Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 Trixie had looked uneasy the whole night.

 Uncharacteristically subdued and deep in thought, that lively sparkle he’d fallen in love with smothered deep behind her eyes, Michael had wondered if he should brace himself for a breakup sometime soon. So, when she glanced sideways at him and admitted that her parents wanted to meet him, he was almost ecstatically relieved.

 “Trix, that’s great! I mean – that means they’re willing to give the long-run Us a try, huh?”

 “Well, yeah, I guess.” Trixie cracked a wan grin. “But things are...... complicated.”

 “I’ve met your mum before.”

 Blond and completely straight-backed, even with silver in her hair, retired detective Chloe Decker was a striking woman. Add in the humorous twinkle in her eyes and that tough, down-to-earth attitude of hers, and Mike was team Chole from day one.

 “Nah, not my mum I’m worrying about. It’s my – well, my stepdad that’s more interesting.”

 “Interesting?” Mike asked, wondering what that could mean. He guessed with Trixie as his girlfriend, he might never really know. Trixie Decker was a woman full of surprises (he’d know; he’d almost freaked out when he’d found a medieval knife-like-thing in her handbag). Trixie scrunched up her nose in that particular way Mike adored and shrugged.

 “Well, he’s not a bad guy. Or anything like that.”

 “Then I trust you,” Mike said, snuggling in. “So – when do they want us?”

 “Next weekend okay?”

 “Sure thing.” Mike ran a mental check, wondering if there were any appointments he ought to cancel. And cancel he would. It was Trixie’s parents, after all. He was pretty sure he’d never been this far in love before and he would try his damndest to make this work.

 “Oh, Mike,” Trixie sighed, grinning widely and pressing a short kiss to his forehead. “I’m sure they’ll love you.”

 Mike tried very hard not to grin like a fool and make that weird happy noise he knew his throat wanted to make. I am a Manly Man. I shall persevere.

 Several moments passed, Trixie snuggling against him, the cool autumn wind rattling against the windowpanes of his cheap apartment. Mike cracked an eye open.

 “So, Trix? What was your stepdad’s name again?”

 “Lucifer Morningstar.”

 “-Say that again?”

 “Oh, and please don’t get annoyed at him if he calls you out on your name. He has some bad memories about his brother.”

 Lucifer Morningstar indeed. And Michael as in – how religious was this guy’s family anyways?

 Mike gulped.

*

 “So, Trixie says she and her boyfriend are coming over this weekend.”

 “Oh? Well, that’s about time.”

 Chloe stifled a smile at the way Lucifer was trying so very obviously to seem nonchalant. It wasn’t working; she could see the way a smile was lurking under that carefully still facade of his, tugging his lips up in a faint curve. Oh, Trixie had the Devil wrapped up around her little finger alright. Chloe wondered for the briefest moment if the fact should be bothering her (there was a lot that Lucifer would do for her, and Chloe very much liked the continent in one piece, thank you). But, well, better than mutual hate any day.

 “No funny business, Lucifer,” Chloe added as an afterthought. “I don’t want him running away screaming. Trixie would be devastated, and I really liked that young man.”

 “What funny business? I have no idea, dear.”

 Chloe huffed incredulously as Lucifer meandered over, long arms wrapping around her waist and squeezing lightly.

 “Lucifer-”

 “Oh, I know. Love you too.”

 Lucifer pressed a soft kiss against her earlobe, and Chloe melted, eyeing Lucifer with that exasperated-but-affectionate look she had managed to nail over the past ten years or so. It was hard to stay exasperated, though, when Lucifer leaned against the kitchen sink like that – his ridiculous silk bathrobe clinging to his long, lean figure in all the right places, sculpted features highlighted in gold by the morning light. His dark eyes glinted chocolate-brown as he slid into a smirk.

 Oh, he knew what was going through her mind for sure, the bastard.

 Chloe and Lucifer settled into a now-familiar routine, Chloe rinsing the dishes and Lucifer drying them off at a speed a tad too fast to be human.

 “By the way, Chloe, what did you say the boy’s name was?”

 Somehow, he managed to infuse the word ‘boy’ with such a profound sense of disdain and he-shall-never-be-good-enough-for-our-Trixie-ness that it actually sounded more like a derogatory term. Chloe nudged him with her elbow.

 “Be nice, Lucifer. And I remember his name was Michael-”

 “Oh, bloody hell,” Lucifer cried. The kitchen lightbulb exploded in a shower of brilliant light.

 Chloe groaned.

Chapter Text

“So, Trix, I’ve been thinking,” Mike said, “You said Lucifer had a brother named Michael, yeah?”

“Umm, yeah?” Trixie asked, raising an eyebrow. Mike was well acquainted with that face. It was the face Trixie put on when she was getting ready to call Mike a giant dork. Mike grinned.

“So, that makes him Michael Morningstar. Are his initials M.M.? Like the chocolate?”

“Mike!” Trixie groaned, exasperated. She punched him in the arm. “That is, like, the worst pun I’ve ever heard about that guy.”

“I guess.” Mike huffed a breath. They were trekking up a low, slanting incline towards Lucifer and Chloe’s house, because it was too beautiful a day to waste, and also, well, nerves. Mike felt like he’d gulped down a whole tank of electric eels. He’d never felt so jittery in his life. “Y’know, Trix. Gotta do something to loosen myself up.”

Trixie’s exasperation morphed into something more fond. “Mike,” Trixie said, sneaking a hand around his back. “You are, hands down, the sweetest guy I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. Seriously. Mom will adore you – heaven knows she already does. And Lucifer – well, he’ll come around.”

That did not sound that promising. But before Mike could get cold feet and flee, the giant outline of a white, sleek mansion rose before them. Mike gawped.

“Trix. You are Serious. That is your mum’s house.”

He’d always known Trixie’s parents were rich. Hell, according to Trixie, her stepdad had even been featured on a cover of some magazine, and if that didn't make someone a celebrity then Mike didn’t know what did. But now, he realized, he’d never known just how much.

“Ummm – yeah? Well, it wasn’t, except Lucifer wanted to move out to the suburbs, and he couldn’t quite settle for anything ‘atrociously quaint’ - ”

Trixie scratched at the back of her neck, sheepish.

“That is like something straight out of a movie set.” Mike deadpanned. Trixie shuddered. “Don’t tell my mom that. She hates all comments movie related.” Mike shrugged. “No masking the truth though.”

The house was like something straight out of a movie, cutting-edge, all sleek curves and gleaming edges. It was tasteful still, classy without giving the impression of trying to be too flashy. A black steel fence wound around the whole thing, the final touch to an already impressive picture. Two figures stood in front of it. Presumably Trix’s mom and stepdad, Mike supposed. Right now they were kind of looking like the harbringers of doom. Mike wiped his sweaty palms on his best pair of jeans (newly broken out of the closet just for this occasion.) Mike made out a blond, straight figure – Trixie’s mom - leaning slightly against what must be the famous Lucifer Morningstar.

Mike could swear up and down and sideways that no one could ever look more beautiful to him than Trixie, mussed hair and crumpled pyjamas notwithstanding, but this – Mike almost ogled Trixie’s stepdad against all of his better instincts. Just damn.

The man was tall and lean and built like a predator, all lithe, predatory grace, with dark, gleaming eyes and a sharp nose that could slice granite. Spidery lashes rested on cheekbones fit for a king, lips full and deceptively gentle-looking, hands long and sculpted and elegant. He was wrapped up in a suit that probably cost more than Mike’s monthly rent, shoes impeccably shined and gleaming. But what marred the picture of that perfection was Lucifer’s Scowl (he should patent that, he really shoud,) that read : I have felt you ogle me in front of your girlfriend and you shall pay.

Mike gulped. His hands were sweaty again. What the hell had just come over him?

But next to him, Trixie seemed more than excited to see her parents, nearly running the last few steps and enveloping Chloe and Lucifer in a giant hug.

“You waited for us!” She cried, delighted, then turned to introduce Mike. “Mike, you know my mom, you’ve met her before. This is Lucifer, my, umm, stepdad.” Was it just Mike, or had that really been a gleam of apprehension in Trixie’s eyes when she’d turned toward Lucifer?

This is it, Mike. This is your first impression.

Mike smiled and tried to look confident and professional. Judging by Lucifer’s expression, he’d probably come across as demented or something. Mike, in his jeans (albeit his best pair) and hand-me-down button-down shirt, felt woefully inadequate. Even his glasses and curly hair had started feeling inadequate too.

“Michael Hawkins, sir.” Mike said, holding out his hand to shake. “You can call me, uh, Mike. Or – or whatever you’d like, sir.”

Lucifer glowered at him. “Your name is Michael,” he said, enunciating each syllable. In his mouth it sounded something more like human scum.

“Umm, yes, sir. My – my parents named me that way, you see.”

“What mother in her right mind names their child Michael?” Lucifer cried, still glowering. Or scowling. Or both. Next to him, Chloe poked his arm and gave him a look. Lucifer was undeterred.

“Well, I refuse to call you by that atrocity. Think of something else.”

Mike wrung his hands, helpless. Well, he was techincally an artist, but he’d never been that creative with words. Bert? Tom? But that would be weird. He had a name and it was Michael. Mike gave Lucifer an entreating glance.

“But that’s my name – sir?”

“Don’t sir me. And what kind of question is that?”

This time, Chloe smacked Lucifer soundly across the back of his head. “Lucifer, you said you would behave!” She hissed, giving him a glare that could have made a mound of logs spontaneously combust. Then she nursed her hand as if she had just hit a concrete block. Huh. Weird. Lucifer shrugged, irritably. “I thought I would too. I think I’ve overestimated myself.” He thought for a moment. Then his entire face lit up in a wide, predatory grin. It was not reassuring in the least.

“I know what I’ll call you! You can be Beatrice’s boy. Boy. Well, you are a boy, aren’t you?”

“Lucifer!” This time it was Trixie who stepped on his foot. Lucifer gave her a hurt look. Michael didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Okay, Lucifer,” he said, suddenly very tired. Lucifer’s eyes flashed.

“I did not give you permission to call me by my name, boy.”

“What – you told me not to sir you! What else would I call you?”

Lucifer merely sniffed, giving him a condescending look down the length of his nose. Given his impressive nose, that actually worked pretty well. Michael groaned, internally. Chloe stepped in between them, her blue eyes soft with an unspoken apology. “Well, Michael,” she said, giving a pointed look at Lucifer. “We’d thought that since you two said you’d be here in time for lunch, we would prepare a barbecue – that good with you?”

“Oh, that’s awesome!” Mike grinned, elated. His stomach was growling already. All that stress hadn’t done it any favors. “Thank you so much. That was really thoughtful of you.”

“Mom’s barbecue is the best,” Trixie declared, threading her fingers through his. She gave their intertwined fingers a squeeze, as if telling him that she was always on his side. Michael felt a helpless surge of affection well up in him. He squeezed back.

Well, he did, only to see Lucifer glaring at their held hands like he wanted to smite them to oblivion. He couldn’t really do that – right? Mike shivered.

“Trix,” he whispered. “I think your stepdad hates me to high hell.”

Chapter Text

Surprisingly, the barbecue is actually pretty – normal. Considering.

Lucifer’s vague air of menace had driven Mike to the point where he’d half been expecting some weird 007 setup with gun-wielding creepy men waiting for him at every corner. But the backyard is clean and spacious, manicured grass rippling peacefully under the clear fall sky, several low chairs dotting the lawn here and there. It actually looks pretty much like anyone else’s backyard, albeit a clearly very posh one. Chloe has set up a rickety barbecue grill near a picnic table beside the house. “Wait here,” she says, with a reassuring smile. “I’ll bring out the stuff. Didn’t know when you’d arrive, exactly, so I didn’t want to risk everything going stale or something.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Decker,” he says. After Lucifer, Chloe’s gentleness is like a breath of fresh air. Mike doesn’t miss the way Chloe glares at Lucifer when she thinks Mike isn’t looking. Definitely not a lady to trifle with, but also somehow miraculously on his side. Mike is very happy about that.

“Told you to call me Chloe,” she admonishes, disappearing into an impressively gleaming back door. Mike turns, awkwardly, towards Lucifer and Trixie. “Anything I could do to help, meanwhile?”

“Well, boy, if you have to ask for instructions, surely-”

“Turning on the grill would be great,” Trixie breaks in, stopping what clearly must have been some sort of scathing insult. Oh, Trixie. Saving the day as always. He finds he rather likes it when she’s defending him like that.

Grinning somewhat like a loon, Mike hops over towards the grill. It looks like it’s seen some better days, but it is also clean and well maintained, a faint glossy sheen to its sides. Mike fiddles with the switch for a moment. It’s a completely different system from what he’s used to, but it’s a barbecue grill and he refuses to be defeated by a mere machine. Ah, there. Mike flicks what he’s sure is the ‘on’ switch and waits.

And waits, and waits, and nothing happens.

Chloe, plonking down the platter heaped with rib and sausage and potatoes, comes to join him by the grill. “Huh. Is that acting up again? Knew I should’ve replaced it years ago.” Chloe flicks the switch, several times, but there is no sign of a spark. Chloe smacks it. Her frown grows impatient. “Oh, now of all times-”

“Let me.” Lucifer leans past Chloe, arm winding around her torso in a clear display of affection. He hums, fingers caressing the grill in a way that barely stays this side of decent, and flicks the switch.

Miraculously, the fire ignites.

Mike watches in barely masked indignation at the licking flames. Is Mike being hated on by inanimate objects now, too? Paranoid. Definitely paranoid. But he could have sworn on his honor that the machine hadn’t been working -

Hastily banking that turn of thought, he turns to Lucifer, trying to make what he hopes passes as decent conversation.

“I think you just saved our barbecue, Mr. Morningstar,” he says with an attempt at a grin. “I’d swear the thing was broken only a moment ago.”

Lucifer preens a little at that, a triumphant gleam touching his eyes. “I am pretty good at turning things on,” he agrees. His gaze turns a little judgemental again, then, and he looks down his nose at Mike. “Seriously. The state of young humans these days.”

“Pardon?” Mike flounders, indignant. Contary to popular belief, he actually does possess a backbone. He simply doesn’t like to fight without good reason. “Look, just because I-”

Lucifer glares at him. Mike feels like if he remains here, he will no doubt do something very stupid that he will probably come to regret very soon. “I’ll go see if I can help with anything else,” he says instead. The barbecue seems to mock him, discharging a small shower of sparks with a merry fizz.

Damn the man. Even the household appliances are on his side.

By the time the smell of roasted meat begins to permeate the air, indignant anger has faded to abject misery, and Mike tries to mope in a corner without drawing too much attention to himself. He feels someone approach him, and soon a pair of warm arms are snaking around his waist. “Hey,” Trixie says, softly. Her eyes are so wide and apologetic that she could’ve stabbed him in the ribs or something and Mike would still forgive her in a heartbeat. They stand like that for a few seconds, gently embracing each other. Mike sighs and drops his head onto her shoulders.

“Trix,” he groans. “Your stepdad absolutely hates me.”

Trixie gives him a sympathetic look.

