Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

The Tiger

The best meat market in Los Angeles is in a nondescript warehouse where Skid Row and Little Tokyo kiss. That kiss, by Lucifer’s estimation, is absolutely filthy. And not the good kind of filth. Rather, the kind of filth that makes his nose wrinkle and his appetite recoil with uncontrolled disgust. The kind of filth that, while familiar through his eons with humanity, is still as loathsome as it was from the gutters of Babylon.

He rolls his shoulders and pops the driver’s side door.

He’s new at this whole ‘God’ thing. Dear ol’ Dad’s retirement became an unwanted and undesired apotheosis. With Michael foiled and doing his level best to still be an archangel sized pain in the arse–even from the depths of Hell—Lucifer is left to pick up the pieces. Clearly, Earth is a toy his Father grew tired of. The planet is overrun with pollution, poison, and people. Even so, the Devil itches to pick it up. To polish it off. To make it better. Oh, how simple it would be to snap his fingers and banish the clumps of empty shipping bags. How nice it would be to zip up the ozone layer once and for all.

Unfortunately for him, he’s also rather fond of free will. Humans must choose what to do with their gift of Eden. This planet doesn't technically belong to him; he’s only the caretaker, for when things get truly out of hand.

Lucifer’s polished shoes toe the ground carefully. He’d rather not get old Subway wrappers on his Loubutins, thank-you-very-much. Still, the soles of his shoes slick against the oily asphalt and he winces.

Eugh.

Blech.

And so on.

The things he does for Chloe, and only for Chloe.

In the soft hush of sodium lights and flickering 3am fluorescents, the warehouse is stark and squat—like an obese man trying to hide in the shadows of a Seven Eleven. Trash skitters across the market’s mostly empty parking lot, and the encircling chain link fence sags beneath its own rusty weight. Seagulls whine like old door hinges from somewhere in the distant sky above. Beneath the garbage and banality one might miss the twelve armed mercenaries that stand stock-still beneath the overhang. Immovable statues armed to the teeth with knives, guns, and body armor—not a brain cell between them.

“Well, well, well,” Lucifer says, lighting a cigarette. “I certainly did not expect a welcoming committee. It’s an incredibly heartwarming gesture, especially from such an old friend.”

They say nothing.

“Don't tell me, you don’t know who I am?”

One of them—one of the shorter ones, cocks a rather pathetic looking pistol. It's almost always the shorter ones, as if they have to overcompensate for something.

“Lucifer Morningstar? Ring a bell? I have an appointment.” He holds up his phone, showing off

his very full calendar.

A voice growls from beneath a cheap looking helmet. “Our boss doesn’t take appointments.”

“Your boss does for me.”

“Right.” The short man steps forward. “We didn’t order no old ass gigolo. So pack up your faggoty ass and leave before we get blood on that pretty pink handkerchief.”

“Language,” Lucifer hisses, mock aghast. “And it's a pocket square. Though I suppose I wouldn’t expect someone like you to know. Love the get-up by the way. Very…Walmart meets Stormtrooper. But perhaps you’re right. Pink isn’t really my color. Maybe it would look better on you?”

“Fuck off,” the man froths, like a rabid animal. “You have till the count of three.”

“Oh you can count? Splendid. How many years of elementary school was that? Six perchance? Seven?”

“One—”

“Hmmm. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You should let me pass. Again, I have an appointment.”

“Two—”

Lucifer snuffs out his cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe.

“Three—”

And he snaps his fingers.

The twelve guards are wearing vibrant pink thongs, nipple pasties, and absolutely nothing else. The guns they were holding are now an assortment of large, glittery dildos. Their cheap plastic plating and Cabela’s cast-offs are gone with the wind. Swathes of skin and tight muscle are delightfully on display in their place.

“Really an improvement, don’t you think? Such a shame to hide such incredible physiques.”

The mercenaries are all too shell shocked to formulate any kind of response. Instead, their eyes bulge and their mouths work like fish gasping for water while naked butt cheeks shiver and shake pathetically in the open air.

“Gentlemen.” Lucifer’s grin is sharp as he pushes past them. “Or should I say gigolos?”

“F-fuck you. F-fucking Criss Angel Mindfreak motherfucker,” the short one finally says, attempting and failing to catch his jacket with trembling fingers as he passes. “God fucking damn it.”

Lucifer laughs. “So sorry, I'm not really taking requests at this time.”

And waltzes his way inside.

—

Behind parted PVC curtains and glass double doors is a carnivore’s paradise. The quiet, pre-dawn Los Angeles explodes into a blinding, snow-white landscape studded with the retina red of fresh meat.

There are slabs of beef, veal, bison, and even kangaroo—all lined up neat-as-you please in glacial glass displays. Trays upon trays are loaded with fresh ice and black signs with empty price tags. Whole carcasses hang on chains from the rafters, ready for butchering into portions. Sub-sections of cows, goats, and other various and unlucky beasts drift from their own hooks, swaying in an almost nonexistent breeze. The sterile walls are lined with stalls, crammed together one after another, after another. Live chickens squawk from wire cages and ducks blithely putter around in open boxes—pitifully oblivious about their eventual date with a plate.

It doesn’t escape Lucifer's notice that the white floor is concave. Drains pock-mark the pavement at every six feet. It's rather…difficult not to feel a pang of sorrow for these poor creatures. This is the way of the world. The mechanism of eating and being eaten. And they had dear old Dad to thank for that.

He decides to bring it up with Chloe later. Maybe it's time for a spot of change in the meat department. Maybe he can use his mojo to make tofu actually taste halfway decent. Surely that wouldn’t interfere with free will. But for now, c’est la vie.

He picks his way past the tired, coffee-sipping butchers. Minces past the hired hands that laboriously unpack crates for the day. Dodges the restaurant owners and chefs as they pace back and forth, appraising the available offerings. He walks, and walks, until finally, he makes a left at the very last booth. It's nondescript, save for the fact that its sides are flanked by two very stern looking guards.

Both men look to be thoroughly unimpressed by his sudden appearance—but it's not them he needs to impress. He only needs to impress Chloe—who is probably tucked safely in his bed and soundly snoring like chainsaw.

He flashes his business card. “I do hope you gentlemen are brighter than the chaps outside,” he says. “I have an appointment.”

They look at him. They look at his business card. And then they bow and move aside, revealing a hidden door.

Lucifer is quickly ushered past a plush series of rooms, each more lavish than the last—until finally he’s left alone in the most lavish of them all. The extravagant space is lush, flush, and stuffed to the gills with marijuana plants—replete with hiccuping aquaponics. In the center is a small hazy den, much like an indoor facsimile of a courtyard. There's a suave and modern loveliness about it. Clean lines, two soft couches, and a long walnut coffee table. The only bit of furniture out of place is an ugly, metal chair, and tied to it is a rather sweaty looking young man with a silk gag stuffed into his mouth.

Lucifer gracefully takes a seat on the nearest couch.

“Mmmphhhh!” The man held prisoner struggles. “Mmmph.”

“Yes, yes. Hello.” Lucifer fiddles with his cuffs. “I see you.”

“Mrmm. Hrmph!” he replies articulately as he pulls against his bindings.

Lucifer pulls out a fresh cigarette and tamps it. “You know you’ve caused me a spot of trouble here. I do hope you appreciate how much your asinine little murder cost me. You could have stuck to petty theft but nooo. You had to make it to the big leagues.”

The man just stares at him, uncomprehending. The chair noisily clatters against the tile with each tired and clumsy tug against the restraints. Lucifer ruefully shakes his head.

“Oh, excuse me, potential murder,” he corrects himself. “Innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz. But it is not a good look to be caught by a certain interested party before the police. As you know, not everyone has the same judicious compunctions—”

“Especially when the victim is someone under my protection.”

A woman appears in the doorway; her face is both stern and unimpressed. “I see you’ve met Justin.”

Zhao Ti. Even her name is a kick in the teeth.

She moves to sit on the couch, not demure, but leonine. With twenty more winters to her name than Chloe, Lucifer would have expected her to start wilting, as only the most beautiful roses do. But no, Ti has more thorns than wrinkles, and more claws than a jaguar. Her hair is cut in a severe, gunmetal bob and the cleaver tattoo on her neck is sharp and undulled with age. Well muscled arms flex under her plain black T-shirt, and the swell of her thighs against her jeans suggest that she still lifts.

Her assessing gaze is inkstone and flint.

“You’re getting old,” she says to him without a preamble. “Though the gray suits you.”

He decides not to mention he’s already been old. Older than religion. Older than the planet. Older than the stars. Older than Adam’s first wank. Pointing out the fact would not win him brownie points in this arena. Not that he needed them, per se. But still. Appearances.

“Of course it suits me,” Lucifer replies brightly in perfectly polished Mandarin. “And you’re still as ravishing as ever I see, despite your lackluster security detail.”

Her eyes crinkle and her lips pull with the faintest slip of a smile. Lucifer never lies. The world may have worn Ti, but it also refined her into a knife’s edge. One that only glints right before the blade strikes true.

“Flatterer,” she accuses, but gestures for tea. “And I speak English just fine, thank you, in case you've forgotten.”

A shirtless, young, twenty-something man quickly places a tray on the low table between them. Lucifer can see his reflection in the tea-kettle, if a bit distorted. What Zhao Ti said was true. Silver threads his beard and dusts his temples. The creases of his eyes have indeed deepened from when she had seen him last. Lucifer is no longer the young playboy the city used to know—but neither is he decrepit. Not in the least. He looks only a tad more Hollywood Producer now than movie star.

He reaches for a cup.

