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There’s something wrong with the Detective.
At first, it’s just an inkling. A suspicion. It’s little things that, in isolation, he could brush off. A slight inflection to her voice. A glint to her eye that he can’t put his finger on. Even a change in the way she walks.
He thinks to anyone else, these differences wouldn’t be noticeable.
But he’s not anyone else.
He’s Lucifer, and she’s Chloe, and despite the uncomfortable distance between them lately, they know each other. Inside and out. Lucifer knows her better than he knows himself.
He doesn’t want to believe there’s something wrong with her. He doesn’t want to acknowledge this uncomfortable, foreboding feeling festering in the pit of his stomach, so he turns to Linda.
“She’s probably just struggling to come to terms with everything,” she tries to reassure him, “you being the Devil, her entire worldview turned upside down… it’s a lot to deal with.”
He adjusts himself on the couch, giving an anxious flick of his lapels.
“Trust me, I know she’s struggling,” he replies dryly, “this just seems… different.”
He knows because their conversation up in the penthouse, the one where he asked her if she could accept him… it burns in his mind. Constantly. Like a heavy millstone around his neck, it’s all he can think about. He falls into a restless sleep at the memory of the question, caught in his throat before he pushed it out, and he wakes to her answer, devastating him all over again.
“Different how?”
Unsettled fingers make a beeline for his cuffs. He twists the Cartier link he finds there.
“I don’t know. I can’t make sense of it. There’s just something that’s not quite right.”
“And it’s important to you that you fix it?”
“Well, of course,” his brows knit into a frown, “if something sinister is going on, I want to know. I want to help. No matter the distance between us.”
“Why?” she pushes him once more.
Perhaps it’s all his therapy finally paying off, or perhaps it’s just her, because he knows exactly why.
“Because she will always be special to me.”
Linda’s expression melts into one of sympathy. Lucifer hates it. He doesn’t want her to feel sorry for him, doesn’t want her pity friendship.
He doesn’t want anything other than to keep the Detective safe.
He watches her dance, her body grinding and writhing to the beat.
There’s something uncanny about her. Her moves are perfect, sultry and seductive, but she doesn’t quite fit into her body. His eyes narrow as he brings his whiskey glass to his lips and tries to pinpoint what it is.
Maze is of the same opinion as Linda, that she’s acting out because she’s stressed and confused and in as much pain as he is.
“She’s just trying to reinvent herself,” the demon waves off her strange behaviour, “you know, become a person who didn’t betray you and ruin your relationship before it even began.”
But Lucifer thinks that’s not right, not necessary.
Because she did betray him, that much is true, and he is hurting—but he wouldn’t hold it against her forever. Deep down, he thinks he forgave her as soon as she did it, because he’s that much of a fool for her. And as far as reinventing herself is concerned, he thinks there’s little point in revising perfection.
She catches his gaze from across the room, a glint of slightly-off blue.
Her lips curve slowly into a smirk.
She makes her way over to him, a sway to her hips. When she reaches him, she plucks the whiskey glass from his fingers and takes a sip. He watches her, eyes locked, tension heavy in the air.
She gives the glass back to him along with a demand.
“Dance with me.”
His eyes narrow again.
She’s never offered herself so willingly before. The previous times they danced, he had to practically drag her onto the floor, encouraging her until her hesitation melted into a carefree laugh.
This Chloe is different.
She looks at him like he’s prey, something to be devoured.
And when his eyes drift to Eve behind her, a woman who has swept back into his life like a hurricane, offering him clean cut simplicity, she looks… angry.
“You’d rather dance with her?” she asks, tone clipped, “bit of a blast from the past, don’t you think?”
Cold dread sinks like a stone to the pit of his stomach.
He’s seen the Detective jealous before, but never so blatantly, and there’s something else too.
“How do you know who she is?”
She hides it well, that flicker of panic. But he sees it. He sees her. Always.
“She introduced herself to me earlier. Eve, right?”
She’s lying.