“I know. He’s pretty damn difficult, isn’t he?”

“You don’t say.” Mike rubs tiredly at his eyes. His glasses have been squished into his face at some point, and the whole world is blurry right now. Trixie nudges him. “Look, though. He’s not completely evil.”

Mike squints. Lucifer is helping Chloe at the barbecue, one hand braced casually on the grill. The grill that should have been sizzling hot. It must not be, though, some high-tech coating or something, because Lucifer looks just fine. And, judging by the way he pauses to drop a tender kiss to the top of Chloe’s head, also madly in love. Mike gives Trixie a rueful grin at that. “Yeah. Suppose so. But I’m still betting money that he’s planning to murder me in my sleep.”

“Not on my watch,” Trixie declares, mouth quirking in that way that means she’s half joking. “No, seriously, Mike, you just have to show him you won’t be chased away by all his Luciferness. Like – like some sort of test.” She leans forward, like conspirators sharing a secret. “And at heart he’s really a gigantic big puppy dog.”

Mike snorts with laughter at that. “Maybe hellhound, more like.” The black suit Lucifer has donned today isn’t helping Mikle’s imagination one bit. “I’ll try. I really will. I – I really want us to work out.”

“I know you will,” Trixie says, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth. Then her face turns a tad more feral. “And I will be having Words with Lucifer sometime in the future. Just so you know.”

“Just so I know,” Mike agrees. He feels a whole lot better now. They’ll do this together. “So, should we go and help out some more?”

“Yeah, sure!” Trixie’s answering grin is brilliant. She leans a little into him. “I really appreciate your coming, Mike. I really do.”

Eager to try out the Decker-Morningstars' high-tech gadgets, Mike leans a hand against the grill as he tries to maneuver a particularly tricky bit of sausage onto his plate, just like he’d seen Lucifer do. He’s in for a nasty surprise.

“Goodness!”

The grill is positively sizzling. He stares, aghast, at his hand, which is rapidly bloating up like some misformed angry-red party balloon. He holds back the urge to bash his head against something solid to escape the pain. But holy mother of God this hurts.

“What have you done now, you foolish boy?”

Lucifer traverses the short distance from their picnic table to the grill in a few, ground-eating strides. He now has Mike’s bloated hand on his palm, looking positively flabbergasted. “Do you have a secret kink for torture or something? Because, boy, it is either that or you are the stupidest human spawn I have ever had the honor to meet.”

Mike’s face must look like a beetroot by now. Flushing furiously, he meets Lucifer’s glare, awkward. “Ummm, I thought I’d seen you do it. Figured it might be, you know – safe?”

“Oh, for the love of- If you see me jump off a cliff, boy, would you follow?”

Mike isn’t sure whether he should jump at the implicature or wonder at the note of concern that seems to pervade the rant. Real, honest-to-goodness concern, which is such a big difference from the ‘I shall throw you to the sharks’ Lucifer of moments ago that Mike can only blink, struck dumb. Then his mouth gets away from him again.

“I thought you hated me,” he ventures, before he can stop himself. Lucifer leers at him in a definitely non-sexual way. (No, definitely more of the eat-him-alive variety.) His voice is icy. “I do not like you, boy.” Contrary to that, his fingers are nimble as he bandages Mike up using a fist-aid kit that Trixie’s brought over. She hisses at the sight of Mike’s hand. “That looks positively painful,” she says, eyes narrowed in sympathy. Lucifer pats his hand over Mike’s newly-applied bandages, and he barely misses a white glint as it fades rapidly back into his hand. Must be the sunlight, he tells himself, admiring Lucifer’s handiwork. He has to give it to him – the man sure can patch up like a pro.

Later, Mike joins Trixie and her family at the picnic table, thigh pressing against Trixie’s underneath the table. The barbecue is actually delicious, Chloe’s homemade lemonade positively sinful, and even though Mike feels he might choke at any given moment (Lucifer should learn that staring is rude) - still, it’s almost perfect.

Chapter Text

When everyone has eaten their fill, there’s almost nothing left on the grill. It’s actually a pretty noteworthy feat, considering that there had been enough meat to feed a whole classroom of hungry rugby players. (Okay, maybe Mike is exaggerating a tiny bit, but still – the point stands.) Lucifer doesn’t eat, he inhales, almost like there’s a black hole living at the bottom of his stomach. How he manages to stay that fit, Mike will never know. Maybe all the glaring helps burn off calories or something. Quietly, Mike filters it away under his growing mental list of ‘weird stuff about Lucifer.’

Forgetting that he’s currently seated on a backless picnic table bench, Mike leans back a little, only to sway violently. He manages to bring himself back upright, barely, and gives everyone a rueful grin. “Must be all that meat I’ve eaten. I think it’s the most I’ve eaten since I was a teenager.”

Trixie gives him a fond look and snorts. “You need to eat more. Mike – I swear, I take my eyes off you for a week, and you’re transformed into a sack of bones.” Lucifer sniffs at that, running an disapproving eye up and down Mike. Chloe discreetly steps on Lucifer’s foot and gives Trixie and Mike a blinding smile instead. “Gods, you two are adorable. It’s like living college all over again.”

Lucifer looks petulant at that. “You hadn’t met me in college, Chloe. Obviously, there’s nothing to get all sentimental about like that.”

That pout would have looked ridiculous if it hadn’t been Lucifer that was doing it. Chloe looks exasperated and fond at once. “Yes, Lucifer,” she says, sounding only halfway sarcastic. “I was reborn after I met you. Complete re-birth.”

Lucifer has no modesty whatsoever. He nods, partly mollified, and settles back down onto the bench. Chloe shakes her head. “Men.”

The autumn sun is still hot, and Mike feels himself begin to grow drowsy under the relentless warmth. He shakes himself awake with a start and leans a little against Trixie. “Umm, so, Chloe,” he says. “What’s the plan for the afternoon?”

“Well, first barbecue cleanup, of course,” she says, grinning mischievously at Trixie. “And no, Trix, no getting out of it, special occasion or no. Call it family bonding experience.”

“That grill is a menace,” Trixie grumbles. “I swear the soot just multiplies when I’m not looking.”

Chloe grins, sly. “That’s why I’m doing you a favor and having Lucifer take over it for you instead.” Lucifer stiffens at that, but Chloe fixes him with a firm glare, and he folds in on himself like a paper doll. If Mike hadn’t been so awed-slash-terrified-slash-confused-slash-offended at the man, he might have even called the sight adorable. But, well, he was, so he didn’t.

Trixie cheers. “Yeah, go Lucifer!” Turning to Mike, she declares, “Lucifer has a special – something with fire. Like father like baby.”

Mike splutters. “Lucifer has a baby?”

Trixie laughs out loud, shaking her head. Her eyebrow is raised, the tell-tale sign of an undeniable inside joke. “Nope. Just a Lucifer thing.”

Mike blinks, feeling daft. “Ummm, yeah.”

Trixie snuggles into him. “Yeah.”

They laze around for a bit, and then Chloe eventually brings the conversation back on track. “So, Mike, there’s a swimming pool some ways out. It’s really not that far – do you enjoy swimming, or would you rather stay at home and lounge about a bit?”

The thing is, Mike actually likes to swim; he’s never been particularly good at it, mind, but there was something pretty magical about floating in water without much effort on his part.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, “Swimming would be awesome. Trix told me to pack some swim trunks just in case – anticipated this, didn’t you?” He gives Trixie an affectionate nudge. Trixie lets out a put-upon sigh.

“Well, Lucifer wanted to show off all his manly muscles. And mom would never say no to that. Right?”

“Trixie!” Chloe’s face is redder than should be humanly possible. Lucifer must have found that lovely somehow, because he’s snaked his arms around her midriff and is currently whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Despite himself, Mike finds himself grinning. Trixie is an awesome person, always will be wherever she is, but there’s this special, cheeky, kid-like side that only seems to come out around her family. Mike settles for ruffling Trixie’s hair.

“You, Beatrice Decker, are impossible.” Sneaking a look at Chloe, who has thankfully progressed from beetroot purple-red to a healthier shade of crimson, she grins, sticking out her tongue like a five-year-old. “Yeah, guess so.”

Eventually, everyone decides that they’ve had enough of sitting around idly, and the great barbecue cleanup begins. Mike is on dish duty – namely, carrying all the dishes and cups over to the kitchen so Chloe can wash them off. The grill is standing between him and the door like a looming obelisk of doom, Lucifer scrubbing away at it absentmindedly, so Mike gives it a wide berth. He’s warmed a little to Lucifer, what with seeing him be all wonderfully sweet with Chloe and all, but there’s still that uneasiness that comes with Lucifer’s patented look-down-nose maneuver. Three trips pass uneventfully, so Mike starts to let down his guard. Okay, maybe Lucifer isn’t planning to do anything detrimental to his health after all. But, as always, that is when disaster strikes. Or rather, in this case, Lucifer.

Mike is on his fourth trip when Lucifer corners him, looming ominously. “You want to look me in the eyes,” he declares. Mike waits for a moment, searching his mind for any sudden needs for eye contact. He finds none. Averting his eyes (because, with all due respect, this guy can be seriously creepy), Mike shakes his head. “Ummm – no? I don’t think so?”

“You do.” Lucifer insists, then huffs impatiently, bringing his fingers up to make Mike meet Lucifer’s eyes. Mike wants to protest, at first, but those eyes are something else entirely, deep, dark, enticing, freeing, and all of a sudden Mike wants to tell Lucifer everything.

Lucifer nods, seemingly happy with the results. “So, boy,” his tone is brisk. “What do you want from young Beatrice? Money? Fame? Have-her-and-dump-her? Nefarious string of one-night-stands?”

Mike gapes. “What the – what is wrong with you? I just want her to be happy!”

Lucifer narrows his eyes, unbelieving. “Oh, hiding, aren’t you? But no, you want to tell me everything. You want to tell me your deepest, darkest little desire.” Mike blushes at that, at war with himself and Lucifer’s eyes. But it’s a battle he cannot win, and finally the answer spills out of his lips.

“Iwanthertobehappywithme.”

“Pardon?”

“I want her to be happy,” Mike repeats. “But, uh, I wish she’d be happy with me. She’s really amazing. Trixie. Maybe I don’t deserve her. But I don’t – I don’t want her to go. I wish she decides she’s glad to be with me.”

He’s rambling now. Lucifer draws back, grudgingly impressed.

“Well, boy, that was a first. You - ” he shakes his head, seemingly at loss of what to say. Then he seems to settle for the threatening dad routine. Except his is the scariest Mike has ever seen. “I – you hurt her, boy,” he growls, eyes somehow flashing terrible, burning red, and Mike yelps. “Hurt her, and you will wish you’ve never been born.”

Mike nods frantically, wisely refraining from commenting that Trixie is probably much more capable of hurting than he is. She is one scary lady, after all.

Then Chloe steps up behind Lucifer, exasperated and looking pretty impressively displeased, and drags him away.

“Lucifer,” she hisses. “You and I are going to talk.”

Mike blinks, shrugs, and adjusts the plates in his arms.

*

Chloe doesn’t even know what to think anymore. Finally having cornered Lucifer against a shaded corner of the wall, Chloe crosses her arms and fixes Lucifer with one of her patented firm stares.

“I know you said you would try, Lucifer. Explain.”

“Trying is not achieving, Chloe.” Lucifer says, more petulant child then immortal archangel right now. Chloe throws up her hand, exasperated.

“Yes, but I don’t think I’ve even seen you try! Mike’s a saint to put up with you – you’ve been nothing but rude to him today.”

An array of emotions flicker past Lucifer’s face. His word is his bond, she knows – but Lucifer is such a contrary being that she sometimes feels as if he contradicts himself. Finally, he seems to have come to a conclusion. Lucifer sighs, shoulders sagging a little, rubbing his hand over his eyes. He peeks out at her with a gaze that has now gone a little bleary. “I know, Chloe. I know.”

He sounds so worn-out that Chloe softens a little, despite herself. She sighs. She should know better than to think that she could stay genuinely upset at Lucifer for more than ten minutes. She reaches out, tentatively, rubbing her palm against his arm. “Wanna talk about it?”

Lucifer is quiet for a short moment, spits out, “He’s going to take Beatrice away.” then: “I can’t let him take her if I’m not sure he’s good enough.”

He sounds so honestly scared that Chloe can’t help but feel the breath hitch in her throat. Her eyes sting a little. Lucifer, who scoffs at God’s threats, afraid. She steps forward and wraps her arms around him. He is so tall that her face is squished somewhere against his warm, hard chest, but she doesn’t mind. She hugs him a little harder.

Above her, Lucifer goes on, still sounding like a child with a puzzle he just doesn’t understand. “And the boy – his deepest, darkest desire is to make Trixie happy, and have her stay with him. It’s – it’s - ” He struggles, at loss for words, then sighs, folding against her. “I don’t understand.” A subtle tightening of his arms. “I don’t want Beatrice to go.” So many people have left, is what he doesn’t say, but Chloe understands anyway. She gulps back down the suspicious burn in her throat. She lays her cheek against Lucifer, listening to his heartbeat, soaking in the divine heat that always seems to permeate him. When she speaks again, her voice is heavy with affection.

“Oh, Lucifer, you just want her to stay young forever, don’t you?”

Lucifer’s reply is quiet. “I suppose so, detective. I suppose so.”

Snuggling against him, Chloe suppresses a long-suffering, affectionate grin. Leave it to Lucifer to turn a meet-the-parents session into some tragedy of celestial proportions, she tells herself.

Oh, well. Too late. She’s already fallen way too hard for him anyway.

Chapter Text

When Lucifer and Chloe return from their brief ‘talk’, both of their eyes are suspiciously moist, so Mike turns around and pretends not to have noticed anything. Ah, well. All’s well that ends well, and judging by the way Lucifer has Chloe melded against him like a blanket, Chloe’s ire has left no lasting damage.

It’s when Mike is trudging up the polished marble staircase with Trixie to change into his swimming things that it hits him. “Oh, shit!”

Trixie turns. “Huh?”

“I can’t go swimming,” Mike tells her, disappointment seeping through him and hunching his shoulders a bit. He had really been looking forward to the pool. “I burnt my hand at the barbecue.”

For which, mind, he is still a little miffed. He knew what he saw; how is it that the barbecue burns him but not Lucifer? Dratted machine, playing favorites. Mike is definitely finding a way to get back to it somehow. Trixie’s voice is sympathetic.

“Oh, Mike.” They arrive at the second floor, soon after, tasteful marble swirling into a long corridor with rooms leading branching out to either side. “We’ll find a way. Waterproof bandaging, or just lounging by the pool with a martini, something.” Then Mike’s brain catches up with his eyes, and Mike blinks.

“You don’t have any doors?”

“Oh, that!” Trixie grins. “Don’t worry, our room has one. But Lucifer doesn’t like doors, so. Mom decided to humor him on that. It was kinda important for him.”

Well, yes. Freedom of individuality and all that. Mike makes a conscious decision to stop questioning every weird thing over their stay. He might have a list the length of his bedroom by the end of it.