“Sssst.” Ti slaps his hand. “Even Yanluo Wang should show some manners. ”

“Wrong deity,” he grumbles. “And I’d prefer it if you’d actually use my name, if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever you call yourself is immaterial. I didn't forget, you know.”

“Hm.” He examines his fingernails. “Forget what?

“How you took a teenage girl, alone in the world, and gifted her a family and an empire. Titles are meaningless compared to deeds.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Lucifer huffs. “I never thought you were one for embellishments.”

Zhao Ti used to be a sex worker, a talented one. She was as unlucky as she was beautiful.

The seventies weren’t a kind time, no matter how many nonsense nostalgic TV sitcoms proclaim otherwise. There were bad pimps and even worse johns.

Ti had no home, no family, and ‘belonged’ to a man who made her more of a sideshow cultural fetish than a flesh and blood woman. Lucifer refrains from killing humans, but oh, there is a special place in hell for him, and people like him. Lucifer saw to it himself. Ti, of course, saw to the more sordid details that led the man to shuck off his mortal coil.

His host levels him a stare. The same defiant stare she gave him when she showed up on his doorstep so many moons ago. Ti never begged, that’s what Lucifer liked about her from the beginning.

He shakes his head, smiling. “You make it sound like it was difficult. A few bribes here, a few accidents there. A bit of forgery and a dash of charm on my end. But you, you did the dirty work. Not me. You’re not giving yourself enough credit, darling.”

“Then we’ll call it a difference of opinion. What you do in a single breath would take a hurricane to accomplish.” Ti shrugs.

“My ability is God given, while yours is hard earned. There’s difference of opinion and then difference of fact.”

She straightens the tea tray, ignoring him. Practiced hands take the kettle and pour hot water over the cups and teapot, warming them through. The slots in the tray capture any overflow. She swishes the water around each vessel, like living methodical poetry—then, when satisfied, scoops a portion of tea into the pot. Then the water.

Her ceremony is the embodiment of human grace. She wears her age like a crown. But he wonders, briefly, if it will always be so. Time, at least the way his Father created it, is a thief. Anxiety niggles a little at the edges of his thoughts, but he ignores it.

“My people tell me you’ve found a woman,” Zhao Ti says, pouring him a cup. Then herself.

Lucifer takes a sip, without the hand slapping this time.The taste of good, green earth slides across his tongue.

“I’ve found many over the years. Blondes. Brunettes. Mmmm, redheads. Your people will have to be a tad more specific I’m afraid.” He gives her his best megawatt grin over the brim of his cup. “Don't tell me you’re jealous after all this time.”

“A detective with the LAPD.” Ti’s tone is not quite accusatory, or threatening, but it is knowing. And resigned, like she had expected it. A knife in the back foretold by fate.

“Chloe Decker.” He smiles, thinking of her desk stacked with nonfat-sugar-free-caramel lattes, and pictures of Beatrice. “My Detective, and my partner.”

She waves him off. “I heard what happened with Korean Power.”

She thinks he’s here to ask her to dissolve her little organization too. And given the relaxed stance of her body guards, chances are she wouldn’t even fight him for it. A shame really. The woman used to have teeth—lots of them—and pegged his arse six ways to Sunday.

Perhaps she’s ready to retire, it would explain the pitiful guard detail outside. He makes a mental note to send her some brochures about his property in Aruba. He has no use for the place anymore.

He takes another sip. “Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not here to break your set up here. No, I quite like it the way it is. You currently bankroll an orphanage, a soup kitchen, two local schools, and the women's shelter two blocks over. Who am I to judge your good deeds, even if they come from more ignoble means?”

“Do you even have to ask, Lucifer Morningstar?”

“Oh you wound me Mistress Zhao Ti, truly.”

She lifts a brow, and pulls out a cigarette from a small engraved case. Instead of letting her fumble for a light, he offers his own. Let it not be said that he isn't the picture of chivalry.

“Then, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She takes a long shuddering drag. An impressive one to be sure, were it not for her shaking fingers.

Lucifer tries to give her a reassuring smile. “I’m calling in my favor.”

“Ah,” Ti says, with an exhalation of smoke. “And what would that be?”

“That poor chap over there, Justin Chen,” Lucifer gestures to the poor man tied in the corner. “Drug runner for the Asian Boyz, known thief, and murder suspect extraordinaire. I am here to secure him.”

Ti frowns, considering. She takes another long drag. “We do many things for love, Lucifer Morningstar, but a tiger cannot simply hang up his claws and frolic with sheep. Aren’t you above the squeakings of mice? The braying of livestock?”

“If only you knew,” he straightens his lapels. “But I’m afraid not in this instance.”

She reaches out then. Her hands—dry, but warm, attempt to smooth the lines creasing at the edges of his eyelashes. It’s motherly in a way he doesn’t quite like, halfway between coddling and pity. “You should stop pretending.”

He abruptly pulls away. “Hm. Is that a no then?”

Ti sighs, shaking her head. “I’m merely trying to give advice to an old friend. Be careful of what you allow yourself to be and who keeps your heart.” She leans back into the couch, and her sudden gentleness sours. “A tiger cannot hang up his claws, but that doesn’t mean he won't try to chop them off to satisfy a woman in a leather jacket. I say this with experience.”

He doesn’t care much for sob stories at this point. That’s not what he desires, or what is owed. His good humor fades.

“Good thing I’m not a tiger. And, if this is your means to distract me—” He flashes a dangerous smile. “You are failing. I will have my due.”

Ti barks a brief and bright cackle. “And if you are attempting to scare me, you’re wasting your time.”

“Is that a challenge I hear?”

“Oh, no. Just an old woman pulling at whiskers.”

Ti whistles and two bodyguards move to flank Justin.

“If we must have a tyrant,” she says. “Let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.”

“Ah yes, the bulimic poet with the club foot. Lord Byron.” Lucifer sneers. “Surprisingly good at oral. Didn’t like him much though. He was vain, even for my tastes. Not sure I understand the point of your reference, however.”

Ti ignores him and instead addresses her captive.

“You are lucky today Justin. Or, perhaps very unfortunate. Today, the Devil has you in his sights.”

God actually, Lucifer almost corrects—but honestly, he prefers his old title. It makes him feel a bit smaller, a bit younger, a bit more comfortable in his own skin. Force of habit and all that.

—

II.

Divine Penance

Lucifer has six text messages from Chloe, two missed phone calls, and a voicemail by the time he checks his cell. The Devil might be the Lord of all Hell, and now Heaven, as well as Earth—but sometimes he forgets his phone in the glove compartment. ADHD is part and parcel for agreeing to run the universe with a teensy-weensy bit of an earthly handicap.

He pulls over to the side of the road. Dawn is beginning to trundle across the city, anemic and pale. Windows begin to glaze in a baleful blue, but the sun has yet to kick up over the horizon. Sleepy birds begin to rouse within their bowers for the morning chorus. The freeway is mostly empty, save for the shush-shush-shush of speeding cars. Backyard roosters begin to crow.

A patrol vehicle slows down to investigate, but Lucifer gives it a thumbs up and a wave. The officers inside seem to recognize him, wave back, and move on. He thumbs the Detective’s name, quick-dialing her back.

Chloe picks up on the first ring. “I asked you to help me find Justin Chen, not have him gift wrapped to the LAPD doorstep.”

“Well, that was fast.” He did intend for Ti to deliver him a bit later, after his Detective had her coffee. “Did you get my card?”

“You didn't poof him there, did you? I thought we agreed-”

“Yes, yes, no divinity was involved. I didn’t break our agreement, scout's honor.”

”Ah, but did you break the spirit of the deal?” Chloe muses. “Carney says there's a report of some mad magician terrorizing Skid Row. He’s having a hell of a time untangling it at the precinct.”

“A wardrobe change is hardly an ‘Act of God’. And while we’re on the subject, Carney absolutely deserves it for all the bloody bullshit he’s given you over the years,” he rebuffs. “But you didn't answer my question. Did you get my card?”

She sighs into the speaker, hissing static. “Yes, and the lemon squares, and the donuts, and the latte, and the not-so-discreet lingerie.” A pause, which he assumes is an eye-roll. “Going a little overboard today, don’t you think?”

“Hmmmm…no.” He can feel the smile on his face growing wider. “Do you?”

“Are you coming in today?” Chloe evades in a way he knows all too well—where she blushes, adjusts her bangs, but won't admit to liking it. Even though she very obviously does. He can't see her, but the mental image is vivid and sweet. It’s the first glimpse of a new and rising sun. “I missed you this morning,” she says.

“Ah, what's that old saying? Needs must when the Devil drives? Though admittedly I’d have much rather woken you up with oral and an omelet.”

She laughs, and the sound is more heavenly than all of the Host.

“I missed you too, if it’s any consolation,” Lucifer continues. “And no. I will not be at the precinct because we both agreed today was to be our day off.”

The calendar rustles on the other line. “Shit. What day is it?”

“I think you already know.”

“Ugh. Does the Devil accept IOUs?”

“Divine Penance is the currency these days. Do keep up.”

Her answering groan is adorable.

“It’s fine. Really. Why do you think I nabbed our potential suspect?” he explains gently. “I know you, Detective.”

“Oh?”

“And I will do anything within my somewhat limited cosmic power to at least have you home for dinner on time tonight,” he says softly. “If that means getting up at the arse crack of dawn and calling in a favor, so be it.”

“I’m sorry.” Her words are soft and genuine, and he knows without a doubt she didn’t mean to forget.

“Don't apologize for being yourself. I won't have it.” He brushes her off. “Today is about us. About you. If you desire to swing by the precinct, so be it. And yes, you can make it up to me later.”

There's a pause on the other line. The sound of a door closing. Of her apartment blinds being snapped shut.