“I don’t want to dance, Detective. And I don’t quite understand why you do. Things aren’t exactly peachy between us.”
“I want to fix that,” she insists in a dipped purr, and then she runs her index finger from his throat down to his chest, “won’t you let me?”
Blood rushes to his groin without his permission. Something is definitely wrong with her, but she still looks like the Detective, and feels like the Detective, and he’s still a man. A man utterly enamoured by her, a puppet dancing on her string. A man still desperate for her, despite everything that’s passed between them.
Pale blue eyes dance with determination. She’s always been beautiful to him, but she’s never looked so dangerous before. So deadly. Her hands drift down, fingers curling around his belt, and she tugs him closer.
Her lips part, her face angled up, enticing. His own hand lifts to cup her cheek, playing along for a moment, telling himself it will lead to the truth. He allows himself a touch, allows his thumb to swipe across her high cheekbone.
“Fix it how?”
“Take me upstairs and I’ll show you,” she murmurs and he suppresses a shudder.
How many times has he imagined her asking that? How many times has he pictured her spread out and wrecked for him, begging for him in that breathy little tone? But not like this. Never like this.
He runs a thumb over her bottom lip.
“Perhaps we should focus on solving the case first,” he suggests.
It’s a challenge, a bait—
“I don’t care about the case.”
—and she fails spectacularly.
“No? But more people might die if we don’t find the killer.”
The music pulses and vibrates around them, the lights from behind the bar bathing her in a golden glow.
“I don’t care,” she repeats, “I just want to show you I’m sorry. That’s what matters most to me right now.”
The fingers of one hand remain curled around his belt. The palm of the other settles on his chest. She flutters her eyelashes at him and bloody hell, he wants to believe her. He’s absolutely desperate to, wants more than anything for this to be real.
But he can’t shake the uncanny sensation, the feeling deep down in his gut that this is not the Detective.
Not his Detective.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
He attempts a smile. It probably doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I believe you are sorry, yes.”
“I want to be with you,” she declares then, so bold and brazen, “do you believe that?”
An ache curls through his chest. It’s so sharp, it takes his breath away.
He’s never wanted anything more.
But no, he doesn’t.
And when she leans up on her tiptoes and murmurs “you can have me, Lucifer,” into his ear, he finally snaps.
Because his name doesn’t sound right on her tongue, and he can’t have her. Not like this. Not ever.
He wrenches away from her, fingers curled tight around her wrist.
“What’s wrong with you?” he hisses.
Icy determination flashes through her eyes. She yanks her hand free a little too easily.
“Nothing, Lucifer,” she smiles, her tone so light it makes his blood run cold, “I’ve never been better.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She ignores him.
“Are you going to come upstairs with me or not?”
No.
Yes.
His mind and heart fight with his raging libido, his gnawing want for her. Any way he can have her.
But there’s no choice to make. Not really.
“No,” he growls.
She saunters away from him, leaving him with an ache in his chest and a mystery he doesn’t know how to solve.
Because he needs her to do that—and it’s quite clear she’s not here.
He turns to the person he trusts the least and hates the most.
On Earth, at least.
Kinley is as self-righteous as ever, He glares at him between steel bars, jaw locked tight in stubborn hatred. Next to him, Lucifer notices Chloe absently picking at her nails. She’s never done that before. He files it away as evidence.
“I suppose you want me to apologise,” Kinley sneers.
Lucifer’s mouth twitches into a wry smile.
“I have no interest in your apologies, Father,” he tells him evenly, “and I am hardly one to take your confession. I do not care. And if you’ll allow me to let you in on a secret… neither does He.”
Kinley stares him down stubbornly. It irritates Lucifer more than it upsets him. He wonders where this stupid human gets off, working in the name of a heavenly father who doesn’t give a shit about him. He wonders what makes him so qualified to understand his actions and motivations, when Lucifer has spent his entire existence failing to do so.
“I’m not listening to you, Prince of Lies,” Kinley hisses.