Mike just shrugs, gives Trixie a matching grin, and wanders off after her. The last room in the corridor is, true to her word, the only one with a door. Mike stifles a sigh of relief. At least he won’t have to worry about Lucifer walking in on him drooling in his sleep or something. Even the thought is horrifyingly mortifying. Mike shudders.

He plops his overnight bag onto the floor and starts rummaging about for his swimming stuff. He favors his injured left hand, even though it barely even hurts anymore. The Decker-Morningstars must have some awesome emergency medicine. Still, never hurts to be careful. He turns to Trixie, eyes hopeful. “Trix? Found anything I might use?” It’s probably that expression that Trixie calls his excited puppy face (he does not agree on that) - because Trixie laughs, eyes glinting a little in the early afternoon light. “Yes, you great big puppy dog. Here, let’s put your hand into this. Hopefully it’ll help the water from getting in.”

Trixie is holding a gigantic plastic glove alongside assorted waterproof sealing tapes. Oh, yes, that will work just fine. Mike gives Trixie a quick peck on the cheek. “Trix, you are officially the best girlfriend ever.”

“Flatterer.”

They plop down on the bed, side by side, reveling in the feeling of soft, airy down. The bed must have cost more than his entire flat, because all he’d done is sit and it still feels like a ticket straight to blissful heaven. Trixie reaches across their laps, pulling Mike’s hand onto hers.

“Doesn’t hurt too much? You still shouldn’t go jumping into the pool or anything, you know.”

“Of course not!” Mike is indignant. He may have displayed some stiking cases of YOLO in the past (some eggplants, their uni’s famous tiger statue, and one hell of a hangover. Enquire at your own peril) - but still, he’s not self-destructive or anything. “You know, though, it hardly even hurts anymore. After Lucifer wrapped it up for me.”

At that, Trixie’s expression turns suspicious, eyes narrowing, full-on detective mode. “Lucifer?” she asks, then hisses something that sounds suspiciously like no concept of subtlety. “Tell me if anything hurts,” she says, then starts unwinding bandages in a frenzy.

Mike gapes. Oh, no, this is not possible. It is most officially not.

His hand, his angry, welted hand that had looked like a misshapen party balloon just an hour ago – is normal as can be.

“Ohmygod. Oh, my, god.”

How is this even possible? His skin is smooth and unbroken, the same hand as it was this morning before it had been injured, and when he flexes his fingers they move just the way he wants them to. Trixie’s palm hits her face and stays there. She groans, and Mike’s jaw is almost hitting the floor.

“Lucifer?” he demands. “Is Lucifer like some supernatural doctor or something? Or – oh my god. Oh my god.” He flaps his hands around a bit. “Tell me I’m dreaming, Trixie. This can’t be happening.” Trixie gulps, guilty. “Umm, Mike, it’s – don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Calm down.”

Mike makes a concentrated effort, because it’s Trixie who’s asking. Still, it is not easy by any standard. His heart is hyperventilating like it wants to break out of his ribcage and flee.

“You gonna explain?” Mike asks, weakly, and Trixie’s expression wavers, hope-fear-guilt-hope-fear-guilt. Then it closes back down and Trixie sighs. “Will you believe me if I told you it was some super formula medicine that only the richest of men could buy?”

Despite himself, Mike huffs a laugh. “Trixie, that plan went out of the window the moment you told me.”

Trixie gives him a wan grin. “I tried, though.” Then her face turns serious.

“Mike, I love you. I really do. You’re the nicest, most amazing guy I’ve ever met and - ” she gulps. “I don’t – can’t lose you. I’m not ready. I’ll tell you soon, Mike, I promise, but I just... can’t, now.”

Trixie looks so heartbroken that Mike can’t help but pull her into a hug. She shudders and gulps against him, and he pats her back until her breathing evens out somewhat again. Still holding her close, Mike presses a short kiss onto the top of her head.

“I know.” Mike is curious, sure, he’s pretty sure his life’s just taken a turn into the Twilight Zone, but it isn’t worth demanding answers when it breaks Trixie down so much. “I’ll wait.”

“Oh, Mike.” Trixie’s voice is breathy and so adoring that Mike can’t help but break into a goofy grin. “Yeah, that’s my Trixie.”

“I love you.” A kiss. “And I’m going to murder Lucifer. No sense of - ”

Mike doesn’t want to hear the rest of it. So he kisses Trixie square on the lips, instead, until she is sufficiently distracted. By the time they’ve changed into their swimming things Mike’s surprised Chloe hadn’t sent out search party for them or anything. Well, they’d been a while.

“You know, Mike,” Trixie says a little later, delectable in her sensible one-piece striped swimsuit and beach shorts, “I think Lucifer doesn’t really hate you that much.”

Lucifer chooses that moment to loom over them, practically a Greek god and also horribly indecent in tight-fitting swim shorts and nothing else. He gives Mike a glare and smiles with way too many teeth. Considering what he now knows (Lucifer may or may not be some secret agent with a hidden superpower oh my god.)

Mike jumps. “You sure?”

“Sure.” Trixie spins around, hands on her hips, and jabs a finger into Lucifer’s chest. “And you, mister, once we get to the pool, you will leave Mike alone, and then you and I are going to have a reckoning.”

Lucifer gets lost pretty soon after that.

Unsurprisingly, the pool is Lucifer’s. As is a whole lot of property around it that Mike really doesn’t want to think about right now.

As soon as they arrive, Trixie, practically steaming around the ears, drags Lucifer off to talk. Mike does not envy Lucifer one bit. He’s been playing around by the water, idly watching the clouds float by on a gentle breeze and splashing himself with his feet, when Chloe hunkers down beside him. Despite being as old as his mother she still manages to pull off a ratty shirt and some old vinyl pants like a supermodel. Her eyes crinkle in a sympathetic smile.

“Tough day, huh?”

Heck, you don’t say! is what Mike really wants to say, but because he doesn’t want to be chased off the premises by an angry detective, he opts for a smile that comes out all twisted and weird.

“Ummm... I guess?”

“It’s okay. You can tell me. Lucifer drives me up the wall all the time.”

It’s not just the problem of how he acts, but who he is, now, but Mike wisely keeps quiet.

“Trixie says he doesn’t really hate me.”

“He doesn’t.” Chloe grins, eyes sparkling at some far-off, hilarious memory. “You should’ve seen how the first two ended.” Mike is glad he hadn’t. “He’s just scared, Mike. Scared you’ll steal Trixie away from him and then go gallivanting all over the world where he can’t find you – and then maybe throw her away like yesterday’s trash for good measure. He loves Trixie so much. He’d turn the world upside down for her.”

Mike wonders if it’s actually a literal expression, then quickly banks that course of thought. He’s always been good at compartmentalizing. He will not stray there.

“Yeah, Trixie’s amazing,” he says, and it’s the truth. “She rescued me from a crazy professor, you know.”

Chloe looks like she’s actually imagining Trixie rescuing Mike from a knife-wielding madman, so Mike quickly shakes his head, laughing. “No, not like that! But there was this professor in illustration who always yelled at everyone about everything. Uneven line, yell. Lines too even, yell. Too colourful, yell. Not expressive enough, yell. He was kinda humiliating me in front of the entire classroom and, well, you know. Trix.”

“Did she punch him in the face?” Chloe asks, joking. Mike grins.

“Nope. But she yelled right back every time he started yelling at me. It was awesome. She’s famous all around campus.”

“I can imagine.” Chloe shakes her head, fond. “She’s actually a lot like Lucifer, you know.”

Mike stares at her incredulously. “Am I allowed to take offense at that?”

“Yes.” Chloe’s face reads, he’s my husband but I still understand how you feel.

“On that note – Trixie just dragged Lucifer off to somewhere, she’s seriously mad at him, and they’re still not back. Should I be worrying about him?”

“Maybe.” Chloe leans back on her hands, then turns to look at Mike, curious. “She’s rarely that angry at Lucifer, though. What happened?”

“Umm.” Chloe is Lucifer’s wife, so she probably knows all about him, right? Still, there’s something so surreal about it that Mike hesitates before offering Chloe his brand-new, unbandaged hand. “This. Kinda.”

Chloe gasps and then curses. “That stupid, reckless – I am going to kill him.”

The mother-daughter resemblance is so complete that Mike can’t help but quirk a smile. “Yeah, that.” The mirth passes quick enough, though, and soon enough he’s feeling pensive all over again. “Trix told me she’d explain – soon – but right now, I guess she needs time. I’m not gonna needle her over that.”

“Michael Hawkins, you are truly one of a kind.”

Chloe envelops Mike into a firm hug.

“If Lucifer ever decides to kick you out, I’ll kick him out instead,” she promises. “So stay.”

Chapter Text

Trixie is angry. No, she is furious.

Actually, scratch that. There is no word on Earth to describe what she is feeling right now.

As soon as they get to a secluded corner of the pool, a few trees and a tacky parasol providing sufficient cover from prying eyes, Trixie spins around, trying very hard not to cry. It’s always been a habit of hers, for tears to well up when she’s angry, but she refuses to look anything less than furious (which she really, truly is) and put-together right now.

“What the hell were you thinking?” She hisses. And Lucifer, that insensitive ass, has the audacity to look confused.

“Beatrice?”

“Oh, no, you don’t get to Beatrice me, mister. Not after what you’ve done! You – ugh.” Trixie holds back the urge to punch the wall next to her. She knows that it definitely won’t be beneficial to her bones. Lucifer, if possible, only looks more flabbergasted.

“Child? What did I do? I swear, I didn’t - ”

“You fricking went and healed my boyfriend’s first-degree burn and caused a total freak out, that’s what!” Trixie trembles a little, feeling a bit weak in the knees now that the worst of the swamping rage is gone. “You know, Lucifer.” She can identify that twisting pang in her stomach, now. It’s betrayal. “You know how many’ve run away after they found out. But if Mike runs, Lucifer, I – oh, damn, Lucifer. How could you do this to me?”

“I didn’t - ” he protests, then frowns. Realization dawns on his face and his eyes grow wide. “I healed the boy? Completely?”

“Good as new.”

Trixie slumps, glum and without an ounce of energy in her, against the wall. “Congratulations, Lucifer. Mike thinks you’re some sort of alien now.”

“But I – oh, Beatrice.” Lucifer chokes and buries his face in his hands. “I swear, that’s not what I meant to do. Truly.”

“Then what is it that you meant to do?” Trixie asks, crossing her arms and looking up to meet Lucifer’s eyes. “Explain, Lucifer. Because I really want to understand.”

Lucifer looks utterly defeated, shoulders hunched over, fidgeting with his fingers as if he can’t bear to do anything else. But Trixie bites her lip and steels herself. Because, although she knows sweet Mike, who held her as she cried over a ruined project, brought her tubs of Ben&Jerry’s vanilla ice cream and told her corny jokes until she couldn’t help but laugh, will never really, truly abandon her – there is always the possibility, and, dammit, Lucifer has no right to make her choices for her in this. She has the right to be angry.

“I remember those last ones, too, child.” Lucifer’s voice is soft, regretful, and Trixie knows which ‘ones’ Lucifer is referring to. Ben, who called her a freak and refused ever to set his eyes on her ever again. Mike-the-former, who eloped over the night without telling Trixie anything about it. All because their little brains couldn’t handle the fact that yes, the devil exists, and no, he is not evil, and neither is Trixie.

“I wanted to ease him into the – the truth.” Lucifer swallows, eyes downcast. Trixie doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so vulnerable except in front of her mom. “Little things first, like – like not getting burned so easily, or – little things. I figured for the earlier ones, the problem was that the truth was all too sudden. I see how much you like this one, Beatrice. I didn’t want him to – leave.”

The whole concept is so damned Lucifer that Trixie is surprised she hadn’t realized it before. Those subtle little hints (that were actually not so subtle, truly) that he kept dropping, from the allusions to his brother to his stunt with the grill to everything. “And Mike’s hand?”

“I only – wanted to help it along a little bit. Lessen the pain, maybe. I - ” Lucifer swallows. “I’m not used to these,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards where his wings would be had they been corporeal, “heavenly powers. I didn’t use them much in hell.”

Trixie knows how hard it is for Lucifer to swallow his pride. He does it for her, though, always, and together with his stuttered explanation it draws a picture of just how much he adores her that Trixie sighs. Oh, Lucifer. Her very own guardian devil. Whatever shall she do with him?

Her anger has died down, now, the sudden buildup and subsequent outburst making her head spin a little, but still, there is a point to be made here, so Trixie gently takes hold of Lucifer’s arms. “Lucifer.”

He still doesn’t meet her eyes, so she tries again. “Lucifer, look at me.”

He does. Then he sighs, eyes anguished. “I’ve ruined everything again, haven't I? As always.”

“No, Lucifer. That is not what I meant.” Trixie keeps her tone firm, sure. “I – I don’t hate you, Lucifer. And I don’t think Mike will really run away. Freak out, maybe, sure, but he won’t leave without an explanation. I believe in him. But, Lucifer – all this ‘easing him in’. It was not your choice to make.”

Lucifer is silent. Trixie bites her lip, fond and more than a little exasperated. “Lucifer, did you not think that you could have – just told me, and we could have talked about it?”

“Oh.” Lucifer looks dumbstruck, as if he’d just been hit in the head with a giant hammer of truth. “Oh.”

Trixie takes a short moment to conduct and send a quick prayer to Lucifer’s dad. God, I know you’re all-powerful and stuff, but why the heck did you think it was a good idea to leave your son so utterly alone? When I die we are having Words. Trixie. That done, Trixie lets a tentative, slow smile spread across her face. Just enough to let Lucifer know that he’s a little forgiven, for now, but that he’s not off the hook entirely either. Lucifer, adorably nervous, smiles a little back.

“So, are we telling the boy?”

“You’ve left me with no choice.” Trixie huffs. She wants to postpone it as long as possible, but now that he’s seen the evidence, she owes it to Mike to at least give him some explanation. She braces herself, mind set. “After dinner. After dinner, we’ll tell him.”

Lucifer’s answering smile is a mix of a bit of everything – apprehension, thanks, love, regret, and, above all, an apology. Trixie hides a grin into her shoulder.

“Come on, then. We have a pool to jump in. And manly muscles to show off.”

“I do not show off. I merely – display.”

“Arrgh, Lucifer. you’re making me imagine things.”

“Young lady, I did not raise you to be so prudish – wait.” A pause, then: “Am I allowed to have my fun with your boyfriend until dinnertime? It’s my last chance. Maybe I can annoy him enough that he won’t be afraid of me.”

“Lucifer, you are not a five year old – stop wheedling!”

“Am not.”

“Am too – Lucifer!”

The Devil, Trixie decides, is five years old at heart. Screw immortal wisdom and all that.

*

After Trixie returns from her short talk with Lucifer, she soon catches Mike’s eye and beckons him over. Her eyes are serious and more than a little apprehensive, and she is chewing on her bottom lip, a nervous tic that Mike is well acquainted with. Mike pulls Trixie into a hug, trying to convey without words that she needn’t feel so nervous about this, that he’s not going to rage at her to produce some explanation right away. Trixie must have felt a little bit of it, because she relaxes a little and tightens her arms around Mike.

