."

"Any fingerprints on the murder weapon?" Chloe asks.

"Yep!" Ella chirps. "None were a match for anything in our system, but I got perfect prints of all five fingers and even some of the palm—killer had a good grip. We also found matching prints on the metal restraints, the collar, and the … um. The um." She takes the case folder back from Chloe, flipping to the photos section and pulling a few from the stack. "Well, this thing."

Lucifer leans over Chloe's shoulder to peer at the pictures of Mr. Blackthorn's genitalia. Specifically, of the metal band that had been found wrapped around the base of his penis. The final picture, taken at the morgue by the medical examiner, shows what the band looks like when removed. A tiny padlock had been concealed behind Mr. Blackthorn's penis. Without the padlock holding the device shut, it opens like a clam. A painful, toothy, bitey clam.

"It's a chastity device," Lucifer says. "This one is known as Kali's Teeth, because of the spikes lining the—"

"Yeah!" Ella interjects. "Yeah, what he said."

Chloe cringes. "Do I even want to know?"

"This device—the Kali's Teeth," Lucifer says, "is more about punishing arousal than preventing stimulation or barring the wearer from penetrative sex, as most chastity cages are intended."

"Why would people …?"

"Why, Detective, because it's fun, of course. Why does anyone do anything?"

"But—"

"Admittedly," Lucifer concedes, nodding at the photo, "perhaps not fun in the particular situation our victim found himself in."

Chloe gapes at him. "You seriously like this stuff?"

"Not Kali's Teeth, no," he admits with a shrug. "I'm no masochist, not to any degree. But I'm all for the sense of anticipation a regular cage can bring. Delay and denial can be delicious"—he runs his tongue along his teeth, taking a bite out of the word like the taste makes it autological—"when used properly."

Which … does nothing to stop the naughty, porny, ridiculous picture forming in her head, of Lucifer, naked save for a non-spiked version of the little metal band and padlock. He sprawls against her desk, saying words like delicious and Detective and—

"Right," she blurts, nodding vigorously. "Right, sure. Okay."

He steps around Chloe, picking up the stack of pictures. He flips to a closeup shot, presumably from right before the medical examiner removed the device, and pulls the picture toward his nose. "Oh, hello. I recognize this."

"You recognize the penis?" squeaks Ella.

"No," he says slowly, rolling his eyes, "I recognize the cage around the penis."

"But we already catalogued—"

"No, I mean I recognize the workmanship." He puts the photo on the desk, gesturing at a tiny imprint in the metal near the padlock. "This mark here."

Ella and Chloe exchange a look.

"Oh, you woefully sheltered …." With a dramatic, exasperated sigh, he spreads his hands in a sweeping gesture. "I mean, we may be able to determine who bought this device for use on Mr. Blackthorn, because I know who forged and sold it?"

"Wait," Chloe says. "That device is custom?" They make custom chastity cages? That's a thing?

"Yes," Lucifer says. "The mass-manufactured ones are as easy to escape from as a child's poorly tied shoelace, in most cases. Believe me, I know."

"We do believe you," says Chloe faintly.

"Totes," adds Ella.

"Anyway," Lucifer continues, "some individuals prefer—or need—an actual challenge."

Chloe files that away, trying to ignore the Lucifer sprawled in her mind's eye as he shifts his busybody fingers from her Newton's Cradle to working his way out of the cage. She violently clears her throat. "What about time of death, Ella?"

"Still inconclusive," Ella replies. "The cold conditions make it hard to tell. Weirdly enough, that insane rot smell didn't follow the corpse to the morgue, though, so—"

"Yes, because the stench was the soul, not the body," Lucifer says.

"Souls smell like dead bodies?"

"How many times must I tell you, souls are not meant for this plane, not without an appropriate container. To your un-evolved noses, yes, that might have smelled like 'rot,' but I assure you, all I smelled was an affront to nature as Dad defined it."

"Real rot smells different?"

"Rot is rot." Lucifer wrinkles his nose. "It's a natural process, if noisome."

"And that's why the crime scene reeked?" Ella says. "Worse than anything I've ever smelled at any crime scene anywhere?"

"Now, you're getting it, Ms. Lopez."

"How long before the banging starts?" Chloe asks.

"Detective!" Lucifer gasps, giving her a faux-scandalized look.

"Yeah, yeah," she says in good humor, waiting for his litany of Devilish innuendo, "get it out of your system already, if you want."

But then he darkens. "Believe me, I'd love to."

"What does that mean?"

"Bloody," he grumbles, trailing away. "Never mind."

Ella coughs. "So … um … we were talking about de-gloved souls?"

Lucifer sighs. "Yes, death is a bit like whiplash, even for those ready to go. Until Azrael picks them up, they usually simply … sit there."

"Like, they're stunned?"

"Yes. And they definitely don't stink immediately."

"So, what kind of time-of-death window are we looking at, then?" says Ella. "Like … gimme a ballpark here."

"I would assume Mr. Blackthorn died during the night," Lucifer says, "but I'm only speculating. I've never seen this happen before."

"Well, that's … worrying."

"I quite agree, Ms. Lopez."

"I'm sure Rae-Rae is just jammed up?"

"One can only hope."

Ella looks back and forth between Chloe and Lucifer, her gaze ticking rapidly left to right and left again. "I'll keep praying."

"As I have been," Lucifer replies.

Chloe writes Mr. Blackthorn's last known address onto a sticky note. Azrael's absence might be way above Chloe's pay grade, but even without an exact time of death, between disgruntled neighbors, a potential revenge motive, an ID for the victim, and … and a custom cock cage manufacturer, they have plenty of leads to explore.

"Where did you find the info on the freshman hazings?" Chloe asks.

"I printed the relevant stuff for you," Ella says. "It's in the folder with the rest of the paperwork."

"Thanks."

Sure enough, the crime report and newspaper article rest at the top of the stack. The printouts are streaky—the pictures in particular are a mess—but the text is easy enough to read. The incident had occurred at Virginia Tech in 1998. Alastor Blackthorn had been the instigator of the hazings, but according to the article, had not been prosecuted for involuntary manslaughter in the aftermath, only furnishing alcohol to a minor. Which seems unfathomable, given two deaths were involved, but Chloe's seen things like this happen before, occasionally.

A sympathetic prosecutor goes a long way. A sympathetic prosecutor in a rural area whose commerce is predicated on the existence of the local university—a university supplying two-thirds of the town's population when school is in session—a university that would very much want to keep an incident like this hush hush? That goes an even longer way. It's heartbreaking, but feasible. The news article mentions civil proceedings will follow. But no amount of money can bring back a loved one.

A crime that wasn't properly punished seems like a glaring motive, but … twenty years later? Who waits for two decades to commit a revenge killing?

"Anything grab you in here?" Chloe asks.

"Not really," replies Lucifer, skimming the article over her shoulder.

"I'll dump this with Derek, then." Derek Costa is one of the investigative assistants assigned to Robbery and Homicide. "Maybe he can figure out where the surviving family members of the hazing victims live." If any of them reside in Los Angeles, that's at least potential opportunity for murder—a hell of a stretch, but, still, potential.

She grabs her coat.

"In the meantime, ready to go? I wanna get cracking on this."

Lucifer grins. "Detective, I thought you'd never ask."

Chapter Text

According to his driver's license, Alastor Blackthorn also lived in West Adams, but several miles from the crime scene, near USC—the University of Southern California. Unlike the detached "haunted" house on South La Brea, Blackthorn's home is an apartment. Lucifer doesn't need to offer a sultry smile, let alone a Devil's favor, to get them inside. Once Chloe shows the superintendent her badge, along with one of the less graphic photos of the corpse as proof of death, the super checks the lease to make sure Alastor is the only lessee, and then lets them in without a fuss.

"Well, this is," Lucifer begins as he barges in front of her, over the threshold, only to stop short a stride later, "Spartan?"

She inches around him to get a look, letting the door creak shut behind them. "Huh. Yeah."

Spartan is one word for it.

A sofa and small recliner sit on perpendicular sides of a glass coffee table, all framed by the barred box of afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. An elegant floor lamp rests in the corner. On the coffee table, sits a basket filled with pale-colored stones.

The area next to the kitchen contains a dinette set with four chairs and four white placemats. A grease-stained pizza box containing a lone shriveled pepperoni serves as centerpiece.

No paintings or framed photos adorn the walls. No telltale piles of magazines or mail rest on the dining table, or on the narrow chest-high divider between the living room and the kitchen. In fact, she can't see a knickknack or keepsake of any kind, anywhere.

Between the absence of personal touches, the pristine beige carpet, and the almost luminous white walls, the apartment looks like a dwelling, but … not a home. It has the bare paint-by-numbers bones required to make the place look a) large, and b) inhabitable. But that's it.

"It's like a realtor staged it or something," she decides, padding into the hallway.

The first bedroom tells an even stranger story.

It's empty.

Not empty of people; empty of everything.

"Didn't the super say Blackthorn's leased here for six years?" Chloe asks.

"Indeed," says Lucifer.

She'd expected office stuff, at least. Or a den. A television. Anything?

The window shade looks strange. She grabs the pull cord, rolling it down a few inches. Dark vinyl unfurls—the kind that blocks rather than filters sunlight. A wild theory of porphyria flits through her head, quickly replaced by an even more outlandish and yet somehow more realistic thought.

"Vampires aren't a thing, are they?" she asks.

"Edward Cullen? Real? Goodness, no." Lucifer laughs. "On this Earth, there's nothing sapient but humans, the occasional angel, and one demon I'm aware of."

"And the not-ghosts."

"I wouldn't call an ejected soul sapient. Not here. Particularly not the one you've met."

"True." She scrunches her forehead, frowning. "Wait, what did you mean … on this Earth?"

"Well, there are more, of course. Many, in fact."

She whirls on her feet to find Lucifer stretching upward. His fingers easily brush a thick metal loop that's bolted into the ceiling instead of a light fixture. When he notices her gaping at him, he beams. "You've no need to worry over it, darling. I like this one best."

"What are you talking about?"

"The multiverse? Dad didn't write just one draft, you know. This universe is the final draft of many."

"How do I even unpack that?"

"As I said,"—he inclines his head—"you've no need to worry anyway."

"Is there more than one Hell? More than one you?" She blinks. "More than one me?"

"No," he says, raising his pointer finger, "Hell is the singular repository for everyone everywhere who is not Heaven-bound. It is, essentially, its own universe." Next to his index finger, he raises his middle finger. "With only one Heaven, one Hell, one God, and one Goddess—at least in this corner of reality—there is only one me. Only one of any angel, really." He raises his ring finger. "Perhaps there is more than one you, given the existence of more than one Earth, but I've no way of knowing definitively without combing through the population of each. Which, while I've the lifespan for such an endeavor, you'd likely be dead from old age by the time I returned—fossilized, even—which would render the answer to your question moot."

"What?" she says, almost a gasp. "What, I …?" She latches onto the one thing he said that made any fucking sense. "Perhaps there's more than one me? What does that even mean?"

"Perhaps not," he rushes to say. "In fact, given the circumstances of your conception, and there being only one me for my one dad to meddle with, I've always thought it's far more likely that you're"—he tilts his head, his eyes growing wet as he adds in a slightly choked tone—"well, that you are … unique."

"But what does that even—" Her brain might go nuclear if she keeps pressing. She takes a breath, inhaling until her lungs are filled to the painful brim. She counts internally to three before she exhales. "No."

"Detective," he says, shaking his head a little and correcting himself more softly to, "Chloe, I …." He steps closer, his shoulders straightening like he's steeling himself for massive blowback. "Chloe, I promised you, always the truth—no more acting unilaterally—and this is—"

She holds up a trembling hand. "Stop. Just stop. Please, stop."

He shuts up. Immediately.

"Is it crucial I know whatever this is now?"

"I," he answers warily, "don't believe so."

"But you made a previous decision not to tell me?"

"Yes."

"And it's something big?"

"Yes."

And isn't that just fucking ominous.

"Then maybe," she says as her spinning thoughts settle like dust. One good gust, and they'll whirl into a cloud of choking motes again. "Maybe we table this discussion for now, before I have some sort of existential crisis in our murder victim's not-a-den."

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Sorry, I …." She shakes her head. "I shouldn't have even tried to pry open that can of worms right now. But … but later. Later, when I'm prepped, and we don't have a billion other things to worry about, okay? Then you can tell me all about multiverses and other dimensions and why you think I'm probably unique."

"Very well," he chokes out like someone jabbed him with a hot poker.

"I really appreciate you tried, though," she adds. "The … the endeavoring to improve. I can totally see it. Thank you." Credit where it's due.

He nods, saying nothing.

She frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Your questions are forcing me to reply again."

"But that one's been bomb proof! Freedom-ish of speech has been bomb proof!"

He's silent, looking more panicked by the second.

"God, damn it," she snaps, pulling out her iPhone and navigating to her notes, only to realize with a sinking feeling that what she's searching for isn't there. "I … I don't remember what I told you that worked. I wasn't writing anything down yet when I gave you freedom-ish of speech." And she really isn't in the mood to punish him repeatedly until she figures it out again. Not after the tantrum he'd encouraged that morning. "I can't do this right now. Lucifer, I just can't. I don't want to cause more pain today."

His eyebrows arch toward his hairline, like he's trying to prod her for something. Something ….

"You," she asks slowly, "remember what I said?"

"Yes."

She resists the urge to huff at his compulsion-enforced brevity. "Well, tell me what I said, then."

Without hesitation, he regurgitates the command in monotone, in what feels—to her shoddy recollection, anyway—like perfect, word-for-word detail. She types everything into her notes app, thumbs flying over the keys.

"Lucifer, I want you to be able to speak or not speak whenever you would choose to, and I always want that more than I want you to respond to my desire for knowledge, or my desire to hear you talk, or my desire to hear you say specific things," she tells him. After giving that a moment to settle, she adds, "Did that fix it?"

Pointedly, he doesn't reply.

"Oh, good. Good."

"Yes," he agrees, looking relieved. "Quite."

"Do you have eidetic memory or something?"

"I remember everything with perfect clarity." A derisive laugh falls from his lips. "Makes this whole 'amnesia sitch' all the more confounding, no?"

More like it makes plausible the idea Lucifer serves as his own mental block. Because barring injury, how the hell else?

"It's … definitely a puzzle," she decides, lying without a lie as she tries not to frown too intensely at him. Hopefully, Linda will have some wisdom and a diagnosis for them tonight. Chloe points at the metal loop that had interested him before they got sidetracked. "Any idea what that's for?"

"Hanging things, I suppose."

"Like what?" she says. "A big plant?"

He gives her one of his patented oh-you-precious-naive-thing looks over his shoulder, before padding soundlessly into the hall and veering around the corner. A scoffing noise erupts, then the sound of cabinets opening and closing. "Well, our victim must be Hell-bound, Detective. He simply must."

"What? Why?" She chases after him, through the bare-except-for-the-table dining room area, into a similarly bare kitchen. One magnet for a Chinese place marks the fridge.

Lucifer scowls as he gestures to the cabinet behind him. "Pray tell, what guiltless person stocks this many ramen packets, let alone to the exclusion of all else?"

"Um." Sure enough, several dozen ramen packets in varying flavors—beef, chicken, pork, seafood, etc.—stack the shelves top to bottom. "Like … every poor college student ever?"

Lucifer yanks open the freezer. A wince crunches up his features. "Frozen dinners? That's it? Who is this man? He doesn't even have salt. How does he cook?"

"I think he probably doesn't," Chloe says, inching toward the trashcan, which is full of ripe-smelling takeout containers and microwave trays in varying stages of decay.

Lucifer opens the fridge. "Bloody hell, pickles, condiments, and beer?" He reaches inside. Bottles clink. "Bud Lite?" A disgusted noise fills the quiet. "Not even good beer." He closes the fridge, crossing his fingers in front of his chest as if to ward off evil. "Shameful. Just shameful, Detective. He should feel guilty."

"I mean, I kinda like Bud Lite," she admits, grinning at his scandalized expression.

"How … dare you."

"It's just beer."

"Just beer," he parrots, shaking his head. "When I've reassumed control of Lux, please, allow me to change your mind. Cocktails are more our jam, but we've at least some local brews for you to try."

A hopeful lump forms in her throat, though she's afraid to ask, When, not if?

She discovers a box of plastic utensils in one drawer, along with a corkscrew, and a rusty, gunked-up can opener. That's it.

The victim really seems more like a poor college student than a man in his forties. Maybe he's both. Which … possible? Or, maybe, he's poor from too much takeout.

The soft sound of Lucifer breathing by her ear interrupts her thoughts. The heat of his larger body presses close behind her. He rests his hands on her shoulders. Holy shit, is he nuzzling—

"Lucifer?"

He freezes. "Yes?"

"What on earth are you doing?"

He ruffles up like an irritated bird and steps away. "I … I … I wonder what our victim is hiding in his bedroom."

"Lucifer, did I do somethi—"

But he's already gone.

Which … okay, then?

She walks into the bathroom, which shows more signs of use. The cabinets are fully stocked with shampoo, conditioner, soap, etc. She pulls a prescription bottle—paroxetine, often prescribed for depression—off the middle shelf of the medicine cabinet. The orange container jingles when she shakes it. The date on the label indicates Alastor had filled it last week. Maybe he'd been sick. Depressed. Suddenly, the empty apartment—the lack of real food—seems sad.

"Detective, you might wish to see this," Lucifer calls.

She follows his voice into the back bedroom, which also shows more signs of a life lived. Books cram the black shelving propped against the far wall. Black sheets and a fluffy down comforter form a mussed, rumpled pile at the foot of the king-sized bed. By the lamp on the nightstand, a gleaming iPad rests next to an alarm clock with bright red numerals.

"Detective," Lucifer says. The wall on the left—a floor-to-ceiling mirror—is actually a sliding door that had concealed a closet. He clutches something black and leather in his hand. A long, spindly, flexible something about the width of his index finger, with a looped end.

"What is that?" She squints. "Is that a riding crop?"

He smacks it against his palm. "Well, I believe it's for riding, Detective," he admits with a ghost of a smirk, "but not a horse."

He gestures with the crop at a box stored on a shelf inside the closet. A ball gag rests on top. Below that, more leather. And rubber. And latex. And metal. Paddles. Restraints. Buckles. Rings. Other things she doesn't know enough about to recognize beyond knowing—based on Lucifer's half-gleeful half … concerned? expression—that they're probably not used for anything g-rated or vanilla.

Most glaring isn't the makeshift "toy" box at all, but a vast array of buckled collars in various colors and prints and materials, all displayed on a rack like a tie collection. She pushes past Lucifer, frowning at a purple nylon dog collar with a dangling metal tag in the shape of a bone. The tag is labeled PUPPY. Just like the murder scene.

"Why are you making that face?" she asks.

Lucifer frowns at her. "What face?"

She splays her fingers, gesturing at him. "You seem … conflicted?"

His frown deepens.

"You can't possibly be shocked this guy likes bondage stuff …."

"Of course not," he says primly. "His choice in genital attire made that plain."

An awful thought occurs to her.

"Lucifer, you don't think there's any chance our 'murder' could have been an accident, do you? Consensual play gone wrong?"

"No."

"No?"

She gets another oh-you-precious-thing look for her trouble. "Detective, anyone who's into scenes—"

"Scenes?"

"Yes, scenes," he says with a slow nod. "Fantasies acted out in a safe consensual space. BDSM. Anything done in a scene is discussed in minute detail beforehand, so all participants know what to expect and what's expected of them. Anyone who's into scenes would tell you metal restraints aren't used for weight bearing due to their propensity for causing nerve damage. Anyone who's into scenes would also tell you beating a submissive with a metal cane is certain to cause internal injury—it's simply not done. Not to mention a man has died, which indicates a safe word was not used, not heard, ignored, or all three, and that is not consensual play."

"But … maybe Alastor didn't know that stuff. How does what you said preclude an accident?"

Lucifer rifles through the toy box, inspecting every item with discerning eyes. "None of these items is dangerous when used properly."

"Unlike the metal cane and restraints."

"Correct." He picks up what looks like a flat half-yoke … thing—like for a tiny ox?—made of an opaque, shiny material. "Many of these are not what I would call props for dabblers."

"Do I want to know?"

"Oh, this is a humbler, darling," Lucifer mentions nonchalantly, offering a glance toward the yoke thing before he puts it back. "Beginners tend to stick to gags and paddles and simple things."

"O … kay." She'd rather not know how a humbler humbles. "And the humbler thing isn't beginner."

"I wouldn't call it that, no."

"And that tells you?"

"Our victim was experienced, and he probably participated in the fetish community. He would have known about safe practices—they don't suffer fools—and he would not have consented to what killed him."

"That's … a lot of conjecture," she decides. "What if he didn't participate in the community?"

"Detective, the community is the low-hanging fruit in this equation. A locally available repository of more-the-merrier fetishists who will respond to unusual inquiries—kinkquiries, if you will—without judgment, often even tantalized fervor and encouragement?"

"And it's really not possible the killer could have accidentally omitted important details when they were discussing the scene thing beforehand?"

"Accidentally omitted?" Lucifer says. "No. A victim as experienced as this toy stash implies would have prodded for specifics."

"And that rules out criminal negligence on both ends, because a knowledgeable bdsm-ee—"

"Submissive," Lucifer interjects.

"A knowledgeable submissive would have been able to spot an unqualified … bdsm-er?"

"Dominant."

"An unqualified dominant, before play commenced, unless the dominant actively lied about what they intended to do."

"Precisely," Lucifer says with an impressed look. "Perhaps, our victim expected a specific scene—consented to it, even—and was preyed upon at his most vulnerable?"

"As in, he volunteered to be tied up, and then couldn't escape when he realized his companion wasn't playing by the rules you mentioned."

"There is, unfortunately, true evil in this world, Detective. People who wouldn't bat an eyelash at breaking a trust or causing pain for the joy of it. People without conscience to temper bald desire."

"There is the concussion to consider," she muses. "Maybe he didn't volunteer for anything."

"Either way, this was not play, Detective, inept or otherwise. I've no hesitation in labeling Mr. Blackthorn's death the result of torture."

She holds up her hands. "Okay. Okay, you're the expert."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "My, how far we've come, that you can admit that of me with such brilliant flair for the blasé."

She snaps away from the closet like it burned her. "I really didn't mean that in a bad way."

"It's true, of course," he says with a shrug. "I am the Devil, after all."

The Devil. Who'd just been put through the wringer himself, given the chains he'd showed up in, the tapestry of injuries he'd sported, and his probably dissociative amnesia. Her eyes prickle, and she blinks, swallowing as she forces herself back to the task at hand: solving a murder.

She grabs the iPad from beside the bed. The device has no charge left. "We should drop this off with Ella when we get a chance." She rifles through the nightstand drawers, but aside from a huge box of condoms, two pairs of handcuffs, and some other "toys," there's nothing. "We need to talk to this guy's neighbors, too. And the super again. See if they've seen anything suspicious or can give us more context for this guy's life."

"Of course, Detective," Lucifer says smoothly. "Shall we, then?"

The air reeks of fish as they step back into the long hallway.

"Uck," complains Lucifer. "This is why I live in palaces and penthouses." When I've a choice, he leaves off, and he glances at her with a belated wince before rushing to add, "Though, your apartment is nice, of course, and I appreciate your hospitality."

"You have a palace?" she says, taking two steps across the hall to knock on the door of Alastor Blackthorn's nearest neighbor.

"As you correctly surmised, I am the king of Hell," he says, leaning his long, besuited body against the wall beside the doorframe. "Where did you expect me to live?"

"I don't know. A hellish hovel?"

"No. Hell ruins everything in other ways."

Whoever lives across the way doesn't answer the door. Neither does the neighbor across to the right. Not at all surprising, given the time of day—it's a bit too early for people to be coming home from work or class if they have regular schedules. Alastor's immediate right-hand neighbor, though, answers after five knocks, a game controller clutched in her hand, an earmuff-style headset clinging to her neck. She's a thin brunette college-aged woman who doesn't seem interested in talking, but Lucifer softens her up with a quirked smile and an oozing bucket of charm. Instead of rolling her eyes, Chloe lets him work. She'd forgotten how handy he is at encouraging hostile witnesses to open up.

"He bikes somewhere almost every morning," the woman eventually says. "Even on weekends. Comes back in the dark."

"Recently?" Chloe prods.

"Not since last week."

"Do you know where he goes?"

"Nah. He really croaked?"

"Yes," Chloe says gently, "I'm very sorry."

"Huh. Shame." A tinny-sounding voice squawks from the earmuffs. The woman makes a face. "Can I go back to my game? We're getting creamed."

"No love lost, I see," responds Lucifer in a dry tone.

"Dude, I didn't know the guy. What do you want me to say?"

"Who?" says the left-hand neighbor.

Chloe concludes that interview quickly.

At their final stop, across to the left of Mr. Blackthorn's apartment, a beak-nosed twenty-something wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a prominent digital watch answers the door. He's a grad student, he tells them. USC. Mark Schofield.

"Mr. Blackthorn?" he says. "Yeah, I saw him with a woman a few nights ago. What's this about?"

"Exactly how many nights?" Chloe asks.

Mr. Schofield rubs his clean-shaven chin, looking up at the ceiling like he's making calculations. "This weekend?"

"Could this have been Monday?"