“And what if I made it up to you now?”

“Now?”

“You said Divine Penance, right?” Chloe breathes into the phone. “So I should probably get down on my knees first.”

Lucifer swallows. He tugs at his shirt, which is suddenly a tad too tight around the throat.

“Why Detective—”

“Are you someplace private?”

He gives the road’s shoulder a passing glance. There's a bush, a sign for the freeway, an overhanging tree, and little else in the way of company. He’s gotten off in worse places, he supposes.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”

“Good.”

And oh, the way she says ‘good’ is absolutely evil. The intonation is so filthy and so full of promise she might as well have just groped his tender bits right then and there. He licks his lips in anticipation.

“Now close your eyes,” she says.

“Hm. No I don’t think I will,” he replies as smoothly as he can. “You’re the one on your knees. Which you are, aren’t you? Like a proper penitent?”

A rustling noise. “Yes, Lucifer. I’m on my knees.”

“I thought so.” He shifts in his seat. A lick of delicious friction that he chases with his hips. “And you’re wearing the lingerie I bought. Only the lingerie, and you look stunning. Your hair is loose and you’re looking up at me. Eager. Pleading. But for what I wonder?”

“I want—”

“What you desire is easy enough to guess,” he husks into the speaker. “Humans are sinful creatures by nature. You’re practically gagging for my cock aren’t you darling? You think that your wicked mouth can save you from Divine Punishment, don’t you? I bet you’re touching yourself, thinking of the taste. It’s all right darling, I’ll allow it.”

He pictures Chloe. Wet lips so red he could taste that awful nickname ‘Cherry Jane’. But she isn’t some curbside fruit, overripe with a stony heart. She’s something more vital, like the sweltering sun that hits the pavement. Lines shimmering against the black tar. He wants to lick the sweat from her clavicles. He wants his fingertips to sear across her ribcage. He wants to smell the heat of gunpowder and leather and humanity. Gasoline and brine.

“I am a very generous God.”

He can hear her practically whimper on the other end. And suddenly, he loses control.

Lucifer is now in Chloe’s apartment, quick as a blink, as an invisible spectator. A Holy Ghost.

He can see her, on her knees like he asked—though disappointingly not wearing the lingerie. She is forgiven. Absolved of sin, because she is tantalizingly wet through her white cotton panites. Her hand snakes down her abdomen, hunting for release. He watches, hungry, as her fingers twist and dive, frantic, frenetic and frenzied. Knees quake, lips part, and he can hear her, sighing with the sunrise. Gold alights on her hair like a coronet, and while she is certainly a sight, she’s slipping into territory that he would very much like to tread.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Lucifer says, letting his voice carry into her bones. “I said you could touch yourself, not take what is rightfully mine.”

Cheap carpet rasps against his knees as he cages her body with his own. She cannot see him, but he makes sure that she can feel him. His cock brushes the curve of her arse as he presses forward, making Chloe steady herself on her hands. He reaches around and down, until his fingers hover over her clit. She hisses out a gasp.

“Lucifer!”

“The one and only.” His voice drifts from her phone.

“How—”

“We could pause and discuss metaphysics and atoms, if you would like.” He hitches an invisible finger deeper and nips at the curve of her neck.

Chloe laughs and he can feel the delicate curve of her spine shake and spasm up into his chest. Not quite the effect he was going for.

“I could go for some metaphysics,” she deadpans.

Lucifer snorts. “Has anyone told you you’re a terrible flirt?”

“You like it.” He can feel her smile against his cheek. “Admit it.”

“Fine,” he admits, helpless to her command. “I do.”

She all but writhes backwards, her thumbs hooking down her Hanes. Chloe is bare, dripping, and waiting for him.

Lucifer runs his hand across her ribcage and sneaks beneath her bra. Like this, he doesn't have to remove her underwire to tweak a nipple, or palm a handful of her breasts. He can be everywhere, feel everything, and in this moment his power, his locus, is all on Chloe Jane Decker. Her skin, rippling into gooseflesh, the oxygen as it pours into her lungs. Her heartbeat, thrumming like the threads of a well-strung harp.

“Ah, now where were we?” he all but purrs. “Oh yes, your offering.”

The moment hangs, crystalline. Her hair smells like her shampoo—honey, lavender and vanilla—and a bit like the fabric softener she uses on her sheets. Lucifer noses downward, pressing his lips against her neck, tasting the humanity he so craved. He could spend hours like this, drinking her in, savoring. Days even. She is a gift that he slowly, very slowly, wants to unwrap.

Chloe’s phone suddenly buzzes.

“Shit,” she says. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

—And Lucifer is thrown abruptly back into the car.

He blinks, disoriented. On the other end of the line he can hear Chloe scrambling.

“The new Lieutenant is calling. Its not even fucking 8 a.m.,” she whispers quickly. “Love you. I’ll see you tonight.”

“L-Love you too.”

And click.

Lucifer groans.

He tosses his phone into the passenger's seat and sticks a hand down his trousers.

He does not blame Chloe. He cannot blame Chloe. He did just say the day was about her, after all. If only his unholy case of blue balls could agree.

His engines are revved. His pump is primed. He’s hard as a slab of marble and stiffer than the drive shaft of his Corvette. If he were any harder he would poke a hole straight through his Burberry slacks.

“Oh Detective,” he says like a curse, and a prayer.

He pops the button.

His palm is soft, but not soft like Chloe’s. The downstroke is rougher than he intended, and he tucks his tongue between his teeth. The upstroke feels fractionally better, and he begins to find a rhythm. Pre-come beads at the tip.

The world around him rouses. More cars pass on the freeway, and the morning chorus of horns and sirens block out the brief scraps of birdsong.

Lucifer’s back twinges. His knees shake. There’s a delicate thread of pain lacing his movements. The muscles of his loose fist cramp with exertion. Tendons burn with friction. The world exacts its pain for pleasure, in a way it has yet to do before. His bones creak like the hinges of an antique automaton, and all at once he actually feels…old.

He finds himself staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His head is tilted back, his mouth parted—the very picture of sublime, handsome ecstasy. But there are flaws; flaws that are more than the silver that dusts his chin and his temples. More than the eye bags, or the thinning skin on the backs of his hands. And more than the gentle swell of his belly, or his jaw. There is a softness, a mundanity. He feels a bit like an overripe peach, the sweetest he’s ever been—but just on the cusp of rot. Give him a few more years and he will wither into a puddle, forgotten in the proverbial fruit bowl.

Lucifer’s eyes squeeze shut. He imagines Chloe’s lips popping around the head of his cock. The graze of her teeth as she ever so slightly drags against his skin. He can almost feel the slide of her tongue as she takes him. His thumb swipes to mimic the motion, but it’s graceless. Inelegant. Not as perfect as her mouth.

Chloe is a little older too, with crows feet and hollow cheeks. The color of her hair is more white than blonde. Her breasts fall lower, but her eyes are that same cornflower-blue that somehow flashes green. Their movements together are unhurried, and Chloe’s ministrations have a practiced surety. This is an art she has mastered, over and over again. They languor in a comfortable, carnal haze.

This is the future he desires.

He’s hungry for it. Starving.

The chuff-chuff-chuff of his own breathing is skin so loud that he can scarcely hear anything else. He moves faster, his muscles burning at the pace.

“Chloe,” he says, envisioning them walking together on some nameless beach.

“Chloe,” he says again, imagining her pinning him against a mattress, taking her pleasure and then some.

“Chloe,” he says once more, almost choking the syllables.

Lucifer’s thoughts begin to catch. Words stick against his skull that are impossible to parse. His legs tense, his spine cracks, and desperation pulls his skin like taffy. The hooks of desire dig deep, burrow, and yank.

Noise. Everything is noise. Pain. Pleasure. Love. Fear. Past. Present. Future. They all commingle together to form a single note. The Universe itself is crying out all at once. Screaming her name.

‘Chloe Jane Decker’.

He orgasms.

Light bursts on the inside of his eyelids—white and orange. Lucifer is the fabric that encloses every galaxy, the dark matter at the very edges. Like this, he can briefly feel the entire weight of what he’s truly become. He is the space between matter and energy, the great void that contains everything and nothing.

And without Chloe, he feels truly alone.

The comedown aches. Spend drips from his palm and the steering wheel, as well as his trousers.

Lucifer snaps his fingers and the Corvette is sanitized. His clothes become freshly pressed once more, and his hands are clean. The world moves forward as if he had not just spilled his Holiness into the wheelwell.

When he finally picks up his phone again, he sees another text from his Detective.

“Happy Anniversary, Lucifer”

And beneath is a picture of herself, now wearing the lingerie, and looking thoroughly debauched. The green ensemble hugs her curves, just as he thought it might. Chloe bites her lip coquettishly. Sultry is a look that suits her. Hell, everything suits her.

Lucifer, the Devil, and God, whimpers. The most powerful being across space and time is helpless. He shoves his hand once again his down trousers and tilts his head back against the headrest.

“Fuck.”

—

III.

Preferences

The LAPD precinct is sedated on Saturdays. The bullpen is halfway full, and the normal roaring din of paperwork and conversation is dialed down to a hush. The scent of stale coffee, sweat, and Lysol is especially cloying on weekends. The doors to the outside aren’t opened even half as much, nor does anyone feel the need to open a window. Lucifer breathes in deeply nonetheless.

Chloe, strangely, isn't at her desk, like he had expected.

Lucifer places a bouquet on her keyboard. He picked the flowers himself. Tulips as red as fresh lipstick, butter-yellow Daffodils, and blue-bells the color of her eyes. The wrapping crinkles against the key forlornly, unattended.