Eventually, she pulls away and places her hands on Mike’s shoulders. Her stance is straight, what Mike likes to call her ‘Amazon pose,’ that straight-shouldered pose she adopts whenever she has a hurdle to overcome. “After dinner,” she promises. “Lucifer’s agreed. Gods, I’m so sorry, Mike. I know this isn’t how you’d imagined this weekend to go - ”

Mike can’t help his grin at that. It’s so very anticlimactic, but the whole situation seems to deserve a good long goofy grin. Absolutely nothing in this trip has gone to expectations, and still, Mike is surprisingly okay with it. “It’s fine, Trix,” he says. “I’ve given up associating you with normal a long while ago.”

“Only you, Mike. Only you.” Trixie’s grin is so full of gratitude and something suspiciously close to love that Mike swallows and says nothing.

Together, they waddle over towards the shallow end of the pool, and spend a long while splashing water at each other and generally being just plain silly. Droplets of clear pool water cling to Trixie’s eyelashes and cheekbones, glittering like small bits of crystal in the autumn sun, and Mike has to tramp down on the irrational urge to reach out and painstakingly trace each and every one. Damn, he’s hopeless. He is pretty sure that he has just come across proof of the supernatural and still his first and foremost concern is that crazy urge to sweep Trixie up and cuddle her senseless.

There’s a tenseness to Trixie’s posture that definitely had not been there this morning, and Mike wants nothing more than to see it gone. He’s pretty sure that it has something to do with Lucifer’s Big Secret (yes, the thing definitely deserves capital leters. Like, whoa, dude, crazy awesome healing powers.) - so Mike does what he does with every other problem: he attempts to laugh it away.

“So, Trix,” he says, trying to keep his tone as light as possible, “do I get to guess at Lucifer’s identity until then?”

Trixie’s incredulous face reads, Mike, I seriously do not believe you. “Have any guesses so far?” she asks, drily, and Mike makes a show of thinking very hard at that.

“Yeah, about three,” he says. “Professor Plutonium, Gandalf, Doctor Strange. Any hits?”

“You are being dense on purpose,” Trixie sighs, fond but exasperated. “Mike, you don’t have to try to cheer me up. I’m not a baby.”

“No, you’re not, but I have a feeling you’re going off on a certified Trixie Decker TM worry trip,” Mike argues, nudging Trixie’s shoulder with his. “Admit it. Lucifer with Gandalf’s beard is a hilarious thing to think about.”

“Only because it’s so random, you dolt!” Trixie excalims. Eventually, she can’t help but give out a muffled giggle. “You are impossible.”

“Glad to be of service.” Mike gives Trixie a saucy salute. “Do I get a kiss, ma’am?”

“You are a lucky boy. I think I’ll be generous and reward you with – two.”

“Madame.”

Trixie’s kisses are equal measures sweet and heated and just a tad bit desperate, and as Mike snuggles in closer towards her, he thinks there’s no-where he would rather be. Step father-in-law with numerous secrets notwithstanding.

Later, Trixie wanders off to chat with Chloe, and Mike is left at the mercy of Lucifer. His healed hand feels all weird and tingly, probably because it had been the means of his Great Revelation of the afternoon. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t feel spectacularly in awe of Lucifer or anything like that – to be honest, the absurd macho display the guy had put on all afternoon helped a lot. It was pretty difficult to feel existential terror at the man who got miffed at his name and gave awkward, horrifying attempts at the Dad Talk.

“So, boy,” Lucifer says, tone deceptively light. “You said you enjoy swimming. Have you got any hidden talents? Walking on water? Turning water to wine? The no-pants dance?”

“Man, that is an horrifying image,” Mike groans, trying to stifle the vivid image of Lucifer prancing about, pantless. He’s sure Chloe would be delighted (that man had abs to put a washboard to shame, after all) - but that’s not the important bit here. The important bit being Mike wanting to incinerate his needlessly active imagination. “And – I am not Jesus Christ. Hell, I’m not even Christian.”

“At least you have one redeeming quality.” Lucifer sniffs disdainfully. Leave it to the guy named Lucifer to dislike Christianity. It’s so horribly cliché Mike is not even surprised. “But the rest – really, must I leave dear Beatrice at the mercy of such an incompetent boy?”

“Can you?” Mike asks, not really wanting to know the answer, because, man. “Is that part of your special superpower package or something?”

“I do not have a ‘superpower package.’” Lucifer seems downright offended. “Do I look like some charlatan advertising magic tricks to you?”

“Can’t blame a guy for asking,” Mike shrugs, kicking at the water a bit. Lucifer’s close proximity is horribly distracting. He smells a bit like sandalwood and a bit like cigarette smoke and a whole lot of other things Mike cannot identify. “Is it?”

“No.” Lucifer is quiet for a bit after that. Then: “I do have a bit of an impressive – package, I’ll have you know.” Lucifer’s grin is downright lecherous. Mike’s face is burning so bright he’s surprised it hasn’t fallen right off yet.

“Man! Does Trixie even know what kinds of things you’re telling me?”

“I’m sure she approves.” Lucifer raises one elegant eyebrow. “I did make sure her early education included a little bit of everything, after all. I’ll have you know - ”

“I,” Mike’s voice is decisive. “Shall Not have myself know.”

“Close-minded prat.”

“Sure.” Mike flops on his back, shaking his head. “Blame a guy for trying to be decent.”

“Bloody decency does not get you anywhere, boy. Young Beatrice, now...”

“Not listening! Not listening!” Mike blocks his ears, flipping over to give Lucifer a baleful look. “Dude, I’m starting to suspect that you’re some kind of sex-crazed demon or something.”

“Should I be offended that you are comparing me to a mere demon?”

“Dunno. I’ll be finding out by dinnertime, though. Be Prepared.”

Lucifer’s gaze is more thoughtful than taunting, now. He sits back on his haunches, running a hand through artfully mussed hair. (And really, it should be illegal how good he manages to look doing practically everything. Mike would probably look like some half-drowned rat if he ever tried anything like that.) His voice is quiet when he says, “You are taking this awfully well, Michael.”

It’s the first time Lucifer has used his name this afternoon. Mike shrugs. To be honest, he doesn’t really understand that well himself. Maybe it’s all those fantasy novels he’d read as a child – his mum had told him they were probably changing his brain structure or something, the sheer amount of it. Perhaps she’d been right. Or maybe it was the way he somehow feels as if the whole afternoon has been a dream, and he might wake up any minute now. Mike doesn’t try to find an exact word for it. Instead, he settles for a wan grin. “I dunno. Seriously – I’ve always been a fantasy kid.”

The look Lucifer gives him at that makes Mike think that maybe, just maybe – he might have found a new friend in Lucifer. Then it’s gone as fast as it had come, and Lucifer is the classic grumpy dad again.

“Should have figured.” he grumbles. “You do have that head-stuck-in-the-clouds look, after all.”

Chapter Text

After they return to the mansion, Mike takes his time to enjoy a hot shower and dry himself off. It leaves him feeling totally boneless and more than a little high (not that he would know; Mike’s mother had always been particularly firm about the dangers of drugs, and he’d given up some point after the ninth talk about his brain dribbling out about his ears.)

“Mike,” Trixie calls from the door, towel and spare clothes in one hand. “Mom asked me to call you for her. She’s down in the kitchen.”

“Could you tell her that I’ll probably be revived in approximately five minutes?”

“Mike,” is Trixie’s answer, then the bathroom door swings shut and he hears the shower start up. Mike huffs and half-slides, half-scrambles off the bed. But by the gods that bed is heavenly.

“Going!” he calls, then starts the long trek down the hallway. Being rich has its downsides, he thinks to himself. If he were this rich, he would probably either buy a smaller house or buy a indoors scooter to take him everywhere. He is not athletic enough for this house.

Chloe is waiting for him in the kitchen.

“Oh, Mike,” she says as soon as he appears in the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of garlic. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to go with Lucifer to the market and buy some?”

Mike gapes for a moment. There is a suspicious white blob to the right that looks awfully a lot like garlic, and, also, Chloe Decker is a horrible liar. Still, he understands the sentiment behind the action – namely, that he manage to bond somewhat with Lucifer before his big secret sends him running for the hills – so he just shrugs, grins, and replies, “Sure.”

So that is how he finds himself at the Decker-Morningstars’ gargantuan garage, waiting for Lucifer to arrive. Life is unfair – Lucifer after a shower, it turns out, yields an awfully scrumptious version of the man with water glistening appealingly on high-cut cheekbones and eyelashes set a-glitter. His hair, as always, is perfectly coiffed and polished to a sheen.

“Lucifer,” Mike says by way of greeting. “I think your garage is larger than your house.”

“Of course.” Lucifer’s voice is matter-of-fact. Proud, he sweeps a hand to encompass row upon row of glistening sports cars. “These,” he declares, “are my babies.”

“Seriously, man?” Mike asks, blanching a little. Because, well, by this point, just about anything is possible with Lucifer, and the image is more than a little disturbing. Lucifer actually looks a little disturbed too. So the answer is most probably no. “Oh. Okay,” Mike relents, nodding furiously. “Just asking. You know. Insatiable curiosity and all that.”

Mike does not see Lucifer’s expression, but he is pretty sure that it isn’t anything savory.

The car they end up getting on is a sleek, gorgeous corvette that looks like it costs more than Mike’s yearly wage at the bookstore. Lucifer backs out of the parking space with considerable skill, maneuvering about other cars and artfully placed pillars without even looking back once. Mike whistles.

“That’s some serious driving skills, sir.”

Lucifer’s look is incredulous. “Back to sir now, are we? What about dude? Man? Lucifer? You were a lot more insolent back by the pool.”

“Ummm,” Mike fidgets, a little sheepish. “I kinda realized I’d been a bit rude back there – so. Uh, do you mind? Much?”

“You call Chloe by her name.” He says the word ‘Chloe’ with so much reverence it almost seems sacrilegious to be the one to hear it. Mike nods, unsure where this conversation is headed. The serene mansions of Lucifer’s neighborhood pass them by at a leisurely pace. “Yes?”

“I want an answer, not a question, boy.” Although it is the same grumpiness from this morning, there’s considerably less heat in it. “Don’t think there’s much point pretending to be all polite when I’ve seen your true colors now.”

“Hey! I’m not just pretending to be nice, you - ”

Mike is stopped from saying something he might regret very much by a sudden, jolting acceleration now that they are on the highway. “What was that?”

Lucifer, annoyingly, looks very much like a model in a photoshoot, a few stray strands escaping the hair gel and waving about enticingly in the air. Never mind that the speed they’re going at probably breaks every single speed limit in existence. Mike, feeling green, grips at the sides of the car for dear life. Lucifer’s grin is indecently wide. “That, dear Mike,” he purrs, “is called freedom.”

“Lucifer. I think I am going to die. Am I going to die?”

“No!” Lucifer is indignant. And – damn it, now he has both his hands off of the steering wheel as he turns towards Mike with a frown and an admonishing finger. “I’ll have you know - ”

“Put your hands back on the wheel! Put your hands back on the wheel!” Mike cries frantically. Lucifer, grumbling, acquiesces. “You are even worse than Beatrice.”

“Glad to know that Trix has a sense of self-preservation too.”

“Are you implying that my driving skills are less than perfect?”

Yes, Mike wants to say. “I think I need some music,” is what he ends up saying. Anything to take his mind off the breakneck pace they’re hurtling along at is a welcome distraction.

Lucifer looks a little mollified at that. “Ah, good. At least you seem to have some taste.” He waves a vague hand in Mike’s general direction. “Do proceed.”

Trembling, Mike manages to whip out his phone and enter his music app. He jabs blindly at the first playlist he comes across: roadtrip. Huh. Surprisingly fitting. The energetic, powerful beat of I Like It fills his car, and he slumps a little against his seat, utterly drained. He also closes his eyes and tries very hard to ignore the way the bushes by the road vanish into the distance before he even gets a clear look at them.

A long, elegant finger reaches out to poke him. Opening his eyes, Mike is met by Lucifer’s patented disapproving stare.

“This,” he says, gesturing towards Mike’s phone. “Is not music.”

“Don’t hate on hip-hop!” Mike cries, half on instinct. “You should see some of the lyrics, man. Total poetry.”

“No. You are unbelievable.” Lucifer gestures wildly with his hands, bearing a scary resemblance to one of those deep-sea anemone that Mike had seen once on Animal Planet. “This is – meaningless chanting. And hysteria. And bragging about who has more money than everyone else.” Lucifer sniffs. “The debate is pointless. The winner is obviously me.”

“Lucifer,” Mike says, incredulous. “I think you’ve just made an enemy of every single hip-hop fan in the United States.”

“Let them come.” Lucifer says, jerking his chin up in a sign of defiance. It would have looked awfully heroic only if it hadn’t led to the car jerking a little sideways and Lucifer’s eyes leaving the road ahead. “They are no match for me.”

“Sure, Lucifer. Eyes on the road!”

Lucifer, probably just to spite him, makes the whole car jerk as he runs over something particularly squelchy and bumpy. Mike manages to bite back a very undignified squeal.

“Dude, admit it.” Mike cannot let this issue go that easily. “Hip-hop is goddamn music.” The car lurches to the right. “And you can’t win this debate just by scaring me!”

“Pity.” Lucifer sighs. “Just so you know. I think Beatrice has absolutely no taste in men.”

Lucifer’s tone is light, though, almost teasing, and there is a gleam in those dark eyes that almost look playful. Mike knows that Lucifer is Trixie’s stepdad and that the two share no genes whatsoever, but the family resemblance is so uncanny that Mike actually blinks.

“Yeah, thanks, dude,” he says instead. “Love you too.”

The market is a huge square monolith of solid concrete that looks a lot like Costco’s but apparently isn’t one. Lucifer parks in one of the empty spots with a flourish, and they let themselves out. Mike suppresses the urge to kneel down and kiss the ground (but gods it is good to be on solid earth again). Fortunately, there aren’t many people hanging about, which means that they probably won’t have to wait terribly long in line to get shopping.

Unfortunately, the shopping cart is utterly, horribly jammed.

Mike’s hands are just about falling off and Lucifer looks like he’ll start steaming about the ears sometime soon. Mike watches with barely restrained wonder and curiosity as Lucifer, exasperated, waves a hand at the carts and the foremost one unseals itself with an audible click.

“Woah. That was pretty cool.”

Lucifer jumps. “What?”

“I mean – that.” Mike wriggles his fingers, trying to convey his message without actually having to say the word ‘special powers’. Somehow, the word sounds horribly cheesy in his brain, and he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “You know. Bam.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrow a little at that, as if he’s trying to gauge if Mike is lying or not. He seems to have come to a conclusion, because his eyes widen a tiny bit in surprise. His expression morphs into that of grudging admiration.

“You don’t mind.”

It’s more of a question than a statement, and Lucifer looks so uncharacteristically unsure that Mike can’t help but try to reassure him. He grins.

“I’ve always liked superheroes,” he says. “Especially Ironman. Hey, could you have blasted the carts to bits if you’d wanted, too?”