"I thought it was Friday, but … I guess so. Seriously, what is this about?" When Chloe explains, his slightly suspicious countenance melts away, replaced by parted lips and wide slate-colored eyes. "Oh, my God, he's dead?"

"Murdered, probably," interjects Lucifer in a bored tone.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Schofield," adds Chloe. "Did you know him well?"

"A bit. Not much. We chat—chatted—sometimes, but it was just smalltalk." Mr. Schofield shifts, revealing his cluttered, dark apartment behind him. His muted television serves as the only light source. "He works on campus with the frats or something. I see—saw, I saw—him from time to time—we've bumped into each other before—but I'm not really into Greek stuff, so …." He expels a shaky, wet-sounding breath. "God, I can't believe he's dead."

"What did the woman look like?" Chloe says.

He fixates on his shoes and mumbles, "I … didn't get a good look at her."

"Oh, come now," Lucifer chides gently. "I know a lie when I hear it."

"I just … I just. Look, I was too busy staring at … at …."

"At?" Chloe prods.

"At"—the tips of Mr. Schofield's ears turn scarlet—"fuck."

Chloe steps closer, trying to make the interview seem more intimate. "Mr. Schofield, please. Anything you can tell us might help with our investigation."

He bites his lip.

"I promise you," adds Lucifer, "there is nothing on this Earth that will surprise me."

"Us," Chloe corrects. "Nothing that will surprise us."

Lucifer gives her a bit of an oh, I bloody doubt that look, though he doesn't comment except to say, "Tell me, Markie Mark," as he stares intently. "Have you been a naughty boy?"

The guy recoils, making a face. "Look, I don't wanna talk about it."

Chloe sighs. "Lucifer—"

"Bloody hell, you can't be complicated as well," Lucifer protests. "Can you? The bloody receptionist at the imaging center filled my quota for at least a month!"

"Dude, are you on drugs?" asks Mr. Schofield.

"Sadly, no! Are you?"

"Um. No."

"But humans simply aren't this resist—oh, bloody hell." Darkening, Lucifer turns to Chloe before gritting out, "Detective, shall I utilize my talents on this man, or not?"

"What does that mean?" asks Mr. Schofield.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She has control over this, too? That would certainly explain why Lucifer's attempt at dealmaking over the MRI hadn't had any weight to it, not that she'd noticed at the time. Fuck. She doesn't feel great about explicitly allowing Lucifer to grill this man. But … she'd feel worse telling Lucifer no—not when he can't not listen to her.

She rubs the bridge of her nose, suddenly aching. She hates having this much power. Hates having to decide. "Go ahead."

"With what?" says Mr. Schofield.

"I mean," she amends, thinking of the specificity required in the past, "Lucifer, please, use your desire thingy on Mr. Schofield." The words feel filthy in her mouth.

Immediately, the usual energy she associates with Lucifer's influence throbs in her chest like the beat of a drum from a distant subwoofer. She wonders how Lucifer's persuasion feels to people actually vulnerable to it—probably worse, like a chokehold on the heart. With a predatory grin and hypnotic gaze, he purrs, "Tell me, have you been a naughty boy, Markie, dear?"

"It's just … she was a total freak," Mr. Schofield gushes, a broken dam, and the unseen pressure eases. "So much leather. And her boobs were just … I mean, they were out there, man."

"Out there, like strange?" Chloe asks.

"No, I mean literally exposed to air. I can't even call what she was wearing a bustier. More like a hey-look-at-me-and-my-funbags window."

"And you liked looking, did you?" Lucifer needles.

"Fuck, yeah. She was hot."

"Did anything else stand out?" Chloe prods, and Lucifer makes a muted snorting noise.

"Eh, she looked the same as the others, to me."

"What others?"

"He had a parade of 'em. Every Friday." Mr. Schofield shifts to a conspiratorial tone, adding, "Or, I guess I should say they paraded him. He was into some weird shit."

"Weird, is it," Lucifer says flatly.

"Oh, yeah. Like I saw him on a leash, once. And he loved to wear dog collars, even out in public—he hid those under turtlenecks and things, though."

"Perhaps he collared more than just his neck."

"Huh?"

Lucifer regards the man like a cat regards a wounded canary. Like a toy. Nothing more or less. "Never you mind, Mr. Schofield," he says, waving the man onward. "Please, continue."

"It doesn't really matter, does it? Who am I to judge? We all got kinks, am I right?"

"And what are yours, Mr. Schofield?" Lucifer rests his forearm against the doorframe and leans close. "What do you desire?"

The unseen energy returns, a thick, heady pressure in her chest.

"I like feet," the guy blurts as if he's been dying to confess.

"Who doesn't?" says Lucifer.

"Given the parade you mentioned," Chloe says, bulling back into the conversation, "it was probably Friday you saw this woman. Not Monday?"

The pressure disappears with a pop. Lucifer steps back. Mr. Schofield shakes his head, blinking as if to clear spider webs that have formed in his synapses. "Uh … maybe?" he says in a foggy tone. "I … really don't remember for sure."

"But the other women—all Friday."

"I think so."

"Too distracted by décolletages to know?" Lucifer snarks.

"What's that mean?"

Lucifer tilts his head. "Aren't you a bloody grad student?"

"Yeah, in kinesiology. Not English lit."

"The cleavage, man," Lucifer says impatiently. "Décolletage is cleavage. What cup size so enthralled you this time?"

"Lucifer," Chloe protests.

"Detective, it may be relevant for identification of our suspect."

Which … true. Fine. She backs off, redirecting a questioning look at Mr. Schofield. "Well?"

"I dunno cup sizes," replies Mr. Schofield. "Big?"

Lucifer presses a palm against his chest, slightly arching his knuckles over his pocket square. The guy shakes his head. Lucifer tries again, lifting his palm away from his suit a little.

"Oh, no, more like …." Mr. Schofield demonstrates with splayed fingers forming mountainous peaks.

"And how tall was she?" Lucifer asks.

"Same as Al, but she was wearing stilettos." Mr. Schofield makes a measure, spreading his thumb and index finger about four inches apart. "Like that?"

Alastor had been about five-foot-eight. "So … she was five-foot-four-ish?" Chloe says, calculating.

"Right."

"Was she muscular?" Lucifer asks. "Doughy? Svelte?"

"Definitely svelte." The man's eyes turn briefly glassy as he dips into memory. A smile tugs at his lips. "Nothin' extra on that bod except those honkers."

"Sounds like a G or an H cup," Lucifer decides.

"I dunno if they were that big," Mr. Schofield says. "That seems like a cartoon."

"Because you humans are bloody terrible at explaining bra sizes to each other. Really, on a petite woman, an H cup is not that—"

"And you remember nothing else about this woman?" Chloe says, trying to steer the conversation back to relevancy.

"She had a whip. Is that helpful?"

"A bull whip?" Lucifer says, raising his eyebrows. "Snake whip? Signal whip?"

"Like a sex whip," Mr. Schofield replies. "You know, the ones with lots of little tails."

Lucifer rolls his eyes again. "A cat 'o nine tails, then. And that's a bloody silly stereotype, I'll have you know. Mazikeen utilizes those all the bloody time for real—"

Chloe clears her throat so loudly she scores the back of her esophagus. "Anything else, Mr. Schofield?"

He shakes his head.

"Well," she continues, foisting her business card at him, "if you remember more details, please, don't hesitate to call. Thank you so much for your time."

Their last stop is the super's office, where they confirm on Mr. Blackthorn's lease application that he worked for USC.

"We should go there tomorrow and ask around," she decides as they head back to the car.

"Very well," Lucifer says over her shoulder.

"Given the negative tox screen and the lack of defensive wounds on the victim, I'm thinking your consented-to-a-lie theory holds more water than anything else we've got. We should definitely pursue the manufacturer of the … the Collie's …?"

"Kali's Teeth."

"Right."

Lucifer stalks behind her as she trots down the steps. A sinking thought occurs to her, and she halts on the landing, turning back to him. "Lucifer?"

He pauses on the step above her, making him impossibly tall. "Yes?"

"How does the true evil you mentioned get punished?"

"Hmm?"

"If humans send themselves to Hell with their own guilt, how do the people without consciences end up in Hell?"

"Ah," he says with a nod. "Raguel. My brother. The Angel of Justice. He works in conjunction with Azrael. They are both … essential for the correct functioning of divine justice in the afterlife. She is the ferry. He is the failsafe—the arbiter—if you will. He weighs every questionable soul she brings to him. Which assures souls harboring too little guilt for their atrocities don't end up in Heaven, and souls with too much guilt for their trifles don't go to Hell."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense, I guess." As much as any of this, anyway.

Between enslaved Devils, multiverses, Azrael as Charon, Raguel as Osiris, and Heaven and Hell as literal destinations, like Tahiti or Vegas, the loose dust settled in her mind threatens again to whirl into a tornado.

"Detective?"

The spinning slows down. "I'll be fine. Just a lot to wrap my head around, yeah?"

"I see."

"So what about people with medium guilt?" she continues.

He cocks his head. "Pardon?"

"What about people who aren't Hitler? There's no sliding scale? It's eternal damnation or bust?"

He offers her a Gallic shrug. "As I have said, none of the cells is locked. Anyone can leave whenever they like."

"But what does that matter if nobody realizes that's the case?"

"Humans do have a terrible time with guilt," he admits.

"Just humans, huh."

"Well, I didn't bloody design the system." He glowers. "I frankly wanted nothing to do with it; I was conscripted."

"No, I … I know. Look, never mind. Forget I said anything. If you want, I mean." Telegraphing her movement, she gives his forearm a gentle squeeze. "Let's go. I don't want to be late for Trixie."

Chapter Text

The moment they're in the car again, and he has nothing else to focus on but her—her smell; the soothing thrum of her heartbeat; the way her irises catch the setting sun like nets, turning green as a Scottish moor—he's acutely aware his groin and mind are a heavy nexus of disquiet.

The tsunamis of arousal crashing into him and then withdrawing without resolution have left him feeling like his skin doesn't fit, and he can't stop his bloody brain from ricocheting to carnal places. The Detective naked. The Detective naked by his bed. The Detective, naked by his bed as she ties him, also naked, to the bedposts. I love you; I choose you, she murmurs against his ears. Over, and over, and, oh, how he delights.

Not an unusual fantasy for him.

But now the vivid images keep blooming like flowers in his mind even when he doesn't bloody want them to. Even when he's not interested in fantasizing.

The orgasm the Detective had inadvertently given him the day before had been so sudden his body hadn't been prepared for it. He'd felt bliss from the tips of his toes to the ends of his eyelashes, but the satisfying, finishing spurt of release hadn't ever arrived. Then she'd drowned him in another tsunami minutes later, obliterating what little sense of conclusion he'd gotten. To make matters worse, he'd had zero luck with his continuing "self-service" experiments. And he'd volunteered to endure her diatribe, which had nearly turned him into a bloody pretzel.

At least, he's hidden the true extent of his randiness from her. He hopes. Perhaps. Mostly.

That, or she's doing splendidly at faking obliviousness.

"Before we pick up Trixie," the Detective says, "I'm thinking about trying to extend the distance you have freedom of movement and interaction. Not too far. Like a quarter mile."

Speaking of obliviousness.

"Pardon?" he asks.

"There's a park a few blocks from Linda's. I thought maybe I could take Trixie and Charlie while you're in session. How far did you get when you tried to leave before?"

"I've … no idea," he admits. When he'd stopped to gain his bearings, he'd been standing on a beach, but not his beach. Nobody had been around, but that didn't mean much in November on a cold-ish morning. Need had flared like phosphorous fire. Unable to proceed farther, unwilling to return, he'd resolved not to move at all, but he'd been overwhelmed in less than an hour. He, the Lightbringer. The most willful angel. Couldn't bloody refuse the compulsion longer than an episode of Bones.

So very much worse than you imagined, Lilith echoes in his ears, laughing.

He shifts in his seat, a sudden chill sapping all hints of arousal. "I … wasn't paying attention to where I was."

"What were your surroundings like?" the Detective asks.

"A beach," is all he can say.

"That doesn't mean a whole lot in Los Angeles."

"Yes, I know," he says, trying not to sound testy.

Concern burgeons in her expression. "You seem totally spooked. You okay?"

You look as though I've walked on your grave. Lilith laughs, the discordant chord of glee skittering down his spine. I imagine this is quite startling for you. Not being in control. Have you any idea what I've done?

No, he says, the word pulled from him as if caught by a hook.

She smiles, her eyes empty and depthless. How fun. A mystery, indeed, my king.

A foreign, phantom hand cups his chin, forcing him to look at Her as Lilith appraises his body like it’s a piece of meat for the market.

Fan your wings for me, Lightbringer, she says.

No, he wants to snarl, but his throat won't work. Need grips him, crushes him. The crowd lining the lesser throne room titters with vile amusement, watching his erection surge as he pants and squirms and trembles and whimpers until, at last—he doesn't know how long—his mind shatters. His wings are stretched their full span when he returns to himself, aching and wrung out.

She strokes his wingbone. His gut roils, but he can do nothing. When she reaches the alula feather, she plucks it. Pain smashes his nerve endings. Reflexively, his wings fold into ether, into safety.

Bad angel, Lilith scolds. Fan them again.

SHOW HER YOUR WINGS. Yearning crashes into him like a train all over again. SHOW HER. And he must. He desires it—no he doesn't—yes, he does. Mind and body clash.

Don't hide them from me again, Lilith drawls, stroking his clavicle. They're mine now. All of you is mine.

He wants—doesn't want—that, too.

Always show them to me. Show me everything.

He will. He needs to.

With a frigid sneer, she snatches his other alula feather and clutches both to her chest, while he does nothing.

My king, I suppose the question becomes … what will I do with you now that I have you? Her gaze roves his skin, all of it—she licks her lips like he's prime filet—before she steps back. By all means, stew on the possibilities. It pleases me to watch you.

And then she leaves him there. Marinating in his own anxiety. Displayed like fine art as she retreats to his throne and sits. And stares. She toys with the alula feathers she took from him. Their pins glisten, the tips red, and he can feel a hot trickle of fluid down his feathered arms. His body throbs, and he can't—

"Lucifer, are you okay?"

He gasps as the Detective's voice breaks him out of mental free fall. His heart is pounding in his ears, and his hands are cold and slippery.

"Lucifer?"

The fog dissipates somewhat. What was …? Curiosity strikes numb disinterest and dies. A cataclysm of logic and irrationality. He rubs a thumb along the wool of his pant leg, up and down and up and down. His suit. A layer.

"Where were you just now?" she asks.

He flashes an empty smile at her. "Why, here, Detective." The truth. But not. "Where else?"

She offers a doubtful, "Hmm," into the silence.

He sighs. "Do what you must, Detective."

"You mean, extend your range?"

"If you think it wise."

"You don't sound thrilled."

He laughs unhappily. "I'm bloody well not, but the prospect of an 'oops' winding me up doesn't eclipse the idea of having more space." Or so he tells himself, despite the frigid spill of sweat at the nape of his neck.

"You're sure?"

"A quarter mile, yes?"

"Yeah."

No. "Do it."

As she pulls up to a red light, she grabs her iPhone and navigates to the notes app where she keeps all her commands stored. "Ready?"

No. "Do it." He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the train to smash him.

She reads off the freedom of movement command, this time adjusting the distance allowed from fifty feet to a quarter mile.

The moments creep.

The sound of exhaust from neighboring cars fills the quiet.

Nothing.

He rubs his pant legs up and down and up and down, waiting, agonizing. But … nothing.

Nothing.

He sighs again, a great relieved gust. His fingers are shaking. He's shaking. He drags them through his hair, trying to conceal them from her. "It … seems to have worked?"

"Great!" She barrels onward, leading with another command extending his freedom of interaction, before he can even process freedom of movement. The car cabin swims around his face, and he grips the seat to keep himself from free fall.

No reprisal arrives. He feels sick. What the hell is wrong with him? She wouldn't hurt him for more than a moment, and never on purpose. She's safe. Unlike Lilith. "Detective …."

"We could test distances?" she asks. "Maybe I can give you even more—"

"No. Please." He slumps against the window, his thoughts scattering all over again. "I'm … I've no fortitude for an 'oops,' let alone a potential string of them."

"But you just said—"

"I know what I bloody said," he snaps. He was worried about … something. Wasn't he? "The line between various truths is … rather infinitesimal for me at the moment."

Her green eyes glisten like she wants to cry, and now everything is worse.

"I … hope you enjoy your time in the park with your miscreant, Detective," he says, lost but meaning it.

"Me, too. And I hope—" She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, once, twice, again. "I wonder if Linda can make a diagnosis now."

The cold creeping coil of anxiety in his belly drains away. Going to Dr. Linda's is okay. "I suppose we'll see."

The light turns green, and they drive on.

"No." Dr. Linda clutches her sleeping child to her spit-stained bathrobe.

"O … kay?" the Detective says.

"I don't want you to take him."

"Well, that's okay," The Detective glances at Lucifer with a baffled expression. "We can always just stay—"

"No," Dr. Linda snaps more vehemently.

"No, we can't stay, or …?"

Her lower lip trembles.

The Detective had left Beatrice playing on the front lawn by the car, in anticipation of leaving with the Doctor's child. The house smells faintly of burnt things, and in the roughly thirty-six hours since they'd last visited, hints of disorder have crept back into the space like a roach infestation. A rumpled blanket here. A dirty plate there. The encroaching chaos is enough to give Lucifer a facial tick.

"Dr. Linda, are you quite all right?" he asks, giving into the urge to shake and fold the crumb-covered afghan barely clinging to the back of the couch. "Shall we help you tidy up again?"

"No. I'm sorry," Dr. Linda expels in a heaving gush of emotion. Tears streak, and she rubs her eyes with the hand not clutching the baby. "I'm sorry; I'm being silly. I know."

"It's not silly at all," the Detective says. "Linda, have you let anyone take him since the Mayan …?"

"Not even Maze." The words are woeful.

"Oh, Linda. Is this why you're not working yet?"

"It's not like I can have sessions with a wriggling baby on my lap!"

"It's okay," the Detective assures her. "It's okay. I can just watch him in the bedroom again if that makes you more comfortable. Trixie will help. Or we can reschedule?"

"I'm …." Dr. Linda pats the child's back, soothing it. Rocking it. "I'm …." She closes her eyes. "We have a session."

"Nothing is set in stone," Lucifer intones. Now that he's here, the idea of leaving without "therapy" is a relief, frankly. His gaze shifts to the end table, where the dried husk of a muffin crowns an abandoned plate. Remnant chocolate chips had left dark smears across the ceramic. He grabs the dish, walking it to the dishwasher by way of the bin, pausing en route to shake the fossilized food into the rubbish. "Really, Doctor. It's quite all right if you'd rather postpone."

"We have a session," Dr. Linda repeats like he hasn't spoken, "and you're my friends."

"Dr. Linda?"

"We have a session."

"Doctor—"

She holds up her index finger, and he closes his mouth, looking in query at the Detective, instead. The Detective can only shrug as Dr. Linda's breaths even into slow drags. The child gurgles, babbling, and she pats its back. At last, she nods, opening her eyes again. "You should take him," she decides, warbling slightly as she holds the child out for the Detective. "Please. Take him to the park with Trixie."

"Linda, you don't have to do that," the Detective says. "Really, it's okay."

"You're right," Dr. Linda replies. "It is okay. And, yes, I do have to do this." She almost stifles a pitiful sound of protest. "It's been months, and it's time, and who on the planet would he be safer with than you? Please, take him."

"You're sure?"

"No, but please, take him anyway."

"I have my sidearm with me," the Detective soothes, thrusting out her hip to emphasize the black 9mm resting in its holster as she clutches the child to her breast. "Everything will be fine. I won't let him out of my sight. I promise."

Dr. Linda coughs with grief. "I know."

"And I've got my cellphone. I'll leave the ringer on loud."

"Thank you."

Dr. Linda mourns in silence as the Detective places the child into its pushchair, and then trundles with it onto the darkening stoop. A brisk breeze, chilled by the dusk, billows into the house.

"The Detective is quite capable with offspring," he babbles as she joins Beatrice, and the trio turns down the walk, toward the park. "I trust her with my life, and I don't trust my life to many. Young Charlie is in the best of hands."

"I know," Dr. Linda says softly. "Thanks." She takes a breath. And then another. More deep, even drags, before finally closing the door and twisting the deadbolt. Another breath. And another. And then she smiles at him, though her expression doesn't wrinkle the corners of her eyes. "Come on, Lucifer. Let's … let's get started."

His heart twists with dread.

Dr. Linda brews coffee and dons a clean bathrobe. Wearing unstained black terrycloth, she returns with a steaming mug clutched in either hand. She puts the mugs on coasters, nudging one of them in his direction, before easing into the wingback chair opposite the sofa. Picking up her notebook, she rolls out the kinks in her neck.

"Lucifer," she says, "after consulting my colleague last night, I strongly believe you have some kind of dissociative amnesia, and I'd like to proceed based on that conclusion. How does that sound to you?"

"Um"—he fumbles with the top button of his shirt, releasing it from the hole—"should it sound any particular way, Doctor?"

"You don't have questions? Comments? Concerns?"

"Why would I be concerned?"

She regards him for a long moment, eyes narrowing. "You … weren't listening to me at all when I explained what dissociative amnesia is, were you." Not a question.

"I was most certainly listening!" Just not to her.

Her gaze tips toward the ceiling, like she's appealing to a higher power.

"He won't help, Doctor." Something inside his chest tightens. An echo of a recollection.

She grips the sides of her notebook, tensing, yet her words are soothing—a gentle, low-pitched murmur—when, at last, she continues, "Lucifer, sometimes, when we experience traumas—physical, psychological, any kind of trauma, really—the emotions or sensations involved can be so intense we don't feel able to think about them in the aftermath. When that happens, our minds can inadvertently create, well, sort of a wall, that blocks us from accessing our memories of those events."

A laugh pops loose from Lucifer's belly before he can contain it.

"What's so funny?" Dr. Linda asks.

"Because that's preposterous. A wall in my head, really?" Laughing again, he reaches for the coffee mug to take a sip. A truncated slurping noise fills the quiet as a shock of sweetness mingles with a bitter bite. She's loaded the cup with sugar and cream, and the liquid is just short of scalding, exactly as he likes it, minus the scotch. "You've outdone yourself this time, Doctor."

"Have I?"

"I am the Devil." He sets down the mug. "I've been ejected from Heaven in a big bloody ball of condemned conflagration—quite upsetting, you know; a moment I only wish I could forget—and yet I recall my descent in excruciating detail. I remember everything in excruciating detail."

"Do you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You once told me you've been telling yourself a narrative since before you can recall."

"What narrative?"

"That God is manipulating you." She peers at him intently. "Do you remember?"

Why do I hate myself so much?

He glares at his knees. "I … yes. I remember."

"So, was that a figure of speech?" Dr. Linda says. "Or do you genuinely not remember when you started believing as a point of fact that God is manipulating you?"

"It … wasn't a figure of speech," he admits, clutching the cushions by his thighs.

"Which implies your memory isn't as perfect as you claim."

His lip twitches—a partial snarl—before he can tamp his reaction. He tries to twist the ghost of his onyx ring, which no longer encircles his middle finger. The tightness behind his sternum compresses until he's barely pushing air through his body.

"You all right?" Dr. Linda asks.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Can you tell me how you're feeling right now?"

"No."

"Lucifer," Dr. Linda says soothingly, "this type of amnesia is usually perceived as an act of self preservation. It would be perfectly understandable if treating it makes you feel cornered."

"I am not feeling cornered," he snaps.

She holds up her hands. "Of course."

"I am not."

"Okay," she says in a rush. "Okay. It's okay. Absolutely, I believe you."

He glances at the door. A quarter mile. Pointless. A quarter mile is nothing when he can span dimensions with a flick of his wings, if only he were free.

"Lucifer, if it's all right," Dr. Linda continues, "I'd like to try something called cognitive behavioral therapy with you. CBT for short. It's commonly used for treatment in these situations. Are you familiar with CBT?"

He snorts. "The only CBT I'm aware of has nothing to do with the brain, unless you believe the adage men think with a different appendage."

"Huh?"

"Cock and ball torture."

"I see." She doesn't smile. "You're trying to disarm me with humor."

"Don't be ridiculous. CBT is no laughing matter." He tries to ignore the still-throbbing ache in his groin. His body. The heat—the desire—is long gone, replaced only by an unsettled, unspent bubble of perennial frustration that drives him to twitch and fidget. The walls around him shrink inward, almost brushing his shoulders. "Though, it's quite the fortuitous parallel to the Detective's and my current case."

"Is it."

"Oh, yes, Doctor. It would seem the murder victim was into a spot of feti—"

"Lucifer," Dr. Linda cuts him off sharply before continuing in a gentler tone, "no. Enough. I'm happy to engage with you about anything you want to talk about, but not if it means you're deflecting us from our ultimate goal."

Bad angel, Lilith scolds.

His heart pounds. The walls are like a coffin burying his body. His ears ring. He hunches against the sofa cushions, swallowing.

"You seem … distracted," Dr. Linda says, her voice wavering in and out as though they're separated by a spotty cellphone connection. "Would you like to discuss that, instead?"

He flashes her what he hopes is a winning smile. "I'm only achey, Doctor." He makes a show of massaging his left trapezius muscle, cracking the bones of his neck as he lengthens himself. Or … tries to, anyway. The walls are so close. "It would appear living with the Detective impinges my normal resilience."