Of all his titles, Lucifer hates that one the most.
“You will listen to me,” he growls, taking a step forward and not missing how Kinley takes a nervous one back, “you will listen to me and you will answer me—”
“You want me to tell you why I was trying to send you back to Hell—”
“I don’t care about that,” he interrupts impatiently.
“I don’t care that he was trying to hurt me,” he had said, “I care that you were.”
“I don’t care what false opinion you have of me,” he continues, “I’ve spent my entire life being blamed for things outside of my control. I don’t care about any of it. I only care about one thing. What have you done to the Detective?”
He feels the burn of her eyes as they flash to him.
He keeps his own on Kinley.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man sniffs.
“Now who’s lying?” Lucifer’s mouth twists grimly, “she’s different. I want to know why.”
Silence stretches out between them before Chloe breaks it.
She laughs… but it’s not her laugh.
It’s not the laugh he hears when the urchin does something he thinks is ridiculous, but she enjoys for some reason. It’s not the laugh that he pulls reluctantly from her lips when he tells a joke she doesn’t want to find funny, but does. It’s not the laugh he’s come to love, to chase, an addict desperate for a fix.
This laugh is cold.
Devoid of emotion.
Hellish.
“Oh, give it up, Kinley,” she drawls, “I’m bored of this now. He obviously knows the stupid human too well.”
Having his suspicions confirmed doesn’t make Lucifer feel good. Quite the opposite. Confusion, and despair, and red hot rage fight for precedence inside him.
“Who are you?” his top lip curls into a snarl.
The thing wearing Chloe’s face examines her nails again, bored.
“What gave it away?” she asks instead, “I came on too strong, didn’t I? They told me your Detective was a prude.”
Lucifer’s jaw ticks in anger. He remembers the feeling of her hands and breath on him like the touch starved thing he is. Yes, he supposes whoever—or whatever—this is was more… forward than the Detective, but that wasn’t why.
That wasn’t how he knew.
“You were unbothered about the case and finding the killer,” he starts lowly, “which means more people might die… and the Detective would care. That’s how I knew.”
The fake Chloe’s smile is more like a sneer. Sarcastic and cold. It doesn’t suit her, doesn’t look right on that face.
“You were just supposed to give him the vial,” Kinley seethes, his face practically purple with anger.
Lucifer stills. His eyes narrow contemplatively. He looks from the pathetic priest, to the thing wearing Chloe’s face, and back again.
And then, like a lightbulb going off, he realises.
Now certain she isn’t his—the—Detective, he has no need to be gentle with her.
He grabs its face, thumb and two fingers digging into its cheeks, and brings it closer.
“What are you?” he growls, “if I am your King, you will answer me.”
Like a snake seduced by its charmer, the creature dances for him.
“Demon,” it murmurs.
Lucifer lets it go like it’s burned him, disgusted.
And then his heart drops to his stomach.
“Where is Chloe?” he whispers, terrified of the answer.
“Don’t worry, I’m one of ones who can jump into alive bodies,” it tells him casually, “your little pet is still in here. Somewhere. I can just about make out her thoughts. She’s scared.”
Lucifer’s chest hurts.
“Why are you doing this?” he breathes.
He understands Kinley’s motivations, even if he’s not quite sure how he’s managed it. The Detective had gone back on her plan, had told him she wasn’t going through with it, so he found a demon who would. Who could enter her body and make it happen, because even after everything, Lucifer still trusted her. He still wanted to be close to her. But he doesn’t understand the demon’s motivations, why it would bother, and why it hadn’t just poisoned him and done it.
“It’s been ages since I had a trip up here. Eons, actually. I normally find it quite boring. But then I heard what Father Shit-For-Brains was trying to do here and I thought now, that’s interesting. I didn’t just poison you straightaway because where’s the fun in that? Your reputation precedes you, my Lord. And it’s been such a long time.”
Its voice had dipped to a sultry purr, designed to tempt. Kinley splutters a furious response behind them. Lucifer turns to him, fire in his eyes.