“I suppose so.” Lucifer huffs, helpless. His expression is a little exasperated and a little fond, and more than a little hopeful. Mike tries to give his best disarming grin. He’d been told he was pretty good at that, after all.

“Cool. You can blast all the guys I don’t like now. Starting with Professor Kentsworth.”

“You are really something else, aren’t you?” Lucifer says, then quickly turns around and begins pushing the cart before him. “Now hurry up, boy. We haven’t got all afternoon. Chop chop.”

Lucifer’s reluctance to acknowledge any affection towards him is actually almost adorable. Mike stifles a grin, then starts as a realization hits him.

“Wait – Lucifer! Did we really need a shopping cart for a pack of garlic?”

“Bloody hell,” Lucifer curses, exasperated. “Look now. Your idiocy is rubbing off on me.”

Mike should have been offended. He really should have.

But – against all odds – he wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Mike, to be honest, is not a man of many talents.

He can draw, sure - (or at least he would like to believe that was why he’d been accepted into art school) - and he’s been told he has an ‘unquenchable optimistic spirit’ on occasion, which is just a nice way to say that he should stop grinning like a loon and go do some productive self-evaluation. And that, unfortunately, is pretty much it.

Fortunately, Mike has developed a mean eye for choosing vegetables after all those years following his mom around in grocery stores, which means that he can now dazzle Lucifer with his outstanding garlic-choosing skills.

“Look at this,” Mike says, pointing at the garlic Lucifer had reached for. “The bulb is a little too round-shaped, and you can’t really see the individual outlines of the cloves. That one’s probably a bit mushy.”

“You can tell?” Lucifer asks, one eyebrow raised in an expression of grudging admiration. Mike grins. “Yep. I am one talented vegetable shopper.” Rummaging around in the pile, Mike picks a fresher one and shows Lucifer.

“See, since we’re shopping for pasta garlic, the longish, pointy-shaped ones are better. And see how you can see these lines where the cloves meet one another? That means that the individual parts are all well-formed and delicious.” Oh, it feels so good to be the imparter of information for once. Mike smiles giddily, poking Lucifer in the shoulder. “Hey, tell me you’re impressed. You totally are.”

“I am happy Beatrice will not starve in the near future, living with you.” Lucifer’s voice is the very embodiment of pompous stiffness. Then, an afterthought: “Doesn’t mean I like you, though.”

Lucifer sounds like a petulant five-year-old when he says things like that. Wisely, Mike does not comment on that.

Mike feels a little ridiculous toting about a shopping cart when there’s only a tiny bit of garlic in it, but Lucifer doesn’t seem to mind one bit, back straight and posture regal as he strolls about the supermarket aisles like he owns the place. Everyone seems to be drawn automatically towards his presence, heads turning wherever he goes. Mike whistles, impressed despite himself. He has to give it to Lucifer – the man has some serious presence about him.

Mike does understand why people stare, of course. After all, he had stared, too, the first time they had met. They just need to get to know him better, he thinks. They won’t be drooling so bad after their very existence has been well and thoroughly insulted.

Or maybe not. Mike has a strange, niggling feeling that maybe all of Lucifer’s discourtesy is reserved solely for him. Suddenly incensed, he sticks his tongue out at Lucifer’s retreating, elegant backside. That’s for having acted like a lump to me, he thinks, trying very hard to direct his thoughts towards Lucifer (because he is both too petty and not courageous enough to direct words instead.)

“I heard that!” Lucifer calls, over his back, and Mike jumps.

“No, you didn’t!” He retorts, then surreptitiously gives Lucifer a quick, paranoid checkover. He can’t read minds – or can he? Oh, gods, that is so creepy. How many times had Mike insulted Lucifer in his mind today?

Shivering, Mike tries to think of blank, blank paper, rolls after rolls of it, and empty his mind of any and all derogatory thoughts about Lucifer. It’s a lot harder than he’d imagined.

They have to pass through the chips section to get to the checkout counter. Mike watches with barely concealed amusement as Lucifer makes a dive for the cool ranch puffs. Sans the multi-thousand dollar suit and elegant coif of hair, he almost resembles a desert barbarian diving for water. “Ah,” he exclaims, caressing the bag lovingly. “But I have missed these.”

Mike turns away, because it’s more than a little disturbing that Lucifer looks at cheap snacks the same way he looks at Chloe, who just also happens to be his wife.

“Umm, you wanna buy some? We do have the space, I guess.”

Space they truly have in abundance. The garlic has been bumping around in the cart the whole way. Maybe it’s time to gift it a travelling companion.

Sighing with happiness, Lucifer begins packing the whole cart with the junky stuff. Lucifer’s grin is practically obscene, probably more suited for bedroom activities than supermarket aisles, and Mike can’t stifle his laughter anymore. “Dude,” he gasps. “Cool ranch puffs. I get it. Totally manly and lovable. Uh-huh.”

“There is nothing wrong with cool ranch puffs.” Lucifer sniffs, actually seeming a little offended. “Only anyone with no taste would choose not to appreciate them.”

Still, Lucifer in his tailored suit and shiny Louboutins waxing poetic about cool ranch puffs is so weird that Mike has to gulp down a snort again. Gods, but this is hilarious.

“Sure, man. Sure.” Mike eyes their shopping cart, now almost chock full with the shiny packets. The sight is almost making him sick. “You – really gonna eat all that?”

Lucifer steps in front of the cart like a dragon hoarding its treasure. “Don’t you even try, boy,” he warns, wriggling his finger. “Believe me, I’ll know. I always do.”

The incident from just a moment ago springs unbidden to his mind, and Mike groans, indignant. “Man, you can’t use your – mojo thing like that! I bet there’s rules against abuse of powers or something. And I don’t even like ranch puffs.”

“Good. I’ll be watching you.”

“Power abuse, Lucifer!”

As they continue on their merry way, cart now stuffed with Lucifer’s beloved cool ranch puffs, Mike spares a moment to think on the unfairness of life. Mike had eaten late-night ice cream for two weeks last summer and been forced to do push-ups like a madman to burn off the extra fat. Lucifer polishes off cool ranch puffs like an empty tank and still manages to bounce watermelons off his chest. (Based on estimation, of course. Mike doesn’t really want to see Lucifer try.)

He hates his imagination sometimes.

They run into a little trouble at the checkout counter. Lucifer’s charm, it turns out, does not come with an off switch. And it proves to be – well, troublesome. For lack of a better word.

“You must really love those ranch puffs, don’t you, darling?” the lady bats her eyelashes and gives Lucifer a sultry look. Then her expression turns dreamy as she sighs, remaining ranch puffs temporarily forgotten. “Oh, I would just love to be the one to puff you up.”

Mike chokes, gasps, then chokes again. Oh gods. Oh gods. The lady looks old enough to be his mother. That must be the worst pick-up line he had ever heard in his life. And also, the lady looks a little high, a little besotted, and more than a little deranged – all of which Mike suspects might have been caused by a certain someone.

“Lucifer,” Mike hisses, nudging Lucifer with his foot. “Do something.”

“If there was ‘something’ I could have done, boy,” Lucifer hisses right back, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Don’t you think I would have done it?”

Lucifer loves lewd metaphors and heaven-knows-what-else and is never, never uncomfortable with anything. Except, it turns out, elderly cashiers hitting on him with cool ranch puff puns. Mike hadn’t even known the thing was possible.

The cashier makes to grope Lucifer with her barcode scanner. Lucifer honest-to-goodness hisses. The man in the next aisle gives them all a strange Look.

The situation is so wrong on so many levels that Mike simply gives up trying to figure it out. What even. Before Mike can register any of it, his brain comes up with a half-arsed plan, approves it, and rockets ahead.

“Hey, dad!” He blurts. He tries for friendly, but it comes out more like a high-pitched whine. Lucifer’s mouth hangs open, flabbergasted. “What?”

“Dad,” Mike says, grin so wide it is verging on lunatic, trying frantically to convey the message please be quiet and play along. “You know. Your son. Please don’t tell me you aren’t remembering your son. You even saw me this morning.”

“Ye-es,” says Lucifer, a little wary. Mike nods firmly, ignoring his mind’s belated protests of what the hell are you thinking. “Good. Well, you know how scary mom can get. I think we should hurry.”

“Mom?” Lucifer says, now seemingly limited to one-word responses.

“Yeah, mom. You know, the – the super-scary ex-convict axe murderer? Who just got out of prison? You know, the ranch puffs,” Mike says, pointing towards the offending objects. “Remember, they’re for her welcome-back-home party.”

Lucifer eyes him like one would a cornered zoo animal. “No.” The reply is curt, as always, and does not help Mike along one bit. Mike stifles the urge to step on the man’s gorgeous shiny shoes and stares resolutely ahead. It is too late to back down now.

“Well, yes, they are. He’s a little deranged too. Always forgets things,” he adds in for good measure. “You know, the types. Anyhow, she’s awfully jealous, and, umm, I wouldn’t want her to find out about you and his,” gesturing towards Lucifer then the cash register lady, “thing. You’d better hurry up before she shows up with her axe or something.”

Pros: the lady seems totally broken out of Lucifer’s spell by now.

Cons: she looks right ready flee and call for the police, and also, she is edging subtly away from Mike and Lucifer both. Her hands are faster than any other Mike had ever seen as she helps them pack the garlic and absurd amount of cool ranch puffs into bags, then she is sending them on their way with a look that says do me a favor and never come back.

Lucifer’s expression is thunderous.

Mike thinks it isn’t a nice way to treat someone who has just risked an asylum to help you, but then again, he supposes he has gone a bit overboard with the thing. He tries for a weak grin.

“Umm, surprise?”

No answer.

“I was trying to help, really, I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die. And all.”

“You had better,” Lucifer huffs, after an indeterminable pause that sets Mike’s feet quivering in his shoes and his palms sweating a little. By gods, the man’s stare is intense.

Lucifer turns on his heel and leads the way up the ramp towards the parking lot, head shaking the entire way. Mike thinks he catches several snippets of ‘totally deranged’ and ‘Beatrice – don’t know – what was she thinking.’

Well. At least Lucifer’s virtue is intact. He counts that as a win.

Now, though, if Chloe starts asking why everyone in the supermarket is eyeing her strangely...

Mike gulps.

The ride home is a lot quieter, considering. Lucifer doesn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, and Mike, sheepish, tries to stay quiet too. He succeeds until he spots a Baskin Robbins ice cream shop peeking at him from the side of the road.

“Lucifer,” he turns, suitably abashed but still a little hopeful. His eyes are probably what Trixie had called ‘those damn puppy eyes’ on occasion, wide and begging. Unfortunately for Mike, they don’t seem to work very much on Lucifer. Maybe being annoyed-con-flabbergasted beyond belief has some neutralizing effect on them.

“I’m really sorry,” Mike tries. And this much is true, even though the crazy acting part had actually been quite fun in a wacky way. “Really am, and I really, truly swear I was just trying to help. - Can we please stop for ice cream? I could kill for some right now.”

Mike scratches his head and grins sheepishly. Embarrassingly, that is the truth: Mike really would kill to have an ice-cream cone in his hand this moment. Like, honest-to-goodness kill. Okay, maybe not that far, but the point stands.

Now that all the adrenaline has worn off, the stress of the whole day is crashing in on him at once, and Mike is in desperate need of sugar. Especially the cold, gooey goodness that is ice cream. Lucifer’s face is unreadable as he grunts, “I would hope not.”

A moment later, the car is pulling smoothly into the small parking space in front of the shop, and Lucifer shoos Mike out. “Be quick.” Then, with just a hint of wry humor in his tone: “You did say we were in a hurry, after all. Scary axe-murderer waiting at home and all that.”

“Yes, sir! Alright, sir!” Mike feels strangely forgiven at that, and it makes him feel so giddily happy that Mike ends up giving Lucifer a cheeky, joyous salute before dashing into the shop in embarrassment. He really does care quite a bit about what Lucifer thinks of him now, Mike realizes. Lucifer had been a bit – imposing, or difficult, at first, but the man has grown on him in that wacky, crazy, supernatural way of his. Maybe he understands a bit more now about how Chloe came to fall in love with Lucifer so many years ago.

Turning around a little, he can see the parking area out of the edge of his eye – Lucifer has lit a cigarette and is blowing blue-grey smoke out into the encroaching twilight, the smoke twisting into a series of shapes before dissipating into thin air. With a smile, Mike begins to scan through the list of available ice-creams, idly wondering whether he is in the mood for mint chocolate or not.

It is an idyllic, wonderfully peaceful moment of serenity in a day that has just been getting crazier and crazier, so Mike begins to hum a little, heading towards the girl behind the counter to relay his order. Of course, he should have known better than to hope for that peace to last.

The boy behind him whips out a gun with shaking hands and wide, desperate eyes, and cries, “Give me all your money or this boy dies!”

Mike stiffens. He sighs, a sigh laced with no small amount of resignation and exasperation. He seriously wonders what has become of his life, some days.

Lucifer, if you can really read my mind and hear me and don’t hate me enough to want me dead, he thinks, I think I might need some rescuing right now.

Crazier and crazier indeed.

Chapter Text

Mike would have liked to think that his life was worth quite a bit more than a wad of cash. Not that he had such a splendid opinion of his own importance, of course, but – you know, the human life cannot be gauged by material means, and all that.

Well, the girl behind the counter doesn’t seem to agree.

To do her justice, she isn’t exactly refusing the boy with the gun, per se, but she isn’t doing much else either.

“I – the boss – I can’t get fired this soon, Oh god,” she cries, trembling uncontrollably. Her face is white as a sheet, and Mike almost feels sorry for her, except if he gets shot and receives a one-way ticket to the afterlife right now he is totally blaming the girl. (Lucy, if the smiley name tag is to be believed. She is not looking all that smiley right now.)

The boy with the gun is shaking almost as much as Lucy is. Mike feels the clatter and slight vibration as the gun taps against his head, almost like a nervous tic, and the boy’s other hand, which is wound around Mike’s arm, is clammy with sweat. He really doesn’t seem like a hardened criminal whatsoever. But what he does seem like is very desperate, and quite a bit drunk.

“I said I’ll shoot!” the boy shouts, voice shaking a little but still loud enough to make Mike flinch, and the pressure of the gun tightens along his scalp. “I’m not kidding!”

“Oh, god, oh, god,” Lucy whispers, seeming to go into a panic, well verging on hysteria now. She is frozen in place, eyes wide as saucers, unable to look away from the boy’s gun. “Oh, god.”

Almost as if in slow motion, Mike sees the boy’s fingers tightening around the trigger, and moments of his life begin to flash past his eyes in a panorama of dizzying colors. He thinks of Trixie, the way he likes her best – a little ruddy from the Californian sun, laughing wide and uninhibited, eyes glinting with mischief. He also thinks of Lucifer, with his annoyingly perfect face and equally annoying imperfect personality, who he has actually grown quite fond of in the scant few hours that he has known him.

Lucifer. Now would be a good moment. Now would be great. Lucifer. Trixie will be so pissed if you let me die. Just so you know.