"Hmm."

Why does she not seem convinced?

"So, how are you feeling?" she prods.

He looks away, rocking slightly as he rubs his palms down his thighs. His layer. His.

"Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"No."

"Lucifer, I promise you. This is a safe space."

"Well, I don't feel safe," he snaps, the words a serrated knife as he lurches to his feet.

"Can you tell me why?"

The walls press inward.

The ceiling is too near.

No, he tries to say, but he can't, because his throat is closing. He's constricted—he can't struggle, he can't move—and so he petrifies, exposed, on display, humiliated.

All of you is mine, Lilith whispers against his ear, the sound a discordant jangle that makes his insides clench.

"Okay," Lilith tells him. "Okay, take a deep breath." The ringing won't stop. He wavers on his feet. "Lucifer, take a deep breath."

Always show them to me. Show me everything.

"I don't want to," he says, feeling small.

"Just take a deep breath, Lucifer," Lilith tells him. "Take a deep breath, and count to three."

My king, I suppose the question becomes … what will I do with you now that I have you?

His lungs won't work. Black spots waver and flare at the edges of his vision. His heart pounds. He's going to die. He's going to die by this couch, trapped in a tiny human-made box, subjugated and strangled and—

"Lucifer, listen to me. Listen to my voice."

He must.

"Take a deep breath, and count to three," Lilith repeats. "Deep breath, and count to three."

His teeth are almost chattering as he sucks down air in one big shuddering gulp.

"Good. Now, hold it in."

Her tone rubs him like sandpaper, sultry and strident and sinister. He flinches, waiting for the flood of Her desire to drown him. But it doesn't, and now he's confused. He gulps down more air, despite himself. Until his lungs are bursting. He won't exhale. He can't until she—

"Count to three in your head."

He can do that. Two. Three.

"Now, blow it out, and count to three again."

He exhales. Two. Three.

"In."

He inhales.

"Out."

He exhales. The room swims, and "she" splits into two again as past and present bifurcate. At some point, he'd fallen back against the couch. With a curdled moan, he tips forward.

"In," Lilith commands, apposed with Dr. Linda—the voice a dissonant clash of jagged ice and rolling warmth—and he inhales.

"Out," they say, and he exhales.

The moments crawl.

"Good, Lucifer," they soothe. "That's really good." Only Dr. Linda now. "Just keep doing that."

He nods shakily, cradling his head as he rests his elbows on his knees. Not once is he spurred onward except by words. No unseen whip of wanting ever strikes.

He hears the faucet in the kitchen running. Then a flicker of movement in front of him. He flinches, a panicked, spiraling yelp coiling in his throat.

"It's okay," the Doctor assures him, backing away. "It's okay. That's your bubble. Just breathe and count, Lucifer. Breathe and count. You're okay."

Again, he isn't forced.

He peers over the edges of his fingers at her, making a point of waiting a good ten seconds before he inhales again. Waiting. Testing. The sharp, soulless sneer at the peripheral of his awareness never bites. Only Dr. Linda's concerned brown eyes, crinkled by age and care at their corners, peer back at him.

He takes another breath and blows it out. And another. And another. Each time easier than the last.

"Better?" Dr. Linda says softly.

He nods, not yet ready to speak. A glass full of ice water rests on another coaster by his knee. That wasn't there before.

Suspicion cuts him like a knife.

Would she poison him?

He … wait.

Dr. Linda wouldn't bloody poison him.

What the fuck.

He grabs the glass and tips it back, drinking greedily to soothe his aching throat, swallowing gulp after gulp as a giant fuck you to whatever's hijacked his brain. Meanwhile, the rest of his body feels like it was thrown from Wilshire Grand Center and smashed into the sidewalk below. Even his eyeballs hurt.

"If this is your idea of CBT," he croaks, "I think you've made your aim a little broad."

Dr. Linda doesn't seem to get the joke. "Lucifer, just so we're clear, I'm not trying to make you remember things. That's not my function here; not at all. I swear to you."

He presses the cold glass against his forehead, rasping, "I thought the goal was to cure me."

"Dissociative amnesia isn't a binary condition. We're not trying to find an off switch. Success in treatment isn't predicated by the sudden return of your memory. We're only hoping to change your thought processes in ways that will help you navigate your condition."

Unease rifles fingers through his mind. "Change … my …?"

"Sometimes, CBT is a matter of identifying trigger points, so you can avoid them altogether—that's why I keep asking you how you're feeling; I've been trying to home on your triggers. Sometimes, it's about training you what to do when you do experience a trigger point, like the breathing exercise I just taught you. Sometimes, it's about trying to lessen the impact of triggers by reframing the perceptions causing them to trigger in the first place."

The lights smear with gleaming halos. He closes his eyes, but the swimmy feeling of the room revolving in the blackness makes everything worse.

"Lucifer, would you like to stop our session?"

Yes. "Reframing …?"

"Well, for example," she says. "You've been talking to me for years, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Have I ever hurt you?"

Lilith laughs—the halos all flare—but he takes a deep breath, pushing her away. Two. Three. She is not here. Two. Three. "Not physically." Two. Three.

Dr. Linda frowns. "I've hurt you in other ways?"

He tries not to think of how shocked she'd been as he'd backed away. How her lip had trembled in terror. "It's … not relevant anymore."

"Not releva—oh." She stills, her expression suddenly grave. "When you showed me your face."

"Well, I didn't say it wasn't warranted."

But she shakes her head. "Lucifer, I offer you my sincerest apologies for reacting badly when you showed me the truth. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I'm very sorry."

Not words he hears often. Not from anyone sincere. "Apology accepted, of course. Honestly, I wasn't asking for—"

"I know. But I wanted to say it anyway."

"Thank you, Doctor. That … means quite a lot."

A warm smile stretches across her face, briefly easing her haggard worry lines, lessening the deep shadow of melancholy marring her skin. "Speaking of reframing," she says, "let's … adjust that question to: do you trust me?"

Mostly. "Doctor, who do you take me for?"

"Would you agree I have your best interests at heart?"

Mostly. "One would assume."

"Have you found our sessions helpful in the past?"

Mostly. He slouches forward as he reaches for the water glass again. Icy chill spreads down his aching esophagus, numbing him as he takes a sip. "Just yesterday, actually."

"Oh?" she asks. "Did you work things out with Chloe?"

"I hope so."

"That's great, Lucifer. I'm glad to hear it." Another warm smile flashes across her face. "So, in light of that, and what we've just talked about, what are some positive things you can tell yourself about me if you feel unsafe during a session?"

He frowns.

"That you trust me, right?" she continues. "And I have your best interests at heart. And …?" She waves her pen at him, gesturing him onward.

"And … I've found most sessions to be helpful in the past?"

"Yes!" She claps. "Yes, that's right, Lucifer. That's what reframing is. Trying to jog your brain into perceiving things differently."

"That feels quite a lot like lying."

"It isn't," she assures him. "This isn't about encouraging denial. You're just focusing on a different facet of the truth. And you can repeat the heart of it in your head like a mantra: you can trust me, this is helpful, and I'm in your corner. You can even do the breathing exercise I showed you simultaneously. Okay?"

Exhaustion seeps into every crevice of his skin. "All right, Doctor."

A motorcycle guns down the street, catching Dr. Linda's attention. He grabs the afghan he'd folded, pulling the soft fleece around him, trying not to shiver as he eases back. A layer. He likes layers. His eyes drift shut. When he's horizontal, the spinning doesn't make his stomach lurch so badly, and he doesn't have to deal with all the colors, shapes, and lights, this way.

"Lucifer?" Dr. Linda says, sounding worried.

He waves a hand in her direction. "Continue, please, Doctor. I'm only resting my eyes."

"You're sure?"

No. But the Detective hasn't returned yet anyway. "Continue."

"Okay." Rustling follows as Dr. Linda shifts in her seat. "This will require some legwork, but another mainstay of CBT we can eventually try is to re-expose you to some of your trauma in a milder way."

"What, like torture me with blunt implements instead of sharp ones?"

"That's … not exactly what I meant, no." Her words are wry. "The purpose is to vaccinate you against stressors. Like"—she pauses, thinking—"like what I just did with Charlie earlier. Letting Chloe take him. My trigger is letting him go. But intellectually, I know that letting him go with Chloe is one of the safest ways I could ever part with him. By re-exposing myself to my trauma in a milder way, I'm better preparing myself to endure a more extreme version."

He cracks one eyelid open. "You expect your child to be taken from you again?"

"Lucifer, he is taken from me again," she replies, her voice cracking a little. "Every time I get triggered. That's what a trigger is."

He pulls the blanket closer, resettling. "Save for bits and bobs, I don't remember my bloody trauma."

"That's why I said we've got legwork to do. We need to figure out what your triggers actually are, and what about those situations triggers you."

"Ah."

She slurps her coffee. "Do you think you were tortured with sharp implements?"

"What?"

"That was the first example you jumped to."

"Oh." He shakes his head. "No."

"You seem very certain."

"Speaking as a torturer—in a supervisory capacity, at least," he says, "it wouldn't be effective in my case."

"Why?"

The ringing from before intensifies like a gong in his ears. "Because, I can disconnect from it if I desire."

"What can you disconnect from?" she asks.

"Pain."

Oh, no, no, no, my king. None of that. You mustn't drift.

Need ravages his body, turning his soul to inferno, yanking him like an undertow in reverse, from placid depths of nothingness to sunburnt sand. The room comes back into focus. The pain and anxiety he left behind sinks in new teeth, a fiery bite in his limbs. And then—

You mustn't ever drift.

"Lucifer?" Dr. Linda is calling from far away. "Lucifer? Remember what we talked about? Just breathe."

He sucks in a breath, digging his fingers into the couch cushions as his chest tightens all over again. The weight of the blanket isn't helping anymore. Nothing is helping.

"I've been hearing her," he admits, the words reedy.

"Hearing who?"

"Her."

"Chloe?"

"Lilith. Yesterday. When the Detective praised me. And today. She …."

"A memory?"

He stares into the backs of his eyelids as the image in his mind's eye obliterates. "I don't know." He curls tighter, his eyes burning as he tries very hard not to lose himself. "I don't know. She makes my skin crawl." And whenever he focuses on her voice, she leaves.

A good thing, probably.

"Can you tell me anything about her?" Doctor Linda asks.

He takes spasmodic, sucking breaths. "Doctor, I—"

"It's okay. You're okay. Deep breaths."

The memory dissolves like salt in water, reincorporating into solution, and he's left only with the disquieting sense that something was intensely wrong just now.

Maybe he's lying.

Maybe he had been tortured.

Lilith is the type to torture for fun. Sharp implements. Blunt ones. Hot or cold. Anything that hurts. She'd pull the wings from a butterfly just to watch it squirm and desiccate and die. A sad metamorphosis from the woman she'd been.

He rubs his thighs, underneath the blanket. The wool of his suit rasps against his fingertips.

A reminder.

Layers.

"Lucifer?"

"What were we talking about?" he says faintly.

"Don't worry about it. Everything's fine." The empathy in Dr. Linda's tone almost bleeds. Something slaps onto the end table as she sets it down. Her notebook, perhaps. "Why don't we stop for the—"

"I sat with the Detective and the offspring last night," he blurts, latching onto a different memory. A better one. "They were watching some silly show about talking equines. I don't know. I didn't pay attention."

"Oh?"

"I don't believe she made me feel it," he continues. "I don't think it was manufactured—but how can I …?"

"You don't think what was manufactured?"

"Safety."

"Why would that be manufactured?"

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm being silly." He laughs, though it sounds like a sob to his ears. "I …."

"Why would it be silly to think of Chloe as your safe space?" the Doctor says.

"No, I meant it's silly to doubt."

"I can see why you might feel conflicted."

He laughs unhappily. "Can you."

"But I can also understand," she soothes, "given your history, why she would represent a safe space. You've had a lot of firsts with her. Both good and bad. And you've survived. Thrived, even, for the most part."

"That's true, I suppose."

"Do you think you might offer the same haven for her?"

"That would be lovely." He tips his head into the back cushion. "Quid pro quo and all."

"Or … maybe just love?"

"Hmm."

He feels better when he pulls up his knees. When he minimizes the space he occupies and puts his back to the open room. The blanket is a cocoon he needs. He burrows.

"Have you any idea when the Detective will return?" he murmurs.

"No, I'm sorry."

He flinches as something adds to the weight pressing down on him. "It's just me," Dr. Linda says. "Just adding a quilt for you."

"Oh." The added heft of the extra layer feels good. Safe. Warm. He peers blearily over his shoulder at her, but she's nothing but a vaguely peach-colored blur. "That's kind of you."

"I'll call her and tell her to come back now," Dr. Linda murmurs by his ear. "You just relax, okay?"

"Hmm."

He finds it far too easy to disconnect.

First, he's watching himself from the ceiling, hovering high above.

And then he's weightless.

And far away.

Chapter Text

Lucifer is wrong.

After his session with Linda, he's just … wrong.

Foggy.

Slow.

Mute, even as Trixie peppers him with questions from the backseat. Like he'd been after Chloe inadvertently forced him to orgasm. As soon as they cross her apartment's threshold, Trixie skips straight into the living room, but Lucifer drifts toward the stairs as though he's sleepwalking.

"Lucifer," Chloe murmurs, but he doesn't seem to hear her.

Her first instinct is to reach for his jacket. Luckily, her second instinct tells her first instinct it's an idiot. She jams her knuckles against the seams inside her pockets, venting her need for tactile reassurance.

"Lucifer," she tries again before adding a sharp-but-almost-whispered, "Lucifer, hey!"

He stops and turns like he's stuck in slow-mo, his gaze never quite connecting with hers. Instead, he regards a distant point beyond her shoulder. "Yes, Detective?"

"Want to sit downstairs with us for a bit?" she suggests. "We could order food? Watch your favorite show? Anything?"

"No, I wish to sleep." Monotone. Distant.

Chloe had been shocked to find him curled in a fetal position on Linda's couch, huddled under a comforter and an afghan like he was freezing, his long, lithe body looking deceptively small. At first, she'd thought he was asleep, but as soon as she'd spoken, he'd pushed the blankets back and said without inflection, Time to leave, is it?

Which … bizarre.

Curiosity inducing.

Though it had killed her not to go into interview mode, beyond confirming the dissociative amnesia diagnosis, Chloe hadn't asked Linda for details of the session. She'd respected his privacy and the professional position Linda was stuck in by extension, and she'd limited herself to a soft, Can I do anything for him? Spoken on the stoop, after Lucifer had already headed back to the car.

Linda's response had been, Just spend time together. Support is crucial.

But how can Chloe spend time with him if he's immediately injecting distance? Immediately fleeing. And he just seems so traumatized.

No. No, he is traumatized.

His usual projected bravado makes it easy to pretend everything is fine, but something hurt him so much he carved the ordeal from his head like a surgeon excising tumors. And while she doesn't have personal experience with this kind of trauma, she does with mental illness. One thing that had helped her most when she'd been suffering from PPD like Linda is now, was Dan. The quiet dependability of having him beside her every night, even if all he was doing was reading a book while she slept.

Before the idea can fully form in her brain, she finds herself blurting, "Do you wanna sleep with me?"

"… Detective?" Tone. Inflection. An actual facial expression. Finally.

"Just sleep," Chloe clarifies, unwilling to let the misunderstanding linger. Figures, her not exactly unintended innuendo would be what snaps him out of his stupor. "For the company; that's all. Not sex."

"Ah."

"If you want."

He seems as though he's seriously considering her offer. The longing in his expression is unmistakable as he grips the railing. His body sways in place.

"I sleep on the right side," she adds, smiling at him. "Left is all yours if you want it, yeah?"

"I … shouldn't," he says at last.

"Why shouldn't you?"

"It wouldn't be comforting, and I know that's what you intend."

Her heart constricts, though she hopes she tamps her reaction before it sprawls across her face. "Why wouldn't I—I mean it—be comforting?"

"Because …." He sways in place again, grimacing before he schools himself. "I … I appreciate the offer, Detective, but … no."

"Lucifer—"

He moves before she can blink, snaking his arms around her and pulling her close. His sandalwood scent makes her smile despite her watering eyes. Instinctively, she slips her palms underneath his jacket, interlocking her fingers over the small of his back.

His nose presses into her hair, and he nuzzles her. "I like the way you smell."

"Me, too. About you, I mean."

He clutches her like she's his one handhold on a cliff. "I like the sound of your heartbeat," he adds in a heady, rumbling tone. "Your life."

She presses her ear to his chest, listening. She can't hear his heart through the many layers. Not when he's breathing this roughly. But she can imagine.

"Me, too," she says. "So much. I'm glad you're here."

They linger. His grip tightens.

"I don't suppose you'd enjoy sleeping together in the colloquial sense?" he says, a hint of pain biting every syllable. "Please?"

"Lucifer, we can't. Not like this."

"I thought not."

She looks up at him. "Did I … wind you up again, somehow? Did I say something?"

"You exist, and I'm … quite raw."

"I'm really sorry."

"Please, don't apologize," he murmurs. "Loving you is …." The wistful hint of a smile tugs at his lips before he shakes his head. "That this compulsion is twisting my pre-existing affection for its own ends is … not your fault." He gently pushes his fingers through her hair. "Goodnight, Detective."

And then he's gone around the corner, and all Chloe can do is leave him be.

The gist of what he'd said beyond, I'm bloody miserable, doesn't sink in until she rejoins Trixie in the living room.

Loving you is ….

Is.

Present tense.

With pre-existing affection.

Lucifer Morningstar loves her.

And he'd loved her before.

He said it.

Stealthily, but he did.

And that's ….

Tragic, given these ridiculous, awful circumstances, her tiny voice supplies.

"What's funny?" says Trixie.

The cushion squeaks as Chloe leans to kiss her forehead. "Nothing, baby. Just the universe."

"Why's the universe funny?"

It really fucking isn't, Chloe wants to wail.

But if she doesn't laugh, she'll cry.

Thanks to Lucifer's seemingly endless supply of IOUs in the greater Los Angeles area, along with the fact Neiman Marcus has a home department, Chloe now has a $6,000 automatic coffeemaker with more options than her car, a $300 toaster whose only defining feature is a designer label, a freaking $800 blender that … blends?, and some pretty kitchen towels with pomegranates on them.

Figuring out breakfast is a matter of realizing she has eggs, butter, and cheese, and also, thanks to her busted freezer, thawed ham and bread. Perfect. While the new coffee maker burbles and gurgles, filling her apartment with the enticing smell of an imminent caffeine infusion, she makes Hawaiian sandwiches.

Lucifer nabs the first one off the "done" plate before Trixie registers it's there.

"Lucifer, come on," Trixie whines. "I'm hungry."

The one-eyed croque crunches as he bites down. "Well, I'm hungrier," he counters, the words muffled by his mouthful. "And older. And bigger." He chews once, his eyes rolling back a bit, his shoulders sagging. A blissful hum fills his throat.

The face he makes when he orgasms.

Which … she now knows for a fact, and holy shit, never mind.

"Can angels starve like humans, Mom?" Trixie wonders.

Lucifer scowls mid-chew, and Trixie's lips mush up in a dramatic frown.

"I'm not sure, baby," Chloe replies. The griddle sizzles as she adds the next croque. "Lucifer, can angels starve like humans?"

He licks his lips, his slow swallow accompanied with an almost audible guilt-ridden gulp. "But … but I've not tasted one of these in millennia! It's nostalgia on a bloody plate!"

"How'd you not have a Hawaiian sandwich for millennia?" Trixie asks. "Mom made 'em for you last year."

"Time is different in Hell, child."

"How?"

"That's … simply how it is. It's different in Heaven as well. No dimensions run in sync, really."

Trixie's consternation intensifies, her forehead wrinkling up, too. "That makes no sense."

"Well, I didn't bloody design it!" he huffs. "Blame Dad."

Trixie turns to Chloe. "It's okay, Mom. Lucifer should probably have the first one if it's been millennia since he had one."

"Yeah, I agree," says Chloe slowly. "And there's plenty for everyone, anyway."

His eyes narrow as he looks back and forth between the two of them, the sandwich clutched close to his mouth like he's a squirrel preparing to stuff a nut into his jowls. Then, with a melodramatic sigh, he drops the partially eaten croque onto Trixie's plate with a grumbled, "Bloody hell. Well played. May I have the next one?"

Chloe grins. "Sure."

"And, no, I cannot starve, at least not that I've discovered. Being around you might change that."

"Well, like I said, there's plenty to go around." She flips the sandwich on the griddle. The butter sizzles. "You two can eat until the bread runs out."

"You're not having any?" he asks.

"Nah. Just coffee for me."

"Shouldn't you eat at least one, given—as young Beatrice has indicated—starvation is a possibility for your species?"

Trixie covers her mouth with her hand to whisper in Chloe's direction, "I think he got you, Mom."

"You both did!" Chloe says with a chuckle before amending, "Fine. I'll eat—"

A special ringtone interrupts.

"Dad!" exclaims Trixie.

"You wanna get it while I finish up in here?" asks Chloe, nodding toward the phone.

Trixie scrambles around the scorched counter to snatch the device. "Hi, Dad! Mom's cooking Hawaiian sandwiches. Is Miami fun? How's Grammie?" She trots into her bedroom.

Lucifer watches Trixie depart with a peculiar, almost wistful expression.

"You okay?" Chloe asks.

The wistfulness is gone in a blink. He tilts his head at her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Last night, you seemed …." She trails away, giving him a chance to fill in the blank, but he doesn't.

He practically gleams in the soft morning light, his warm demeanor nothing like the hollowed-out, weary shell he'd been last night.

In fact, he looks … really, really good.

"Thank you," he says, as if she's spoken aloud. "Sleep helped."

"Good," she replies.

A subtle hint of eyeliner makes his dark eyes seem bigger, wider—like entrancing traps. His sleek suit hugs his knife-edged lines and sharp angles, framing him like a work of art. The dark dust of stubble on his chin and the product-laden wet curl of hair over his forehead, in particular, combine with an extra open button on his shirt to give him a strategically mussed appear—

She shakes her head, stopping herself from licking her lower lip. No. Bad. Bad thoughts, she scolds internally, reminding herself he isn't here by choice.

When the fancy coffeemaker dings, presenting her with two newly filled, steaming cups, she's happy to divert herself into offering him a too chipper, "Coffee?"

Nodding, he takes a mug.

She scoops up the next croque, dumping it onto the "done" plate. He snatches the greasy sandwich, gripping it with a paper towel before taking an epic-sized bite. He eats like it's more than just sandwiches he hasn't seen in millennia.

"Does Hell have any real food or drink?" she asks.

"No," he answers. "Nothing."

"Only the ashy guilt stuff in the loops?"

"Yes."

She's not sure whether she's relieved to know Lilith hadn't starved him. Only his situation had.

"In Tegucigalpa," Maze announces, her voice crackling over the cruiser's speakers as the precinct shrinks in the rearview mirror.

A rapid-fire flood of not-Spanish—something indigenous?—follows.

Maze snaps something not directed at the phone, which kicks off another emotional exchange.

There's cursing—not Maze's.

Chloe shares a look with Lucifer, who's listening with an ear tilted toward the radio. Chloe's lost, but he seems to be following, an odd expression on his face. They'd stopped briefly to submit the iPad to forensics—Ella hadn't been in yet—and to retrieve the chastity device from evidence lockup. They'd agreed to head to USC. Maze had called shortly after.

The cursing ceases after a long diatribe, and then a sigh blusters over the line. "Haven't found him yet," Maze concludes.

"But"—Lucifer laughs, the titter of syllables sounding almost nervous—"you have a strong suspicion where to search, yes?"

"Not really. Tried a few places."

"Have you—"

"Already done," Maze interjects.

"What abou—"

"Stop backseat bounty hunting, will you?"

Lucifer winces. "But th—"

"Yeah, he's not in any of his usual haunts. If you can think of it, I did, too."

"No." He glares at the speakers, pointing with an outstretched index finger to scold empty space. "No, you cannot give—"

"Did I say I was giving up?" Maze snaps. "I've still got—" A thunderous cacophony bleeps out the rest, followed by a distant pop, pop, pop, and then another cacophony explodes like a bomb went off in front of the phone.

"Maze, was that gunfire?" Chloe exclaims. Hell, that sounded like a Desert Eagle. "Are you shooting—"

"Fuck, gotta go. Sorry."

"Maze," snaps Lucifer. "Maze." He devolves into a sibilant almost-hiss as he bites out, "Mazikeen!" But the connection ends. "Bloody hell, that demon will be the literal end of me! And why must John Constantine be so bloody slippery the one bloody time I've actual need of him? He never made himself scarce before."

Silence stretches in the car.

A jagged, upset breath escapes him. He rubs his temples like he aches, all of his previously pleasant facade melting into remembered rawness. Now, he just looks like he wants to punch something.

Maybe sleep hadn't restored him, after all. Maybe sleep had only reset his ability to fake being fine. Which … is a troubling thought.

"I apologize," he grinds out, simmering, "for my outburst."

"Why?" she asks. "I'd be upset, too. Not at Maze, but … the situation."

"Yes, 'Bee tee dubs"—he puts up air quotes—"no imminent rescue for you. Be a slave. It's fun.'" His eyes squeeze shut as he flops back against the seat. "Fuck. Bloody fucking hell."

