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It’s definitely not everyday that Lucifer brings them dinner.
Not everyday, but since she first met him, Chloe figures he’s done it at least once a month. Not that she’s sure he always does it intentionally, and not that she’s counting but it’s one of those things she thinks that nobody knows about their friendship, such as it is. That she suddenly finds herself in possession of chardonnay so dry it makes her mouth curl up, sweet dessert wine, ten year old whiskey from some remote corner of Scotland, baskets full of baklava and various brands of fast food that he sometimes leaves outside her place, sometimes deliver in person.
A lot of those times his ulterior motives revolve around getting her to help him out but Chloe recalls enough occasions that have been random occurrences for it to also feel like something that he merely does for people in his life. Pays off debts, match-makes, apartment-hunts, throws comically overblown birthday parties for cops in the precinct because of reasons only he knows. It has taken her a while not to write it off as manipulative, not categorize it as being in the same vein as pretty much half of her mother's arsenal of extravaganza. Lucifer is something else altogether.
Tonight she had asked him to pick something up on his way over - your choice, just not seafood or anything weird, Trixie will be eating with us. He hadn’t been able to refrain from pointing out that weird to the Deckers means pretty much anything non-sandwich themed which isn’t entirely true but also not that much of a stretch. Particularly not to him, a guy who talks about food like someone who has tasted it all.
“I would never have guessed that you eat pizza, Lucifer.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He gestures pointedly towards his body; she’s so skilled at avoiding looking by now that she barely has to concentrate on it. Or rather: he no longer seems to notice her stray glances, the way her gaze can't unlock at times if she has managed to catch his. Lately he has been increasingly less attentive in general, actually, but she lets that low-key annoyance slip away. “It’s not like I have to work for this, Detective.”
She’s torn between a groan and a laugh. “Of course you don’t.”
“Besides, the urchin likes pizza, doesn’t she? With-” he makes a grimace, as if the mere recollection of it upsets him. “-pineapple. For some ghastly reason.”
“She does, yeah.” She feels herself smile, helplessly. “I’m surprised that you remember.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he says levelly and hands her the food. “My memory is quite brilliant - not to mention detailed.”
“Sure. I imagine it's reserved for the names of your recent lovers and your many usernames for dating apps, though.”
“Oh, touché, Detective.” He chuckles. “But I should correct your profile on me and remind you that I only use Grindr. There is no shortage of women approaching me, after all.”
Chloe puts the boxes down at the kitchen table, grinning to herself. It’s so easy to forgive him. Too easy when he puts in the slightest bit of effort. Stripped off his public persona with the constant puns and the endless supply of narcissism, he is the man she knows resides somewhere in him. And no matter how terrifying Lucifer himself seems to find it, being that person, that's the one Chloe has tried to bring out since the very beginning. The one she thought - clumsily, wishfully, stupidly , since she's god-awful at romantic relationships - she almost had found, last year. Suffice to say she had been disappointed again and what’s more, he had seemed just as disappointed.
It has been a confusing couple of years since they first met, that’s for sure.
This, whatever they have now, appears to be what they can manage. Company, food and Trixie or company, alcohol and Lux.
She turns around, about to toss him another joke just to make him laugh again, but they’re interrupted by Trixie’s squeal of delight at their company and - as she spots the boxes - the food.
“Lucifer!”
“Decker spawn!” He still backs away instinctively when she throws herself at him, Chloe notices, but it’s not nearly as blatant as it used to be, not even half as vitriolic. Now she suspects a large part of it is for show. A lot of things with him are, after all, no matter how much she wishes for the opposite. “You hug harder than Miss Lopez these days. Has Maze been training with you?"
And there’s this, too, to their messy co-existence. This, right here.
The grin of pure joy on her daughter’s face that is, Chloe decides, worth all the confusion in the world.
---
Lucifer flips the shoe four squares ahead and earns himself a chance card. It's been a long time since he played but Monopoly is as it ever was. Terribly slow-moving and oddly soothing - a board game version of socializing with Amenadiel on a good day, he thinks to himself, nearly smirking. Except, of course, the present company out-rivals his brother's by far - urchin included. He had turned down one threesome and one drug-tasting party in Malibu on his way here, after all, without even thinking about them as viable options. Perhaps they aren't, not any more. My life is change, he had claimed once, not all that long ago.
This certainly is.
