The air outside is muggy and thick, and the sound of thunder is rolling in from the desert. She’s not usually fond of rain but in this instance, she can’t help but look forward to it. Maybe it’ll break the heat and stop the electricity thrumming in the air. Or maybe the problem isn’t the weather at all. Maybe it’s the fact that her partner (ex-partner?) had seemed to go off the deep end for days and then… fuck.
And now she laughs out loud because this is ridiculous. Not even in the sanctity of her own mind can she voice her thoughts and sort through her memories without feeling like a nutcase. But what else was she supposed to do? She can’t possibly go up to Dan and tell him by the way, did you know that my Lucifer is The Lucifer? That he has wings, and black-and-red eyes like the deepest pits of Hell?
Yeah, she can just imagine how that would go down. He’d fucking pat her head, tell her to take some time off, that recent cases and personal drama were getting to her, and that it’s not a good thing that Lucifer’s… Luciferness was getting to her.
Never mind talking to her boyfriend. Well. Or whatever her and Marcus had been. There was no way they’d be anything now.
There’s lightening splitting the air over the bay, and more thunder in the distance. She gives up on trying to catch a calm, sane thought and fishes out her phone. Calls an Uber (because there’s no way she’d be able to drive herself right now) and doesn’t realize where she’s heading until the driver drops her off outside Lux.
For a moment she stands in front of the unusually quiet club, trying to decide if she should follow her subconscious mind or the still-shrieking-hindbrain part of herself that tells her to leave, for fucks sake. Do you want to make it easier for the Devil to get you? You remember, right? The literal, biblical Devil?
But hell (hah!), this is also the man who steals pudding and cheap vending-machine-snacks and gets prissy over sticky fingers and a wrinkled suit.
Yeah, he’s been scary, earlier. But he’s also been a mess, and she hadn’t helped with the way she’s been pushing him away recently. And Marcus sure as anything didn’t make anything easier with his needling and taunting – and if she’s honest, it hasn’t been him that scared her. Not really.
So yeah, sure. Devil, Angel, God - Heaven and Hell. Scary concepts, all of that. But she’s apparently been living with a real-life Demon, and neither her daughter nor her were any worse for wear. And if Lucifer had been out to hurt anyone, he’d had plenty of opportunity before everything went pear-shaped on them.
Or he could’ve just leant back and watched. He could’ve let her die when she’d been shot, right after they first met. Or he could’ve let her go alone when Malcom had kidnapped Trixie. And when she’d been poisoned – well, she still doesn’t know what he’d done to get that antidote for her, and she’s not sure she wants to know, now that she has the truth to work with. But… yeah. All of that really suggested that he wanted her alive and well, not the opposite.
So she straightens her shoulders, marches through the empty club and gets onto the elevator.
*** *** ***
The penthouse seems empty at first glance, and for a moment she’s afraid that he’s done a runner again. But there’s no ominous white sheets over his furniture. The place isn’t even in shambles – no broken glass or furniture – as she half expected.
There’s a draft coming in from somewhere, so she enters his bedroom and there he is, just outside on the terrace. His forearms are resting on the railing, and she can see the glim of a cigarette, loosely held between two fingers. He looks… different. His hair is a mess, and he’s discarded his suit jacket and west somewhere, only dressed in trousers and a button-up. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s barefoot. The last detail throws her the most. She knows she’s seen him barefoot before. But seeing him naked and strutting around, comfortable in his own skin like a proud peacock and this… it’s different. She can’t even put a finger on why. Maybe it’s the way his shoulders are slumped. Or his very unkempt appearance, but here, in this moment, he seems more naked than she’s ever seen him.
And she just knows that it’s her doing.
Lightening brightens the night up again, and the sound of thunder follows much sooner than it had previously. The storm has nearly reached them, and she can’t help but wonder if it’s just a coincidence or if someone had a hand in that. Could Lucifer influence the weather? Or is his Father playing games? She has to ask herself these questions, because faith or not, she knows, now.
He turns his head slightly, watches her out of the corner of his eyes. She’s not sure she had made a sound, but he’s always been able to tell when she’s been near.
She’s still freaked out, but she also needs… something. Reassurance or answers, or maybe something in-between. She’s not really sure, to be honest. But she’s just going to work this whole thing by the seat of her pants, because at this point there’s not much else she can do.
And then it seems her time for deciding on a course of action has run out, because he drops his cigarette to the floor and steps on it to put it out. He doesn’t even flinch when he does it.
“So, what’s it going to be, then?”
She just look on, confused.
“I... how it what going to be?”
Lucifer just rolls his eyes at her and comes a few steps closer. Not close enough to touch or be touched, but at least they won’t need to raise their voices to talk now.
“Come now, don’t play cute with me Detective. I’m the Devil, remember? I don’t do cute.”
“You do, actually.” It’s out of her mouth before she decides that the situation is strained enough without her poking fun at him but… it’s just so ingrained in her, to say whatever she wants to say when he’s there. He’s always saying exactly what he wants to say, and she’s grown so comfortable with him that she hasn’t censured herself in his presence for months. Incidentally, that thought settles her nerves. Sure, he is older than the concept of time. And he might be the custodian of humanities filth but… first and foremost, he’s always been her friend. He’s been there for her when she needed him, always (Las Vegas aside), without question. What does she care about where he came from? So he has a past, so what. She does as well, and the most he ever did about that was to compliment her on a nice pair of tits.