“Oh, god,” Lucy cries, full-on hysteria settling in as she collapses to the floor, sobbing. The boy’s finger begins its inexorable journey towards the trigger. Mike lowers his eyes and keeps them there, more resigned than anything else now.

Then there is a gunshot that ricochets off the stone counter with a resounding bang, Mike’s heartbeat is so loud he swears they could hear him all the way in Africa, and there is Lucifer, larger than life, dark, reassuring, a prayer answered.

“Wrong deity,” Lucifer says, tone deceptively light. The door is swinging a little on its hinges, as if it had been blasted open by a hurricane, and the boy’s gun is now in Lucifer’s hand, dangling loosely in a grasp that almost seems insolent. The tips of Lucifer’s shoes gleam dully in the late afternoon twilight.

“Lucifer,” Mike says, exasperated, relieved beyond belief, and also a thousand other things he can’t really pinpoint right now. Lucifer simply turns around a little, expression wide and open and more sincere than Mike has ever seen it, before Mike blinks and Lucifer is grinning, wide, predatory, a warning of a thousand terrible things to come.

The gun crumples in Lucifer’s grasp as if it is putty. Mike gasps despite himself. Lucifer throws it aside, and it rolls along the tiled floor, now a harmless little ball of steel. Mike watches, horrified and intrigued in equal measure, as Lucifer stalks towards the boy.

It is almost as if the shadows in the store are bending to his will, elongating and shifting, allowing Mike a glimpse of something terrible that lurks just beneath the surface of this world, and Lucifer’s presence, already considerable, grows, grows, grows until it is almost difficult to breathe. The boy, whimpering now, shudders and takes a step back. Lucifer takes another step forward, and the boy, casting his eyes wildly about the room, makes to dash for the door.

Lucifer is too fast for him.

An arm shoots out, barring the boy’s escape before it can even truly begin in earnest. “Well, well, now see what we have got here.” Lucifer’s voice is smooth, silky, a sinful, midnight purr. “Like playing with fire, do we, boy?”

Lucifer calls Mike ‘boy’ too, all the time, but this time it is something entirely different. Mike realizes then that Lucifer’s ‘boy’ toward him had been more of a frustrated outburst and endearment than anything else, because this – this – makes Mike want to turn tail and run for the hills. The boy is shivering in earnest now, teeth clacking and legs shaking so badly he can barely walk.

“Look,” Lucifer hisses, hand coming up to grasp the boy’s jaws in a crushing grip, and the boy screams, and screams, and doesn’t stop, crumpling to the ground in a blabbering heap. “Please, please, no,” he cries, hands clawing at the floor. “I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good. Oh, god, please, no.”

“Why?” Lucifer’s question is simple but brutal, voice silky-soft with a hint of steel underneath, and so cold it could have frozen a desert. The boy’s head droops helplessly now, a total picture of defeat. Mike suppresses a shiver. He really, really doubts he could ever look at Lucifer the same way ever again. This is the man that saved him, and still – he is more terrifying than the boy who was trying to kill him ever could be.

Lucifer must have used his special mojo on the boy, because the boy spills his guts without reserve, voice trembling with barely suppressed tears.

“Sophia, they said they were gonna cut her life support, because we couldn’t pay,” he whispers. “She needs me. She needs us. We need her. And money. I don’t have money. No one I know has enough. I – I don’t know what to do, I – oh gods.” The boy chokes, then goes back to trembling on the floor. “I know I was bad. I’ll be good. Oh gods, please, no. Please. Please.”

Lucifer sits back on his haunches, genuinely surprised, and suddenly the shadows are normal again, Mike can breathe, and Lucifer is just plain (alright, maybe not so much) old Lucifer who loves cool ranch puffs and gets groped by supermarket ladies.

“Your ‘Sophia’ is sick,” Lucifer repeats, slowly, as if to reaffirm that he isn’t hallucinating. “And the hospital is kicking her out.”

The boy, cowering, nods, and Lucifer runs a hand through his hair, whole posture screaming I am not equipped to deal with these things. He looks like he wants to cry, ‘gah!’ and run out of the ice-cream shop himself.

Finally, sighing, Lucifer rummages around in his suit jacket before throwing a wad of checks down on the floor before him. “Take that.”

Mike blinks.

The boy seems flabbergasted at that as well, because he stutters, “me – me?”

“Yes, you,” Lucifer sighs, dusting off his pants and rising back into a standing position. “Take that and go. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Oh, my god. Oh, god.”

Tears are streaming down the boy’s face now, face twisted into one of pained ecstasy, and he sobs, “Thank you so much – thank you,” before scrambling out of the shop. Lucifer, Mike sees, looks the most miffed that Mike has ever seen him.

“Old bastard, always taking all the credit,” he grumbles, and Mike shrugs, sorting it away as more Lucifer weirdness. There is something in Mike’s subconscious that is nagging him that Mike ought to be recognizing something, that he should be able to piece together exactly who and what Lucifer is by now, but it is brushed away before Mike can even acknowledge it.

“So,” Lucifer claps, all business now, “did you choose your ice cream?”

“Ummm.” Mike blinks. The whole situation is so surreal that he takes a while to process the words, Lucifer’s words oozing through his brain like caramel fudge. “Yeah? But,” a quick look behind the counter shows Lucy the Baskin-Robbins girl in a dead faint, one with the floor. “I don’t think it’s possible to order, now.”

“Ah. Pity.” Lucifer says, and that is that.

*

“What took you so long?” Chloe asks, as Mike stumbles into the kitchen with the garlic. “Trixie and I had begun to think that you had been eaten on the way back home or something.”

Her tone is joking, but her eyes are serious and worried, searching Mike’s own with genuine concern. Mike tries to think of a simple answer to that question, something comprehensive and concise that will both convey the essence of this afternoon’s events (Crazy) and lay Chloe’s worries to rest (Impossible).

“Oh, you have no idea,” is what Mike ends up saying, as his brain, judging that it has seen more than enough action for the day, decides to sign off and shutdown without his permission.

“Huh?”

“A groping supermarket lady, references to axe murderers, guns, ice cream, Lucifer,” Mike rattles off the top of his head, and Chloe stares at him for a long, long while. Mike sincerely hopes that she is not making plans to send him off to a mental hospital or something. It’s not his fault that he almost died and also didn’t manage to wrangle an ice cream cone out of the whole fiasco. (He is still a little bitter about that.)

“ - Long story.”

Chloe answers that with another “Huh,” then sends him up to Trixie’s room to get some rest before dinnertime. Mike, grateful, almost scrambles up the stairs on fours in his haste. He definitely needs a hug right now. Preferably many more than one. He probably deserves it.

Then a thought hits him, and he stops in his tracks. “Wait, Chloe!” he cries. “Trixie’s room?”

“I’m not a nun, Mike!” is Chloe’s reply, echoing down the hallway, and Mike’s face flushes fresh, beetroot red. Oh my god. Things cannot possibly get more mortifying than this.

“Oh, Mike, you’re back! - What’s with your face?” Trixie asks drowsily from her bed, where she’s been napping in her ninja kitty pajamas. Mike, silent, simply shakes his head before collapsing into the bed like a paper doll.

Some things, he decides, are better left unsaid.

Chapter Text

Chloe will never tire of watching Lucifer in the kitchen.

He looks ridiculous, of course, because he never sheds his designer suits and shoes, ever, and the kitchen is no exception. The resulting image is like something from a mad mashup by an amateur collage artist, but what it also is - is sickeningly, adorably sweet and domestic.

When he is here, like this, Chloe can really believe that he is hers, Chloe Jane Decker’s, can forget about just how much more Lucifer is. Lucifer the archangel, Lucifer the lord of hell, Lucifer, Lucifer, all fades away, just leaving one, heart-wrenching, perfect image: mine.

Chloe can’t hold back the smile that tugs at her lips, at that. To be honest, she thinks she doesn’t even try.

“So,” she says, nudging Lucifer lightly with her hip, a motion well perfected after years of cooking side-by-side. “Can you tell me what Mike means by ‘groping supermarket lady?’ Should I be nervous? New contender on the horizon and all that?”

“No,” Lucifer says, looking genuinely hurt, and Chloe winces, quickly planting a firm, apologetic kiss on Lucifer’s cheek. “Joking. Just joking. But – from what Mike said, you two did have one hell of an afternoon, yeah? Pun totally intended.”

Lucifer grins, a little bit of his characteristic glee returning to his eyes. Lucifer adores hell puns in every shape and form, and Chloe is glad that today hasn’t been an exception. “Oh, we did. We definitely did.”

“Something about axe murderers, too?”

“Ah. That.”

Lucifer’s expression as he brings the meat for the steak out of the refrigerator is one Chloe has never seen before. Lucifer’s voice is deadly serious as he says, “The boy is insane. Must have hit his head too hard back when he was a little wiggling human spawn.” A pause, then: “I suppose things like that do happen sometimes.”

“What exactly did he do?” Chloe wonders, genuinely curious. She had always known Mike was a quirky young man, of course, filled to the brim with silly puns and wisecracks. It was part of what she liked best about him – the ability to make Trixie laugh, anytime, anywhere. But, well, axe murderers and groceries are two very, very different things, and Chloe can’t even begin to imagine how the subject might have come up.

As the sizzle and savory smell of garlic and olive oil, salt and pepper and rich, meaty beef fills the air, Lucifer regales Chloe with the day’s adventures. Chloe laughs, shakes her head in disbelief, laughs some more, gasps at all the appropriate places, and, finally, leans against Lucifer, fond and resigned in equal measure.

“Only you,” Chloe says, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Only you would turn a simple shopping trip into some swashbuckling adventure.”

“Oh, I am one special devil, detective,” Lucifer says, full lips stretching into a wide, come-hither grin that never fails to make Chloe weak in the knees.

“Detective?” Chloe asks, putting on an exaggerated face of mock affront. “I’ll have you know - ”

Chloe doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Lucifer grasps her by her ‘kiss the cook’ apron (they have matching ones, now) and does exactly that.

“Yes?” Lucifer asks, cheeky, and Chloe sticks out her tongue and smacks him on the arm. There is something about Lucifer that turns her into a complete five-year-old. “Nothing,” she grumbles, dishing out the pasta.

For a moment, Chloe is perfectly happy and content, delicious smells wafting through the kitchen, Trixie with a date of her own, and Lucifer, her very own devil, here, with her, in her little tiny bubble of happiness. Then the bubble pops in an instant, and cold reality settles into her gut as she remembers: after dinner, Mike will know, and there is no going back.

And, oh, hell, if he reacts half as badly as Chloe had...

Old regret and fears bubble up to the surface, grasping her and making her bite her lip, avert her eyes. But there has never been hiding her unease from Lucifer, He simply always – knows. Once, Chloe had wondered if it was one of the many powers he possessed, but now she knows better – it is love, pure and simple, and she is so, so lucky that she has found it at last.

“Chloe,” Lucifer says, his breath soft on her cheeks, eyes wide and full of concern. There are worry lines on his forehead, from the way his eyebrows are all scrunched up, and Chloe wants to lift her finger and trace away each and every one of them. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, because he understands, even if she does not speak about it. He always has.

He pulls her into a tight embrace, whispering, “He won’t run. It will be fine.”

His words are firm and give no quarter, as if he will make this happen by willpower alone, Chloe wants to believe him. Lucifer, who hung the stars in the sky, who went toe to toe with the creator himself, who would sacrifice the world if it meant that her and Trixie would be happy.

So she does.

*

Chloe and Lucifer, true to Mike’s expectations, are a pair of disgustingly fluffy cooks. Both figuratively and literally, because they even have matching aprons that read ‘Kiss the Cook.’ Though, Mike thinks, if he takes Chloe up on that one, Lucifer was definitely going to kill him. (Or maim him horribly, but Mike doesn’t really wish to choose between the two.) After this afternoon’s display, Mike definitely does not want to be on Lucifer’s bad side. Just thinking of the scene still gives him the shivers.

The mouth-watering smell of garlic and seafood fills the air, as Chloe begins to work on earnest on her famous seafood oil pasta, and Mike sighs in anticipation. The ice cream has been lost somewhere in the bottomless pit that is his stomach, and he could eat a whole cow at this point. He thinks the stress of the day must have something to do with it. He’s always had the appetite of a teenaged boy, sure, but he is so hungry he couldn’t even begin to describe it.

As of now, Trixie is curled up with Mike on the sofa right now, having been banished from the kitchen by an admonishing Chloe. (Go be with Mike, Trix, we’ve got this all under control!) Mike feels horribly uncouth, lounging about like this while his hopefully future in-laws are working on their meal, but still, he appreciates this little pocket of quiet in this crazy, crazy day.

His contentment, however, doesn’t stop him from noticing Trixie’s uncharacteristic silence.

“Hey, Trix.” Mike brushes at Trixie’s ear with the pad of his thumb. Trixie is horribly ticklish about her ears, a secret she’s never told anyone but Mike, and the maneuver has never failed to elicit a laugh out of her. Well, until now, that is. Mike frowns. This must be more serious than he had thought. “Anything on your mind?”

“Dinner,” Trixie says after a short pause, giving Mike a significant Look. Then she buries her head in the pillows of the plush sofa, groaning, “Urgh.”

It hits Mike in a flash. ‘Tell you after dinner,’ Trixie had said. And – well, dinner is soon. Because Chloe sounds almost done with the pasta and Lucifer probably isn’t too far behind. And after dinner, well, awaits the moment of truth.

To be honest, Mike is apprehensive too. It’s a weird feeling, excitement and a whole bundle of nerves and a thousand other things Mike doesn’t want to waste time trying to explain coalescing in Mike’s gut like a giant, ultra-charged ball. But why would Trixie be upset about that? It’s a chance to unburden herself from whatever’s been weighing her down all this while, to be open and free, well, ish. And it’s not as if Mike is going to scream running for the hills at Lucifer’s secret -

Oh.

Oh.

Mike feels so stupid right now. Worst boyfriend ever, he mutters fiercely at himself before reaching out tentatively towards Trixie’s hair, brushing a stray strand out of her forehead.

“Trix,” he says, trying to sound as loving and reassuring as he currently feels. “I’m not running away. No matter what. I’m far too gone for that.”

“I believe you, Mike,” Trixie says. Her voice is a little wobbly and there is fear that is a little to real lurking in her expressive eyes. Mike feels a sudden bolt of anger jolt up from his gut. He wants to find whoever has been responsible for that fear, that – that resignation that shouldn’t be there, and shake them until they cry for their mothers. “But – well, you don’t know yet. You don’t know.”

Except, well, Mike is healthy but also as scrawny as they come, and if there is any shaking to be done Mike is far more likely to be the one shaken than the other way around. But that doesn’t matter. Mike is so angry he’s sure he will find a way.

Somehow. He’s always been an ingenuous child growing up. But he doesn’t tell Trixie any of these thoughts. Instead, he turns her head towards where Lucifer and Chloe are standing side by side in front of one of the kitchen’s many counters, joined at the hip, tender, one of Chloe’s hands grasping possessively at Lucifer’s slim hips. “Look,” he says. Trixie looks.