The card feels worn between his fingers and he wonders if this game set is from Chloe’s own childhood. For some reason that thought lands with a soft little blow in his chest.
“You have won a - oh, bloody hell ,” he raises an eyebrow and holds up the card for Trixie to read the last bit. It’s usually worth it for the sheer pleasure it gives her to make fun of him. A trait he appreciates, if only because it mildly disturbs her parents and you can never start too early doing that.
“You have won a crossword competition.” She giggles. “Collect a hundred dollars.”
"That reward has no right to call itself a reward." He rolls his eyes and groans a little extra loud for the urchin who rewards him with a wide grin and snatches a dollar bill from the box and hands it over to him.
“There you go. Next time you roll - Park Place.” The urchin makes a triumphant grimace at him, pointing at her hotel at said venue.
“We’ll see about that, now won’t we?”
Beside him - shoulder to shoulder and he can’t pretend he doesn’t notice that, the warmth of her body seeping into his own - Chloe stretches for the dice as it’s her turn. Lucifer exhales slowly. He wants to touch her, always, not merely in all the delightfully adult ways two bodies can interact but in ever so many chaste ones, too. Just hold a hand over her back, trace a knuckle along the curve of her neck, tread softly over her hair. There’s a gentleness to the way he thinks about her that invariably startles him if he lets it; there’s a hunger for her nearness that has no outlines, no predecessor in his endless history and he pushes it away. Successfully, most days. Eons of time as the ruler of Hell come with at least a handful of benefits.
She glances sideways at him, dice in hand.
He shoots her a little smile before returning his focus to the board.
---
There’s something incredibly endearing with the picture of the man who calls himself the Devil sitting on Chloe’s living room rug, waiting for Trixie to finish a first draft of what will become a unicorn on his right cheek.
And there’s also something about the fact that Chloe has to assist in actually making it look like a unicorn rather than a colorful blob.
“Don’t worry,” she tells their victim, kneeling beside him with the palette in one hand and a thin brush in the other. His smells warm and familiar, soft wood notes and sweet aftershave mingling with what she imagines is his own natural scent. “I’m good at this.”
He scoffs under his breath but his eyes glitter when she places her thumb and index finger on his skin, measuring roughly where to draw. There’s that soft smile she can’t forget even when he drives her absolutely crazy. That smile and the way he had held her, the way she had felt. This is real, isn’t it? She had barely recognized the tone in his voice then, breathless and hopeful against her, every movement of his body so much more hesitant than she had ever imagined it could be. Even now the echo of them lingers inside her bones, leaving a dull unhealed ache.
Lucifer seems to sense her drifting off inside her head because he clears his throat and Chloe purses her lips,
“More purple, mom,” Trixie demands and Chloe meets her gaze over Lucifer’s head where the typically very smooth hairdo is starting to get messed up by her daughter’s attempts at styling it.
“Do you have curly hair, Lucifer?” She isn’t sure why it fascinates her to such an extent that she wants to drag her hands through it, mess it up just to see if she’s correct. Why the idea of him actually styling his hair in any way seems so endearing and out of character for a man who has spent years telling her he’s the Devil incarnate. She isn’t sure why it feels like a hot rush somewhere in the pit of her stomach to consider his daily habits, only knows that it does. I want to see them, be there for them, for you.
He pulls back, causing the white color to be smeared out along the even line of his stubble. Which, now that she lets herself consider it for a fraction of a second, is definitely styled. “I most definitely do not have curly hair.”
“Uh-huh,” Chloe teases, wriggling her eyebrows at him.
There's a whole wide-open space here for innuendo, badly masked invitations for her to check out his bed head any day - but those days are long gone; instead Lucifer smiles, quickly, almost shyly as though they are completely beyond that now, totally different people who would never. And something inside her breaks, repeatedly, at that thought.
---
Apparently the unicorn has finally reached its optimal shape and texture on his cheek as the urchin has scurried off looking for “karaoke gear” in her room while Chloe is making coffee in the kitchen.
Lucifer treasures the chance to observe her when nobody else is around, the particular softness to her when she’s unguarded in her own home. Most of the hours they share are dictated by other people’s jurisdiction, other people’s needs; this is a rare spot of indulgence on her part. On his, too, though no one would believe him if he told them. That the lord of Hell would give anything for nights like tonight. That he’s already waging a war against the way it will slip out of his hands as soon as he walks away from this spot.