Now he looks like a petulant child (and it’s ridiculous. How can anyone call him evil, once they’ve seen him pout like that?) and she can’t help the giggle that escapes her.
“You’re weird. You go into near-hysterics when your phone’s about to die, you have a seriously unhealthy obsession with cheap snacks, you party like it’s going out of style. You’re gleeful like a child one moment, and the next you can sound like and old, old man. You’re so neat with your appearance that it borders on OCD, and I’ve never seen anyone enjoying life so much as you do – including Ella.
You say you can’t stand children, but when M...Malcom took Trixie, you had been there, and you saved the day and you died for it.”
She’s crying by now, the tears slowly overflowing and dropping down, but she does nothing to wipe them away or hide them.
“You continue to safe my life, and you make it more interesting – and yes, very often confusing and you irritate the hell out of me sometimes but… but when I need help it’s you I think about first, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve listened when you voiced you concerns about Pierce. But I’ve been so frustrated and angry. You’ve been acting strange and you wouldn’t give me any straight answers, and he was there and I just… I lost sight of what’s important.”
He blinks at her, and she can practically see the righteous indignation bleeding out of him, leaving confusion and world-weariness behind. And she’s the one who put it there, and by G… and she would be the one to take it away.
“So… I don’t know what happened today, not really. I don’t know why Marcus died and didn’t stay dead, and I’ve no idea what the two of you had been talking about, but right now I really don’t care. I care that I was afraid of him and not you – I’ll never be afraid of you. You’re my partner. Just… tell me how to make us… us again? Please?”
Silence. Then the storm reaches them and the sky opens up an drenches them nearly instantly, but it doesn’t matter.
One moment she’s standing alone, and the next he’s there, pressed up against her, hands framing her face, forehead leant to hers, looking into her eyes. She decides for them both, tangles her fingers in his already-messed-up hair and kisses him. There’s nothing gentle about it, no remnants of an overcast day on a beach. It’s messy, all open mouthed and teeth clacking and it’s glorious.
He pulls back for a moment and she can feel his heart racing against hers and he looks into her eyes. If he’s looking for regret or indecision he’s looking in vain. He won’t find it.
“Chloe. Are y…”
Yeah, she’s not having this. She won’t have him asking if she’s sure. They’re past that. So she interrupts him by pressing her lips to his again, and he seems to take this as all the confirmation he needs.
She has him pressed up against the wall a moment later and gets rid of his soaked button up, and he’s nice enough to help her out of her shirt. Both articles of clothing land… somewhere. He bra goes the same way and she luxuriates in the feeling of naked, wet flesh against hers. He’s hot to the touch, and she can’t remember if he’s always been, or if it’s arousal doing that to him. Not that it matters. It’s good, so who cares?
He reverts their positions and she uses the opportunity to wrap her legs around his hips, and he helps her, grabs her ass and hitches her up higher, right where they both want the friction most. When she scratches up his back, he hisses and for a moment she’s afraid she’s hurt him, got the scars, but then she flattens her hand and right, wings. They’re back, and there’s no more scars. So she scratches down again, and he bucks up into her, and she realizes the hissing hadn’t been out of pain at all.
He nips at her shoulders, her collarbone – kisses the scar left by a bullet in what seems another life. She can feel him grinning when he nuzzles her breasts, and she can nearly hear him drawl that they’re so much better than he ever imagined.
She pushes him back and he lets her slide down, and she closes her eyes over the way his dick lies between them, hard and delicious. She’s glad to see that nothing in his gaze seems unsure, that he doesn’t think she pushes him away to run.
She wants to tease, wants to slowly open her jeans, wants his burning eyes grow hotter at every inch of skin laid bare. But now is not the time for teasing – or for gentle.
She fumbles at the button, and there’s a very frustrating moment where she curses herself for wearing jeans in the first place. The material is a bitch to get out of when wet. But she manages, and then she’s on him again, and she gets him naked in record time.
She’s straddling him, and she has no idea when they even made it into the horizontal. Her hair is a wet, tangled mess, her lips are bruised, and her make-up is probably smeared all over her face, and still he looks at her as though seeing the sun for the very first time. Her knees are going to be raw from rubbing across the concrete floor tomorrow, but tomorrow is too far away to take into account. When he pushes inside her, he closes his eyes in pleasure, but she looks up, lifts her hand, and flips off the Almighty God.
She doesn’t know everything – fuck, she barely knows anything – about what’s going on. What she does know is what counts, though: God seems to be a manipulative asshole, Maze needs to get her head screwed on right again, and Marcus needs to be out of their lives yesterday. And Lucifer is hers, even if God decides to never end the storm and this is the beginning of another fucking Flood. She closes her eyes and moves faster, even while taking his hand in hers, assuring him that she’s still with him, and not some random body. He surges up and kisses her again, and she smiles against his lips.
They’re in this together. Come Hell or High Water.
*** END ***