He considers texting, but her phone is in its charging cradle, nestled against framed pictures of Beatrice.

“I guess you’re looking for Chloe?” Daniel asks from his desk. He’s dwarfed by a mountainous stack of files, as well as an equally tall stack of used paper coffee cups. The overall effect is rather… diminutive. A mouse-like muscle-man cowed by administrative work and process. A David to a pitiless Goliath. Lucifer almost feels bad for the Douche. Almost.

“Your detective skills are immaculate, for once.”

Daniel fixes him with a look of thinly veiled disgust. “I was just trying to help, man. I don’t need your bullshit today.”

“Riiiiiiight,” Lucifer says, a bit dubious. “Do you know where she is then?”

He makes a gesture that points upwards.

Lucifer’s gaze tracks to the second level, where the Lieutenant’s office overlooks the bullpen. The great, floor to ceiling glass windows allow an excellent, low effort way to micromanage fifty or so people from on high.

Chloe is there, standing in front of the Lieutenant's desk. She’s smiling, and making animated movements. Which is strange, because it's not like her to smile so wide at work. His eyes track to the new Lieutenant. Who is, objectively… handsome. More so than Cain, even. He has a sharp jaw, and broad shoulders— and his skin is a rich tan, like refined terracotta clay. His cheekbones are high, and his face looks like a slab of masterfully carved granite. The way he looks at Chloe also simmers a little too much for his liking. And worse, Chloe either doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

“Mmmm… Decker, get it.”

Mazikeen appears from seemingly nowhere. She’s in her bounty-hunting leathers, meaning today is a working day for her as well. In one hand she plays with a pocket knife, and in the other she holds a mug of coffee with a heart on it.

“Get what?” Eve also rockets in on a rolling chair. Which he should have expected. The two women are a package deal.

“The Detective is desperate to impress the new Lieutenant it seems,” Lucifer explains.

Daniel gives him an overly-exaggerated once over. In his gaze is the kind of dubious, pitying, judgment only reserved for pimply girls at cheer try-outs and three-legged puppies. “Uh-huh.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Just watch out, yeah? Ella tells me he’s quite the hot piece of ass. “

“And I’m not?”

Mazikeen cackles.

“I'm not saying soft isn’t a good look. But you remember Pierce. And Jed. And me. Chloe has her preferences. What is she willing to commit to, you know? Soft hasn’t historically been one of them,” Daniel blithely pronounces.

The assessment stings more than Lucifer would ever care to admit.

“Have you, perhaps, considered her taste has vastly improved over the recent years?

“Or took one giant nose-dive!” Mazikeen jeers.

“Maze, honey, be nice.” Eve chides. “There could be something wrong with him. We should be supportive”

Here, surrounded by his supposed friends and associates, Lucifer finds himself surprisingly alone. Their collective examination strips him barer than nakedness. He, who is by all rights, God, is nothing more than an ant under a magnifying glass.

“Wait.” Daniel’s tone curdles into something suspiciously like concern. “Is there something wrong with you?”

“Does it look like there’s something wrong with me?” No wonder dear old Dad exploded his insides across the precinct. Lucifer wants to do that right about bloody now.

Daniel’s mouth presses into a grim line.

“Right,” Lucifer says. “I should be going.” Before he loses control and the douche’s entrails paint the bullpen.

“Wait, wait, wait, before you leave—” He digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a worn business card. “Not sure if the Devil uh, needs a personal trainer, but this guy is the best. I also have a hook-up at my cousin’s Botox place. If you want it.”

Lucifer takes the piece of paper, looks Daniel square in the eyes, and then carefully tears it into itty-bitty bits— letting the scraps fall to the floor like poorly laminated snow.

“No Daniel, as a matter of fact, I do not want it.” He tries to ignore the growing pit in his stomach. “Thank you.”

He then stalks out of the bullpen, leaving Chloe’s flowers where they lay. He only hopes that she will enjoy them. Or at least see them, and think of him.

Like he constantly thinks of her.

—

IV.

Kochei’s Needle

“Lucifer?” Beatrice Espinoza calls. “They don’t take hundreds.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Fine. Fine. Take some twenties or what have you. Here’s my wallet.”

Lucifer tosses his thick money clip like one would gently toss a softball. Humans and their ridiculous paper money. He much preferred gold, and the entire race did a long backslide with nonsense numbers and imaginary value.

Beatrice smiles, and catches the cash with an uncommon grace for one of her stature. He blames Mazikeen and her diligent training—but even so, he’s secretly a little proud. Chloe’s daughter is growing up, and growing up well.

As he watches Beatrice enter back into the short queue for food outside a nearby taco truck— Amenadiel, bumbling oaf of an Angel that he is, struggles with a camping chair. The plastic is screeching and snapping, successfully destroying the idea of a serene afternoon picnic. Charlie sleeps like a stone, dead to the world in his stroller.

“You know you could help, Luci,” his brother grumbles.

“Don’t be preposterous, I’m paying for lunch. That’s plenty enough.” Lucifer waves him off. “I’m under no obligation to help you tame that monstrosity.”

The somewhat ex-Devil opts to instead sit on the unicorn patterned blanket. The position is uncomfortable, with no back support to speak of, but it’s a small sacrifice for some semblance of dignity.

Amenadiel, after an embarrassingly long wrestling match, finally plops down into the chair. “So why are we here again?”

Lucifer smirks. “The little urchin made quite the deal. In exchange for lunch at the Griffith Observatory with you, Charlie, and Linda— she goes to a sleepover tonight. And I plan to have a sleepover of my own in exchange.”

Amenadiel makes a rather unpleasant gagging noise. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

“You asked, dear brother.” Lucifer huffs. “And besides, it’s not like you haven’t done the sideways tango and had a spawn of your own to show for it. No need to be so prudish.”

Before Amenadiel can form a halfway decent rebuttal, Beatrice returns carrying a tower of takeout boxes taller than she is. Doctor Linda follows closely behind, juggling beers and soda bottles. She passes Lucifer half of the boxes, passes a few to Amenadiel, and then sits next to him on the blanket criss-cross applesauce. Doctor Linda reclines next to her celestial baby-daddy.

They descend on the tacos. There’s Carne Asada, Al Pastor, Carnitas, Vampiro, ones with little shrimp, and ones that are a bit odd- with sweet potato and kale. Salsa is dunked and passed in a messy frenzy that Lucifer tries desperately to avoid getting on his person. They eat, and he eats. And eats. And eats. Who could have guessed a dirty Los Angeles taco truck would be this close to dispensing mana from Heaven? Certainly not the Devil.

He eats until his back hurts. He eats until his shirt feels tight. He eats until he has to tug uncomfortably at his belt to alleviate the pressure.

“This is so good!” Linda gushes over a half eaten burrito. “How did you find this place?”

“Mommy takes me here sometimes,” Beatrice says.

“She couldn’t come?”

“Work,” the urchin says with no small amount of distaste. “On a Saturday.”

“Sacrilege,” Lucifer agrees. “But I’m sure whatever the Detective is up to, it's important.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Beatrice opens her unicorn backpack, closing that specific avenue of conversation indefinitely.

Linda makes a face, the same kind she would make from her chair in her office– but she holds off on dispensing wisdom. Perhaps the wisest choice of them all.

Chloe is an excellent mother, Lucifer knows this. But he also knows that sometimes her job gets the best of her– not often, not all the time. But sometimes. In this regard she might be just a tad lucky she has a partner like him.

Napkins are eventually passed around, crumbs are brushed away, and empty cartons are stacked. The grass is warm, and the world is soft, and Lucifer leans back on the blanket to take it all in. The sun. The trees. The companionable silence.

“Luci?” Leave it to his brother to ruin a moment.

His brother is staring, but not at his face. Rather, his gaze is strangely affixed to his gut.

“What is it now?”

Amenadiel looks puzzled, as if debating what he is about to say— which is a new look on him.

“You’re usually more—” he makes a complicated hand gesture. “Pointy?”

“Why yes, my measurements have changed once or twice. How good of you to notice, Jenny Craig.”

Beatrice throws a handful of grass at Amenadiel. “You’re not being very nice.”

“Yes.” Lucifer replies. “You know, I think I preferred you more when you were trying to send me back to Hell.”

“I like it,” Beatrice announces. “You’re more cuddly.”

He touches his stomach, traitorously full. Lucifer isn’t a roly-poly princess, but he no longer has washboard abs. Instead it's a sloping curve, comfortable for Chloe to lean on for movie night, or soft enough to spoon her with. Amenadiel was right, he was previously “more pointy”. But sharpness can also be brittle, and he no longer desires to be honed into an edge.

Lucifer straightens his shirt and relaxes, sinking deeper against the earth.

“I only want what is best for you, and the universe,” Amenadiel oh so deftly reasons. “Is this part of acclimating to the Role?”

At the mention of the Role, he prickles. “Why must you insist on constantly prying? You’re just as bad as Gabriel.”

Undeterred, his brother plows on, like an exceptionally stubborn mule. “You should at least see the Throne, if that’s what this is about. Perhaps it would be a fortifying experience?”

The very thought of visiting Heaven fills him with dread. He won’t, not without Chloe. “Not until I’m finished here on Earth, like we all had agreed. Like you had agreed, brother.” He won’t threaten his brother, not yet, but Amenadiel is incrementally closer to getting punched by God.

Lucifer scrunches his fists, the once soft grass crackles against his palms like kindling.

“Just…Don’t forget yourself.” Amenadiel very mildly concedes. “Some of our siblings are growing…concerned.”

“And I should be taking advice from an Angel with sauce on his chin.” He hands him a handful of wet wipes. “For my own sake, use a napkin. Our brothers and sisters can wait.”