Almost as if on cue, Lucifer spins Chloe around in a graceful maneuver that wouldn’t have been out of place on a dance floor, and starts raining down soft, fluttering kisses about her eyebrows. Chloe giggles and playfully pushes Lucifer away.

Lucifer, the man who could crush steel in his grip, who reduced the boy at the ice cream shop to a blabbering mess by nothing more than words, who could probably crush Chloe like a bug if he wanted to, doesn’t fight back.

He grins delightedly as Chloe pushes him about, and sways, no resistance whatsoever, as the tide obeys the moon.

That, Mike knows, is not the actions of a man he should run from. Instead, he kind of wants to know this Lucifer better, wants to run towards him however strange and weird and annoying and mysterious and terrifying the man may be.

“I don’t know Lucifer that well, Trix,” Mike says, and his voice is surer than he could ever have hoped it to be, “but that – I don’t know who he is, but I know he isn’t evil. Look at him.”

“Yeah,” Trixie agrees, and she is smiling now, eyes suspiciously moist. “They are quite the lovebirds, aren’t they?”

Mike and Trixie fold against each other, again, and no words pass between them. The silence this time around is a good one, though, happy, content, and Mike wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Please, Mike prays to any deity who might listen. I want to be strong enough. I don’t want to run.

I don’t want to be the one to hurt Trixie like that again.

A shiver of apprehension worms its way up Mike’s spine, sinuous. And it is well-founded, too: Mike doesn’t really know Lucifer, doesn’t have the barest idea what exactly it may be that Lucifer hides (or, well, in Mike’s case, not so much) from the world. He could be a supernatural assassin, or Evil Overlord, for all he knows.

Mike forces it down, swallows, and hopes for the best.

*

Dinner is pasta and steak and salad, and it is absolutely delicious.

Mike would swear up and down that there must be something supernatural about the food, because there is no way plain normal food can taste this good. (Or it could be his empty stomach speaking, or that Chloe and Lucifer are just pretty good cooks, but well. People should be allowed to be dramatic once in a while.)

Conversation flows nice and easy throughout the table of four, and Mike digs in happily, indulging both in the food and the talk. Mike had expected the dining table to be something horribly impractical and grand to the extent of being hideous, but the Decker-Morningstars’ table is nothing like that – it is of good quality, sleek, solid wood with tasteful, black metal legs. Still, it is the only dining table Mike has ever seen that actually merits the phrase ‘dine on’, so his expectations hadn’t been that too far off.

Mike is savoring some of Lucifer’s vintage white wine when Trixie pokes him. “Huh?”

“You might want to drink a bit more,” she says, nibbling on her lower lip. Mike responds with a confused sound that probably sounded more like a grunt than any sort of human speech.

“You know. After dinner.” Trixie says, voice somehow both pointed and apologetic, and Mike gulps. Chloe and Lucifer are both nodding, gravely, and Mike wonders, for the umpteenth time that day, what exactly Lucifer’s secret may be. He has never, never seen Trixie this nervous, and there is something about the family’s collected apprehension that sets Mike’s palms sweaty and heart beating irregularly.

“I thought you would be reassuring me by now,” Mike says, making a brave attempt at a joke as he gulps down the half-clear liquid. It is cool, rich, fragrant, and fruity, and it feels like blasphemy to swallow it down like this. To his relief, Lucifer raises an eyebrow and purrs, “Oh, Michael, if you wanted reassuring - ”

Lucifer rarely calls him by his name, no less his full one, and it is the first time that Mike notices Lucifer has a strange way of pronouncing the word, something more like Mik-hael than the more mundane Michael. Lucifer, and his brother, Michael. Lucifer and Michael. Wait. Is that -

Mike’s mind begins turning its gears in earnest, working towards some monstrous, cosmic conclusion, and Mike quickly shuts that train of thought down. No way. No way, because that is way too far-fetched, even with all the supernatural absurdness that is Lucifer.

Chloe admonishes Lucifer, then, saying something about being a responsible adult and giving him an affectionate shove that doesn’t manage to make him budge an inch, and the conversation picks up again.

Mike eyes his wineglass, still half-full. Then, with a decisive nod, he picks it up and downs it in one go. The burn as it travels down his throat is pleasantly hot, and a nice buzz has started up somewhere in his brain. Yes, definitely the right choice. He has a feeling he might need it for the conversation to come.

Better safe than sorry, yeah?

Chapter Text

The dishes all done, the table scrubbed gleaming clean, there is nothing now that stands between Mike and the Great Revelation. Mike feels dizzyingly light-headed, almost as if his current body is an avatar in an role playing game and he is watching the whole scene unfold from far, far away. For that to be true, however, the roiling ache in his stomach is way too real.

Mike had thought he was ready for whatever Lucifer might decide to lob his way. He hates that his body is betraying him like this.

Damn it, you, he glares down at his stomach and sweaty palms. I thought we were better than this!

Almost as if mocking him, his stomach clenches again. That’s it, Mike decides. He is going to get back at the dratted thing, no matter what it costs him. No late night snacks shall enter his stomach from now forevermore. He swears on his most treasured set of markers, and nods, partly mollified.

Mike is so wrapped up in nerves that he doesn’t notice Lucifer waiting for him in the hallway. (It says something about the mansion-ness of the house, though, that it is possible for someone to lurk. In the hallway.) A hand reaches out, elegant, long-fingered and surprisingly strong, and grasps his arm.

“Arrrgh!” Mike yelps, then jumps back, only to come face-to-face with Lucifer. “You surprised me!”

“I’m – sorry.” Lucifer looks uncharacteristically solemn. It seems to Mike as if he is seeing the real Lucifer for the first time, almost as if the grumpy dad thing had been an act molded of playdough and it has only now peeled away, revealing a whole different dimension underneath. Mike blinks, taken aback by the apology. Lucifer never apologizes.

“Huh?” is his intelligent response.

“No, look, you have to listen.” Lucifer is impatient. “Michael, I know I have not been on my best behavior to you since you’ve arrived – but. If I happen to drive you away. Don’t – I don’t want you to stay away from Beatrice too.”

There it is again, that almost-strange foreign tint to the lilt he puts in the name Michael, and there is a desperation, an unspoken plea that flows beneath Lucifer’s words. Mike gulps.

“Lucifer, I don’t - ”

Lucifer gulps, a nervous tic that looks horribly out of place on him, and bites his lower lip. A muscle in his jaw tenses. Mike thinks that he must be gritting his teeth. Lucifer’s grip on his arm is almost painfully hard, his dark eyes twin pools of emotion, something that Mike can’t begin to fathom. Lucifer looks old, and hurt, and desperate, and his trademark arrogance and haughtiness are put aside somewhere so deep that he almost looks pleading.

“This is important. Michael. You must know – she is not my daughter by blood. She has – nothing to do. With – with who I am.”

Mike wants to ask what that great secret is, who Lucifer is that it is making him so terribly, terribly apprehensive of the moment of truth, why exactly Lucifer thinks Mike is going to run away. Why he assumes that he’ll abandon Trixie and run for the hills.

Mike swallows, suddenly dizzy. The hallway suddenly seems darker, deeper, hiding secrets that Mike could never dare to skim. There are so many things he wants to ask, wants to – know, but the whole storm passes by in a moment, and it is just Lucifer, and him, standing in the hallway.

“Did you give this talk to all the other boyfriends, too?” Mike asks, voice a lot weaker than he would have hoped for, then winces. Gods, he hates himself a little right now. He hates that he always resorts to jokes and wisecracks to diffuse tension, just because he cant’t bear the weight of the moments like this.

But Lucifer, thankfully, doesn’t take much offense. Instead, he peers at Mike through lowered lashes, thoughtful, and tilts his head. The maneuver makes him look less human and more like some bird, a little like the Raven in Poe’s famous poem.

“No.” There it is, that curt answer that Mike had gotten used to and grown fond of. Then, voice a little softer - “But you are different.”

Then Lucifer is gone, and Mike is alone.

Trixie, having stayed behind in the kitchen helping Chloe put away the last of the dishes, emerges into the hallway. She squints, adjusting herself to the relative darkness of the place, then heads closer towards Mike. Her face is hopeful, apprehensive, but she puts none of those emotions into words. Instead, she asks: “Did Lucifer say anything? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nah. Nothing much.” Mike has a feeling that Lucifer’s conversation with him had been a private one, one where Lucifer had bared his heart for Mike to see (for Lucifer, anyway), and it is one think he can’t bring himself to share, even with Trixie.

“Good,” Trixie says, leading Mike towards the living room where the great reveal is to be held, and Mike knows, suddenly, that he has to tell Trixie – he must.

“Trix,” he says, suddenly nervous, “I love you. I mean, it sounds a bit cheesy and all, but – really, you know, right?”

Trixie’s eyes are half cast in shadow in the dim lighting, and they are soft, fond, unreadable.

“Yeah,” she says, taking Mike’s hand. She gives it a tiny squeeze. “Yeah, Mike. Me too.”

And really, that is all the encouragement that Mike needs.

Chloe and Lucifer’s living room is like something out of a movie. A movie featuring a posh, posh family who has a taste for the modern and the sleek. The TV set looks large enough to fit into a movie theater, the couches and throw cushions are somehow both edgy and sinfully soft, the floor is impeccably polished and the floor-to-ceiling windows open out into a gigantic backyard, now shrouded in darkness.

The contrast of the brightly-lit inside and the dark, wild outside is so striking that it almost seems surreal, as if Mike is in a dream.

The whole family is spread out into some sort of battle formation, Lucifer bracing himself on a couch, Chloe beside him, arm around his shoulders (presumably for moral support). Trixie and Mike are seated across from them, Trixie holding Mike’s hand and suffocating it in the process. Her hands are clammy with sweat, and Mike’s heart is beating at record speed, too, waiting for the truth to drop.

This is it. This is – the Moment.

Mike swallows, remembering Lucifer’s almost otherwordly grace, the way he just couldn’t look away the first time he saw him, the opulence of the house and the way Lucifer somehow stands out even amongst it all, a glimpse of eyes as red as hot coals, Lucifer crumpling a steel gun like tin foil. His hand, unbelievably hale, defying all laws of nature, smooth and white, and Lucifer’s, which can touch sizzling-hot coals without a flinch, unblemished.

Lucifer.

Chloe pats Lucifer’s shoulder, and Lucifer braces himself, grimaces, then opens his mouth, expression deadly serious.

Mike waits with baited breath.

“I am Lucifer,” Lucifer says.

Huh.

I know, Mike almost says, but holds himself back in time. Of course Mike knows his name. He knew it even before he had ever set foot in this house.

“Yeah,” Mike says instead, trying to coax the truth out of the man. Sure, he must be nervous. Mike would be very nervous if he had some superman-ish identity that apparently terrified everyone who came across it, too. “And?”

Chloe and Lucifer look at each other, seemingly confused. Chloe turns toward Mike, eyes gentle and wary all in one.

“Mike, he’s – Lucifer.”

Trixie nods sagely beside him. Mike frowns, a little frustrated now. “Yeah, I know! And – why are you keep telling me this? Oh! Wait. Is this some kind of code name or something?” Superman isn’t actually named Superman, yeah? Maybe Lucifer is some sort of secret underground supernatural mafia boss or something. “Like – I don’t know, Chat Noir?”

Mike could live with that. He knows Lucifer can be terrifying, sure, but he doesn’t seem like a heartless villain or anything. Maybe he can use Lucifer to scare off anyone who annoys him or something.

Mike tilts his head, curious, and Lucifer’s hands flail, frustrated, almost – aggravated, too. A vein jumps in his neck and Chloe puts a hand on Lucifer’s thigh, encouraging, calming.

“Michael,” Lucifer says, enunciating each syllable, slow, unmistakable, “I am Lucifer. I am the Lucifer. I have seen the gates of heaven, I have ruled in hell.” Lucifer takes a breath, almost a hiss, and Mike’s blood is pounding through him so hard, so fast that his vision swims black in the edges. “I am Lucifer.”

No.

No, impossible.

Mike is not Christian. But even he knows the legend of Satan, the devil, who rebelled against god and was cast into hell in disgrace. He knows – but he cannot believe.

It is too cosmic, too much for his mortal mind to wrap around, because then God, Heaven, Hell, everything – he cannot. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

“No,” he whispers, “no,” and Trixie’s eyes fill up with unspilled tears. “Mike,” she says, desperate almost, but Mike shakes his head, unbelievable, no, no, racing through his brain.

“You – you’re having me on. You – I mean. No.”

Superheroes he can live with. Aliens he can live with too. But this – this is his whole belief system being turned on its axis, it is much too big, and Mike’s mind refuses to believe, to conform. He copied a whole report off of the internet in his freshman year and the teacher hadn’t known. He hadn’t been brave enough to tell her – is he going to hell?

He yelled at his mom when she said she didn’t want him to leave the state for college, because it was his opportunity, that he’d earned, had yelled, hurt, said things he can never really take back. He can’t forget his mum, tears in her eyes, numb, as she told him to go on then. Weak, defeated.

Is he going to hell?

No, no, he can’t. And yet – so many unbelievable things that happened around Lucifer, that naggling sense in the back of his head that had kept telling him he should be putting those puzzle pieces together. He knows, deep, deep down, he believes, but also – he cannot.

He loves Trixie. He won’t leave her.

But right now, this is – too much, too soon, and his brain is shutting down.

Lucifer’s mouth is set in a dim line. He looks horribly human, vulnerable, as he reaches behind his back and pulls out a long, perfect feather. White, unmistakably divine, shimmering with a scintillating light of its own. Mike, almost as if in a trance, looks, can’t look away, and then Lucifer grunts in frustration and withdraws the feather as quickly as it had appeared.

“Pesky divinity - ” he grumbles, then turns back, making sure Mike’s eyes are on his face.

Then his eyes burn red, roiling hellfire in their depths, and Mike – believes.

Then it is too much, too much, too much, and Mike is falling, falling – and then, nothing.

The last thing Mike remembers before fainting is Trixie’s face, wide, concerned, scared, hurt. Mike wants to reach out, wants to kiss her and reassure her, because yes, it’s a lot to take in, and he’s going to need his time – but he knows, knows that this isn’t going to make him run away, not now, not ever. Not when he knows Trixie so well, when he had been getting to know Lucifer so well too. But the wine combined with the brute force of the truth is too strong, and Mike succumbs.

Chapter Text

Mike had always had a lot of weird dreams. That one with his fifth-grade crush and the giant purple octopus, for example, is one he would really, really like to forget. And the one with his mom, himself and milking the cow for chocolate was pretty horrifyingly strange also. (The image has seared itself into his mind, and now, to his horror, he cannot unsee however hard he may try.)

But tonight’s dream probably takes the cake.

Bawk bawk, cries Lucifer, who has somehow gotten himself saddled with a body of a chicken and giant red-and-yellow wings. He flaps them pompously, somehow managing to convey that elegant air of decadence that follows him everywhere. Dream-Mike shudders and makes to run away, but a cheerful chorus of megaphones tag along, screeching “I am Lucifer!” at the top of their mechanical lungs.

“Yes, I know!” Cries dream-Mike. He then puts his hands over his head and curls up into a ball, thinking that these infernal devices are so damned loud and who on Earth thought this was a good idea.