His ricochet into guttural vulgarity shocks her like someone splashed a drink in her face. He's never been the type. But she'd be—has been—dropping f-bombs, too.

"I'm here," is all she can say, her chest heavy, hurting.

"I know."

His ragged breathing calms. She weaves through traffic, merging onto the highway. Bumper to bumper cars caterpillar along, speeding up and slowing down and speeding up and slowing down.

Warmth spreads into her thigh. A pressure, as he reaches across the car compartment and places his fingers against her jeans. Not like he's feeling her up—just … reassuring himself. Taking comfort in her presence. A lump forms in her throat.

"Do you have a backup plan in case we can't find this John guy?" she asks softly.

"Other than pray to Dad, not really."

"No, seriously."

"I am bloody serious."

But … surely God can't be the only option. That's too demoralizing to fathom. "There's really no one else you know who could help?"

"Detective, I wasn't being facetious when I said curses and magic are dying arts. Most of the prevalent specialists reside in Hell already. Which is probably how I'm in this bloody blasted predicament as it is. Lilith must have garnered someone's aid. How, I've no idea, but she must've."

"Oh," Chloe says, the gravity of the situation starting to coil around her ankles like weeds to pull her under. "Well, I'm still waiting to hear back from Adeboye. He's got a lot of resources Maze doesn't."

"Hmm." The sound is grumpy. Hopeless.

She can't blame him.

Cupping her hand over his, she squeezes his palm and drives on.

Ella calls as they're pulling into the crowded visitor lot at USC.

"Yeah, hi, Ella," Chloe says as she unfastens her seatbelt. "Is this important?"

"Not for the case, but—"

"Can I call you back, then?" Chloe replies. "We just arrived on campus, and there's some people we want to interv—"

"Did you guys watch the news last night?"

"Ella, can we, please, talk later? We've got a full schedule today. I want to catch—" Chloe glances at Lucifer. "I can only focus on catching this murderer right now. Okay?"

"I guess, but—"

"Thanks," Chloe says, gathering up her notepad and pen. "I'll call you back when we have a minute."

"But, Chlo—"

Chloe hangs up the phone before Ella can finish. It's a little mean, a little rude—guilt nags—but Ella is a bit of a babbler, and she'll chatter for miles if she's given an inch. Meanwhile, there's only so many working hours in a day, USC's campus is a sprawling center for over 40,000 students, and Chloe really wants to find some of Alastor Blackthorn's coworkers and friends before lunch.

She scans the surroundings quickly, noting a woman standing under a tree by the side of the lot. The woman, wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and a black t-shirt emblazoned with a screaming skull, is squinting strangely back at Chloe, though she doesn't move. Chloe's skin crawls.

"Ready?" she asks sharply, spooked.

"Indeed," Lucifer says.

He stretches to his full height. In the bald daylight, with his snazzy black suit, he looks like a million dollars.

"Let's go, then," she decides.

He falls into step beside her as she hits the lock button on her key fob.

"Mr. Blackthorn?" Kelly Mitchell says, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. "Enemies?" Tears streak down her face. "You're kidding, right? Everybody loves"—she coughs—"loved—oh, God, he's really gone?"

"I'm very sorry for your loss," says Chloe.

The interview with Ms. Mitchell, the president of Tau Tau Chi, had gone the same as all the rest. Alastor Blackthorn was adored by the USC staff and all its students. He'd been on the payroll as an untenured English teacher, and he did instruct a few creative-writing classes, but from what Chloe can glean, most of his work had been focused on spearheading an open secret. An under-the-table support network for campus Greeks. He gave them guidance, and offered the kind of, "Call me at 3 a.m. if you end up drunk at a party and need a ride home; I don't care how you got there, and you don't have to explain," succor only the rarest of parents manage to offer.

Meanwhile, Lucifer projects ennui so thick he could use it for a memory foam mattress when he inevitably falls asleep at their feet. He's doing a good job at not snarking about the woman's grief, at least.

"You're sure you can't think of anyone who might have wished Mr. Blackthorn harm?" Chloe prods.

Kelly dabs her eyes with a tissue. "I mean, there was that one woman, but …."

"Oh?" Lucifer says, perking up in tandem with Chloe. "Pray tell, what woman was this?"

"I saw her and Mr. Blackthorn talking the other day. Things seemed heated. But not, like, murderously so. Just, you know, worked up?"

"Any anger can become deadly, Ms. Mitchell," replies Lucifer darkly. "I've seen you humans murder over a parking ticket."

Which only seems to distress Kelly more. Chloe gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Ms. Mitchell, do you remember anything about this woman? Her name? What she looked like? Anything that could help us track her down?"

"I don't know," says Ms. Mitchell, sobbing. "I think she was blonde, but … I don't know. Poor Mr. Blackthorn."

"Was she petite?" asks Lucifer. "Ample cleavage?"

"I don't know."

"Could she have been a student?" Chloe says.

Ms. Mitchell exhales, sounding flustered as she strains to recall. "Maybe an older one?"

"So, she wasn't your age."

"No," Ms. Mitchell says, pointing to Lucifer, "more like his."

"Oh, really." Lucifer's eyes glint like diamonds. "Are you certain?"

"Yeah, like, forties or something. Like … old."

A mischievous gleam blooms in his gaze. "You've quite the gift for irony, Ms. Mitchell."

"Do you remember exactly when the argument was?" prods Chloe before Kelly can do more than frown. "Or what it was about?"

"Sometime last week," says Kelly. "I think. And, no, I really don't."

"Where did the fight occur?" asks Lucifer.

"By his office."

Chloe and Lucifer had searched Blackthorn's office already—the dean herself had let them in, providing them with similar assurances that Blackthorn had been loved by all—but the place had been even more Spartan than his living room, like the guy hadn't spent any time in it beyond what the college required of him.

He'd left behind no obvious clues.

His bookshelves had been stacked neatly with classics, A-Z. Nothing personal. His calendar and address book had both been unused, his cork board empty save for a dozen multicolored pins, and his campus e-mail account going back for the past two months had only contained innocuous stuff. Even the dean's office hadn't been able to provide any pertinent details. In his employment file, he'd left his emergency contact information blank, and the phone number he'd listed for himself was an out-of-service 540 number.

Oh, dear, he should have updated this a long time ago, the dean's administrative assistant had said. We send out yearly reminders!

So, unless he'd deleted something—Chloe plans to subpoena the college for his server-side e-mail data if they won't fork it over voluntarily, though that will take some time—her only hope in putting a can opener to his recent life and cracking it open, remains in the iPad she found yesterday in Blackthorn's nightstand.

"Perhaps the security feeds for the building?" suggests Lucifer.

Chloe nods. Another good option. Unfortunately, though, making copies of massive amounts of data and then sifting through it, even with USC's full cooperation, would not be a quick endeavor. She adds that to her mental list as she offers her condolences to Ms. Mitchell again.

The woman with the skull shirt is leaning against the hood of the cruiser when they return. She beams and waves when she sees them round the corner. "Are you Chloe Decker?" she asks, reaching underneath the front edge of her jacket and—

"Freeze," Chloe snaps, and the woman freezes, her eyes ticking to the gun holstered at Chloe's hip.

"I'm sorry," the woman says, "I just wanted—"

"Put your hands where I can see them!"

Lucifer gasps. "Detective, what—"

The woman complies immediately, raising both splayed hands into the air. The phone she was reaching for clatters to the ground, the screen shattering. "I just wanted a photo with you!"

Not a stalker demon from Hell. A fan. Fuck. Fuck. "I'm so sorry," Chloe gushes to the woman, closing the gap between them. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone"—something—"else."

"It's okay," the woman says shakily.

"No, it's really not," Chloe says, glancing at the cracked screen of the phone. Fuck. "Can I give you my business card? I'll replace your phone."

Lucifer's panting, too. She'd probably nearly sicced him on the woman. An archangel, who can double as a nuclear bomb.

Fuuuck.

At least the command seems to have canceled before any real harm was done to anybody.

The woman, a girl named Melissa Wellspring, shakes off the stressful encounter, seemingly thrilled just to be chatting with the star of Hot Tub High School. Lucifer takes a picture for them with Chloe's phone, snarking all the while about the movie, and Chloe e-mails the photo to the address Melissa gives. Melissa leaves happy, with the promise of a new phone, a signed blu-ray, and a Devil's favor to boot.

"I thought she was a demon," Chloe says as she collapses tiredly behind the steering wheel of the cruiser. "I thought she was pulling a knife."

"It's all right, Detective," Lucifer replies softly.

"No! No, it's not. I never want to be one of those cops."

"I would argue you're very much not. You didn't even draw your gun."

"Yeah, but I almost made you clobber her."

He strokes her cheek. "You did not. It's not as though I'm forced to comply immediately, you know. Not unless I choose to, or I'm too bloody exhausted to fight with it."

She sighs, leaning into his hand. "Still, I'm sorry."

"It's no matter," he replies. "And for what it's worth, I can identify demons from quite the distance when I'm actively watching for them. With Maze out of town, there'd be no mistaking an ambush, either. You needn't worry."

"Define quite the distance?"

"Much farther than a scoped rifle's range is long."

"Oh." Well, fuck. "I wish you'd mentioned that sooner."

"Apologies," he replies. "I didn't realize you weren't aware."

No kidding. Swiping her fingers over her hair, she leans back in her seat, letting herself calm down, at last. A slow sigh gusts out of her body. Her heartbeat eases.

"So, what next, Detective?"

"The, um, custom cock cage, I think."

"Finally, something fun," he says, heartening.

"Just … please … don't be, too …."

"Too what, Detective?" he replies with a perfectly honed who, me? face.

"Just … you know." She gestures at nothing. "You. If you want, I mean."

"Why, I do not, Detective," he gushes melodramatically as he splays the fingers of one hand against his chest. "Who better to show you around a sensualist's superstore than the Devil, after all?"

She cringes. "A … sensualist's superstore?"

"Would you prefer hedonist's hoard?"

"Lucifer …."

"A bondage boutique, then?"

She counts to ten in her head as she fastens her seatbelt. "Right. Sure. A bondage boutique."

"Well, I don't see you offering any suggestions."

"How about just a store?"

"Or a lecher's lode?" he counters.

The spark of his humor ignites, making her feel warm. She smiles a little. "Whatever amuses you."

"The look on your face amuses me."

She rolls her eyes in his direction, accenting her movement by turning the key in the ignition.

"What?" he says, almost a laugh, as the car rumbles to life.

The sun turns his dark irises into rich, brown pools. And his smile, which crinkles his eyes, makes her ache.

"I'm really glad you're here," she allows.

He beams.

She will never—not in a million years—confess she's slightly intrigued to know what he'd want to buy at this place. And she will not let herself imagine him using the merchandise.

She will not.

The store Lucifer directs them to on Hollywood Boulevard, less than a mile from Lux, isn't what Chloe would have pictured if someone had ever said, "Hey, let's go to a place where they forge custom chastity belts for men." It's not even what Chloe would have pictured if someone had ever said, "Hey, wanna go shopping for fetish gear?"

There's no trashy sign outside screaming "XXX Adult Merchandise Here XXX!" like she's seen emblazoned across too many adult-themed stores. Semi-opaque privacy film decorated by geometric shapes covers the windows. When Lucifer pulls open the door for her, a welcoming chime rings through the space. They step inside, immediately greeted with rows of well-lit shelving, and the air smells of … lavender?

"I'll be right out!" calls a man with a bit of a brogue, his voice baritone in timbre. "I just need—" A crash resonates behind a flowing curtain labeled EMPLOYEES ONLY. "Bollocks. Just a moment."

"Rian Flannery," Lucifer murmurs beside her ear. "Quite the klutz, I'm afraid, but he's an affable fellow. Great at parties. Always brings the best moonshine."

O … kay, then.

She follows the lavender smell to an array of candles. Shelves of them in varying sizes, from tiny tea lights to the big fat kind meant more for sconces, all arrayed in order like a rainbow. She nudges one of the purple candles, giving Lucifer a questioning look.

"For setting the mood," Lucifer says. "Scented candles can transport you anywhere, really."

"Yeah, but … lavender?"

When she thinks of BDSM, she does not think of lavender. At all.

He shrugs, reaching for a white candle the size of his palm. "It depends on the scene one is trying to create." He sniffs the candle, a smile stretching his lips. "The goal is to arouse, after all, and humans have desires as varied as colors on a painter's palette."

She takes a whiff of the candle he grabbed. The scent is something floral. Jasmine, she remembers him saying he likes. Cinnamon. Citrus. He likes scents, too.

Oh, yes, her mental Lucifer purrs, sprawled across a bed. Her bed. Quite nice. He's still wearing nothing but the cage without spikes, though this time a jasmine-scented candle burns on the nightstand by his head.

"Of course," Lucifer says, "candles are also fun for wax play."

So much for not imagining him with the merchandise. "Wax … play?"

"A type of pain play, yes. But you wouldn't want scented ones for that." He steps to the left, pointing to the sign above the candles farther down the aisle. The sign reads: SAFETY CANDLES IN ALL COLORS.

"What are safety candles?" she asks.

"They melt at lower temperatures. Think first degree burns, not third."

"And … that's … fun to you?"

"It's neither fun nor not fun for me," he admits. "Normal candles can't burn my skin, yes?"

Oh. Right.

"You know, I'd try it with you, if you desired," he says out of the blue, grabbing one of the red safety candles off the shelf, and she almost chokes on her tongue. "We could see if it's fun for me in that context?"

"Right," she says on the coattails of a snort. "Sure."

He brightens. "Really?"

"No, Lucifer! Not really. We're working."

"Well, I didn't mean now."

"Or anytime soon?"

His sudden scowl shuts her up.

"Just … just …." She grabs the candle box from him and stuffs it back onto the shelf. "No."

Before he can reply, she darts away from the candle section, the plush gray carpet muffling her frantic egress. Three steps, and she realizes. This place really is a freaking department store for sex. A lecher's lode, a bondage boutique, a hedonist's hoard, a sensualist's superstore.

Nearest the candles, she finds essential oils, lubes, a buffet of multicolored condoms and other protection. A whole two aisles are dedicated to vibrators and dildos, each chained to the shelf and put on display like keyboards at a Best Buy or something.

"You have one of these, I hope," Lucifer says over her shoulder. He picks up a purple boomerang-shaped device about the size of a deck of cards, pulling it toward him until the cord loses slack. "I recommend this one for beginners."

"No," she says. "No, no, no." She snatches the vibrator from him, returning it to the shelf. "And for your information, yes, I do have one."

His eyebrows arch toward his hairline, and his tongue peeks out as he licks his lower lip. He gestures sinuously to the purple vibrator. "This one, specifically? Do tell."

"No, Lucifer." She glares at him. "I am not telling you about my vibrator."

"As you desire, of course."

The farther she delves into the store, the less "vanilla" things get. Edible props. Restraints. Anal beads. Butt plugs. Gags. Cock rings. Cock cages. Riding crops and whips. Nipple clamps. Enema kits. Electric—

"See anything you like?" Lucifer asks gleefully over her shoulder.

She gapes at one box. The picture on the front contains wires and electrodes and what looks like a voltmeter. "People actually like to shock themselves? For sex?"

"Oh, yes," Lucifer says. Oh, yes! the Lucifer in her mind's eye exults, writhing in bliss for her. "In fact, I do something with a car battery that—"

She holds up a hand, stopping him. "Forget I asked."

"Red," he gasps.

"I didn't mean I literally want you to forget!" she rushes to say. "I just meant I didn't need an answer."

He slumps against the shelving, the box containing the voltmeter thing bumping into the backsplash. His fingers clench. With a soft, breathy moan, he presses his body against the shelf, grimacing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She wound him up again.

In a fucking sex store, of all places.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

He looks away. "I'll be all right."

He sounds about six-thousand miles from all right.

"May I help you, m'dears, or are you just browsing?" calls the same voice from before, as a middle-aged, ginger-haired man steps out from behind the flowing curtain. Freckles dust his face, and warmth fills his green eyes to the brim. His curly red hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He flashes a winning smile at them. "Sorry for the wait. Had a bit of a situation with collapsing cock-ring boxes in the back."

She blinks. "Collapsing what …?"

"Yes, hello, Mr. Flannery," calls Lucifer, brushing off the sleeves of his jacket as he straightens. Only a brief flinch reveals his discomfort. "Don't mind the Detective. She's a newbie."

The man beams like a sudden sunrise. "Lucifer Morningstar! It's been a while!"

"Yes, I"—Lucifer glances at Chloe, eyes narrowing—"I moved away."

"Well, you've been missed. Janey's dealership is booming now, thanks to you. Here to collect, then?"

Lucifer leans closer, murmuring against Chloe's ear, "His lady friend owns a Harley dealership. I helped them get back in the black, so to speak." To Mr. Flannery, he adds in a louder voice, "Not … precisely." Lucifer squeezes Chloe's shoulder. "Detective Chloe Decker"—he gestures to the shopkeeper—"meet Rian Flannery. Mr. Flannery, Detective Decker."

"Hi, yes, I hope you can help." She flashes her badge as she steps into the center walkway. "We're trying to trace the owner of a … a …." God, she can't even say it without blushing.

"A chastity device, Mr. Flannery," Lucifer chimes in. "A custom-built Kali's Teeth."

"Oh?" says Mr. Flannery.

Chloe pulls the plastic evidence bag containing the ring from her coat. "Lucifer says it was made here. By … you, I'm guessing? Or a helper?"

"Well, now, let's have a look, shall we?" Mr. Flannery gestures them over to the cash register in the corner.

The register sits on a long, brightly lit glass case, the surface smudged with fingerprints. Inside the case are padded boxes full of shiny metal rings and barbells arrayed like diamonds at a jewelry store. Dozens of them. Just like the piercings Lucifer had pulled out of himself before his MRI.

Mr. Flannery pats the counter. "Set it down, m'dear."

The cock ring thunks against the glass as she relinquishes it.

"Your mark is near the lock," Lucifer adds.

Mr. Flannery leans down, squinting as he flips the evidence bag over. "Ah, yes," he says, nodding. "Yes, yes. Definitely one of mine." He reaches behind the register, liberating a small magnifying glass from a drawer. After inspecting the cock ring front and back, he types something into the computer. "Hmm."

"Anything?" Chloe prompts.

"Cash purchase, I'm afraid," he says. "Not surprising, given the merchandise. But it unfortunately means I don't have any information about the buyer for you."

Damn. She pulls out photos of the crime scene from her coat pocket, placing them next to the evidence bag. The top page contains a headshot of Alastor Blackthorn pulled from his DMV entry. "Do you recognize this man?"

"No, m'dear. I'm sorry."

Well, it was worth a shot.

Lucifer reaches for the photos, fanning them out in one swipe. The driver's license photo she'd found is pushed out of frame, replaced by pictures of Alastor Blackthorn, dead, naked, hanging in chains.

"Oh, don't do—" She winces. "It's a little graphic."

"Not to worry," Mr. Flannery says. "Seen plenty worse, I have."

"What about this part?" Lucifer says, pointing to the picture of the Kali's Teeth, still enclosed around Mr. Blackthorn's penis. "Do you recognize this?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, that I recognize, indeed."

"You actually recognize the penis?" Chloe asks.

"Well, I did spend several hours of my life custom-fitting a chastity device for it, you know," replies Mr. Flannery.

"Did you sell the device to this man?" says Lucifer, pointing at the photo of the hanging corpse. "Or was he accompanied?"

Mr. Flannery looks up at the ceiling. "He was alone, I think."

"Ah," says Lucifer. "Well, that tanks that lead, I suppose."

"You might have some luck at Dominus. I remember him saying he was excited to go there with his new toy."

"Dominus," says Chloe, the name niggling for some reas—oh. "The UV stamp. On the victim."

"Yes, precisely," says Lucifer.

"And, what, you guys are saying this guy bought a custom chastity cage just to wear to a club?"

"Think of it like buying earrings, or a smashing new top."

Which … okay. She can sorta kinda get that. But wow is she out of her element.

She turns to Mr. Flannery. "Did he say anything else when he bought this thing? Anything about his plans? Anything unusual?"

"No, m'dear, not that I can recall," says Mr. Flannery. "He was a soft-spoken sort."

"Okay." She gathers up the photos and the evidence bag. "Well, Mr. Flannery, thank you so much for your time."

"Of course. Of course." Mr. Flannery gives them a hopeful look. "If you'd like to buy anything on your way out, you should know we're having a sale on sounds. Twenty percent off."

"Sounds?"

Mr. Flannery laughs. "Oh, my. Definitely a newbie in our midst, eh?"

"They're rods, Detective," Lucifer adds helpfully. "Meant for insertion into the urethra. Nixes the possibility for penetrative sex, but they make orgasms feel—"

"That's okay," she tells him quickly.

Holy shit, she really needs to learn not to ask.

A balmy breeze blows as they step out onto the sidewalk. Late afternoon sunlight slants over the low buildings, creating a pocket of shade closer to the store. Cars swish by on the street, and her loose hair swirls in the currents.

"When shall we visit the club?" Lucifer purrs, leaning sinuously against the glass storefront. A hint of a smile shows the whites of his teeth. "Tonight, then?"

"Oh. Um. No." She digs through her purse for her sunglasses. "We still have plenty of other leads. I'd rather exhaust those, first."

"What other leads?"

"I want to see what forensics can get off that iPad from Blackthorn's apartment." She finds her sunglass case and cracks it open, liberating her shades. "And, of course, there's the e-mails and security footage from the college to go through."

"Hmm."

The snarl of her purse zipper fills the quiet. When she looks up, he's peering back at her with a crushed expression, like someone who expected presents under the Christmas tree, but found only an empty tree skirt, instead.

"You really want to go to a sex club right now?" she asks incredulously.

He folds his long arms. "Why would I not?"

"Wouldn't it be frustrating for you?"

His eyes narrow. "You think I can't bloody control myself?"

"That's not even close to what I said, Lucifer."

"Detective, I am older than time," he grouses. "I can bloody well handle an itch."

"An itch? You told me it might as well be called agony."

"When you're expressing a desire, yes," he counters. "Not in the between. Not now."

She shifts her purse onto her other arm. "How do you feel right now?"

Her question breaks his burning stare like a hammer crushes drywall. He looks away, temples dancing as he grinds his jaw. "Frustrated," he admits before huffing out a breath. "And, yes, I'm aware that was your first choice of word."

She grins a little. "Are you saying I'm right?"

"I'm using the word in a different context!" he insists.

"What context is that?"

"I want …." He reaches with his right hand like he means to stroke her face, only to abort the motion and stuff his fist into his pocket. "Bloody hell."

He turns away from her, stretching his arms over his head to press against the window. He arches his back, moving his butt toward the street and dragging his torso in the pavement's direction, almost like he's trying to perform a vertical downward dog. Like … he's tense to the point of aching. Like he's in pain.

Her chest tightens. "Lucifer, seriously … do you want to find someone else?" Someone he can legitimately consent to and blow off some steam with. "Really, I'd understand if—"

"Stop asking me that."

"Stop asking …?"

"My desires involve you," he snaps, straightening. "Stop offering to pawn me off to the closest willing body; it's insulting."

Crap. She'd been worried about Stockholm Syn—

"And before you plunge into the inevitable conclusion like a bloody cliff diver," he continues, interrupting her spiraling thoughts, "let me assure you, I was in this state well before I left for Hell. As I've tried to tell you, the compulsion has only weaponized what was already there. With Lilith, it wasn't bloody like this. I never desired—" He cuts himself off.

Ice creeps through her veins. "Never desired what?"

He doesn't reply, instead huffing out a breath.

"What was it like?" she prods gently.

"What was what like?"

"You said it wasn't like this with Lilith."

He frowns. "Did I?"

"Yeah," she presses. "Did you remember something?"

He fumbles a little, breaths tightening in his chest before he vehemently shakes his head. "Bloody … never mind that."

"Lucif—"

"No." The sharp edge of panic in his tone makes her hold up her hands in a placating gesture. His dark gaze intensifies. The soft, desperate, "Please, Detective," he utters is a knife in her gut. "Let's go to the club."

Please, Detective.

Like, now, he's not just desperate to go with her, he's desperate to erase something by any means necessary.

Taking advantage of this situation would be so easy. There are so many wrong turns to take. Purposefully. Accidentally. The true extent of the obstacle course sprouts in her mental landscape, scaring her with its twists and turns and walls without footholds.

"I," she says, "really think we should pursue other leads, first."

He looks like he's holding back a scream. "Are you truly so opposed to jumping down the rabbit hole with me, even for work?"

"I'm not opposed," she counters slowly. "I'm … acknowledging I'm out of my element."

"All the more reason to use me. As you said before."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"In this moment, I rather wish you had," he replies, his words like midnight. "At least it would have been my choice." And with that, he turns his back on her, shutting down all opportunity for discussion.

The King of Hell has spoken.

Chapter Text

He glares through the window at the past-due parking meter beside the cruiser. The Detective had used her dashboard police placard in lieu of payment. 4:37 p.m., reads the blaring digital numerals on the meter. Almost the end of the day—they'll pick up the child and return to the Detective's abode. He'll be able to put a door she won't open between them—he'll be able to have some small, token amount of space—which—

The car shudders as she climbs in beside him.

"Lucifer, I can see you're mad at me," she says slowly, "but I don't understand why."

"Really."