“Not forever, Luci.”

A plasticky smell lodges itself in the back of his throat, of melting tar and asphalt. The Host is selfish, and greedy, and insufferably sanctimonious. His siblings presume. They overstep. They smother.

“Need I remind you,” he almost growls. “These are very same siblings that couldn't be arsed to lift a finger when I was thrown into perdition.”

Amenadiel winces, and sweat beads on his heavy brow.

It occurs to Lucifer, belatedly, that the sun is flaring too hot– far hotter than what it was before. Ferocious sunshine pours through the trees, curling the tips of nearby leaves. Around them, the world warps in a heat haze. Radiation pours in thickly like cream from a carton.

Linda suddenly clears her throat. “Oh! What’s this?” she says, looking at the urchin’s scribbles.

He’s reminded, then, of who he is. Of where he is.

Self-control rushes in, swift and cool as a spring breeze. The sun returns to its previous luminescence.

Oblivious, Beatrice pulls out a few more drawings. One, of a little girl in blond pigtails. One, of a horned creature tied to a broccoli shaped tree.

“I’m doing a school project on Russian folklore.” She points at a large stick-figure, with scribbly boots and a rectangle cape. “My favorite is about this guy. He’s so afraid of dying he hides his soul inside the eye of a needle, inside a duck’s egg, inside of a rabbit, inside of a goose, inside of a goat.”

“It's ridiculous what you humans make up for the sake of entertainment,” Lucifer grumbles. “I vastly prefer the Baba Yaga.”

“Lucifer! She’s too young for John Wick,” Linda protests.

“The Baba Yaga is a witch, not Keanu Reeves.” He huffs. “But it doesn't make sense, does it? Who would ever want to live forever, waiting for someone to find a weakness? Or worse, letting someone control you with it.”

“Maybe he was waiting for someone to share his soul with.” Doctor Linda gathers up the remaining trash. “You don’t know.”

“How very trite.”

Beatrice only smiles and shrugs. “I just want an A.”

Amenadiel says nothing. His brother only stares, looking at him like he is a stranger. Like they had not spent eons upon eons as siblings. There is confusion in his gaze, and maybe a little bit of something infinitely worse.

Fearful reverence.

—

V.

A Pernicious Pigeon

The afternoon haze sinks across Los Angeles like a scratchy veil, making the dusty bowl of the city mildly suffocating. The atmosphere sinks like a dirty woolen blanket, draping itself between the sun and the skyline. He could practically chew on the haze, or slice it like a piece of bread. The pale, sickly sunshine could be the disgusting butter.

Lucifer doesn’t particularly enjoy looking at it, or breathing it. Leave it to humanity to bollocks up a perfectly good planet, he thinks yet again, for the second time today.

Luckily, change looks to be on the horizon. His wings might not be visible, but they are there and they feel the drop in barometric pressure. There is a heaviness on the wind. A storm is coming in, lumbering in on lightning strike feet. The system probably won’t arrive until about seven or so, which is a good thing, really. It leaves enough time for Chloe to get home safely without a little extra divine intervention.

With Trixie safely deposited at a friend’s house in Santa Monica, Lucifer decides to park and take a quick detour back to Hell. He holds a certain amount of paranoia now, as fate seems to intervene on his trysts with Chloe, more often than not. A quick check-in with the sharpest of thorns in his side would not be remiss. The Devil is a slow learner, but he does, in fact, learn.

He blinks, and he's staring up at the falling ash and basalt towers of Hell.

Everything seems to be fine, the situation normal, but still, he pivots through the nearest door. The rusty handle flakes iron into his palm as it screeches open.

Inside, it looks like Lux. As it should, because its primary inhabitant is tortured by the very existence of the club. Heavy bass rockets off the walls. Champagne flows cool and bubbly and the lights flash laser green and neon. The music is a touch too loud. The miasma of sweat and booze is a bit too sharp.

The club goers themselves, demons and figments. all sneer and jeer at the lone Archangel hunched crookedly at the bar.

“Well, well well. Look what the cat dragged in,” the figure says, not even turning to look at him.

“Michael,” Lucifer acknowledges, slipping onto the barstool next to him.

“You’re getting soft, Lucifer,” Michael says with all the harried wariness of a Little League baseball coach. “What are you trying to do? Looking like Dad won’t get everyone to worship you. It’s not that easy.”

Looking at his brother now, is like looking at a younger him. Lucifer may be grayer around the edges, but that's not quite the reason. There's a distinct maturity and sophistication Michael lacks.

“I’m rather surprised this is your Room. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Lucifer snaps his fingers and a tumbler of whisky appears neatly on a napkin. “Hell’s version of a Banana Republic, perhaps? Wanking into a cheap polyester blend sweater?”

Michael takes the drink and throws it at him.

“And what—“ Lucifer wipes his face. “The bloody fuck was that for?”

“Mostly because I wanted to.” His brother doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.

“If you wanted to be smote, you could have just asked.”

“Fine.” He pushes away from the bar top. “I'm asking. Smite me brother. Please.”

Michael stands defiantly, his arms outstretched for Divine Judgment. There’s a bald desperation in his eyes that Lucifer recognizes, but not because he’s seen it on his brother’s face before. He’s seen it in his own. In the mirror the night he thought he lost Chloe for good. As if the world had nothing left to offer him except misery, disappointment and pain. He’s reminded that even if scarred and lopsided, Michael is his twin– and even more uncomfortably, in more ways than physical.

Pity, unexpected and aching, blossoms from once barren soil.

“Now that you’re asking, how about no?” Lucifer vanishes the mess, and in its place is a fresh glass with fresh whisky.

Michael, forever the little brother, tries goading him again. “What’s up with the charade? Trying to order off the senior menu? At least tell me you didn’t try to hide your powers in a baby rattle.”

“Piss off.”

“This is my Hell-loop. Why don’t you piss off?’”

“Because it's my bloody universe.”

He has nothing really to say to that. Michael only seethes, and instead grasps for a lower hanging fruit.

“How’s Chloe, by the way?”

Lucifer can’t help but raise his hackles a little.

“None of your concern.”

“Oh man, what is she now- forty? Forty-Five? But why bother with the effort? Chloe’s gonna die, Lucifer. She’ll get old, if she’s lucky, but she’s gonna die.”

He takes a sip of his drink. “And I will grow old with her. Simple.”

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” Michael says, as if it's his turn to be the one consumed with pity.

“I’ll match her for each and every wrinkle,” he explains patiently, as if he’s speaking to a child. “Silver hair for silver hair. Find our way to our own version of Shady Pines together. And when she dies, we’ll go together. She will sit at my side in Heaven forever and for after. Like I said, simple. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy.”

“Like a doll?”

“Like equals.”

A pause. Michael looks struck, and then, suspiciously pleased, as if Lucifer just presented him his throat for an awaiting knife.

“You should be careful brother, those sound like vows.”

“And if they are?

“Well, Godly vows are a forever kind of thing,” Michael breezily points out. “Ya know, in case you’ve forgotten.

“I haven’t.”

“Oooookay. But did she actually say yes? Forever is a long, long time. Longer than she knows. And even if she did say yes and meant it, do you even have it in you to reciprocate?”

“Of course I do,” Lucifer replies, feeling a bit more defensive than he rightly should in this situation. “I’m not about to let her go”

“How very Father of you. You’re trying to control the uncontrollable, the inexorable march of time. You’ll do what he did. Play ‘house’ until it no longer suits you. Or until it no longer suits her. It will start small, maybe a nitpick here. A disagreement there. Maybe she won’t like the way you do things. Maybe you won’t like being told no. And soon enough a millennia or two you’ll get bored or angry and toss her in Hell, just like Mom.”

And oh, that stings.

“I would never do that to Chloe. I love her.” He means every syllable. If he has to write his intentions into the very fabric of the universe, he will.

“Oh you’ll say you love her forever, but don’t forget you’re God now. His love is a very different kind of love. Plagues and famines, floods and Hellfire. And you know that from personal experience. You can’t prevent it. You can’t escape it. You aren’t what she needs you to be.”

“Then I continue to re-make myself until she has what she needs.”

“Uh-huh. You let me know how that goes,” Michael replies dismissively.

Lucifer finishes his drink. He’s breathing hard, but he refuses to show how deep Michael is actually digging beneath his skin. The glass clacks against the countertop, and he turns to leave. He can at least spend the rest of the day in comfort, knowing his brother is happily stewing in perdition.

Michael follows after him, like a shark smelling blood. Or more accurately, like a pernicious pigeon hunting a french-fry.

“Seriously. You’re delusional,” he chases. “No matter how human you make yourself look, you’re avoiding the truth. Because what comes after this, well, it's not gonna be pretty. You can give Chloe grace, power and eternity– and you still wouldn’t be human enough to truly know what it means to love her.”

“A pleasure as always, Michael.” Lucifer moves to open the Door.

Michael abruptly presses into his space. His arm is warm around his shoulders, and they are close. Close enough that Lucifer can see how perfectly Michael’s eyes look like his own. Close enough, that they look like they’re sharing some brotherly secret.

“It’s funny,” he says with a quiet, infinite gentleness. “All this time you were worried about her falling in love with the Devil— when God has the shittier track record.”

Lucifer rips himself away. Fear snaps around his throat like ropes of barbed wire pulled taut. The bladed edges sink in, as if he were an animal thrashing in a well laid trap. He is strangled by horror. Tortured by the thought of being once again made into a poison for those he professes to love.

But this is the Devil's domain, as are all things. He is light, he is desire, and he is hope against impossible hope.