“Foul demon,” Kinley hisses.
“Oh, you’re surprised a demon turned out to be untrustworthy? Forgive me, Father, but you are an idiot… and I am done with you.”
He grabs the demon by Chloe’s wrist and drags it away, away from this irritating human, a stubborn fly he can’t seem to swat.
“Come now, Samael—”
Lucifer’s hand is around its throat before it can finish that sentence.
He pins it against the piano in Lux, this thing, so identical to the Detective and yet nothing like her. Rage simmers hot under his skin, finally spilling over into an inferno. His eyes burn and blaze red, his voice dipping to a rumbling snarl.
“Don't call me that,” he growls, “and this body is not yours. Get out of it.”
It smirks, its breath staggering against the squeeze of strong fingers at its neck. When it speaks, it does so in Chloe’s voice, but the tone is nothing alike.
“Why would I do that… when you could get in it?” its eyes flicker pointedly to his groin, “it’s what you want, isn’t it? To fuck this body?”
Disgust rises inside him. It’s just like a demon to think like that, so very predictable. They think humans are disposable, just things to play with, empty holes to fuck.
But they’re not.
Since he’s been on Earth, Lucifer’s come to learn that humans are more than that. They can be cruel, or they can be kind, smart or foolish, but they are always multifaceted. Layered. Complex. They love, and hate, and rot, and decay; they burn too fast. Like one of his Father’s brightest stars. He sees now why He favoured this creation so much.
Humans are more than their meat and bone packaging.
The Detective is more.
She’s brighter, and kinder, and lovelier, and just… more. More than anyone who’s come before.
And he wants her back.
It’s been a while since he ruled Hell, been a while since he kept his eyes burning red, hellfire licking through them. It’s been a while since he ordered anything.
But he’s still the King—and he cannot have demons running around possessing humans.
Alive humans.
Humans he…
Cares about very deeply.
He tightens his grip around the demon’s throat, making it hurt because Chloe can’t feel it, but not letting his ring pierce the skin.
The demon speaks first.
“You know you want to, my Lord,” it purrs, “it’s the only way you’ll ever have her.”
His throat tightens. His eyes continue to burn a furious red.
“I don’t want her like this,” he growls.
“So you do want her,” the thing fires back, picking up on his slip, “she doesn’t want you, you know. I can hear her thoughts. She’s terrified of you.”
“Enough,” he hisses, his grip around its throat tightening.
He doesn’t want to know that.
He can’t know that.
“I thought you’d be more fun than this,” the demon pouts, disappointed, and Lucifer snaps.
“I’ve grown weary of you. You try my patience, and you forget your place. You’re lucky I haven’t incinerated you already for disobeying my orders, you know I have banned possessions. So get out of this body, go home and spread the word to the others… up here or down there, I am still your King. If I see you again… I will rip you apart piece by piece.”
The demon shivers. Lucifer’s imagined the Detective shuddering in his arms more times than he’d like to admit, but never like this. It blinks once, twice, and then the body slumps against him.
Lucifer follows it to the floor, sinking to his knees.
“Detective,” he breathes, panic clawing at his chest. His eyes slowly flicker back to warm brown, the anger in him melting away with every soft, safe breath she takes.
He cradles her against him, his fingers stroking softly through her hair. Her eyes are closed, but trembling fingers check her pulse, and it’s strong.
“Detective,” he whispers again.
For a moment, he just looks at her. She looks peaceful, serene. The golden glow from behind the bar bathes her in soft light, illuminating high cheekbones and soft lips. For a moment, he can pretend that none of this happened. That Kinley and Rome never happened. That they’re standing on that balcony, just before they lost Charlotte, about to start something beautiful and new.
“Chloe,” he tries one more time, low voice tinged with desperation, “come back to me.”
Her eyelids flutter.
He shifts, throat moving as he swallows. She stirs again and blinks up at him through dazed eyes.
And just like that, he knows it’s her.