"Really, I don't get what happened. Will you talk to me?"

He peers at her over the peak of his left shoulder. "What's the bloody point?"

When she doesn't speak, he turns away again, resting his forehead against cool window glass.

"Lucifer … I won't force you—I'm not forcing you—but … please?"

He closes his eyes, rubbing his palms along his pantlegs. The Pavarotti-sat-on-him-without-asking feeling is back, constricting his lungs, making his sternum ache.

"I don't like to be put in boxes," he says. "Detective, I do not like—"

"How did I put you in a box?"

"What does it matter."

"It matters a lot," she insists. "God, Lucifer, do you think I enjoy upsetting you?"

STOP FEELING UPSET AT HER.

Her desire lacerates him, slicing down his spine. He stiffens, clutching the window sill with fingers curled into sharp hooks.

STOP FEELING UPSET.

He would be complete if he did that—if he gave in. She wants him to. His body needs to. A hitching, tortured burst of air ratchets from his lungs.

STOP FEELING UP—

"Red!" he gasps, writhing against the seat, unable to escape the lash of heat.

"Never mind!" she yelps, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears.

But it's enough to give him whiplash. NEVER MIND WHAT SHE JUST SAID. A palatable command, in this context. NEVER MI—

It hurtshurtshurts and he

N E E D S.

To break free, he surrenders.

For a sickening, lurching moment, his perceptions stretch and blot. Ice douses heat. The ground slips out from underneath him, turning to white waves, pulling him under. Into the undertow. He'll die. He is dying. Drowning. No. No, no, nono.

He B R E A KS.

Evaporates.

Reassembles with a missing piece.

Pavarotti resettles on his sternum.

"I'm sorry," the Detective is saying, her voice cracking. "Lucifer, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to force you to be okay."

"It was an accident," he agrees numbly, incurious about what she carved from him—incuriosity is what she desired. But he remembers the track of the conversation before. He felt the pit in his chest before. The pit that's still there—there again—burgeoning. "You … you ruled out going to the club."

"Okay. And?"

"Because your pet is too bloody sensitive to tolerate the endeavor," he almost snarls, "or so you seem to think, despite my repeated assurances to the contrary."

Another stretch of silence. In the window, the lengthening sunlight frames the sharp angles of his face. His darker countenance stares back at him. His mirror self.

"Lucifer, I didn't make the choice not to go because you're having issues."

"Didn't you?"

"No," she says, "I made it because there's a bunch of lower hanging fruit to grab—going to a club like Dominus involves some major logistics—and because I'm having issues."

"You're having issues," he scoffs.

"I didn't want to take advantage of you."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Because as much as I wish it was—not an order—our dynamic right now is not normal, and I can't just proceed as if it is! I can't just … do that."

Frustration boils in his gut. He rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Also," she continues a little more hesitantly, "I've lived a very vanilla life compared to yours."

He sneers at his reflection. "Well, that's true of anyone, Detective. I'm half the original bloody sin."

"Look, I'm not opposed to going to that club," she replies, not rising to his bait. "Not at all. But let's not decide while we're upset. And … let me work up to it, first, since we've got other options, yeah?" She pauses. A tap-tap-tap noise follows. Like she's drumming her fingers softly against the steering wheel. "I'm … still processing my shock at seeing that store. I mean, oh, my God, that store. And that's a normal day for you?"

"Not really," he grumbles. "I usually order online."

Another pause. "Lucifer, I didn't mean to make you feel you don't have a say. I thought we were just doing what we always do."

"What is it you think we always do?"

"Well, I … I tell you where we're going, and you seem happy to go along with whatever I pick." Her tone shifts from hopeful to glum when she adds, "Or, at least … I thought you were."

"Detective, I quite often am," he assures her, finally peeling himself away from the window. To the contrary of her composed tone, in the past few minutes, her expression has twisted from what had seemed to be gentle amusement into something haggard. "You're the expert at detecting, not I. But in this case, I'm the expert—the sexpert, if you will—and you're … not willing to utilize me."

"Lucifer, that's not true."

"Isn't it? You just said you didn't wish to take advantage."

"Well, I didn't mean like that," she protests. "Of course I'll utilize your expertise!"

"Really." He gestures to the fetish store. "You were so reluctant to come here you saved it for last, despite the high probability of it providing information relevant to your investigation—certainly more relevant than vague inquiries at the victim's place of work, anyway—and now you're doing the same bloody thing with Dominus. Yet I've never known you to take the path of least resistance when you think a more difficult course will yield better results."

"I promise it's … it's not because I think you can't handle it, or because I don't value your experience."

"You're truly that horrified by fetish play?" he asks.

"I'm not horrified," she says. "There's nothing horrifying about people having consensual fun in different ways than I'm used to." She tilts her head, regarding him. "There's nothing horrifying about you doing that. Just"—she takes a shuddering breath—"it's a lot for me to take in all at once, yeah?"

The truth as she knows it. His hackles lower.

"And I'm sorry I made you feel like my sl—my subordinate," she continues. "You're not. You're my partner."

Lucifer, you are not a fantastic listener, Dr. Linda echoes in his head like a gong.

He looks at his lap, loosing a self-deprecating, breathy laugh. He'd snapped, hadn't he? Been exactly what the Doctor had accused him of being.

Lived down to expectations, like he always does.

Of course the Detective is uncomfortable with the direction their investigation seems to be taking. Tolerant, yes—remarkably so—but she's never been comfortable with witnessing overt sexuality, vanilla or otherwise. And this case is suggesting they jump headfirst into a banana-split sundae with all the fixings.

"It … seems rather silly of me to take offense, in retrospect," he admits.

"It's not silly," she assures him. "We're in a weird place, and I wasn't exactly transparent with my reasoning."

"No, but I know your heart, and I shouldn't have leapt to …." He shakes his head. "Please, Detective, will you forget I said—"

"Done," she's quick to reply before amending hesitantly, "… Answer a question for me, though?"

"What question?"

"Is there something else … wrong? Something more than you feeling voiceless?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Because, up 'til now, even though you've vented, you've been pretty careful about not directing your frustrations specifically at me." She gives him a regretful look. "I guess this just felt … more personal?"

More personal, indeed. "Detective, I …." What to even say.

"And, really, I'm not trying to begrudge you your need to vent," she continues. "You deserve space to do that."

"As do you," he interjects. "This is difficult for both of us."

"Yes, but"—her gaze searches his—"is that all it is? Things being difficult?"

He fidgets. How she always makes him feel like a twitterpated, tongue-tied fledgling, he'll—

"You can tell me anything, yeah?"

Bloody …. He sighs. "It's only … I very much desire to attend that club with you."

"Right"—she nods—"for the investigation."

"Irrespective of the investigation."

Several cars swish by on the street before she seems to gather up her thoughts, reorganizing them with the new information he's provided.

"Okay," she says calmly. "Why?"

"Because it's my fantasy."

"What is?"

"Going to Dominus. With you. I dream of it."

She blinks. "You … do?"

"Before Eve. During Eve. After Eve. Now." He laughs unhappily. "I … yes, I do, Detective. All the bloody time."

"Really?"

"As I keep telling you, Detective, my fantasies involve you. All of them. Of course I'll leap at the chance to partake."

"But … this would be for work," she says, frowning. "Not pleasure."

"Well, any port in a storm, you know. I can make work fun."

"Okay." She settles back in her seat with a dumbstruck expression. Her coat rustles as she folds her arms, rubbing her biceps. "Okay, I … did not expect that."

"Detective, I'm the Devil. Surely, you've had an inkling of my proclivities? It's not as though I've been shy about expressing—"

"No. No, you're right. I—" She stares at the steering wheel like her brain momentarily disconnected the call between it and her body. "Wow."

"Is it a dealbreaker?" he asks tensely. When she doesn't answer, he feels compelled to add, "It's not a dealbreaker for me, of course. Truly, I'm amenable to anything you des—"

"No."

"Of course," he rushes to say, gut sinking. "Forget I said—"

"I meant it's not a dealbreaker."

His world stops. "… Really?"

"Really." She dares a shy, warm glance at him. Her eyes are beautiful in the light. Beautiful always. Pleasant heat unfurls through his body. "Just … let me process, first, yeah?"

He tugs at his collar. "I can be patient."

"It's just … your sexuality has always been this thing safely on the sidelines for me. Something notable to glance at occasionally while I'm out on the field, solving cases. But … it's pretty much the soccer ball now, and—"

He waves dismissively at her. "Yes, yes, I get it."

"Sorry." More shy smiling. This time, wider.

"You realize, though, if we're to follow this metaphor to its sordid conclusion, you're kicking me in my so-called ball."

She snorts. "Yeah … yeah, I … really didn't think that one through."

"Honestly, what is with you ladies liking CBT?"

"Do I want to know what that is?"

"Given this conversation," he says, suggestively licking his lower lip for her, "I believe, 'no,' is the safest wager."

His theatrics are rewarded with one of her patented eye rolls. His brain feels fuzzy in a good way. The ache of previous anger and arousal is gone. For the first time in recent recollection, he isn't tired. He's just … happy.

She makes him happy.

Not because she commanded it, but because she could, and yet she doesn't. Wouldn't ever. Couldn't bloody fathom it on her worst day, even in her worst way.

She's willing to see him.

All of him.

The Devil.

No matter what.

She brings out truths in him he likes.

"Detective?" he says softly.

"Yeah?"

"What's your fantasy?"

"I can't tell you that," she says. "It'd just … it'd hurt you right now."

"Am I in it?"

Her shoulders curl defensively like she's expecting to be met with teasing, or a smirk, but he isn't smirking, and he isn't teasing.

"Please, tell me," he says. "What do you desire?"

She sucks in a breath. He cups her chin, tipping her gaze toward his. She stares at him, her eyes searching, almost pleading. As he strokes her jawline, the soft silk of her skin slides under the pad of his thumb.

"Please," he repeats. "I wish to know."

She rests her hand over his, staying the motion of his palm as she clutches it to her face. Her eyes close, and she inhales deeply against his skin. "Lucifer, I want you to stay."

His euphoria crashes like a bombed out plane.

"That's it," she says, sounding small. "That's my fantasy."

"Detective, I—"

"Please," she continues, interrupting him. When she opens her eyes again, they're wet, and this time when she blinks, tears streak down both cheeks in tandem, leaving glistening tracks. "Please, don't go back to Hell when this is over. At least, not permanently. You could commute or … take shifts. Work part-time. Anything. I'll take anything with you as long as it's not nothing. One weekend a year. Please, I … oh, God, I can't believe I'm begging. I promised myself I wouldn't." She sniffs, pulling away from him. "This is so humiliating."

His heart cleaves. He understands humiliation, now, after his latest Hell tour. "Please, don't be ashamed," he tells her. "You've said nothing I wasn't already thinking on the balcony."

"But," she laments, "you seemed so … placid."

"Why do you think I left so bloody quickly?" He clears his throat, trying to keep it from closing completely. "If I'd stayed another moment, I would never have left, and I would not have been placid."

"Oh." They sit in heavy silence for a moment before she claps her hands against her lips, turning to him with a gasp, only for her stress to wash away again in another heartbeat. "You're not even twitching. Why are you not …?"

"Because it doesn't hurt. Not physically, anyway."

"But I … told you to stay," she says breathlessly. "Does this mean you'll stay?"

Her hope carves him up like a knife. "Perhaps, I can't be bound beyond the extant boundaries of the compulsion."

"Oh." She sounds numb.

He stares out the windshield at a young couple strolling hand in hand down the sidewalk. They're laughing. Bumping hips. Two suns, revolving around each other. Just being, without care for their surroundings. Something sharp and hot scoops out his insides. "Detective, that's really all you fantasize about? Me staying?"

"Yeah."

He turns to her again. "There's … truly nothing else?"

"Right now?" Her lower lip trembles, but she tamps the motion, swiping at her mouth with her palm. "No. I'm … I have a hard time thinking farther than that anymore."

"Detect—" He takes a breath. "Chloe." The word tastes strange but lovely on his tongue. "Chloe, you've my word, if the compulsion ever breaks, I won't leave permanently without giving you time to speak. I won't leave you until you're satisfied there's no other solution."

A grieving hiccup catches in her throat. She rubs her eyes. "Sorry if I don't exactly find that comforting."

"A lie would be worse."

"I know. I—"

Static crackles over the radio before dispatch cuts in, mumbling something about a four-fifteen something something at an address in Central LA. The Detective rubs her eyes as she listens. "That's"—she coughs, still grieving—"only a mile from here, and it's on the way to Trixie."

"What the bloody hell's a four-fifteen?"

"An unspecified disturbance."

Hmm. "Not our normal fare, is it?"

"No, but we're already here." She peers at him, her glistening eyes hopeful, her eyebrows raised in question. "Could be a nice change of pace?"

So could Dominus, he barely keeps himself from saying. But he promised patience. And they need to escape this bloody car for a bit. He could swear it's booby trapped—have a seat inside, and there will be an unpleasant talk.

"Well, don't let me stop you, Detective," he decides with a hollow grin. "I've nowhere else to be."

Nowhere he wants to be, anyway.

In that respect, the compulsion is a comfort, assuring him Hell is far away, well out of reach. He closes his eyes, relaxing into the seat as the Detective exchanges words with dispatch over the radio.

"Ten four," she announces once she's satisfied. "Unit Eight-Three-One responding. ETA: Fifteen minutes. Out."

The address turns out to be an alley Lucifer had driven past countless times. A narrow, dark junction of grease-and-gum-spotted pavement between a dry cleaner and taco shop. The surrounding buildings are ramshackle, beat down by the relentless assault of sun, smog, and sediment. Four large garbage bins block the alley from view.

The Detective drives past and pulls the cruiser into the next alley down, about two blocks away. After parking beside the brick wall of a martial arts studio, she places her police placard onto the dash once again, and then checks her face in the mirror.

"You look fine with your sunglasses on," he tells her. "Nothing too smudged. Only your eyes are red."

She sniffs and nods. "Yeah."

Lucifer opens the passenger door of—BANG!

"Now, this sounds familiar," he muses.

"What does?" the Detective says.

BANG! The sound resonates, distant. Not ordnance, but a collision of metal with metal. Like a car crash. Over, and over. "You don't hear that?" he asks.

BANG!

She tilts her head. "No?"

"I swear, you humans are deaf."

They leave the cruiser behind, the Detective locking the car doors by aiming the key fob over her shoulder as they walk away.

BANG!

"That one, I heard," she says. "You don't think it's another de-gloved soul, do you …?"

"I'm not certain what to think. Let's see, shall we?"

The banging continues, crescendoing like a burlesque drum routine as they approach the alley. The stench wallops Lucifer when they're a block away. Cloying. Unnatural. Unholy.

Revulsion screams through his body. Enough to make him cringe, were he not in control of his faculties, but he is. He vents his need to grimace into toying with his absent ring.

Why do you wear this, my king? I've always wondered. Lilith's fingers are cold as she takes it from him. Cups it in her hand. Strokes the gleaming onyx setting. Is it powerful?

He doesn't want to answer. He tries not—

The sound of dry heaving drags him through a long tunnel, back to the now. They've reached the mouth of the alley. "Oh, God," the Detective croaks as she fumbles for her wintergreen tube with one hand, her other hand clapped over her face. "I still don't know how you stand that." She slathers the mint-scented gel under her nose. "Can you see a"—BANG!—"soul?"

His cavernous throne room sprawls under a giant chandelier made from polished obsidian shards like stalactites. BANG! The chittering crowds ring the edges of the floor, all laughing—jeering, stomping their feet in encouragement—at his pain.

"Lucifer?"

The image dissolves. "Sorry?"

She wraps her hand around his wrist, giving him a squeeze. "You okay?"

He stares at her hand, gripping him. His arm seems like someone else's, far away. "Yes. Yes, I'm …." His heart is pounding again. He focuses on the warmth of her skin. The pleasantness of her touch. Not like Lilith's icy grasp. "Yes. Fine."

He turns toward the alley.

Loose tendrils like sunlit spiderwebs cascade from a brilliant whorl the size of a rosebush. The sight sears his retinas. This … isn't right. This shouldn't be here.

"Yes, Detective," he says. "I see a soul."

The whorl contracts like a condensing cloud. The spiderwebs all spasm in unison. Pain. Confusion. Both shockwaves of emotion roll out from the epicenter, the force lifting the dumpster lid six inches before crashing it down again. BANG!

He steps into the shade of the alley.

The Detective follows behind him.

The air chills like a polar vortex. When they round the garbage bins, more of the picture unfurls for them. A small pile of soiled blankets and dirty rags resides at the "feet" of the soul, and underneath the wrongwrongWRONG smell of something that Should Not Be, he discerns stale urine. Excrement.

"Humans can be so bloody foul," he mutters.

The only question remaining is whether this human was a victim of that foulness, or a perpetrator. Or both. Perhaps, she'd been complicated.

"Will you help him—her?—like you helped Alastor?" the Detective asks softly.

"Her," he confirms with a nod. "And yes."

"You can tell without a body?"

"Genitalia is not gender, Detective," he scoffs. "You humans fixate on such … irrelevant minutiae."

"Right. Yeah. That's … fair."

He tips his head toward the street. "At least, the smell has scared off potential onlookers."

"I'll keep lookout," she decides, trotting back to the alley's entrance, her boots clomping on the stained pavement. She looks left. Then right. "All clear."

He unfurls his wings. Another BANG! from the disoriented soul mutes the rustle of his feathers as they shift out of warm ether into cold reality. The bracing shock of transition hits him like an ice bath, and he can't help but pause, reorientating.

"You okay?" the Detective calls behind him.

"Hmm. Yes."

He places his palms against the shivering edges of light. The soul calms just from his touch, vibrating in place instead of flailing. And then he Speaks to her.

He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, his fingers steepled in front of his chest, his nose tipped toward the sun. Azrael, please, talk to me, he prays. Tell me, what is going on?

And then he waits.

But for what feels like his millionth plea since they'd found the "ghost" of Alastor Blackthorn on Tuesday, Lucifer receives only silence. His lower lip twitches as he fights with his impatience. There are abundant explanations for her absence, many of them not implicating instability of the universe. What niggles is the fact that Amenadiel's gone, too, at the same bloody time, immediately after expressing a desire to go to Hell. What niggles is the fact that all of this has roughly coincided with Lucifer's mysterious ill fortune.

Dread coagulates in his chest.

Amenadiel wanted to go to Hell. Azrael spends time in Hell to make deliveries. Hell-adjacent is her status quo. Lucifer and the Detective have every reason to think Lucifer, King of Hell, had bloody well been in Hell until last week.

Is Hell the Typhoid Mary in this equation?

Is there an equation at all?

Look, Azrael, I was willing to offer the benefit of the doubt, he snaps, but it's clear to me something is amiss, and I bloody well need to know what. Stop pissing around and tell me.

But … nothing.

Amenadiel, if you answer no other prayer from me, please, answer this one. Please, brother. Are you well? Dr. Linda is quite concerned. As am I.

Nothing.

He grinds his teeth, widening his focus.

Will someone please inform me what the bloody hell is going on? I know I've … I've not precisely been a team player in the past, but I'm here now.

Nothing.

Hello? he screams into Creation.

Nothing.

Not one bloody sibling responds. Not one.

The Detective sighs beside him, and he opens his eyes. Sharp spears of setting sun make his pupils constrict. At some point, she'd retreated, using his taller stature to shade herself from the dazzle in the west. Now, as cars swish past on the street behind him, buffeting his back with warm bursts of air, she bites her lip and stares at her phone with a pensive expression.

"Trouble?" he says.

"According to dispatch, the paramedics picked up the body of a homeless woman early yesterday morning," she replies, brushing flyaway hair out of her face. "She must have died in the alley the night before."

"Yes, I surmised as much."

"So … we'll say roughly forty-eight hours between time of death and the banging noises, assuming the noise complaints to police roughly coincide with the start of the banging. Which, give or take a few hours, means Alastor died late on Saturday or early Sunday, not Monday night." She tucks her phone back into her pocket. "Any luck?"

"No. Nobody is bloody answering me. But, of course, why would they? I'm the bloody black sheep."

Her mouth twists briefly into a half frown half grimace before she steps closer to him. Holds out her arm, her intentions clear. "This okay?"

"Yes."

She steps into his orbit, into his space, sliding her arms around his waist. Her cheek presses against his sternum, and he reflexively clasps his own arms around her. She inhales deeply of him before continuing in a soft voice, "It's their loss, you know. Them not talking to you."

His heart twists. "You always see the best in everyone."

"I don't have to look very hard with you."

He kisses the top of her head. "I don't suppose you've heard of any new disasters?"

"I checked while I was on hold." She slips her hands into his back pockets, holding him close. "Nothing."

"I … can't help but wonder if all of this is connected. Amenadiel. My predicament. These wayward souls. Azrael."

She looks up at him. "You don't think it's a coincidence?"

"It's quite a lot to happen all at once," he replies, shaking his head. "Detective, history has a history of being rather boring in the grand scheme of things. That's why Dad was so often in the 'garage.'" Lucifer stares into space. "Why I rebelled."

She doesn't speak.

"Or perhaps I'm reaching," he continues. "Perhaps Amenadiel has resettled into the boredom of Silver-City living, Azrael has decided once more I'm not worth speaking to, my compulsion is my punishment for thinking I could ever change, and these lost souls are some random aberration that will resolve itself in due time. Tragic but independent events."

"Lucifer, if your gut is telling you something is wrong, I think you need—if you want—to trust it." She pats her chest. "I trust it."

"Yes, well, what does trusting my viscera accomplish, precisely, beyond magnifying our angst? We can't do anything. You're human, and I'm trapped inside a three-block radius." Or … is he? Said viscera sink into the soles of his shoes.

"Is there any way we can rule out the idea you're reaching?" the Detective asks. "Process of elimination?"

"If Amenadiel and Azrael are, in fact, holed up in the Silver City, laughing at us," he replies, "I've no way to confirm that, no."

"Are you, like, just disowned? Or are you physically barred from going back to check?"

"Both. They stripped me of my access when I was cast down, and I've no weapons that would enable me to breach the gates by force."

She nods, saying nothing.

"Returning to Hell," he admits slowly, "is perhaps an option. My doing so may shed light on this situation."

The Detective's brow creases. "But … you can't. You're stuck. You said so."

"In truth, as even you have said, we haven't directly tested it."

She turns away from him to look through the window of the taco shop. The space is empty, save for one young man blithely dumping what looks to be an entire bottle of Tapatío onto his enchiladas. Mid-shake of the bottle, he glances up, his eyes widening when he realizes he's being watched through the front window. The Detective grabs Lucifer's wrist and drags him to the alley with the "ghost" he'd put into torpor.

"Detect—"

"Oh, God," she chokes out as the smell hits her human olfactory organs once again. Her fingers clench spasmodically, and she continues tugging him down the street, toward the cruiser, until, at last, they reach a wall that isn't comprised solely of windowpanes. Her panting fills the quiet. "Sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean to lug you around like a shopping bag."

He grins. "By all means, lug away, Detective."

"Really?"

"Is that not our usual modus operandi?" he says with a shrug. "And you've made freedom of movement a priority for me above all else, so you're not forcing me to comply."

"I know, but you've … been a little weird about touch since you came back."

"We were already touching. It's quite all right."

Her doubting gaze sweeps him head to toe. "Look, it's … it's only two souls, so far. Just two."

That they've found, at least. His mind invariably drifts to images of the Titanic, and one "small" iceberg, barely breaking the surface of the frigid ocean. But the sudden desperation-slash-hopefulness in the Detective's tone screams to him like a warning klaxon, and he keeps his mouth shut.

"That … doesn't seem so bad yet," she continues, not even sounding like she's convinced herself, let alone him. "Has Heaven ever stopped answering prayers before?"

"I wouldn't know," he answers carefully. "Excluding this week, I've … not precisely been chatty with them since I Fell."

Yet … excluding this week, Amenadiel has always answered, except when something was very wrong. Dad had answered as well, the singular time Lucifer had stooped to asking. The pit in his stomach widens to a chasm.

"Is … having a few de-gloved souls on Earth actually dangerous?" the Detective asks.

"Beyond the potential for injury when humans brave the smell and noise at just the right moment," he says, trying to keep his tone even, "I don't see how it could be. Not at such a low concentration. They're not … here, Detective. I mean, they are. But they aren't. They certainly can't interact with intention, good or bad. Regardless, I seem to be able to calm them." For now.

"So … we can afford to wait and see."

He inclines his head. "If you desire."

As it flies by, a car with a massive subwoofer blares music that makes his chest vibrate and his ears hurt. The Detective's gaze shifts toward the sky like she's pleading with … someone. Something. She swipes her fingertips under her sunglasses.

"Detective," he soothes, "nothing will happen here without your say. I won't fly off to Hell if you think it unwise. Literally, I can't."

"But," she asks in a small voice, "do you want me to let you?"

A weight settles on his sternum. The idea of returning to Hell turns his mouth dry. Makes him cold to the marrow of his bones.

"Detective," he rasps, heart galloping, "what if Lilith did to them what she did to …?" Me. He can't say me. Me means his wispy recollections are really real. Me means he's a victim. "What if they're compelled like I am, and I'm the only one lucky enough to have escaped? What if I left them behind?" He couldn't bear it.

"How could Lilith have gotten all three of you?"