Fire ignites across his skin and jacket, and Lucifer stands tall—incandescent in fury. He is a living corona, casting and unrelenting brightness deep into the gloom of Hell. His wings stretch wide. Each feather is tipped with a slivered blade, ready to slice an ex-Archangel to ribbons.

“You would do well to remember your place, Michael.” His Voice buzzes in his mouth. His words are almost alien, and are layered with a thousand different tones, a thousand different warnings. “And my mercy.”

But his brother only laughs. “Oh Samael,” he says, with a wide and knowing smile. “You’ve only proved my point.”

Lucifer turns to catch his reflection in one of the mirrored walls by the DJ booth. Gone is his peachy flesh and his dapper suit. In its place is Wrath, holy and unyielding. The whole of him is Light, infinite and unknowable as a solar flare. There is nothing else, no joy, no desire, nothing so human as even a smile or a frown. He is a rockface, a force of nature. God.

And he does not like what he sees.

In an act of infinite restraint, Lucifer snuffs himself out. He compacts into his old self, into a body that he loves like an old Corvette. A body that is his comfort.

“I mean it,” Lucifer says, adjusting his already perfect lapels. “One more toe out of line, and I’ll have you scrubbing the halls of Hell with a toothbrush.”

“Sure,” Michael says, in a way that conveys that he absolutely plans to.

The Devil doesn’t say much else. And neither does God. He only walks away, and slams Michael’s door back into place with a magnitude of violence that’s rarely ever been seen. Even in Hell.

—

VI.

Key Lime Pie

Bouillabaisse bubbles away thickly on Lucifer’s portable induction burner. He doesn’t have a kitchen on the penthouse floor, but he does have a sink, and the long bar top makes a passable stand-in. Pots and pans, knives and cutting boards litter its surface. And in between various cooking implements, are remnants of garlic, onion skins, crab shells, fish spines, and spriggy tomato stems. The mess is considerable, but worth it. This is their first anniversary after all, and takeout certainly wouldn't do.

Lucifer stands in the middle of the chaos, thinly slicing some fennel. He had almost forgotten to add it to the broth. The font on Julia’s cookbook is traitorously small, so small he needs his reading glasses– but they’re constantly fogging up, causing him to miss ingredients and other important bits. Like the fennel. And also the orange peel.

Just then, the lift dings.

“Ah, Detective!” he calls. “You’re early.”

Chloe strides into the penthouse. She’s carrying a few grocery bags, her purse, the flowers, and a dessert box with a thick envelope perched atop it. Before Lucifer can step away to help, she drops everything off with a thwump on the coffee table.

“You didn’t tell me you stopped by the precinct.” She sounds… a tad annoyed. “I missed you.”

She makes her way over to him, and the sink. Before he can argue, she pulls out one of the nicer high-ball glasses, fills it halfway with water, and sticks her bouquet into it.

“You looked… busy,’ Lucifer says sheepishly.

“Hmm.” Chloe comes up to wrap her arms around him. Her hands pick playfully at his apron strings. “I picked up dessert.”

He relaxes, and leans into the warm line of her embrace.

“And what, pray tell, is dessert?”

“Key lime pie.”

He laughs.

“Are you telling me you couldn’t find apple? Or devil’s food cake? You just had to go and find a thing that doesn’t even have the decency to be either a cheesecake or a proper pie.”

“You know,” she says, pressing her forehead into his back. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

“Oh?”

“Call it a detective's intuition.”

Lucifer flicks off the burner, and moves to face his Detective.

“Speaking of intuition,” he says more seriously. “I think the urchin may be mad at you.”

“Oh?”

“She would have liked you at lunch today.”

Her face falls. Chloe is beautiful when she is happy. Chloe is beautiful when she’s sad. And she’s beautiful like this too, when she’s frustrated with herself. Even so, he tilts her chin up to look at him. Here, with him, her shame will have no dominion.

“I’ll make it up to her,” Chloe promises. “How do you feel about the zoo next weekend?”

Lucifer smiles, surprisingly not disgusted by the prospect of cotton candy and Beatrice’s sticky fingers. “Are you sure you don’t have zoo-related kidnapping PTSD?”

“Not if you're there to rescue me.”

She kisses him on the jaw, then on the mouth. She kisses him softly. She kisses him with a gentle, loving familiarity that he has become addicted to. She kisses him like how nicotine feels, and he breathes her in deeply.

“You’re wearing glasses,” she says, pulling away.

“I am doing no such thing. I’m simply using bifocals—” He slides them back up his nose. “Because my dearest Julia decided to print her books with the tiniest font known to the cosmos, and I don’t particularly like to squint. ”

“God needs glasses,” Chloe playfully accuses.

“I do not.”

“Sure thing, Old Scratch.”

Her hands come up to touch his face. They trace his stubble, which grays at the corners of his mouth. They come up to his temples, at the silver that curls into his thick, dark locks. And then to the creases of his eyes, the crows feet and smile-lines. Her eyes are so open, so deep, and so blue– his breath catches.

And then, all at once, Chloe recoils.

“Wait. You do look older.” She clumsily steps backward into the bar. The bottles clatter. “Different. Shit.”

“Detective—” Lucifer tries to reach out, but she pulls away.

“Are you okay?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for him to answer. “I should call Amenadiel. And Linda.” Chloe pulls out her phone. “And Maze.”

“Hold on. Everything is fine—“

She paces, clearly mulling over her contacts list. “I can’t believe I haven’t noticed before. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Detective, it’s fine.”

Her thumb hovers over the dial button. “Everything is not fine.” She gestures at him, like one would point out an obvious landmark to an obtuse tourist. “Just look at yourself. You're not… you. You look human.”

Which Lucifer takes as a synonym for old and fat.

He thinks of Ti Zhao’s prodding at his wrinkles. Daniel’s recommendations about Botox. Amendiel’s meddling. Michael’s poisonous prophecy. Lucifer’s creaking bones, that once felt comfortable—like an old beloved house, but don’t feel quite as comfortable anymore.

He touches the softness of his belly, which suddenly feels more like weight and ugliness. Not something Chloe could ever truly desire.

“Would you prefer something different?” he offers. “Something else?”

Lucifer mentally digs through all the previous versions of himself. He could make himself the young cunning man Chloe first met: thinner, sharper, naughtier. Or maybe she would prefer more muscle, with much less give— when he was feeling more vulnerable, more contentious? It's a simple thing to go back to the heavy eyeliner, or suit jackets so tight his shoulders pop. All she has to do is say the word.

To build himself to Chloe’s exact specifications…

He’s both giddy at the prospect and nauseous.

“Lucifer…what are you talking about?”

“It should be a simple matter, really. I can change with a little effort.”

He begins to pull on the strings that make up his corporeal form. The very strands that sing to the universe, and echo back, giving him solidity. An appearance. The essence that gives him blood and bones, a voice and eyes. He changes the cadence, subtly changes a tune. A note here, and a note there—

“Lucifer?” Chloe gapes at him open mouthed.

And there he is. The picture of who he was when he first met her. Slimmer, so slim his clothes no longer fit well. The wrinkles are gone, the silver in his hair is now bootblack. His beard is shorter, a dusting of scruff without salt and pepper. He’s loose-limbed, willowy and quick. The whole of him is sharper. Quicker to bite, and begging to be bitten. He’s a princely playboy and the wet dream of thousands, rebuilt specifically for her use and her use alone.

Only, Chloe looks more aghast than impressed.

He frowns.

“Hmm. Perhaps not. You didn’t really like me in the beginning, did you?”

Before Chloe can reply, he changes the composition. Adds a little angst to it. Bourbon and bitterness. He makes himself a bit darker, a bit smokier. More like a polished river stone than the lithe line of the man he used to be. His shoulders broaden a little. He adds a twinge of muscle, some hair slickness, and skin pigment to look like make-up.

“What about the eyeliner?” he asks. “Did you like the eyeliner?”

Chloe mutely shakes her head. If he didn’t know any better, his lady-love is horrified to the point she’s grasping at words. That wouldn’t do, certainly not.

“Ah. I see. Maybe the muscles did it. I mean, why wouldn’t they? They certainly did it for me.”

“Lucifer wait—”

But it’s too late, he snaps at another chord, plucking hard. This one is defensive. Vicious. Wanting. He can feel his neck getting thicker. Biceps, triceps, thighs. Arse. All of it. His jaw squares a little. The veins in his corded arms bulge. The flavor of desperation and disappointment suffocates all else. He’s a perfect Adonis, but he remembers the bitter tang of loss. How hollow his beauty left him. How everyone looked at him with lust, with desire, except the one he truly wanted.

When he looks back at Chloe, her expression is almost the same as the one she wore back then. Fearful, closed off and remote. She’s a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck, trembling on unsteady legs.

Lucifer wants to please her, desperately. Deeply. If only, just this once, he could pull at her desires. Just to make it better. There are no depths too deep, no limit to how he would debase himself, no heights he wouldn't ascend, just to make her happy.

He tries once more. “Or perhaps—”

“Stop,” Chloe grits out. “Just—Stop it. Please.”

The words burn like a well aimed slap.

She struggles for a moment, pacing and yanking at her hair. Lucifer knows when she’s about to run. He knows what it looks like when she’s inches away from turning tail. He’s seen it before and he's certain he is about to see it again.

“Detective, please,” he almost begs. “Just tell me what you like. This is your personal buffet. You can even have the infernal lobster if that pleases you. Or the celestial chicken. I just want you to be happy.”

I love you— He wants to say. Please stay.

He can feel his skin changing again. Splotches of red start to itch and erupt from his palms. Spines shift beneath his vertebrae, clacking against his human-like bones. And Chloe won’t even look at him.

“Please,” he whispers, like the last gasp of a man drowning.