Let the moment stay; let me stay in it, let me have it.
“I’m not sure how karaoke earned such a bad rep with the Decker family,” he says, leaning against the counter. There’s still some potato chips in an opened bag so he snags it to have something to do. Emotional eating is popular among the humans, or so Linda claims. It’s also a vice he’s seriously considering picking up for real when he tires of cocaine. “It’s a delightful pastime activity, hardly a punishment.”
Chloe turns to look at him over her shoulder. “That’s because you haven’t heard Dan or me sing.”
“Ah, so because I allegedly lost at Monopoly, you will now subject me to power ballads from the 90’s sung out of tune?”
“Yeah.” She nods, grinning widely. “And you definitely lost. No allegedly about that.”
He places one palm over his chest in mock horror. “How was my honest entrepreneurial talent meant to stand a chance, Detective? I mean, capitalism holds nothing against the sudden anarchy-”
“Who doesn’t know about the free parking jackpot rule?” She puts down a mug of steaming coffee in front of him, searching for his gaze to share the amusement with him.
“I didn’t.”
A soft laughter, trickling down over them. “Then you must have been living under a rock, Lucifer.”
He shrugs. “Not that far-fetched, really, as far as metaphors go.”
“Right.” She smiles again, the sort that reaches her eyes and gives her delectable little lines around them.
Eventually, after what feels like half an eon’s worth of karaoke night with heartfelt renderings of a lot of music he’s neither heard before nor wish to hear ever again, the Detective decides it’s bedtime. Which, as far as he’s concerned, is his cue to either find a new glass of that boring, cardboard-tasting red wine that’s usually in some cupboard here or to leave in pursuit of better alcohol elsewhere.
He doesn’t want to leave so he gets to his feet and heads for the wine rack, making a mental note to refill it with something good next time he’s got business at a winery.
“I want Lucifer to read me a bedtime story,” he hears from the hallway just as he’s taken the first sip of the refill.
“Okay, monkey, you’ll have to ask him then.” Chloe’s voice is warm and amused but he can hear that edge of doubt in it, the layer of not wanting to disappoint her offspring - not wanting him to disappoint her offspring - and it reaches down into some of the feelings he’s been tucking away neatly inside himself.
A few seconds later the urchin stands right beside him with a book in her arms. She smells of toothpaste and soap and watches him expectantly. Like her mother, only with less composure, which is what gets to him every time. And just like his mother she doesn’t really have to ask flat-out to get him to do something.
Lucifer nods towards the book. “I suppose I can’t buy my way out of this?”
“Nope.” She gives him the book. “You will read my bedtime story. And then you can sing. Because you know, you actually can sing. Come on now, it’s really past my bedtime.”
In the corner of his eye, he sees Chloe smile.
Very well, he thinks and downs his glass of wine in one go, there’s a first for everything.
---
“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’ve started to like Trixie almost as much as she likes you.”
Chloe takes a few steps towards him; he turns to see that the door has closed properly behind him and there’s a flash of something in her mind, a surge of longing for sights like that, for nights like this. Him in her home, in their lives. His tall frame filling up her rooms, his voice falling between the walls, teasing and stubborn and clever. Having him properly, not just in bits and pieces whenever he decides it’s in the cards for them. She banishes that trail of thought with a sigh, wondering when she'll get used to it for real. God knows she ought to be used to it because while he’s been teasing her since they first met, he hasn’t actually ever pursued her actively except for stray moments and odd turns of events. The thrill of its possibilities has worn thin, it merely leaves her feeling hollow. Like she’s a joke.
“Ah, well, there’s a bit of a learning curve, I suppose. There are no children in Hell, after all.”
He sounds casual - as casual as any metaphors about Hell can be - but she had caught a glimpse of the two of them before, had seen the way Trixie’s head rested nestled into the crook of Lucifer’s neck and his peaceful expression.
It’s not something she has seen before, she realizes with that chill down her spine that she sometimes gets from overthinking the many strange aspects of Lucifer. Him looking at peace with something. He has a restless, chaotic energy full of life and passion but there’s a heavy streak of some inward-travelling grief in everything he does and for years now Chloe has wondered if she really is the only one who sees it apart from - hopefully - Linda. That right in the heart of his absurd metaphors there’s a sticky, complicated core of Lucifer not being able to stand himself or even his own company. That’s not even up for debate, merely a hard fact. Blatantly obvious to her now. At some points she has believed she’ll find out why, that he’ll let her in on some of the mysteries surrounding his history, his obvious regrets; lately she has begun to resign into thinking she might never know.