"I don't bloody know. I don't even know how she got me, but clearly, it's possible, because here I stand, gotten."

"Okay, so … we have to rule it out if we can," the Detective says calmly, following his lead. "Like any good detective would. It's our duty as … as public"—she glances at him, squinting—"public-ish servants."

He doesn't speak, doesn't feel able. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to go. But how can he in good conscience not—

"Right now?" she adds, her voice quavering.

The first time he opens his mouth, nothing but a rough croak leaps out. He clears his throat, stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets. "This would only be for fact finding, of course. Just a quick in and out, and Bob's your uncle." He's not certain who he's reassuring. He tries to smile, but it hurts his face. "I'll be back before you blink. Benefits of bizarro time differentials."

She hugs him again, snapping shut around him like a bear trap.

You're mine, Lilith says, wrapping her arms around him from behind. All mine.

He sucks in a breath, petrifying in her arms.

"Shit, sorry."

Even as she snaps away from him, he pushes her backward. He has will and wit. He can defend himself.

"Lucifer?"

Reality sharpens again. He's holding the Detective at arm's length, but not letting her loose.

"… Detective."

"Yep." She laughs nervously, holding up her hands. "Just me."

Her body is warm. And clothed. And she isn't groping him. Or stroking him. Or saying deranged, megalomaniacal things. She isn't acting possessive over her prized exotic pet. She's only … Chloe Jane Decker. The woman who—for some bloody reason—loves the Devil. Loves him.

"It's all right," he manages, releasing her. "I'm … I'm all right." He takes a breath. Counts to three. Blows it out. "I'm all right now."

"You're sure?"

He nods, closing the gap, embracing her, instead. "Yes. Apologies."

"My fault," she murmurs. "I didn't telegraph."

"Have I hurt your shoulder?"

"Nope. Just startled me. You're quick when you wanna be."

He takes another breath. Counts to three. Lets it out. Like Dr. Linda said. It … helps.

"I love you," she whispers.

He rests his chin against her crown, and loses track of things for a while. The street. The traffic. The fading sunlight. All of it dims except for her.

"Ready to try this?" she says eventually. "I think if we wait much longer, I'll lose my nerve."

No. "I suppose we should, or I might lose mine as well."

"You're sure?"

No. "Do it."

She nods. And nods again. And again. "Lucifer, I—" Her voice is thick with grief. "I-I want you to check Hell for Amenadiel and Azrael, and then come back."

The pain is a nuclear bomb exploding inside of him. Unspecified need without a path for resolution. His groin tightens. He burns. A choking groan squelches out of him as his knees give way. He sinks to the ground, his body slapping against crumbling brick.

"Red," he croaks. "Please, red."

And then she's yelling, "Stop, I changed my mind!" from far away. "I changed it. Stop. Stay here."

The pain ceases. Fuck.

"Try"—he sags, panting—"try a simpler command. The wording might be finicky."

"Lucifer, I—"

"Just bloody test it, will you?" he snaps. "Be done with it alre—"

"Go to Hell!"

The pain crashes into him again like a runaway semi. He coughs, spittle dribbling down his chin. He needs. He needs. He needs … something. And yet nothing. And everything. All at once. He's on the razor's edge with no way to push beyond it. His fists clench, and he fights the empty urge to rut with thin air. "Red!"

"I mean, stay with me, instead!"

"Oh," he groans, relaxing. The world spins around him like a Dreidel, and he can't quite reorientate. Can't quite catch his breath. Everything aches, and his head is burning bright once more with porny pictures.

The Detective. Naked. The Detective, naked, straddling him. The Detective, naked, straddling him as she cups his— No, no, no. Not. Right. Now. Bloody hell.

He forces himself to stare at the nearest car—a red Miata with the top cranked down—parked along the side of the street. "Well, I suppose that answers that."

Without ambiguity, he's trapped on Earth.

Trapped in the not knowing.

Trapped with her.

If only he could decide whether to shout for joy or crumble in frustration.

I love you, his mind's-eye Detective says, rubbing up against him. I choose—

"Bloody hell!" he snaps. "Be quiet, daddamnit." He glances at the real Detective, whose mouth is forming a perfect little "o" as she stares at him. "Not you. Apologies."

"I guess we just have to wait and see how this shakes out," the Detective says as she lowers herself to the pavement beside him. "Can I put my arm around your shoulder?"

"Please, don't. I'm—" Stuck with an arousal dial cranked to eleven. Fuck.

"That's okay." A ghost of a smile fleets across her face. "We can just sit here." She pulls out her phone. "I'll tell Trixie we'll be late."

"Did you know Charlie Chaplin lost a Charlie Chaplin lookalike contest?" he blurts.

"Huh?"

"I'm trying to think of incredibly boring facts that have nothing to do with shagging you."

She frowns at him. Shrugs as she puts her phone back in her pocket. And then says, "Code two-forty is assault. Two-forty-two is battery. Two-forty-six is shots fired in a dwelling. Does that help?"

"Oh, yes, that's incredibly boring. Tell me more, Detective."

Chapter Text

Ghosts, Chloe types onto her laptop keyboard.

Google churns out a list of links, the first of which is a Wikipedia article about ghosts. Not helpful. The next several search results are all news articles talking about why people believe in ghosts, and what the speculated science is behind ghost sightings.

"Because the Angel of Death got kidnapped or something," Chloe grumbles under her breath. "Obviously." These hits are generic and useless.

"Yes, I don't think you'll find Azrael on Google, darling," Lucifer says tiredly.

"Who's Azrael?" chirps Trixie.

"Someone you'll not meet until you're at least a hundred-six if I've anything to say about it, which … is actually in doubt at the moment, so do be careful around sharp objects, heavy machinery, and ledges."

Trixie laughs, her pencil pausing. "You're so weird."

Lucifer doesn't comment except to sniff.

He's not-dozing on the recliner again, his eyes open to bare slits like a resting cat, his body cocooned by a blue snuggie. He'd come downstairs after a shower and some alone time, and they'd all eaten leftover Chinese food for dinner. Trixie has a tower of homework she's been churning through at the coffee table, while Chloe searches for answers from the couch. Not that answers are forthcoming.

Ghosts in Los Angeles, Chloe tries next, but that turns up useless results, too. Nothing but lists of all the haunted places in Los Angeles, like the Suicide Bridge in Pasadena, and Picnic Table 29 in Griffith Park. Not helpful, not helpful.

Recent ghost sightings nets her a bunch of random crap from questionable sources like the National Enquirer. "There's a ghost in my house," claims Tom Gallivant, movie star. "He keeps turning on the television."

Recent ghost sightings in Los Angeles just dumps her back to the lists of haunted places.

None of this is useful.

Angel of death, she types on a whim. She's unsurprised to find the Wikipedia article at the top of the stack. Wikipedia seems to be running a racket on search-result indexing. She is surprised when she clicks, though, and the link goes directly to a page about Azrael, which isn't a name she'd ever heard before Lucifer mentioned it.

"Huh," she mutters, skimming. "I did find her on Google."

"Pardon?" asks Lucifer.

"Sorry. Joking. I didn't know Azrael is one of the main archangels in Islam." In Chloe's panic reading on religion last year, she'd focused primarily on the Devil.

"Most religions have a little bit right, and quite a lot wrong," says Lucifer. "It's all a dreadful game of telephone, if you ask me. Gabriel's not terribly articulate to begin with, and then you have humans twisting his words more with every new translation. It was bound to get out of hand eventually. I mean, really. Considering he's supposed to have some bloody brilliant Plan, Dad didn't plan that well."

"Gabriel?" Chloe echoes, looking up.

"Yes, Gabriel. The Messenger. Surely, you've heard of him?"

"Yeah, sorry, just." Wow. "You talk about it so casually—it's hard to wrap my head around, sometimes."

"Is Gabriel fun like you?" Trixie asks. "We should invite him over sometime."

A derisive laugh barks from Lucifer's lips. "That'll be the bloody day."

Chloe keeps reading. At the bottom of the page, under, "See Also," there's a link for Charon, which makes her think of Ella's enthusiastic babbling at the crime scene. Huh. Surreal, now, knowing specifically what the right and wrong bits are. Surreal having "Hades" borrow her favorite snuggie to doze in her recliner.

Her work phone vibrates, an unknown number flashing across the screen, but unlike with her personal phone, unknown numbers usually mean someone from law enforcement is calling.

"Detective Decker," she answers.

Static flares across the line before a woman with a soothing alto voice says, "Hello, Detective Decker, this is Detective Paula Holtman with the Columbus PD. How are you this evening?"

"Good, thanks," Chloe says cautiously as Lucifer perks up, too. "You?"

"I'm doing well, thank you," replies Detective Holtman. "Listen, I'm calling regarding a person of interest, John Constantine. I heard through the grapevine"—thank you, thank you, Agent Adeboye—"that you're looking for this man also?"

Chloe shoves her laptop aside, rising from the sofa like a snapped spring. "One sec; lemme go somewhere private. My kid's home."

"Sure."

Trixie doesn't look up from her sprawl of math problems as Chloe vacates. Business as usual for a cop's kid. The recliner squawks as Lucifer pulls the lever, lowering the footrest.

Chloe doesn't hear him follow, but as she's turning toward the bedroom doorknob, he's there, inches from her face, eyeing her intently. She steps aside to let him through before shutting the door. He folds his arms, leaning against the wall as she sits on the edge of her mattress.

"Okay, I'm good now," she says into the phone. "So, you're looking for John Constantine, too?"

"Yes," says Holtman, "he approached me a few weeks ago, warning me off a case I've been working on. Approached me again a few days later. Then disappeared."

"He approached you in Columbus, Ohio?" Chloe says.

"Yep."

"Do you remember the dates?"

"October 17 and 22nd."

Chloe clutches the phone. The second date is barely more than two weeks ago. "What case was this?"

"Serial killer," says Holtman. "Gruesome. Bloody. Never seen anything like it, and I've been doing this job nearly thirty years. This Constantine guy told me I didn't understand what I was dealing with, and to back off, or I was going to die. Said to leave it to the experts. Frankly, I don't know what experts he could have meant." Her voice takes a sharp turn toward sarcastic. "I would think I'm the expert at catching killers. But what do I know."

Chloe shoots a look at Lucifer. He doesn't offer any input. He's still—a lion waiting in tall grass for a chance to pounce.

"What about your case?" Holtman asks.

"Yeah," Chloe says, "I have a kidnapping victim—no memory of the event itself, but he's convinced John Constantine might have some answers, and I'd like to pursue every potential lead."

"Why does he think John Constantine can help?"

"They have a history. Their social circles sometimes intersect."

"Well, does he have any idea why Mr. Constantine would be sniffing around my crime scenes?"

Lucifer takes a breath, opening his mouth, but Chloe holds up a hand. Detective Holtman doesn't need to know Chloe lives with the kidnapping victim. "I'll ask him next time we talk," she says. "I have an interview scheduled tomorrow."

"Sounds good. Please, let me know."

"Absolutely," Chloe says. "Listen, is there any chance you could send me your case file? I don't know how yet, but it might help me."

"I'll send you a link," Holtman replies.

They exchange a few more pleasantries before hanging up. Chloe checks her secure e-mail through her phone, making sure she got the link. She did. The pictures load slowly on her tiny phone screen, line by line, pixel by pixel, as Lucifer stalks to the bed and sits beside her.

"So," she asks, "why would John Constantine be poking around a murder investigation?"

"Because he thinks the murderer is a human armed with magic," replies Lucifer, "or isn't human at all."

"You mean like a demon? Or is there more supernatural wuwu I don't know about?"

"Not on this Earth," he says, which makes her shake her head like she's shivering. Multiverse stuff again. He speaks of it so casually; it's mind boggling. "Vampires, werewolves, all of that—pure myth here. Magic endures, barely, but that's all."

"So, you do mean like a demon."

The pictures finish loading. All she sees are smears of shining red before he snatches the phone away, zooming in, scrutinizing. "Yes," he decides, "a demon. The meticulous knife work in these photographs suggests a pre-Earth Mazikeen—an avid sadist without boundary or restraint."

He returns the phone to her. She scrolls, her stomach roiling at the familiar pale squiggles of torn viscera and blood-stippled, decaying flesh. "Maze does … this?"

"She did," he admits with a small nod. "Love tempered her considerably. There is no love in Hell."

Maze's offhanded comments about stabbing things cut into Chloe's awareness like they're knives themselves. "My sometimes babysitter … does this."

"Did, yes. In Hell. With other demons," Lucifer enunciates. "She would never hurt your child. She's quite judicious on Earth, actually."

Judicious, he says.

Maze.

But this seems like a conversation for later, when she needs a babysitter. Shakily, Chloe keeps scrolling, reading the particulars. The case has no known suspects. No point of commonality connects any of the victims—they've found twenty so far. Bodies had been piling up since July. July.

"You," Chloe says, "outlawed possession, right?"

Lucifer nods. "I did."

"Do other angels ever take demons to Earth?"

"That presumes other angels venture into Hell in the first place, which they do not. Azrael and her helpers never go beyond the Gates. Amenadiel, perhaps, but …."

"But what if you're right, and Azrael and Amenadiel are compelled? We know Amenadiel's been missing longer than this demon's been killing, so it stands to reason. Maybe, he was an unwilling taxi."

Lucifer's clenching the bedspread, staring into space like he's in a fugue.

She points at the date the first body was found. July 6th. "Does this mean Lilith caught you as early as July?" How long is that in Hell time? If five months on Earth is several millennia below, then what's four months, almost to the day? God, she sucks at math, but she's sure it's not a small number.

His empty stare unnerves her.

"Lucifer," she prods softly. "Does it mean …?"

He twitches, reanimating. "My ruling against possessions didn't stop the occasional delinquent idiot from trying." He sounds … hopeful. "Send me to Columbus, and we'll see."

"What."

He stands, brushing off the lapels of his robe. "Send me to Columbus to find the demon. It might have vital information on John's whereabouts, not to mention the state of Hell."

That's … a thought. She's still not used to having a partner who can zip all over creation at the speed of light. "Can you take me?" she asks, trying not to conjure images of Lois Lane draped across Superman's arms in a bridal carry. "If you go, I wanna go, too. We're partners, yeah?"

"You wish to leave your offspring unattended?"

"Well, I meant tomorr—"

"No," he snaps. "I wish to go now."

"Lucifer, Columbus isn't some small town where everybody knows everybody. I don't think twelve hours is gonna make much difference."

He scoffs. "Detective, I've no need to canvas neighborhoods to find a bloody demon. Not when it's likely the only demon for miles. What do you take me for?"

"You're saying you can just … poof right to it? In the dark?"

"Once I'm flying over the city? Yes."

O … kay. He'd mentioned before he can identify demons from "quite the distance." She just hadn't pictured "quite the distance" to mean an entire metropolitan area. Wow.

"Please, Detective," he continues. "I must find John Constantine. And this demon is killing. We may not have time before it slaughters someone else—I can dispatch it easily."

"But what about Lilith?"

"If this demon was sent by Lilith to reclaim me or kill you, why did it arrive months before I? And why would it be on a murder spree in bloody Ohio?" He speaks the word Ohio like a curse.

"Could the demon have knives like Maze's? Things that could hurt you?"

"Not unless an angel visiting Earth gave it a feather, and it knows how to smelt. The demon likely isn't here. Not corporeally speaking. So, it couldn't have carried knives from Hell."

"Unless it is here," Chloe says. "Or Lilith forced Amenadiel to give it feathers."

He flinches as though her words plucked his feathers just now.

"Lucifer, I think, maybe … making assumptions based on what used to be normal is a bad idea."

"I know. I know." He paces, his slippers slapping against the hardwood floor. "But, Detective, I must try. It is my duty to at least try."

"Your duty, huh," she says softly.

He stops, bristling. "Yes, what of it?"

"Nothing," she says, eyes watering a little. He has loved ones now. People he's willing to fight for, even at great cost to himself. "Just … you've changed, I guess."

"For the better?" he says, in a deceptively curious tone. But he isn't curious so much as wildly insecure. She can see it all over his face like an oil slick.

"Lucifer, if I answered truthfully, you'd probably orgasm."

He doesn't blink. "I could bloody well use one right now."

No way, followed by a nervous laugh, is the knee-jerk response she wants to give him, but when he doesn't even crack a smile, she rethinks things. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

Holy crap.

She meets his gaze. He doesn't look away. Doesn't move.

"You really want me to just …." She waves her hand in a weird, hitching gesture, suddenly feeling inarticulate. Her face burns like she's baking under a space heater. "Just …?"

"Yes," he repeats.

Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Really, why should she refrain from saying something nice, if he'll get pleasure out of it, and he's willing? She wants to give him pleasure. She loves him. And this compulsion has forced her to become circumspect in ways she hates.

"Of course I think it's for the better," she murmurs. "I'm proud of you."

He sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing, his eyes fixed on hers as the pressure builds. A moment passes. Two. And then he's swept away, relaxing with a pornographic, overwhelmed moan as his groin kicks beneath his robe.

She doesn't realize her fingers have drifted to the collar of her shirt until she's tugging at it. Hot. It's so hot in—she snatches the remote for the overhead fan off her nightstand, fiddling with the controls while he catches his breath. The fan hums as it spins up.

"Thank you," he says dreamily. "Oh, I needed that."

"Sure."

He drapes himself against her closet door like a used coat. Like, for once since this nightmare began, he's decompressed. Unwound. Pain free. Liquid Devil.

They don't talk about the orgasm.

She's not sure if she's glad or miserable for his uncharacteristic reticence.

Eventually, he peels himself off the wall, reconstructed.

"So, will you send me to Columbus?" he asks.

Despite his arguments, part of her still wants to say no. But … how can she? This could be the break they need. The break he needs.

"Will you let me listen over the phone?" she says. "I want to be there, even if I can't be there."

"I'd bloody well bring you along if you thought Beatrice were safe alone," he assures her.

On another night, maybe. Trixie's almost twelve now. She can be alone for short stints. Sometimes, all day, in the right circumstances. But not when there are potential stalker demons from Hell coming after them. Not when this might be a trap meant to draw Lucifer away from the house.

"Be careful?" she says in a small voice. "If you want."

"Of course."

She resists the urge to stroke his face. Or kiss him. She really wants to kiss him. Instead, she hands him her work phone, which he slips into the pocket of his robe.

"Tell me when you're ready," she says.

He nods, and then leaves the room, calling over his shoulder, "Back in a jiff. I'd rather not hunt demons in my bathrobe, if it's all the same to you."

Rolling her eyes, she flops back onto the bed to wait.

Unlike Hell, the curse seems to consider Columbus, Ohio an acceptable destination. By 9:30 p.m., Trixie's asleep, and Chloe's stretched out on the sofa, listening to Lucifer's citywide search. He's a good narrator, and the sound of his voice is a pleasant rumble over static and wind. He can't, as it turns out, sense demons throughout the entire city—his range isn't that insane—but he's broken the area down into grids, and he's checking each one at a blistering pace. A hunter, in his element.

Another burst of static floods the line before dissipating—a sign he's moved to another grid.

"Detective, it's here." The words are whisper quiet, deadly.

"Where are you?" she asks.

Her phone bings, and she pulls it away from her ear. A screenshot of the phone's GPS map, a blue dot marked at his location, pops into her text messages. He's somewhere near a river, but the name of it isn't listed. She notes the cross streets and the layout of the area, trying to picture it in her head.

"I think it's in this warehouse," he says, his voice muffled.

She switches the phone to speaker, so she doesn't have to keep juggling, as he sends another text, this time containing a photo of a ramshackle warehouse. Intricate cracks form patterns in the windows. The paint on the building is chipped, though it's hard to tell the color in the dark. A flash photo did no justice. No cars are parked nearby.

A metallic scream floods the line, making her cringe. A door he's breaking—warping—maybe? Footsteps.

"Detective, there's another body in here," he murmurs.

"Dead?"

"Quite. All fifty-seven pieces. I don't think it's fresh, either."

"Any ejected soul?"

"No."

So, whatever's happening with the bodies they've found in LA, it's not happening everywhere. She hugs herself as stress winds through all her muscles. They'll have to figure out a way to notify authorities without questions being asked. Maybe there's a payphone nearby that Lucifer can—

"Bakasura," Lucifer says in a sing-song tone. "I know you're in here. I can feel your oily little aura. Do come out, or I'll make you."

Something crashes in the background. Chloe jumps, dropping the couch cushion she'd been hugging. Another crash follows, and another. A roar. A slam. A high-pitched yelp of pain that sounds nothing like Lucifer, and then laughing. Awful, gurgling, wet chortles that make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Oh," says a strange pouty voice—a woman's, "you ruin all my fun." Like she chipped a nail or something.

"Lucifer," Chloe asks, climbing off the couch. "Lucifer, what's going on?"

Another picture pops into her texts. Lucifer's hand is clenched around a woman's throat, tipping her head back so her wide eyes and flared nostrils catch the flash. She's tiny. Brunette. Her pupils are so dilated it's impossible to tell what color her eyes are, and her mouth is ringed with bloodstains and bits. She peers back at Chloe with a fiendish, drooling grin.

"This is Bakasura," Lucifer says. "Bakasura, you should not be here."

"But I missed the humans so," Bakasura sulks sibilantly. "How they taste. So juicy and full of sssin. There is no food in Hell, you know. I was ssstarving."

"You can't starve," replies Lucifer without sympathy. "None of us can starve."

"I admit; it'sss predilection more than need. But they're delicious—unctuousss and rich—don't you think?"

"No," Lucifer says coldly. "I do not."

Chloe fights back revulsion, cupping her palm to her mouth. Hollow plinks like boards collapsing flood the line. Something smashes.

"Where is John Constantine?" Lucifer demands.

Bakasura laughs, the sound worse than knives scraping glass. "Oh, I led him on a merry chase."

"Where?"

"Here and there."

"Tell me where," Lucifer says.

A giggle. "More there than here."

"How long was he chasing you? Is he alive?"

"Tell me, did you ssslip Mother's leash, or has she sssent you to recall me?"

"What do you know?" Lucifer bites out.

"I know you're pretty when you beg, and when you bawl, and when you bleed.”

Silence.

"Lucifer," Chloe says, a lump forming in her throat. "Lucifer, she's just trying to rile you." Don't let her rile you, she wants to scream. Don't listen to her. But that would be a command. She clutches the phone, fingers shaking as she fights not to imagine the awful things Bakasura is implying. "Lucifer, I'm here. I'm right here on the line with you, yeah?"

Someone takes a shuddering breath—Bakasura, Lucifer, Chloe can't tell who.

"Has Lilith taken Hell?" Lucifer says in a soft, sepulchral tone, an abyss made by sound. "Who aids her? What's her plan? Does she have Amenadiel? Azrael? Tell me. Now."

"Promissse not to banish me?"

"No. You're killing humans."

"They do sssqueal so lovely, do they not? I—" The demon's words cut into choking noises. Something snaps. Like bone. Bakasura rasps with constricted laughter. "Mmm, yes," she purrs, delighted, as though she orgasmed from the violence. "Hurt me more, my king. No one here will play with me. All they do is die."

"I am not," says Lucifer in the abyss voice, "playing."

Another snap. Another laugh. "Lucifer," Chloe interjects, "she's just trying to—"

"The other one didn't ssscream like you," Bakasura continues, pouting again. "I was disappointed."

"What other one?" asks Lucifer.

"Angel, angel, angel."

Chloe's gut swoops.

"Which angel," Lucifer continues, a hint of desperation breaking through. "Where? When?"

"You all look so alike to me," Bakasura says, a nonchalant shrug almost audible in her tone. "I wonder, how did it taste? The blood and sinew. Did you sssavor it?"

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"I wish I'd had a bite, too. It looked divine."

A laugh. Shuffling noises.

"No!" Lucifer snaps. "No-no-no, wait!"

Something crashes.

Reverberates.

Then echoing, awful silence. Chloe can't even hear him breathing.

"Lucifer?" She says, waiting a few seconds. "Lucifer? Lucifer, talk to me. What happened?"

"He's gone," replies Lucifer, his tone odd.

"Lucifer—"

But the line disconnects, and she's talking to no one.

Constantine was spotted in Columbus, Ohio, Oct 22. Might have been tracking a demon, Chloe texts Maze. Backsera (sp?).

Oh that dick? replies Maze without delay. You know I'm banned from there right?

What? Chloe tilts her head at the screen, frowning as she types, Banned from … his dick?

No from Ohio silly. A pause follows, an ellipsis blinking. Not that it matters. Don't worry I'm on it.

Chloe forwards the pictures of the warehouse, and the map. Can you get LEOs to check? 2 bodies there.

Yup. Will do.

Chloe tosses her phone onto the coffee table, trying not to worry about her wayward Devil. He'd been incommunicado for about thirty minutes. He'd taken all of a blink and change to fly out to Columbus—his egress from her apartment had been so quick, the call had dropped in its mad scramble for nearby cell towers. But maybe he's taking time to collect himself on the return trip.

She wishes she had any idea whether Bakasura had been lying specifically to upset Lucifer, or if there'd been a grain of truth in any of his intimations. The demon had known of Lilith's machinations without being prompted. Implied, even, Lucifer had been enslaved—not just captured, tortured—long before his escape.

Did you ssslip Mother's leash, Bakasura had said, or has she sent you to recall me?