He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. And he is twisting himself inside and out to prove it.

Chloe only stares. Her pupils are so large they could swallow the sea. The whole of him, everything.

But then—

The Detective lets out a breath. A big one. Like an entire tropical storm system had housed itself in her rib cage. Something in her suddenly smooths, resolves, and rights itself like a painting hung askew. Her crawling panic climbs its way back down. The hard edges of her flinty, fearful gaze turn back into something warm.

Something soft.

She tosses her phone onto the counter, her hasty speed dial aborted. Then, her keys, with a loud jangle. As if she’s making it a point to say, no, she’s not going anywhere.

—

Slowly, the shifting of Lucifer’s skin stops, then recedes, leaving him perfect, waxed and freckled. He’s still a bit younger looking, yes, but he can’t bring himself to change again. Not yet.

Chloe eyes him from her newly acquired seat on the couch. She adjusts the blankets, the pillows, and then waves to him to sit down next to her—patting a cushion.

“C’mon.” Her smile is slight, but unwavering. “We don’t have all night.”

“Must we talk about this?” He sighs. “Surely, there’s something more pleasurable we could be doing.”

“Nope. Not letting you take the easy way out,” she replies.

“Cruel, harsh mistress.”

“Says the ex-Devil,” Chloe deadpans.

“Precisely. I’m the veritable expert on such matters.”

“Sorry, it’s just hard to take you seriously when you look like Bruce Banner on a bad day.”

Lucifer looks down at himself. The apron is gone. He ruined his suit and his shirt. All the seams have split, popped, and ripped under the stress of his changing form. He can feel his hair as it curls across his forehead and sticks to his sweat slickened skin.

“I think I vastly prefer the homeless magician metaphor,” he says.

He shrugs the emerald fabric off, to the floor and the waistcoat and the shirt follow it. He slips off his shoes too, as if to also prove to Chloe he isn’t leaving either. The sofa seems to suck him in as he takes a seat. He yields to its gravity.

“You good?”

All at once he collapses into her lap, face gently squashed into her thigh. “Mmph.”

“Let’s start from square one,” Chloe says. Her fingers gently tease out his curls. “You looked… older?”

“Yes,” he confirms, and if he could purr into her hand he would. She scratches at his scalp lightly, then smooths his hair. Over, and over again.

“And you were doing that on purpose?”

He stares at the pie Chloe left on the coffee table. The card, still in the oddly-shaped envelope. His eyes droop a little, even though his heartbeat thrums loud in his ears. “Not exactly.”

“Okay, so self-actualization then.” Her hand lingers, then slides downwards, across his neck. Then a shoulder. “If that’s the case, what is this current form specifically saying about you?” Her fingers curl around a bulky bicep. “If you self actualize?”

“I—” He swallows. “That I am perfectly fine. Better than ever.”

“Even when you aren’t,” she concludes. “This physical manifestation of bluster. A self-defense mechanism.”

“Now, now, wouldn't go that far.”

“You looked like this after I left for Rome.” The tone of her voice is flat and the statement itself is plain, but her grip subtly tightens.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Lucifer.” The Detective sounds like she had just watched him touch a piping hot stove. “Leave it to you to hide behind some six-pack abs. And before, when you were making dinner, and I guess even before that—what did that signify?”

Lucifer shuts his eyes, wincing.

“I was… rather stupid,” he grumbles into her thigh. “I had these pathetic notions.”

Chloe tugs his ear, a soft reprimand. “Nothing you do is pathetic.”

“Right well I—” He huffs dubiously against her jeans. “I thought I could be a bit more… human.”

Chloe’s hand stills, and suddenly the silence is far too loud. He decides to elaborate. If only to fill the terrible, terrible space.

“It seems I’ve grown fond of sensible brown shoes,” he explains. “And maybe I’ve grown to like joining you on PTA nights? Or like those quiet beach picnics. Those are nice. I even enjoy those inane trips to Ikea for those bits of particle board you call furniture. I like sitting in lobbies with you when you need your oil changed. I love arguing over the Netflix queue. And you Detective, you get more beautiful by the day and I—”

He knows he’s babbling now, but Lucifer twists so he can meet her eyes. She deserves eye contact for this. An apology for his own selfishness.

“I found myself settling into our life together like it's some sort of old, comfortable chair. I wanted to match you. It felt right, like we were finally in lockstep together. I wanted to be that shoe monopoly piece. I didn’t think. I didn’t realize—”

“Lucifer—”

“The thought of you growing apart from me. Leaving me. I couldn't bear it. Chloe, I refuse to give you up. Being God means nothing if it means I lose you.”

There. He’s said it.

“Shhh.” Her hand cradles his chin. “So you want this. Aging. School nights. Matching socks. A life with me.”

“Not if you don’t.” He backpedals. “Not if it isn’t what you desire. I can still be that naughty rapscallion you fell in love with.”

“How long have you had to be the Devil?” She bites her lip, the way she does when she's trying to be diplomatic. Careful. “How long have you had to look like what people expected him to look like?”

“I—” He frowns, considering.

Yes, there were nightclubs, and churches. Halloween costumes and entire religions. And yes, maybe he was supposed to be seductive. Maybe he wanted to be the very best and the very worst of everyone’s assumptions. The perfect son, then the very imperfect son. Heaven, Hell and Earth. The young, powerful, and irreverent prince. But those things, those trappings ceased to matter to him. He only wanted to be loved and adored by his new family, and specifically by one person above all.

And perhaps she still didn’t quite understand that she gets to decide now— and no one else.

“It doesn’t matter what people expect me to look like. It’s only you that matters, Detective.” He reaches for her hand, willing her to believe how much he means it. “I can be the Top Hat piece as long as you wish for it.”

Chloe smiles and pulls his knuckles to her lips. Her mouth is soft, pressing gently against his skin, with the vaguest line of heat. Her eyelashes flutter and fan against her cheekbones, delicate as moth wings.

“That is a lot of pressure on me, don't you think?” Her breath is hot against his fingers. “Why can't we just be comfortable together as who we are? Content? Happy? You want that, right?”

He hesitates. Any reply he can scrape up is locked behind centuries of guilt, and loss, and distrust. The Detective gives him a knowing look.

“You’re allowed to just be. We’ve spent so long walking on eggshells around each other and putting up walls. Don't you think it's time we just let our hair down? Maybe? You’re God now, for fuck’s sake.”

“Chloe—”

“I love you. I love the wrinkles. I love the ‘Dad-bod’. I love the ‘salt and pepper’. The glasses. Everything you are and aren't. If this is what makes you happy, then do it, yeah? If you want to match, then let's match. If you want to be young forever, fine.” She kisses the tip of his nose. “You should be exactly who you want to be. Fat, skinny, tall, short, young, old. Red with wings. Whatever. And hey, you can still be naughty. I am and forever will always be down, for the record. Fuck anyone who tells you otherwise.”

“This isn’t just about appearance. It's about commitment.”

“Commitment,” she echoes.

“I'm sure you gathered, but time in our case doesn’t have to be finite. Til’ death do us part is essentially meaningless. There is time eternal, and I carry the yoke of ultimate responsibility. I cannot ask you to stay with me, let alone share my burden. It would be unfair to you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that no matter how much I wish otherwise, I can never actually be human, Chloe. I will always be ‘other’. And while I can make you more than human, I can never be less than God– for at least until there is a worthy successor. I cannot consign you to that.”

“And if I volunteer?”

“You couldn't possibly.”

“I choose you, Lucifer. Whatever that means down the line, I'm saying yes, as long as you are saying yes to me too. I love you.”

Lucifer is floored. Not in a trillion years has someone really chosen him. Not like this.

“Don’t you love me?” Chloe entreats. “Don’t you trust me?”

Doubt crosses her face, and he finds that can stand it even less than her previous horror. He will not have her doubt him. He will not have her doubt them.

“Yes, darling. I do.”

“Good. It’s settled.” She smiles wide and mischievous. “So why don’t we slip into something more comfortable?”

Without much preamble she shucks off her blouse, revealing the lingerie he bought her. It's the piece he had delivered to her desk. The bralette is silken and strappy, and portions of it are completely see-through. The rosy buds of her nipples are only slightly obscured by emerald-blue lace.

The view from her thighs is absolutely decadent, more tempting than anything he could properly dream of. She’s luscious to the point of being edible, even if her breasts might be slightly heavy with age. If anything they’re better, because they are his to explore to his heart's content, and no one else’s. No recording of these would ever be shared with the unwashed masses or sweaty back room perverts.

A breath hitches in his ribcage and, before he can stop himself—

His wings erupt.

He just about manages not to hit Chloe in the head, wedging his left wing into the crook of the couch. His right wing slams into the space beneath the coffee table. The pie on the table flips forward, half onto Chloe’s bare stomach, and half on top of his face.

The Detective’s laughter is uproarious. Her giggle-snorts shake the sofa to its foundations and jostle him against her legs. He attempts to wipe the mess off his lips, but the pie remains only smear further into his stubble. Lucifer sputters around a mouthful of whipped cream.

“Okay, that's not what I meant,” she says finally, gasping for breath. Chloe bends down to kiss him.

The Detective tastes like key lime pie. There’s no escaping that fact.

“Who do you want to be, Lucifer?”

The Devil melts into her. Hard muscles loosen into fat and flesh. Taut skin wears away, like breaking in a favorite pair of shoes. Biceps unwind into shapes that give purchase. His body becomes a home once again, something warm. Something welcoming– if a bit creaky.