All she knows tonight is that the image of him in her daughter’s bed will stay with her, entangled with the idea of him in her mind and she isn’t sure it’s going to help her in the least but there it is.
She has promised herself so many things when it comes to Lucifer.
Not to sleep with him, not to let his behavior get to her, not to fall in love with him.
The last promise is by far the most difficult, all things considered. Impossible, even, on nights like this one. It’s not the luxury or the thrill she’s chasing with him, it’s the domesticity, the promise of something truthful. The idea that someone like him can fall in love with someone like her, for real, with his guard down and his heart wide-open. He’s not like anyone she’s ever met and regardless of all the idiotic stunts he pulls, that remarkable fact still holds a firm grip around her.
“If you want a drink - you know, I- I have some more wine.” She hopes that’s actually true, there is a definite possibility that they’re all out since his last visit though it’s not as bad as a couple of months ago when he came over much more often. They had been so close then, or so she had thought, everything shivering between them like a cloud about to burst into rain.
He takes a few steps towards her but keeps a distance even as he smiles, slow and soft, and looks over her shoulder at the kitchen clock.
“I’d love to, Detective, but I’m afraid Lux is awaiting my return.” He looks down on his phone, as if he’s intending to show her some amazing reason why. He doesn’t have to, she can imagine it pretty vividly. Party, drugs and beautiful people on a pilgrimage ending in Lucifer’s bed.
“Sure, okay.” Nodding Chloe feels that tiny stab of frustration in her gut but lets it go. She actually does get better at this part, at least. Small comforts and all that. “I’d better go to bed anyway, actually.”
Lucifer hesitates just a second too long, before he goes to pick up his jacket and puts it on. A second too long and there’s that gash in his neat little routine that worms its way into her heart, as always. Leaving a bright, brittle hope. She walks with him to the door, folds her arms across her chest and shuffles her feet. He gives her a long glance, seemingly on purpose; his hands move then pause mid-air. Eventually he places one of them briefly on her arm and smiles again.
“Goodnight, detective.”
---
The noise that has been quieting down inside him all evening picks up again as soon as he closes the apartment door behind him.
The noise is Hell's own blend of despair and fury, of course. That's always there at the back of his skull along with the knowledge that he was - is , he really wants to pretend there is a past tense in this matter but knows that’s just a pathetic lie - the king of all those wrecked humans, the perpetrator of their torment. But it’s also, increasingly often, the jarring noise of his human life on Earth with all its posture and missed chances, its confusion and irritation, all the daily chores that have begun to wear him down.
An impatient rage inside, a darkness that hoovers just around the corner of his daily pretense; whispers of violence travelling through him like ghosts. When he cannot lash out in righteous punishments he drowns it in skin-on-skin, in music, in drugs and liquid happiness, in decadence and laughter, driving too fast in a too-expensive car, in women pushing him up against the Sumerian walls of his bedroom, men spread out like religious symbols on his bed.
It’s what he does, what he is.
And while it has been a little bit neglected lately it’s just a phase, a dry spell as he’s awaiting new and adventurous discoveries. Surely even the Devil can take a little time off.
He feels it now when he reaches the penthouse, the exhaustion that has begun to tear at him from the inside. And to make things even more splendid his brother is waiting there with his inane questions and theories about what Lucifer’s existence is like. We need the most love when we are the most unlovable. Well, Amenadiel should know, he’s most unlovable all the bloody time. But some quarrel aside, the encounter does very little to energize him. And it’s a tiredness that lingers even after finishing the bulk of a fine and very old brandy he got from a loan shark as a bribe last year. It unnerves him, he has to admit that. His life might be change but the change is usually a thrilling one, something that involves reaching new heights of whatever desires he's diving into at the moment.
Boring suits him badly.
Even so, when one of the bartenders down at Lux - Sebastien, as athletic as they come and highly skilled with his mouth - offers to come upstairs and bring a friend, Lucifer has already gone to bed and can’t be arsed to even reply.
He falls asleep with the unicorn still on his cheek, leaving glittery purple stains all over his expensive sheets.