The idea Lucifer had been bound to Lilith first makes Chloe's stomach flip and quiver, a cold sweat slicking the palms of her hands. But if Lucifer really had been cursed months ago—millennia ago—how had Lucifer escaped after all this time? Why is he being left to his own devices? Why isn't Lilith retaliating when, as Bakasura has proven, she easily could?

The web is tangling like discarded earbuds. There's so much they don't know. Can't know. Not without Lucifer returning to Hell to gauge the situation.

Even that idea scares her, though.

What if Lilith hasn't done anything because she knows Lucifer will return eventually to help the "other angel," and she can afford to bide her time? Why waste effort chasing someone who's guaranteed to fly back of his own accord?

A shadow eclipses Chloe's television.

Lucifer, large and looming and dark, his crisp black suit revealing no hints of violence or blood. His face is pale, his body trembling. He rubs his arms, hugging himself like he's cold. Or lost. Or both.

"He's dead," Lucifer says softly.

"Who?"

"Bakasura. He's dead."

Her heart constricts. "You mean you …?"

"I didn't do a bloody thing. He ditched the body of the woman he'd hijacked, and then perished."

"I don't understand."

Lucifer shakes his head, a small stutter of motion. "Detective, demons can possess humans—astral project, if you will—but if they've no body to return to, when they leave their host, they perish. It's almost instantaneous."

"Okay," she says, standing slowly. "I'm not following."

"He ditched to evade retribution—my retribution—not to suicide. He was gobsmacked before he died. I felt it. I saw it."

She winds around the coffee table. The unsettled, almost frenetic vibes he's giving off—nerves skittering like spiders—fill her with foreboding. "And this is … bad?"

"It means his real body is gone."

"Okay," she says calmly. "And what could cause that?"

"I don't know. Demons don't do that." Lucifer shifts on his feet like he has no idea which way to direct his weight. "They simply … they don't. They don't do that."

"Don't … destroy each other's bodies?"

His distant gaze ticks to hers. He looks … destroyed, his face a rictus of disquiet and dissonance. "Oh, they'll kill each other easily enough when they're both at the wheel, so to speak. But bodies left behind for topside gallivanting are considered sacred."

"Maybe … Lilith did something? Would she—"

"Perhaps."

"Lucifer, are you okay?"

"He kept looking at me like I was a bloody joke. There was no respect. No trepidation. Only amusement. I've never seen such open defiance. Well, other than Mazikeen’s, but she's not …." Whatever Maze isn't, his thoughts seem to scatter like leaves on the wind before he can speak them. "Detective, I …." His voice is starting to wobble.

Chloe eyes the two-foot bubble between them, raising her arms. "Can I hold you?"

He doesn't reply, instead stepping into her space. She pulls him tight against her, pushing her fingers underneath his suit jacket to clutch his shirt. He's tense like a rubberband about to snap apart. "I keep having flashes," he whispers, pressing his nose into her hair. "I don't think he was lying."

"I'm here."

"I don't want them," Lucifer says. "I don't want to remember what she did."

"I know."

Chloe holds him as the moments pass, her fingers rustling against fabric as she strokes his spine. Late night becomes later. Longer. Deeper. Until the crackling emotional charge leaves him, and his weight sags like he's sleeping on his feet.

"Want me to sit with you?" she asks as they head upstairs.

But he waves her off, suddenly prickly, almost like he's mad at himself for falling apart. From her room, staring at the ceiling in the dark, she listens to him brush his teeth in the bathroom across the hall. He spends nearly seven minutes, scrubbing. Eventually the hallway light turns off. She can hear him through the wall, settling into bed.

The house quiets.

"I love you," she whispers.

Then she tries to sleep.

Chapter Text

He peers over the rims of his glasses—glasses he'd obtained from Reese's figment of Dr. Linda—glasses he'd assured would be returned once he was done. The figment had frowned, licked her lower lip, and offered him sex.

The worst part hadn't been rewinding to when he and Dr. Linda were fuck-buddies instead of friends. The worst part hadn't even been the aching temptation to acquiesce to her overtures, if only for a moment of respite. The worst part had been realizing, if he were to remain, he might glimpse the Detective. An echo who didn't believe. Fundamentally not his Detective. Yet he'd wanted to stay anyway.

His own Forbidden Tree dilemma.

An apple to irreparably alter his reality with one taste.

He will not—cannot—partake.

For self preservation, he'll not be "done" with the glasses anytime soon.

"Tell me, have you considered the flip side of your guilt?" Lucifer asks.

"Have ya considered leavin' me alone?" Mr. Lawson shoots back.

Lucifer sits before a rickety upright piano—nothing like the beautiful Steinways Mr. Lawson helps construct. Beside Lucifer on the bench, the man plinks out Für Elise, each note more wobbling and sharp than the last.

"I assure you," Lucifer grits out, trying not to visibly wince, "it's the other way around."

The "music" stops. "What's the other way around?"

"It's you who refuses to leave me. Whenever I'm away from here, all I can ponder is you—Dad knows why."

"I'm married, man," says Mr. Lawson, scowling.

"That wasn't a bloody pickup line!" Lucifer scoffs. "I'm merely contemplating why you choose to fester in guilt for debts already paid."

An exasperated sigh blusters in reply.

"You. Are. In. Hell, Mr. Lawson," he enunciates. "I. Am. The Devil." He waits for protestation, for the loop to violently reset, per usual. But nothing happens. "Hmm." He relaxes a little. "Well, that's progress, I suppose." Peculiar. "Have you been considering the flip side of your guilt after all?"

"The flip side of … what?" asks Mr. Lawson.

"Your guilt."

"I ain't got guilt."

"Mr. Lawson, I beg to differ." Pushing up his glasses, Lucifer holds out the pages he'd filched from the figment Dr. Linda's office. "And according to this article"—Shake It Off: 7 Ways to Let Go of Guilt—"considering the flip side of one's guilt is essential. It's step one!" He taps the printout insistently with his index finger. "So, chop, chop already. Quit playing the bloody piano, will you, and examine your mental deficiencies."

Mr. Lawson pulls the lid over the piano keys, the soft thunk resounding. "Fine. What's the flip side of my guilt?"

"Empathy, man," Lucifer insists. "Having guilt means you've empathy. Compassion. According to this article, it's apparently a plus—means you're not some garden-variety sociopath who committed murder out of a subconscious but futile desire to feel emotion. So, that's good, yes? Congratulations on not being a sociopath?"

"How's it good to hurt more?"

Lucifer opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns. "Yes … that … does seem a rather ill-conceived assurance for someone suffering enough to end up here. Perhaps step two will be more useful."

"Step two …?"

Lucifer flips the page. "Right any outstanding wrongs," he reads aloud. "Well, you can't un-murder." He looks at Mr. Lawson. "Have you tried apologizing to the relevant parties?"

The contorting, wrinkled, are you for real? expression hasn't abated from Mr. Lawson's face. "Relevant … parties?"

"I'm not certain," Lucifer answers. "Anyone who might be sad this waste of space is—"

"He ain't a waste of space," Mr. Lawson snaps. "I love him. He—"

"Mr. Lawson," Lucifer interrupts, attempting to sound gentle and only half-managing as his frustration bleeds through, "a man who loves you wouldn't burn you with a clothes iron on purpose."

Mr. Lawson balls his fists in his lap, his temples dancing as he clenches his teeth. "Nah."

"No, what?"

"Nah, I ain't apologized. I ain't got anything to apologize for."

"I'm inclined to agree." Lucifer tosses the printout onto the lid of the piano. "Really, this article doesn't seem geared toward justifiable homicide, does it?"

"Nah, I mean Ian ain't dead," Mr. Lawson says, rocking in place, making the bench creak. "Ian ain't dead, 'n he loves me. He swears he's gonna change."

"Mr. Lawson," Lucifer snaps. He adjusts to a mellower tone when the man flinches. "Dennis. Yes, Ian is dead." Lucifer glances pointedly over his shoulder at the floor by the coffee table, where the still warm corpse stares sightlessly at the ceiling, a purple ring of bruising encircling its throat. The phone—with its tangled cord—rests askew on the floor, the receiver off the cradle, beep, beep, beeping into the quiet. "You strangled him after he threatened to carve you to ribbons in your sleep, if you'll recall."

"Nah, I didn't," Mr. Lawson says, refusing to look at the body. "I don't."

"You did," Lucifer insists. "And perhaps he loved you once, a long bloody time ago, but that emotion twisted itself like a gnarled tree."

"Nah."

"He didn't change, Mr. Lawson. He will never change. Not here. He's stuck in a bloody pointless loop of compounding guilt, just like this one. Bathing in self-imposed misery for the rest of time, just like you."

"Nah. Nah, that ain't true."

"It is."

"No!" Mr. Lawson belts, the word echoing off the walls.

The loop resets like the snap release of a trebuchet. The sights and sounds and smells of the crime scene ricochet away, propelled through the air as a solid cannonball of denial. Mr. Lawson reimagines himself in his now—then?—pristine apartment, sitting at the center island in his kitchen, sipping a steaming cup of liquid guilt.

The Ian figment, clad only in boxers, stands by the stove, flipping a blueberry pancake with a spatula. "Ya can't leave," the figment is saying. "Denny, ya can't leave me. I love you. Please, I'll try counselin'. I'll try anything. But ya can't just leave. That last time was the last time. I swear."

Mr. Lawson closes his eyes, agonizing over his coffee cup before he says softly, "You're right. Maybe it'll be different this time."

"He'll never give you what you want," Lucifer warns. "Not approval, not unconditional love, not anything. Even if this were reality, I'd have my doubts, but it isn't."

Mr. Lawson turns around. "Get the fuck out, man. Just … just get the fuck out. I don't care who ya are."

Lucifer's fight bleeds out of him, replaced by frustration. He doesn't know why he bothers. "Of course. What's the bloody point?"

"Fuck you!"

There is no change in Hell.

He sits at his piano in the lesser throne room, tapping the B-flat key in a rhythm that's been niggling his neurons.

His subjects had fled the moment he'd sat down. Without prior exposure, demons seem too baffled by music to be enamored with it, and they tend to avoid, avoid, avoid.

He drops from B-flat to G and then D, a melody snaking out of his fingertips from distant memory. His eyes lose focus. Each note echoes off the shining black walls, resonating and stretching. When he hits the F and the E-flat, Lucifer's heart clenches like a fist. He snaps his fingers away from the keyboard, a silent snarl twisting at his lips.

Rhythmic wheezing hovers behind his shoulder.

"What is it, Squee?" Lucifer asks. "Why haven't you run like your brethren?"

Squee bows to the floor, long and low, almost prostrating himself. His rags spread like a puddle across the tile. "My king," he tells his knee, "I'm only curious why you make these sounds."

"Because I like to," Lucifer grits out. "Need you another reason?"

Squee closes his beady eyes, pressing his face against the floor. "No, my king. I am sorry." He genuflects as he backs away, out of the hall, out of sight.

With a sigh, Lucifer's fingers drift back to the B-flat. Four in a row, before he descends to the G, and then the D.

At least, despite their perplexed reactions to the Devil's music, the demons seem to have been keeping the piano clean. The deep red tones of the polished, lacquered wood gleam in the dark hall. He dare not open the hood, dare not chance giving Hell any extra inroads into the instrument, no matter how he desires to hear each note resonate freely in such an acoustic space. For now, though, with care and diligence, they seem to be winning the war against Hell's encroachment. A small relief—one infinitesimal assurance—in the crushing swell of hopelessness threatening to drown—

"What, Squee?" he snaps.

The wheezing turns into a high-pitched yelp as Squee pinwheels. Lucifer grabs a fistful of robes, righting him before he hurts himself.

"I am sorry, my king," Squee wails, trembling, and he drops to the floor anyway to kiss Lucifer's boots.

Bloody hell. Lucifer nudges the demon away with his shin. "Off with you, please, if you've nothing useful to interject. I wish to be left—"

"But why? I only want to see as you do, my king. I only—"

"This is why nobody likes you, Squee," Lucifer says, rolling his eyes. "Because you're an obsequious little troll."

"Thank you, my king," Squee replies, his voice like gravel.

Lucifer gestures to the doorway. Narrow black carpet bisects the room. "Go. Now."

"But …."

"But what, Squee? Either spit it out, or leave."

The demon's mouth quivers as he straightens. "Please, my king. I wish to know about this song."

"What bloody song."

Squee bows again, apologies gushing from his lips like water from a broken dam. "If it's not a song, what is it? I'm sorry if you've explained this before. I try so hard to listen to your every syllable."

"What the bloody me are you talking about?" Lucifer asks.

"The noise," Squee says, rocking back and forth on his clawed, crooked feet. "The noise you made just now, in that specific order! It gave me a picture, like you said it does for you."

"Gave you a …." Lucifer's heartbeat claps like thunder in his ears. "You mean, you've heard it before?" He taps the notes again—B-flat, B-flat, B-flat, B-flat, G, D, F, E-flat—trying to ignore the way they make his chest tighten. "This?"

Squee nods. "Yes, my king."

"And what picture did you see?"

"I was gleeful." A garish smile stretches his cracked lips. "It was nice to see you home again, serving in the loops, torturing someone fortunate enough to have garnered your esteemed attention." His needle-like teeth gleam as his smile widens. "Is this why you like music? Because the pictures turn you warm inside? It's wonderful."

"Well … yes, but"—Lucifer scowls—"what do you mean, I was home again, in the loops. When did I—" Realization hits him like an amped-up pugilist. "This is Killing Me Softly."

"Is it?" says Squee with a wheezy giggle. "How delightful. Will you play it again? I want to be killed just like you."

"No, that's the name of the bloody song," Lucifer replies.

"So, it is a song?"

"Yes," says Lucifer. But he'd never played this one before. Uriel had. Twangy and out of tune and wrong.

"My king?" asks Squee, his voice echoing as if through a long canyon. "Is it still killing you?" He sounds a little too excited.

Lucifer's breaths tighten as he recalls the feeling of Azrael's soul-shattering blade sliding into Uriel's soft gut. Again, again. Each time the damage had been more horrifying and gruesome than the last, yet … Lucifer hadn't been able to make himself stop. Not even as the blood had formed a tacky, rust-smelling smear between his grip and the hilt.

Again and again, he'd done it.

Stabbed his brother.

Killed him.

His guilt had been a boa, constricting him with every repetition, suffocating him harder the more he fought.

If Mum hadn't been there to yank him loose ….

Lucifer shudders, trying to dispel the memory. Sweat slicks his skin, but he feels cold. "Squee," he rasps, leaning against the piano as he rises, his body trembling. "Squee!"

"I am sorry!" yelps Squee as he rushes to genuflect. "I am sorry."

"Stop apologizing, you twit!"

"My king?"

"I think you've just solved my entire bloody conundrum."

"What is a conundrum?" Squee asks, frowning. "Is it bad?"

Lucifer pulls his fingers through his hair. He'd been trapped. In the loop with Uriel. He'd felt so much guilt he'd trapped himself. At the time, the punishment had seemed logical. Just, even. An eye for an eye. Even his mother yelling in his ear hadn't dissuaded him, at first.

And, yet … in retrospect. With perspective.

"Bloody hell. He can't create a new beginning if he's tangled in the past. That's why this whole bloody place is broken." Why simply talking to Mr. Lawson hadn't worked.

"My king?" says Squee.

Later, the Detective had advanced the narrative further.

Lucifer, you need to forgive yourself, she'd said.

I can't.

Why?

I don't know how to. I don't even know where to begin.

He'd been able to start putting his guilt away—to apply his desire for penance in more useful ways. But to get to that point, to hear the Detective, reflect, and act,

"He needs a mum, not a friend."

"Who does?" says Squee.

Without answering, Lucifer flares his wings and takes flight, leaving a gaping Squee by the now empty piano bench.

"Ya can't leave," the Ian figment is saying as the loop takes another lap into eternity. "Denny, ya can't leave me. I love ya. Please, I'll try counsel—dude, what the fuck?"

A gust wallops the papers and magnets clinging to the fridge, knocking them to the floor. Lucifer folds his wings, swiping the pancake griddle off the stove with a clang. The flame on the range licks his ruffling down, though it doesn't burn. Doesn't damage. It can't.

"Right, then," Lucifer says, interjecting his body between abuser and abused. "Come now, Mr. Lawson. Off we pop."

"What are you doin' here?" Mr. Lawson exclaims.

"Really, must we always, with the surprise, and the reintroductions, and the faffing about?"

He shakes his head like Lucifer took the pancake griddle and clocked him one.

"I'm exercising my bloody sovereign right as King of Hell," Lucifer enunciates, nodding pointedly toward the apartment door. "So, come on, then. This way to freedom, since you can't be arsed to find it yourself."

"But—"

"Come, come, come," he insists. "No dawdling. Haven't got all millennium, you know. Or, well, I suppose we do have all millennium"—he grips Mr. Lawson by the shoulders, spins him around, and gives him a gentle shove toward the door—"but I'd prefer not to spend it with you, and once you've some bloody perspective, I assume you'll prefer not to spend it with him." What was once plain white wood responds to Lucifer's presence, morphing into dark metal covered by glowing glyphs.

Mr. Lawson's eyes are wide. "Who are you?"

"The Devil. As we have discussed quite literally ad nauseam."

"But—"

"Mr. Lawson"—the glyphs crackle and hum and pulse—"it's time for you to leave this place."

"But I'm wearin' pajamas."

"You're not wearing anything at all. You've no body. None of this is bloody real."

"But—"

"Denny, please," calls the Ian figment.

Lucifer's eyes heat to molten as he fans his wings, blocking the figment from view. He grips Mr. Lawson's cheeks. "Look at me. Now. Look." An unholy benediction.

The injection of Word is enough to make the man listen. His blue gaze tracks upward, meandering along the twisting filigree of Lucifer's tunic. He locks onto Lucifer's face.

"Yes," Lucifer says, his stare burning bright with the fires of Hell. "Look into the eyes of damnation. Look at me."

"Ohmygod," Mr. Lawson blurts, cramming all three syllables into barely more than one.

"Quite the opposite, in fact."

Mr. Lawson's body trembles. "Please, don't hurt me."

"I've no desire to hurt you; I'm simply illustrating." Lucifer points to his burning eyes. "You are here, Mr. Lawson. This is not an idle threat; this is reality. You are damned."

"Oh, God." Mr. Lawson snivels. "Oh, God. Please, lemme go. Please, I didn't want this. I didn't want any—"

"Yes, yes, guilt, blah, blah—I've heard it all before." Lucifer releases him. The door glyphs dim, their icy glow deepening to a dark ocean hue. The massive door creaks open, revealing a glistening black maw. "If you desire to leave, then leave. I'll not force you."

"Denny, please," wails the Ian figment.

Mr. Lawson peers at the doorway before squinting suspiciously at Lucifer. "I can go?"

Lucifer nods regally. "You can."

"I'm … free?"

"Yes, Mr. Lawson. The only power keeping you here is you. I am not your jailor, only your unwilling keeper."

"What's on the other side?"

"Hell. But at least not a custom-built shrine to your misery."

"I won't hurt anymore if I leave?"

Lucifer's chest tightens as his mind drifts to the Detective. To Dr. Linda and Mazikeen and Beatrice and all his new friends, left behind. Possibly already gone to dust and ashes, long ago. He has no idea anymore. "You'll hurt, regardless, Mr. Lawson. Life is pain. But one would hope you'll not always feel this much of it."

Longing bleeds into Mr. Lawson's expression. "I … don't like to hurt. I'm tired of hurting."

"Aren't we all, Mr. Lawson?"

"Please, don't leave me, Denny," the Ian figment repeats.

"Shut your gob," snaps Lucifer over his shoulder. "You're not bloody helping."

"Please, don't leave me, De—" Lucifer jams the bladed edges of his feathers into the Ian figment's chest and neck and groin. Feathers slice sternum, sinew, and gut like rare filet. "—ckghgg."

"What was that?" Mr. Lawson says distantly, transfixed by the door. "Did I hear somethin'?"

"Nothing that need concern you," Lucifer replies. Wet warmth trickles down his wing as gravity pulls the Ian figment's body to the floor, where it lands with a sickening squelch. Lucifer hops to the side, hiding his soiled wing behind his back, his other wing still censoring the violence. He nods toward the door. "Go, Mr. Lawson. Embrace a future."

"What future?"

"Any future."

"But what if it's bad?"

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. "What if it's good?"

"But what if it's bad?"

"Then try again, will you?" Lucifer snaps. "And learn. And try again. And learn. And try again. That's what this bloody place should have been about to begin with. Not"—he gestures to the claustrophobic prison of pain behind him—"not this … pointless stagnancy. This … wallowing."

Mr. Lawson stares. "Was this door always here?"

"Yes."

"I never knew there was a door."

"Yes, a rather fundamental design flaw, I'm noting." Lucifer glares skyward.

"I can just … go through?"

Lucifer allows his eyes to cool to terrestrial brown. This time, when he touches Mr. Lawson's arm, his grip is gentle. "Yes. You can."

The man takes a tiny step toward the door.

"Yes," Lucifer enthuses. "Yes, do it! One foot in front of the other."

Another step. Mr. Lawson peers over his shoulder with a doubtful expression.

"Go. Now. Before you stagnate once again."

Another step.

"Yes," Lucifer says, almost a sibilant hiss. He makes a shooing motion. "Yes, good. Do it. Continue."

Another step. Mr. Lawson squares his shoulders. Swallows like he's trying to down a beachball.

"Yes, Mr. Lawson! Do it!"

With one last step, Mr. Lawson reaches for the void. His fingers brush the glossy surface, disappearing up to his second knuckles. He laughs. "Oh, it's warm in there."

"Well, it is Hell," says Lucifer wryly.

Mr. Lawson pushes his arms in, up to his elbows. His biceps. His smile widens. "It's warm," he repeats. "I miss warmth." And then he's gone, his body dispersed to light in the dark.

Lucifer steps through behind him, pulling the door closed as he's deposited into Death's Rows. Sand spirals from the dark sky, landing in his hair. On his shoulders and back. The shivering whorl of light that is Mr. Lawson hovers like a dandelion head, caught on the breeze.

"What," Lilith asks, "is that?"

"What's it bloody look like?" Lucifer snaps.

She's propped against the carved wall, her arms folded over her breasts, her legs crossed at the ankle. Black smudges cover her skin where her shoulder connects with obsidian, and her feet are black and bloody to the ankles. The winged harpy creature tattooed on her belly seems to shimmer and writhe as she pulls away from the wall, slinking sinuously toward Lucifer.

"Souls never leave cells," she tells him.

"Well," he snarks in return, "you said you wanted change."

"That"—she directs a disgusted look at the ball of light, her nose wrinkling—"is not what I meant. What are you doing with it?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"Souls come here to suffer, not—"

He leans forward, closing the distance between them in a whisper of movement. She doesn't blink when his eyes flash with Hellfire. Only stares defiantly back at him.

"Are you challenging my decision?" he asks.

"No, my king," she grits out, "I only caution you to … reconsider."

He doesn't blink either. "You said this place needn't be a prison—I agree."

"I meant for us. For my children. Not these"—she affords another cringing glance at Mr. Lawson—"these things."

"Humans," says Lucifer.

"Yes."

"Like you."

There was never any warmth in her eyes, but the words seem to freeze her body as well. What little color she had drains. "How dare you," she rasps in her lowest registers, hands shaking as she hits absolute zero. "How dare you rub my nose in what I have lost. What this place has robbed from me."

He smiles slowly, tilting his head. "I am the Devil," he says, raising his pointer finger at her chin. "Hell is mine. How dare you."

"Your vacation has corrupted you," she says, backing away. "That … that woman has corrupted you."

"What woman."

"Chloe De—"

He slams Lilith against the wall; her back hits the obsidian with a thud, followed by her soft, surprised gasp. "How do you know of her?" he demands.

An empty smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "A little birdie told me?" she says too innocently.

"Squee."

She winks as if to say, bingo. And then she reaches for him. Places her palm against the breast of his tunic. "You should not love, my king," she croons with a condescending tsk, tsk, tsk. "It never ends well."

"What do you know of love?"

"Nothing, anymore."

Her pointed tone makes his gut drop. He narrows his eyes. "Do not speak her name to me. Do not speak her name ever in this place."

A little bow. "Of … course," she purrs, so ingratiatingly sweet she could make maple syrup. Then she turns from him without fanfare.

The subzero chill in the air wanes as she departs, leaving bloody footprints in the ash and sand and dust. The fist crushing his heart loosens its grip. Shuddering, he returns his attention to Mr. Lawson.

"Now, where were we?"

At the sound of Lucifer's voice, Mr. Lawson contracts, condensing to a luminous, uniform sphere, and then he expands, splaying into a spiderweb maze of shining, searching tendrils. Like he's … stretching. At long last.

Lucifer scoops him up, cradling him against his chest. The sunlit tendrils snake up Lucifer's arm, tickling his skin.

"Come now, Mr. Lawson," he says softly. "I've things to show you."

Death's Rows expands into what feels like infinity in all directions. The sick souls—the guiltless—are sequestered in the Pit. But for every soul who ever died with requisite guilt, an address exists here. They live—if such an existence can be called living—amongst the impressive network of obsidian pillars, being slowly buried by ash—or, lately, sand—and other pyroclastic detritus. The pillars grow as the old layers are subsumed. Demons keep their personal favorites clear of obstruction, but the others fade from memory. Buried doors still exit into the hall, after all; will and intention do the rest.