Chloe’s hand slides to the gentle swell of his belly, the newly sprouted happy trail. She scratches, and pets and palms at his stomach, rediscovering his softer geometry. Her palms trail graham-cracker and pie bits, but she’s undeterred in her languorous and adoring explorations. A hot blush climbs to the tips of his ears. It’s all he can do not to divert her attention to somewhere both more and less vulnerable.

Another hand comes to cradle his face. She thumbs his eye creases, threads through the gray at his temples. She nips at his stubble, now peppered with white, licking up the lime custard.

“Silver fox,” Chloe accuses against his cheek.

He laughs. “I suppose I’ve been called worse.”

“Hm,” she replies noncommittally. It could be both a yes or a no. He doesn’t care. “I like it. You look like a sexy college professor with the glasses.”

“Mmmm, is that a new kink I sense?”

“Maybe.”

Her fingers tease at the smattering of curls across his chest. Chloe nips at his collarbone, teeth graze his soft pectorals. Her hot, wet mouth laves a nipple— sucking the spilled cream off of it until it’s a stiff peak. Then, the other, She gracefully moves to straddle him, pinning his back against the couch. His shaking wings curl upwards like a ring of laurel, crowning them both.

Chloe shimmies her jeans down, grinding. It’s only then Lucifer reaches out to actually touch her. His thumbs pluck at the silk ties of her thong, sliding them to follow. His fingers leave track marks of sticky sugar syrup across her hip bones. He sorely wants to lick her clean.

The Detective, however, has different plans. She grabs his belt and tosses it clear across the room. Brass skitters across the Italian marble. Chloe pushes his legs apart and swiftly yanks his trousers down to reveal his flushed and aching cock. The length of him springs free like a Jack-in-the-box coil, and the Detective has to bite down another laugh.

Lucifer is vulnerable. So, so vulnerable. And oh, doesn’t Chloe know it. She absolutely revels in the fact.

“Awfully quiet tonight,” she teases. “What, no clever puns? No dirty talk? I’m almost disappointed.”

“I think you’ll find, Detective, we’re both dirty enough as is.” He kisses a bit of custard off her cheek. “But if you must know, you’ve left me quite speechless.”

“Speechless, huh?” She wriggles in his lap. “That’s a first.”

“I—” The retort on the tip of his tongue is quickly swallowed. Chloe’s grip is loosely curled around his shaft, stroking downwards. He ruts into the palm of her hand. He’s artless, he’s sloppy— but Chloe doesn’t seem to notice. No, that’s not quite right. She notices he’s clumsy, and likes it. Loves it. The Detective bites down on his lip, quieting his open mouthed gasp. All he can do is whine as she clutches him.

“P-Please,” he chokes out. “I won’t last like this.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want you to.”

“Can we—” He’s a stuttering mess. “Can I—”

She seems to intuitively understand what he needs, and seats herself on him, pushing him in slow. So tight his brain might just about explode on the spot. Pleasure sings up his spinal cord as Chloe tugs at his feathers for purchase. He can feel her around him, her heat, her heartbeat.

And then she moves.

Chloe pulls the oxygen from his lungs. She rides him with purpose and without pause. His release builds, and builds. This moment, he begins to understand, isn’t for her. He won’t last. He told her as much. His beloved chases his completion with zero thought of her own. Gorgeously and impossibly selfless.

He wraps his arms around her shoulders, to pull her close so she's flush against his breastbone. His lips twist, and the softest words he can say pour out of his mouth– heady like honeyed wine.

“I love you,” he whispers into her ear. “I love you.”

The letters are written in supernovas and black holes— scrawled across pulsars. Every bright and dark firmament belongs to her.

His orgasm is a hot spike of agony. He’s spilling himself inside her. His eyes burn— with hellfire or tears, he isn’t quite sure which. There’s white noise, and panting, and silence. Sound and light. Warmth bleeds from his skull to his fingertips.

And then after what seems like an eternity, Chloe kisses his shoulder. She drags pie smeared fingers through his hair, petting down his messy curls. The inside of his mouth still tastes sweet and tart like limes, and whipped cream tracks across every cushion on the couch.

“So, feeling better?” his Detective asks, as if she didn’t just fix the entire axis of his universe.

Lucifer stretches like a contented cat, loose limbed and well sated. “Much.”

She pets his cheek, his chin. Her eyes are so wide, and so soft, he feels like he could be swallowed whole and die happy. Every bit of her is perfect, every sloping angle, every freckle, every strand of hair.

“Good.” She smiles crookedly. “Then uh, we should maybe do something about dinner.”

—

Lucifer Morningstar is awoken at 1 a.m. by the gentle voice of his beloved Detective.

Chloe is trying to be quiet, he can tell. The way her voice is comically hushed, and how her hand covers her lips as she speaks into her phone—but even so, he can hear the soft breathing of her daughter on the other line. Supernatural hearing and all that.

She’s holding a picture book. How she snuck it into his penthouse, he isn’t certain. She probably got it in the same way she transported half her wardrobe, her awful oatmeal, and her Herbal Essences shampoo.

“But the wild things cried, ‘Oh please don’t go— we’ll eat you up— we love you so! And Max said, ‘No!’”

Unbidden, Lucifer thinks of Hell. His army of demons who didn’t want him to leave, to go home, to come back to earth and to Chloe. How they wailed, how they howled.

“‘The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye.’”

The Devil squeezes his eyes shut. His time on earth feels more potent and meaningful now, while time in Hell felt more like a half-forgotten nightmare. But he still remembers that cool rush of ozone, the flush of ocean air upon his return. His first taste of true freedom. He doesn’t need to hear the rest of the story, he already knows it by heart. How Chloe remained, like a supper still hot.

Lucifer quietly shuffles off the covers to give Chloe and the urchin some privacy. He’s naked and clean after a very long shower with the Detective.

Rain shushes against the windows, muffling the noise of late night traffic. The storm that he predicted earlier had finally flown in to roost, battering around his patio furniture. The penthouse is warm enough though, courtesy of the heated floors and a thermostat more expensive than a small yacht. He does not feel the need to grab a robe. Instead, he pads his way over to the living area, glancing at the wake the chaos of their passions had left for the morning.

The pie is just smatters, crumbs and body imprints on the couch. The coffee table is nigh unsalvageable by mortal means. His clothes from earlier are where he shucked them— a forlorn scrap pile.

The Detective’s envelope rests on a nearby desk, rescued from the mess. His name is on it, scribbled in adorably inelegant cursive. He thumbs it open.

‘Lucifer,

I’m bad with words. I know, understatement of the year.

But you’re going to out do me with this whole Anniversary thing. You always out plan me. But let’s see if I can one up you just this once...

Marry me?

Love Always,

Chloe

P.S. I’m sorry this pie isn't apple. An atrocity, I know.

P.P.S. You don’t have to say yes. It’s okay if you’re not ready. I just want you to know I am, and forever will be.’

Out of the folded paper, slides a ring.

The stone is red like apples, so bright and shining it actually reminds him of the forbidden fruit itself. Crimson swims like sin and blood and lipstick and fast cars, like every good and terrible thing all at once. Celebration. Sorrow. Crinkles, fine lines and hospital stays, taxes and petty arguments. But it’s also freedom, and love— picnics and movie nights. It’s key lime kisses and clumsy whipped cream fondling. It’s best laid plans left to ruin and decadence. It's being God. It's being human.

He’s lost in the multitude of facets. The surety, the absolution.

Lucifer licks his lips as if he can once again taste the tender flesh of the Apple— cloying like sugar cubes and cocaine. He can almost feel the crunch as it snaps against his gums, gnawing at him in return. He’s high off the memory. He’s high off of her. Of Chloe.

He snorts, smiling.

Tomorrow he will wake her up with oral, for sure and for certain. He will make her pancakes with chocolate chips and maple syrup. She’ll have clean and pressed clothes, and he will sweep her away to a shopping trip and a day at the spa. He will call into work sick on her behalf. And, most importantly, he will say yes.

Lucifer will say yes a thousand times. A thousand different ways. Into the crease of her legs, into the corners of her jaw. Over breakfast. Over lunch. Over dinner. And over an eternity. He will say yes with every new wrinkle. Every gray hair. And every errant number on the scale.

The golden band is warm in his hand, so bright that it’s almost incandescent. It shines like avocado honey and the strands of Chloe’s hair. A soft glowing star. He slips the ring on, swift and secret—before the universe can take it back.

If there is such a thing as freedom of choice, it is Detective Chloe Jane Decker that he chooses. For all her faults and virtues, and for all of his own. This is his beginning and his ending.

“Lucifer?” Chloe calls from the bedroom area. “You can come back to bed now. I’m sorry I woke you. Trixie had a nightmare with the storm, and the sleepover and everything.”

“Nonsense. Shall we go pick her up?” Lucifer also chooses Beatrice. And Ella. And Linda. And even Daniel and Amenadiel. All of his family. They are his. This is his. And that is enough to make a lifetime.

“She’s good. Just wanted a bedtime story.” The Detective smiles. “Apparently she’s a big girl now and doesn’t want to leave the sleepover early.”

“Willful and stubborn. I wonder where she gets it from?

“You. Probably.”

“Well, I have been known to be a terrible influence from time to time.”

“For all of history actually. And speaking of terrible influences. How about some round three action?” She waggles her eyebrows— gloriously sexy and hilarious all at once. “You on top this time?” Then, her gaze falls to his hand, and the ring on his finger. Before she can speak, before she can say another word, he’s on top of her and pinning her against the mattress.

“Yes, Detective.” He hums like a song against her lips. The words are sweet and decadent in his mouth, like his new favorite flavor of pie. They’re heady, like a good green tea. Savory, like two dollar tacos and fussy Bouillabaisse. Burning like whiskey. They also taste like Chloe. Like home.

And they are the first of many, many more.