The difference is as stark as day and night, good and bad. In some ways, it scares him, just how well he knows her. In other ways, it’s a comfort. A comfort to know he’s not alone, that he’s found someone who makes him feel things at all. Even if those things can be messy and painful, they’re real.
She’s real.
“Hello,” he murmurs, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Chloe inhales sharply, confused eyes darting between his, and then tears begin to roll down her flushed cheeks.
“I didn’t mean it,” she sobs.
Lucifer adjusts them, a twinge blooming in his chest. He shifts until he’s sitting with his back against a piano leg, uncaring of his expensive suit and last night’s spilled drinks sticking to Lux’s floor.
Being so close to her like this spreads warmth over his skin, tiny pin pricks of heat. His throat feels dry, and his muscles tight, but she’s not pushing him away, so he holds her tighter still. She clings to him, a tremor running through her, and continues to cry.
“I didn’t mean it,” she repeats on a broken sob, “I’m sorry.”
Lucifer shakes his head, hushing her, calming her the way one would a wounded animal. When the shock of having her body inhabited subsides somewhat, she finally lifts her head from his chest and looks at him.
“Don’t apologise,” he murmurs before she can say it again, “it’s okay.”
She shakes her head, shame flitting through her eyes.
“I tried to hurt you.”
His chest aches again.
“You didn’t deserve this,” he replies simply, because he knows exactly what she’s implying. He stops it in its tracks, stops the train of thought before it can derail and wreck her.
Tears continue to fall from her eyes. She shakes her head again like she doesn’t believe him.
“I’m still sorry.”
“I forgive you,” he answers quickly, immediately, the response pulled from his throat.
“How?” she breathes.
Because the alternative—not having her in his life at all—is too much to bear. Because he’s had a taste of losing her and it had rocked him to his core. Because even if the demon was right, and she doesn’t want him the way he wants her, she’s still his partner. There will never be anyone else for him, so that’s what he’ll live for.
He doesn’t tell her any of this.
Instead, he just slowly brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles, “I just do. Can you live with that?”
She purses her lips and nods, eyes still shining glassy.
“It lied,” she whispers, “those weren’t my thoughts. I’m not afraid of you.”
He stares at her, trying to read any sign of insincerity, any sign that she might just be trying to spare his feelings. But the Detective is the Detective, headstrong, and fierce; a stubborn little thing.
She’s telling the truth.
“The only thing I was afraid of…” she continues, pausing to take an unsteady breath, “was not being able to get to you.”
He knows the feeling.
“You’re here now. We both are.”
Her heavy gaze flicks from his eyes to his mouth.
“We’ve wasted so much time,” she says, her voice small and vulnerable, “I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to make any more mistakes.”
He doesn’t speak, afraid of breaking the moment. Instead, he waits patiently for her to continue.
“Because it lied about something else too,” she whispers, “I do want you.”
For a moment, it hurts to breathe. It’s intense, and painful, even as it simultaneously brings so much joy. It’s the jarring difference of feeling so much after feeling so little.
He waits with bated breath for whatever she’s going to say next—but she doesn’t speak at all.
She leans up and presses her lips to his.
He’s still for a beat, surprise rushing through him. He can feel her lips moving against his, and her hands as they lift to cup his face, and he can smell her perfume—but he can’t make sense of it. Until she climbs into his lap and he snaps into life.
He breathes his relief into her, a man starved. His hands fly to her hips, anchoring her to him as her mouth slants over his. Like pressing play on a life stuck on pause, he finally feels alive. There’s passion in it, and it affects him in a way that demon never could, but there’s respite in it too. Like they have all the time in the world now.
When she pulls back, her smile is soft and reverent.
“You knew,” she searches his face as though she’s looking at him through fresh eyes, “you knew the whole time.”
He takes one of her hands and entwines their fingers. He kisses the back of her palm and then lays her hand against his chest, where she can feel his heart.
“Nobody knows you like I do,” he tells her.