"What is this place?" marvels Mr. Lawson.

He doesn't actually speak, and Lucifer doesn't actually hear him, so much as … knows. Knows the words. Deep in his heart, independent of brain.

"As I have said," Lucifer replies, "repeatedly. You are dead. You are in Hell. And I am the Devil."

"Ya look like James Bond."

Lucifer snorts softly, wishing he still had a suit like Bond's—the earthen fabric had long since disintegrated. "We've quite a few MI6 chaps in here, somewhere. But, no, I am the Devil."

"Ya really don't look like the Devil."

"Well, I am."

"But I was just in—"

"That was not your house in Astoria. That was your cell. One you created for yourself. And I thought it time you've a break, yes?"

Mr. Lawson doesn't argue.

Lucifer stretches his wings, his longest primary feathers brushing obsidian on either side of him. The remnant grit and grime on the glass clings to his body. More stains—smut—he'll never erase. Whenever he dares to fly down here where the ash is deepest, his luster dims a little more. Eventually, his feathers will be dull and gray.

He isn't meant for darkness.

He misses being clean.

Oh, to be clean.

That's why he goes for a dunk in the ocean first whenever he visits home.

Home.

The sand stops falling. He tries to push the pervasive ache away from his awareness as he beats his wings, pushing great swaths of air beneath him. His body lifts, and lifts, and lifts. Above the pillars, updrafts do the work for him, but he has to get there, first.

"Where ya takin' me?" Mr. Lawson asks as they rise.

"To my palace."

"To your palace. In Hell."

"Yes, of course. Do keep up."

Lucifer circles to the left. Scorching volcanic wind whistles against his skin. Through his feathers. The Screaming Cliffs tower in the distance, jagged hulking clefs of porous igneous, carved by erosion and eternity. The stench of brimstone burgeons as countless vents puke noxious steam into the air. But wind is why the Cliffs are named Screaming. As air hits the rocks and passes through, a steady shriek like a banshee wail fills the valley.

Luckily, the journey over the noisy Cliffs takes all of an eye blink. Only Death's Rows provides a noteworthy obstacle for an angel, and even then, only because of the sheer—always expanding—area it covers.

"Why'd ya pull me outta that place?" Mr. Lawson asks.

"Think of me as your mum today." Lucifer frowns. "Well, not literally—you're not the antichrist."

"That's … good?"

They land in Strife, just outside the portcullis, which lifts when Lucifer wills it. Swirls of volcanic glass crack beneath Lucifer's boots as he strides forward, futilely trying to shake the silica from his wings before he folds them away. He passes through the double wrought-iron door of the palace. The front hall is grand, staircases ringing the room on either side. Lucifer goes straight though, into the lesser throne room. A coterie of demons loiter, bowing as he enters.

"Here we are," Lucifer says, ignoring them.

"You live here?" Mr. Lawson exclaims.

"Upstairs, yes. This is where I receive visitors."

But for once, no one seems to be waiting for him, neither to speak to him directly, nor to deliver an important message. No one comments on the nuclear light ball swaddled to his chest like a baby in a papoose. No one is even looking at him now. Which is … odd. Still, gift horse, mouth, and all that. He backs up a step, but a tiny gasp stops him from retreating from the room.

Mr. Lawson. Fixated on the Steinway Model D, sitting in the corner of the throne room.

An anticipatory grin tugs at Lucifer's lips as he heads to the bench and settles. Pushing back the keyboard cover, he improvises a quick melody in A-minor. "Lovely, isn't it?" he says, heart suddenly aching all over again.

"Sure sounds better than mine did," Mr. Lawson replies.

"It's not a gross condensation of guilt, so that helps." Lucifer frowns again. "Well, probably not, anyway. Truthfully, I'm not certain what produced it. There was no music in Hell before this." But he can't see how a piano could be harmful outside of doubling as an anvil in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon, unless the agony of nostalgia could cut like a physical blade. Which it can't. And again … gift horse, mouth.

"Ian bought it for me," says Mr. Lawson softly. "My piano."

"Ah. Um." Lucifer gently pats the little ball of light. The heat of it makes his fingertips tingle. "There, there?"

"I feel like a weight is gone, y'know? Or … or less, at least, but—"

"I know," Lucifer says, an easy smile stretching across his face for the first time in ages. "This is where you begin, Mr. Lawson."

"Begin?"

"To forgive yourself, one would hope."

Who'd have ever thought his palace would become a halfway house for the damned?

Lucifer shifts into the whimsical chords of Clair de Lune. He closes his eyes, trying to picture it. The moon. It hung over his balcony on the night he left the Detective. … When had that been?

"Did I make this piano?" Mr. Lawson asks.

Lucifer hits a wrong note and stops. "I've no idea, really."

"May I play?"

"May, yes. What's mine is yours. But can? No, I'd wager probably not."

"Why not?"

"Well, you've no solid limbs, for one, and most of Hell isn't built to adjust for you," Lucifer answers wryly. "But I can play for us both. Would you like to listen?"

"Oh, yeah. Please."

"Any requests?"

"Whatever ya want."

Home.

The word carves him out, leaving ruin like the knife he swore it couldn't be. Home is what he wants. The keyboard in front of his hands blurs. Perhaps he'd been wrong about nostalgia.

"Hey, are you okay?" prods Mr. Lawson.

"Oh." Lucifer blinks a few times, clearing his throat roughly. "Never you worry about this old Devil, Mr. Lawson. Now, what was I to play again?"

Suspicion vibrates through their bond like someone struck a tuning fork. Still, Mr. Lawson only repeats slowly, "Whatever ya want."

Lucifer considers for a moment. What might make a good "welcome to your beginning" song, to hear and feel and be. In the end, though, his favorite smile framed by his favorite face won't stop tugging at his heartstrings like a puppeteer, and the song he chooses has little to do with anything else.

"I remember this!" Mr. Lawson exclaims. "I used to play it with my baby brother."

"Oh?" says Lucifer.

"Yeah!" Mr. Lawson's enthusiasm contrasts with Lucifer's solemnity, a moat that makes an island, as the lyrics coalesce. "Heart and soul; I fell in love with you. Heart and soul; the way a fool would do. Maaaadly—"

Chapter Text

"It's all bloody gone now. Dad fixed it. Amenadiel and Azrael have returned. I'm free."

A buoyant but bass rumble of laughter drags her attention from her book, just as his smoking wings fold behind his back, the only remnant of his transformation two horns curling from his forehead. He pats his chest, smothering the last flicker of flame before it singes his pocket square, and then strides to her bed. "Detective, do you know what this means?"

"You're not compelled anymore?"

"Nope," he replies, smugly popping the p. "Command me to do something."

"Um." She sets her book down on the coverlet by her hip. "Get me a drink?"

"No!" He preens, not moving. "Do it again."

She grins hollowly. "Sort my sock drawer."

"No!" His enthusiasm makes her chest ache. He tilts his head. "What's wrong, darling?"

He smells of brimstone. Of smoke. His prison, calling him home now that he's free. Irony. She closes her eyes as her thoughts become the soft buzzing hush of white noise. "Does this mean you're leaving?"

The bed creaks as he sits beside her. He cups her chin with a warm hand, holding her gaze with his own. "Hell is gone. I'm not going anywhere."

"What?"

Lucifer shrugs. "Dad decided it wasn't fair. Rewrote the whole death process. Detective, I'm free. We're free."

"Really?"

"Really, darling." His eyes are bright like stars. "I'm yours if you'll still have me."

Tears make her vision blur as she nods, too overwrought to speak. He pulls her into his arms, and kisses her once, chaste and quick, a hey, I'm here peck on the lips. A second time, less so. A third, delving, exploring, and the world goes topsy turvy as they tip over, laughing.

She strokes the curve of keratin near his hairline. "I thought you said you didn't have horns."

"I don't," he replies, "but this is your dream." He nips her lower lip. "Have a bit of a horn fetish, do we?"

"Red!" someone says far away. "Detective, red!"

She pushes the intrusion away. "What can I say?" She wraps her fingers around both horns, making him her willing captive. "I think they're sexy."

"Lucky for you," he replies with a chuckle, "I'm self-actualizing."

He slips his hand under the waistband of her sweatpants, the heat of him snaking past her navel. Between her legs. Cupping her. She bucks in his grip when he—

"Detective, red. Wake the bloody hell up!"

Her eyes snap open to her ceiling pitching backward. Or she's pitching forward. Or— She flails in the fuzzy darkness.

"Detective, stop! It's me. You were dreaming."

Her fingers hit a hard warm thing, and her surprised exhalation becomes a shriek, but the hard warm thing claps against her mouth, silencing her. She squirms, twists, kicks, writhes. The ball of her foot connects with—

"Bloody hell!" he yelps. A gasp follows. A heavy thump.

The covers tangle. She—

"Detective, stop," he snaps. "You'll wake the child, and—" The word chokes off into a tight, ratcheting moan. "Bloody fucking hell. Red. Detective, please."

His suffering cuts her grogginess like a knife. Lucifer. She flips on the light. He's crouched on the floor. Hunched over his knees, his body framed by the dresser and the bed. His fingers, white-knuckled, clutch the fitted sheet. His teeth are clenched, his eyes squeezed shut. He's panting like he's trying to ride through agony.

"Red," he gasps. "Redredredredred."

He's almost sobbing. Sleep refuses to loosen its grip enough for coherent thought, but his safe word rings like a bell. "I don't want whatever's causing this!" she blurts.

Exhaling, he sags to the floor in a heap. He's naked, she realizes. Naked, save for his strained-at-the-seams silk boxers, and he's wound so tight he's trembling.

"Lucifer, what happened?"

"You were dreaming," he says tiredly. "And I heard you."

"I was … oh. Oh, no."

"Rather, oh, yes, Lucifer," he says, slipping into falsetto as he bangs his elbow against the box spring for dramatic emphasis, "oh, yes, oh, yes." He raises his fists over his head, running his grip over two invisible lengths. "And what was this bit, with the wanking two cocks, precisely?"

She's too mortified to speak.

Panting, he lowers his hands to wipe at his face. "Bloody … never mind."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's fine." He doesn't sound fine. His erection hasn't flagged. At all. He rubs his eyes, which are hugged by dark, bruised smudges. "Was it a pleasant dream, at least?"

She bites her lip. "Yes." Really. A lot.

"Might I suggest utilizing that vibrator you claim to own? Carry out the explosive conclusion while you're awake enough not to narrate to your slave?"

"I can't do that! Not when you can hear!" And there is no way she's commanding him not to listen to her masturbating. Jesus Christ, no. She's humiliated enough as it is.

"It's only sex, darling," he says. "Not a bloody crime."

He stumbles to his feet, his erection sticking out even further as he straightens his long torso. She tries not to linger on the bulge. Tries not to insert that detail into the remnants of her dream.

A soft sound of sexual frustration catches in her throat.

His muscles tense suddenly in a rippling, cording steel line, distress and desire blooming in his expression.

"I didn't mean that to be a cue," she snaps before he can gather his wits to safe word. He exhales, his shuddering renewed, as she adds, "I don't want you to pleasure me"—she claws her fingers through her hair—"Jesus-Christ-I-can't-believe-I'm-saying-this-out-loud."

"Wrong deity again." He gives her a hopeful look. "I … don't suppose you'd like to have a go now that everybody is conscious?"

Yes.

But ….

No. No. That would be wrong.

She hugs herself. "Lucifer …."

Stepping away from the bed, he holds up a hand. "Don't bloody say it. I'm so bloody randy again I can't bloody think. Forget I bloody asked."

Then he's gone in a puff of air.

Fuck.

With an inward, unhappy groan, she flops back to the bed, pulling up the covers.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Why did her stupid hormones have to get involved now?

Loving you is, he'd said.

Love.

Fuuuck.

The precinct is quiet on Friday morning—typical as people who've filed for leave turn two-day weekends into three. Chloe shoots an e-mail to Paula Holtman, explaining, "The victim told me John Constantine is an unlicensed PI with delusions of grandeur." Not … exactly a lie so much as embellished paraphrasing. That done, she leaves Lucifer at her desk to nose through her mail. In truth, she's happy to give him space after last night. She wishes she could give him miles.

When she pops her head into the forensics lab, she only sees the lab coat at first. The long black ponytail bobbing to the beat of Toxic, which plays softly over the bluetooth speaker on the counter by the computer.

"Hey, Ella," Chloe says, "I was wonder—"

The woman at the microscope looks up, her big blue eyes catching the light, her "black" hair turning deep brown with a few streaks of gray, and the Ella-illusion shatters. Jo Kinsey, one of the other forensic scientists on staff.

Which … is odd. This early in the morning, the only thing Ella should have been called out of the office for was another search warrant or incident to arrest, but they hardly ever execute warrants on Friday. Nobody had been squawking on the radio about any impromptu arrests, either.

"Where's Ella?" Chloe asks, frowning.

Jo shrugs. "Took some personal leave."

Shit. The call yesterday. The one Chloe had blown off in the USC parking lot. She'd promised to call back when she had a minute, but … never actually had. She'd forgotten.

"I hope she's okay?" Chloe says.

"Oh, yeah, she's fine," Jo replies, giving Chloe a dismissive wave with her gloved hand. "Said something about going to Miami. Some seminar something something she got invited to last minute. I don't know the specifics."

"Huh, small world."

"Hmm?"

"Dan's in Miami, too. He's coming back Sunday." Which … Jo probably doesn't care about. "Sorry. Never mind." Jo had divorced last month, and things had been … rough. Chloe folds her arms, resting her hip against the doorframe. "How are you doing?"

"We're dealing. The kids and I. Thanks for asking." With a blink and a sniff, Jo smiles in a forced-bright way that doesn't deepen her laughter lines. "Did you need something, Detective?"

"I was just wondering about that iPad I submitted yesterday. Did you guys start it yet?"

"Nope. Sorry."

O … kay. "Why?"

"Backlog." Jo holds up her thumb. "No legal search authority." Index finger. "No chain of custody report." Middle finger. "Not under seal." Ring finger. "Literally no explanation given at all …." Pinky. "Take your pick?" Irritation bleeds into the woman's tone, and Chloe gets the sudden impression she's a stand-in for every cop who utilizes the forensics lab, and that Jo Kinsey must be having a bad week. "We can't just blindly work on everything you dump on us, you know."

"The guy who owns the device is dead," Chloe replies slowly, trying to inject calm into the discussion. "That's our legal search authority."

"Still need the forms explaining that."

Which … fair. Chloe's gotten used to Ella being willing—with the assumption of paperwork following shortly—to jump over the hurdles of red tape. In return, Chloe had always made sure paperwork followed at first opportunity, and she never submits shit she doesn't have a legal right to look at; something other cops occasionally fudge.

"I'm sorry," Chloe says, and Jo's hackles seem to lower. "I'll take care of that as soon as I get back to my desk. How long to get data from it if I submit the paperwork today?"

"Depends on the length of the PIN."

"Best case scenario?"

"A couple of months, probably."

"Months?" Chloe blinks. "Just to start it?"

"No, I meant it'll take months to do. Starting it might take half a year. We've got like fifty exhibits in the analysis queue right now."

"What?"

"Worst case would be years."

"To start it?"

"No, I meant to finish it." Jo shakes her head. Sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm not being clear. I'm a bit frazzled this morning."

"But this is urgent," Chloe insists. "I can get the lieutenant to sign off on an expedite request."

"With an expedite request, we can start working on it in a few weeks, but it'll still take months at best to actually do. I'm really sorry."

"But Ella—"

"Look, I can't make technology work faster, and neither can Ella," Jo snaps. "Blame Apple. Not us. That's just the way it is."

"No, no, I know; I'm sorry." Months at best. Years at worst. Even if the iPad analysis is doable eventually, that's a dead end, in practice. Fuck. "I know you're working as fast as you can."

"No," Jo says, deflating. "No, I'm sorry, too. It's not you at all. It's just …." She directs a troubled gaze through the glass wall, out at the rest of the precinct. Kasinski ambles past as if on cue. One of the guys who'd given Chloe a hard time when she'd joined the force. He'd never gotten caught, but she's sure he's the one who'd posted pictures of her nude scene from Hot Tub High School all over the men's locker room.

"Yeah, no," Chloe says. "I get it. We work with a bunch of cowboys." She offers Jo a gentle smile, despite the hopelessness tugging on her body like weights. "I'll get those forms written up."

The next stop on her getting-nowhere-fast tour is the desk of Derek Costa, the investigative assistant. He looks up from his computer, pushing his gold wireframe glasses up his nose to rub his bloodshot eyes. An open Red Bull can rests beside his keyboard. Empty cans burst from his recycle bin, a few littering the floor.

"Hey, Detective," he says, sounding like his world has ended. "I suppose you want an update, huh."

"I do." Chloe leans forward, resting her folded arms along the flimsy modular wall of his cubicle. "That bad, huh?"

Derek's fingers fly across his keyboard, locking his monitor with a single keystroke before he turns to her. "Well," he begins in his soft, tenor tone, "the good news is a courier already dropped off the security footage and e-mails from USC, so, we're ready to go on that front."

"What's the bad news?"

"I … can't even look at it until the week after next."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Backlogs. Sorry."

"Would an expedite—"

"Everybody expedites, Detective," he says, shaking his head. "There aren't enough investigative assistants to go around."

"But this is a murder investigation!"

"So are the rest of my cases," Derek replies. "ODs, murders, and a suicide they're trying to confirm. I'm sorry."

She massages her temples in slow, soothing circles. "Can I look at the footage myself? Maybe Lucifer and I can—"

"Do you have access to the same kind of DVR USC uses?"

She frowns. "What does that mean?"

"The video is in a proprietary format. You need to view it through the same—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she replies, holding up her hands. "I don't know how to do that." And if she doesn't know, Lucifer won't either. He's no luddite, but … he's also seventeen-trillion-years old and just got his first cellphone in 2017.

"Look, I'm sorry," Derek says, "but I don't have time to walk you through it. If I had time for that, I'd just do it myself."

And Ella—Chloe's go-to for this kind of situation—is, of course, gone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Another dead end. Chloe cups her face in her hands, peering at him through her fingers. "What about the e-mails?"

"Also proprietary. It's gonna take me a while to convert them into a format you can use."

She sighs. "Great."

"I know, I know. Really, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

He directs a hopeful look at her. "I did have time to cross-reference the current addresses of the hazing victims' families."

"Oh?" she says, perking up. "And?"

"And as far as I can tell, none of them live in this area." He pushes the article and crime report in question over the cubicle wall, returning them to her. "The Robertsons are in Roanoke; Muellers in Boise."

"Okay, thanks," she says. "Guess that rules that out, too."

Fuck.

Sorry I forgot to call you back, Chloe texts as she wanders back to her desk.

No worries! Ella replies. Totes fine. I'm fine. All fine here. :) :) :)

Chloe smiles at her phone. How's Miami?

Miami?

Jo said you took personal leave to go to Miami.

Oh that Miami.

Yes that Miami?

Chloe pauses in the hallway, flattening against the wall to let the evidence technician through with a rolling cart. Sealed non-drug bags fill the cart to the brim. Each bag contains a pile of random crap: money clips, a scale, a belt, a corkscrew, other things she can't identify at a glance. From a big take? Or maybe a bunch of old evidence headed for destruction. The cart rolls over her shoe, sending a jolt of pain up her leg.

"Sorry," says the technician.

"It's fine," Chloe gasps, massaging her toe through her boot.

Is there another Miami? Chloe adds when no reply from Ella seems forthcoming. What's going on? What did you want to discuss yesterday?

The ellipsis appears, indicating Ella is typing something. Then disappears. Appears again. Disappears.

At last, a selfie of Ella giving the thumbs up pops up in chat. She's standing under a palm tree. The photo's background is residential—not downtown-ish like for a forensics seminar—and Ella's severe smile looks more like a pained grimace. Dark circles hug her eyes.

Chloe frowns at the pic. You okay?

Yah took the red :eye emoji: :plane emoji: Jet lag. Srsly all good. :thumbs up emoji: :thumbs up emoji: :) :) BBS. Say hi to Lu.

Will do. Chloe stares at her phone, suspicion like a bug bite she can't stop scratching. What forensics seminar did you get invited to?

But the ellipsis never reappears.

Lucifer is sitting with his feet propped on her desk, his body leaned back, her keyboard cradled in his lap, his eyes closed, and his hands steepled in front of him. If the situation weren't so increasingly dire, she'd grin. Praying. An actual archangel—the Devil himself—is praying at her desk. This isn't some method actor thing. It's real.

For a moment, the sheer enormity of the craziness that's enveloped her life bowls her over. She has angels for friends. Demons. The Devil has a freaking therapist. The Devil has a master. The Devil is her actual slave, who can't leave, and is summoned to her bedroom by the mere hint of her desires. How … the fuck.

Her stomach churns at that unwanted thought. She glances to see if Ella's little "typing" ellipsis has reappeared in the chat window. It hasn't.

Lucifer takes an animated breath, blinking as he lowers his hands. "Hello, Detective."

"Any luck?" Chloe says.

"No. I think the Silver City must have placed me on the naughty list or some such. I've doubts my 'calls' are even getting through." He frowns at her. "What about on your end?"

She tells him what happened.

He gestures gracefully to the paper pile stacked neatly in her outbox. "I've already written the police report and filled out the chain-of-custody thingy."

"No way. Really?" She snatches the forms, eyes widening. Every description is concise, objective, and business-like. Nothing required illustrations, either, so he didn't go on silly stick-figure tangents. "Lucifer, these are perfect."

He scoffs. "Don't sound so amazed, will you?"

"Well, I didn't mean it like that," she says, a lump forming in her throat as she strokes the top page. She tries to remember if she asked him to do paperwork. Or expressed or implied a desire for it to be done, beyond her little oopsie moment on Tuesday, which she'd corrected, but … she can't think of a thing. Hell, they'd barely even spoken since her dream. Breakfast had been awkward. Still, "I … didn't make you do this, did I? I didn't mean to."

"No." He futzes with the finger where his ring used to be. "I desired to assist you, so I did."

"But—" At the wounded look slowly forming on his face, she rushes to say, "I just meant, thank you."

She slumps into the chair beside him as he pulls his feet down from her desk.

"Should we," she says, "talk about last night? We haven't talked."

"Darling, really, why not have a go with your vibrator if it's still bothering you? At least, you've the option, unlike some of us."

"No, no," she says. "No, I meant … the stuff with Bakasura. And Lilith."

"Ah." He ices over like a lake in January. "What do you wish to talk of?"

"Well, for one, are you okay?"

"I am when we're not talking of it."

"Oh." So much for distractions.

"I understand you like to plan for every eventuality—to dissect feelings and details into the level of minutiae," he says, "but … I cannot indulge you." He looks at the desk, his long fingers idly skating the edges of her mousepad. "My endeavor didn't help find John, and when I think on that, I"—his eyes squeeze shut like a flash went off in his face, searing his retinas with lurid color—"Detective, I can't."

The distressed quaver in his tone makes her body clench with anxiety.

Keep his stress levels low, Linda had instructed.

"Hey," Chloe says, leaning closer. "Hey, I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about anything you don't wanna talk about."

"I despise feeling trapped." His words are small. Reedy.

"I know. I'm sorry." She cups her hand over his, staying his fidgeting. He flips his palm and clings to her. "For what it's worth, I do think you helped. Maybe not immediately, but Maze is headed to Columbus to check around. And I'm not giving up, either. If we don't hear more from Adeboye by next week, I have more calls to make."

"Yes, well." He looks away with a sniff.

"Okay. Okay." She holds up her hands. "Dropping it now. I swear. We're dropping it."

"Thank you."

Which leaves … sex.

Christ, she doesn't want to have this conversation. She doesn't even want to consider it. Not when he's, by his own admission, so randy he can't think straight, and she's wound more tightly than a spooled kite string. But ….

The highlight reel from her dream starts all over again. Fuck.

"So," she grits out, forcing herself to look at her real besuited company, instead of his imaginary naked counterpart, "we seem to be at a bunch of dead ends. Investigatively speaking."

"I suppose we could try to figure out the DVR," Lucifer muses. "What's a bloody DVR, anyway?"

"Like your TiVo. Except in this case, it's for security footage. I'm sure Lux has one."

"Ah. That bloody thing. Yes. But I always hire someone to—" He stutters to a stop. "I could always cash in another favor?"

She rubs her tired eyes. "No … I don't wanna waste one of your favors on something that's just gonna get thrown out in court. We need a vetted LAPD staffer to look the footage over. And I think … there might be better uses for our time."

"Such as?"

Heat sears across her face. "Such as … going to that club. Dominus." All hints of previous upset melt from his gaze, replaced by the glint of mischief. She's quick to raise a palm in his direction. "And if you say I told you so, I might shoot you. Fair warning."

"Of course I didn't tell you so." He splays his fingers against his chest in a melodramatic who me? gesture. "Detective, I would never."

She waits for the hammer to fall.

"I would only ever imply it."

And … there it is. "I knew you were gonna do that. I knew you were."

"Oh, relax, will you?" he replies with an amused snort. "I've no desire to rub it in."

"Right."

"On the contrary, Detective," he crows as he sinuously morphs from sitting to standing. "I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize your willing participation in this auspicious event."

"Why does that terrify me?" she wonders.

"Well, I am the Devil," he delights. "Perhaps it should?"