Suddenly, a giant hole opens right underneath his feet, and Mike slips right into a gooey, cold tunnel made of mint chocolate ice cream. When Mike lands hard on his bottom, disoriented and very much flabbergasted, Lucy the baskin-robbins girl is waiting for him.

“Arrrrgh!” She cries, before going limp in his arms like some damsel in distress. Dream-Mike must not be much stronger than the real one, because he stumbles and almost lets go of her. Lucy cries out in pain.

“Congratulations, young man. You have earned your one way ticket to hell.” A giant voice that sounds suspiciously like Lucifer’s booms out, and Mike throws his hands up, exasperated. Lucy slips to the ground, but Mike doesn’t care, this is weird weird weird.

“I’m not going to hell!” Dream-Mike insists, exasperated, but the walls are closing in around him and Mike is smothered by the horrifically fresh, sweet smell of mint chocolate ice ream as it oozes and gloops all around him.

You already are, dream-Lucifer’s voice whispers. You already are.

“Gah!” Mike comes awake with a start, then shakes himself all over like a wet dog. Gods, that was one hell of a weird dream. What on Earth even brought it on?

Then reality hits him like a sledgehammer, and Mike thinks that he might actually prefer his dream instead.

Lucifer is Lucifer.

Lucifer, his to-be father-in-law, is the Devil himself.

Speak of the devil, Mike thinks. Gods, this is -

Wait, should he stop swearing by Gods? Is the big guy up above really offended about paganism as the bible apparently says?

Damn. His mom should have pushed harder when he’d refused to go to church with her. Because – shit. This is – no, Mike doesn’t even have the words to describe what exactly this is.

Mike remembers fainting in the living room, but someone must have moved him meanwhile, because he is now in the cozy bedroom that he and Trixie are sharing. The family must have decided to give him some space, because Trixie is nowhere to be seen, and the door is shut firmly, a solid barrier between himself and the crazy, crazy world. Mike is grateful for that. He – he needs time.

To pull himself together. To work up the courage that he needs to.

Mike knows himself well enough to know that right now, he is not okay. But he is also stubborn enough to know also that he will make himself okay, somehow, and he will do it before it hurts Trixie beyond the point of return.

Mike takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. But instead of feeling like some wise yogi guru who could take on the world with a smile and a raised eyebrow, he chokes on his own breath and ends up coughing pathetically for what must have been a full five minutes instead.

Oh, well. Mike supposes he’ll just have to do without the auspicious first step. He will find a way. He always does.

Even Professor Kentsworh said so. And the Professor hates his guts. The sentiment must count for something, yeah?

After what could have been either an hour or a minute, the door cracks open, slowly, quietly. Mike braces himself in case it’s a burglar or something and he has to scream bloody murder. Thankfully, it’s Chloe, and Mike lets out a breath of relief.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Chloe’s steps are a lot more careful than they had been this noon, and she lingers, tentative, at the doorway, unwilling to move without Mike’s permission. “Can I – you know, come in?”

“Sure.”

Mike is not a spooked animal, and he would very much appreciate not being treated like one, but he is also infinitely grateful for the family’s tact. To be honest, he doesn’t know what he would have done if he had seen Lucifer’s face the moment he woke up. (Screamed right into his ear and then got squashed like a bug for his efforts, probably. Not the best-case scenario by any means.)

The bed dips down a little under Chloe’s weight as she folds herself against the sheets. Chloe bites her lip, then sighs.

“Quite a bit of a revelation – yeah?”

Tact had never been one of Mike’s strong points. “I’m sorry, but.” A huffed breath. “Definitely. Am I the first to faint?”

Chloe cracks a faint smile at that. “Yeah.” Her eyes soften, then, and her hands grasp at the sheets, twisting, almost as if she would like to take hold of Mike’s hands and entreat him not to leave. “But the first not to leave right away, also.”

Something painful twists inside Mike’s belly. It feels suspiciously like love, affection, trust, hurt that someone had hurt the little family so badly. Mike doesn’t think he’s ready to deal with that bit yet, so he squashes it back where it belongs.

“I didn’t react half as well as you when I found out, you know.”

“You’re kidding.” Is the automatic answer. Anyone who has eyes can see just how much Lucifer adores Chloe and vice versa. Hell, Chloe looks at Lucifer like he’s hung the stars in the sky (which, come to think of it, he actually has – dammit) whenever she thinks he won’t notice. Just – no way on Earth, Mike thinks. “No offence, but you guys are like the poster couple for Mutual Adoration and True Love.”

“Not back then.” Chloe’s eyes are downturned now, as if reliving a memory too painful to think of, and a pang of guilt tears through Mike’s heart. Oh god(s), he shouldn’t have asked. He – oh, he is such an idiot. When she looks up again, Chloe’s eyes are a little wet but still resolute.

“I made the mistake,” she says, voice unwavering, “of – judging him for what others had said about him. I was stupid.”

Mike takes a moment to appreciate the strength that is Chloe Decker, back straight and eyes steady even as she recounts what must have been the worst moment of her life – or close.

“I ran to the Vatican, I tried to banish him back to Hell, where I dared – dared think, judge, was where he belonged.”

Mike feels like he has to say something, anything, even one of his horrible jokes, because Chloe is hurting so bad he can feel it, and Chloe is Trixie’s mother. So he does.

“I don’t blame you,” Mike says, trying for a grin but settling for a weak smile. “His condescending glare is downright evil. I think he practices it when nobody is looking.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t imagine.” There is a little laughter in Chloe’s voice, now, even though it is soon ridden over by deadly seriousness. “But – you know, Mike, don’t you? You’ve shopped with him, had him save you, seen him joke and grump and grouse and every ugly bit in between. You know.”

Suddenly, the image of the boy who had grabbed Mike at the ice cream store rises unbidden to his mind. How Lucifer hadn’t even hesitated as he’d handed over the money to the boy, because he needed it for his ‘Sophia’. Lucifer had a heart of gold, Mike had known then. Because he could have been the terrifying predator from beginning to end, could have punished the boy and reduced him to blathering bits, but he hadn’t, because he understood. And – gods, Mike knows. He knows.

“Lucifer isn’t evil,” Mike says, and this time the smile is a genuine one.

Chloe sidles closer and squeezes his hand. “There you go.” She lingers for a moment, as if wondering if she should try to say something more to sway Mike’s mind. Then she gets up, letting the bed spring up slowly from under her weight, and makes for the door. She pauses for a moment at the door.

“Better get some rest,” she says. “Long day, huh?”

“Thanks,” Mike says, without really knowing why. Then the door closes, and Mike is left in peace once more.

Trixie and Lucifer don’t make an appearance, after all.

Lucifer, Mike is grateful for, not that he thinks the guy is the bane of all humankind or anything – but that the whole truth had been a bit much, and Mike doesn’t know how he ought to act around Lucifer anymore. The man was actual royalty, if Hell counts, and a goddamned (literally) angel, and Mike wondered if he should be calling him sire and grovelling at his feet or something. Should he? Mike had never been good at grovelling. It might actually make things worse. And, come to think of it, Mike had an idea of how disgusted Lucifer might be at the idea of anyone trying to butter him up.

Trixie – it hurt, for a moment, because he was her boyfriend, hopefully something more than that, and she hadn’t been by his side as he wrangled his way through the most earth-shattering discovery of his life. But then Mike remembered Trixie’s shattered look, apprehensive, nervous, hell, terrified even, and he couldn’t really blame her anymore. Maybe she was wondering if Mike would scream curses at her and tell her to go away if she visited. Well, Mike wouldn’t.

He will just have to tell her later. Really, really Tell her. And, yes, that definitely merits a capital T.

Having been sufficiently rested, Mike rises uncertainly to his feet. He feels a bit lightheaded, thoughts and emotions churning at a breakneck pace through his head, but otherwise surprisingly hale for someone who has just fainted. Mike has a sneaking suspicion about who might be responsible for that. (A tall, dark and handsome someone whose name starts with L and ends with R, that is.)

Before he really notices what he’s doing, Mike is seated in front of the small table that was probably designed as a vanity, sketchbook open and coloured pencil in hand. Whenever Mike had a problem that nagged him, or had something that he had to make sense of, he would draw. Today, it seems, is no exception.

Mike sketches out Lucifer’s strong jaw, his fine stubble, the graceful, proud neck. Lucifer is all angles and smooth lines, like a Roman sculpture, magnificent and dramatic. Then follows the long, lithe torso, lines melding seamlessly into each other like some abstract figure. Without really knowing why, Mike sketches a long, flowing robe onto the figure, a little bit like a toga and a little bit like flowing robes the angel on his mom’s Christmas tree wears. Then a pair of wide, magnificent wings, wider than Mike is tall, stretching defiantly into the sky. White, blindingly white, like the feather Lucifer had showed him on the living room.

It’s really just a quick sketch, not anything much, but Mike runs an appraising eye over it anyway. It actually looks quite fine, perhaps due to the authenticity of the model. But also, it is strangely, interminably sad – tragic, like something out of a doomed legend.

Lucifer is one prickly man, but also – he must be really lonely, musn’t he?

Lucifer had been willing to stay away from Trixie, if she could be happy with Mike.

Gods.

Just how many people have left him until now?

Mike decides, then, in a moment of transcendent, perfect clarity, that he refuses to be one of them. Lucifer is the devil – yes.

Mike has never much liked the bible anyway – much to long-winded and self-righteous for his liking. (Then, just in case, Mike drafts a quick prayer to God in case He gets angry and decides to strike Mike down where he stands. Umm, all in good fun, yeah? Bible, totally cool, like, yeah.)

Then he takes a deep breath, puts his hand on the doorknob, and turns.

Time to go face the world.

Chapter Text

Chloe is watching TV in the fateful living room. The lights are dimmed now, a tasteful shade of yelowish-orange blended with strategically placed bright, white lamps, and the room looks like something out of a muted painting. A high-pitched giggle from whatever sitcom is on breaks the silence.

Mike quirks his head, about to ask her where Lucifer is, and Chloe gives Mike a quick smile, as if she knows what he’s thinking and is so, so proud of him.

“Outside, porch.” She says, pointing towards a doorway that seems to lead out. “He likes to go watch his babies when he’s troubled.”

Oh. That takes on a whole new dimension of meaning now that he knows the truth. How does one give birth to stars, anyway? - And there, now another image that Mike will have to scrub right out of his imagination. Mike quickly banks that route of thought.

“He’s – troubled?” Mike asks, a little guilty now that he’s left Lucifer hanging for so long. Chloe’s eyes are impossibly soft as she watches him.

“Well, you’ll have to go make him feel better, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The cheeky retort is almost instinct now. Much to Mike’s relief, it actually makes Chloe crack a smile. Quickly, Mike crosses the vast living room and pushes the glass partition that functions as a door, feeling the cool night air caress his face as he does so. After the stuffy air of his guest bedroom, it feels like pure bliss.

True to Chloe’s words, Lucifer is watching the stars.

Mike lingers for a moment, taking in the serene beauty of Lucifer under the stars, streamlined in silver and glowing in a ephemeral, otherworldly light. Then, unsure of how he ought to start this conversation, he coughs.

Lucifer spins around so fast he must have given himself whiplash. His eyes are dark and considering, apprehensive but unbelieving, a study in contrast in every which way. “You came,” he says.

“Yeah. I did.” Unsure, Mike moves forward with tentative steps, leaning onto the railing of the porch beside Lucifer. Lucifer radiates, heat, almost like a radiator, and Mike stops himself from leaning in. He is not going there with his Trixie’s stepdad, no, absolutely not. The line is drawn at occasional civility and pats on the back, not cuddling. “You’re – watching your babies? Umm, stargazing?”

Lucifer’s left eyebrow rises in a perfect arch, probably because of the word ‘babies.’ Mike flushes a bit. “Chloe’s words.”

“Yes.” Lucifer’s answer is simple, but not curt. It hangs there, in the silence between them, something poignant, charged, waiting to be let go. Before he can stop himself, Mike’s mouth runs away from him again, and it dissipates as if it never had been at all.

“Wait, so they’re really not your babies, right? Like, you – made them. Not, uh, made them. That way. Uh, sorry.” Gods, he needs to work on his babbling. Preferably beginning yesterday. “Just. Insatiable curiosity. And all.”

Lucifer looks a bit scandalized at that. “I’ll have you know I crafted the stars, not – birthed them.” He shudders, as if imagining himself going into labor and producing a large white ball of gas as the end result. Congratulations, Mr. Morningstar! A nice, healthy white!

Gods. No.

Lucifer is pensive for a moment, then turns around towards Mike, considering. “Though they are my children, in a way. I suppose you feel the same towards your illustrations, no?”

Come to think of that, it’s true, really. Mike thinks of the little shelf back home that he’s stuffed with his work over the years, and how he wouldn’t ever let his mom lay a hand on any of it, even to clean. Mike nods. Then, “I’m not gonna ask how you know what I’m majoring in,” because Mike is pretty sure he’s never told Lucifer and it would be quite disturbing if it turned out Lucifer really could read minds.

Lucifer cracks a smile, just a small one, barely there, but it transforms his face completely into something warm and inviting and open. “You may not believe it, but Beatrice does talk much about you.”

“Oh.” a sudden jolt of love for Trixie floods through his system, and Mike feels warm, full, as if he could take on the world and win. Trixie likes talking about him. “Oh.”

Thankfully, Lucifer doesn’t comment on how he probably looks like a beached fish. Instead, he turns back towards the sky, contemplating his work. Lucifer’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet when he says, “You’re not leaving.”

It sounds more like a question than an answer, and Mike nods, decisive.

“I’m not.” Then he sidles a bit closer towards the other man, nudging him with his elbow. By the gods (and he seriously has to stop saying that, because, you know, God) - Lucifer is warm. “I’ll have you know, I am quite hard to get rid of. Just ask Trixie.”

“What?”

“I chased her around campus for three months asking her to go out to dinner with me.”

“That could be considered stalking, you know.”

“I was polite. And anyhow, I think she upended a cup of iced americano over my head at some point. Totally paid.”

That manages to elicit a choked laugh out of Lucifer. It isn’t much, but still – it’s probably one of the best sounds Mike could have ever heard. Mike pushes on before his courage runs out.

“So, are we bros now?”

“Bros!” Lucifer splutters, and the slang sounds so ridiculously out-of-place with Lucifer’s posh accent that Mike has to stifle a giggle of his own. “I’ll have you know, boy, that I am nowhere near your level. You will treat me with respect.”

There is a glimmer in Lucifer’s eyes, teasing, and dare Mike say – even a bit affectionate, and Mike cracks a grin.

“Yessir,” he says, giving Lucifer a mock salute, then together, they turn and watch the stars in comfortable silence.

Mike thinks they shine a lot brighter today.

On the way back up to the bedroom, Mike runs into Trixie on the staircase.

Trixie had been padding along on silent steps, a cup of water in hand, and when she sees Mike she gulps, skittish, and makes to turn around and go the other way. It very nearly breaks Mike’s heart.

“Trix,” Mike calls, then when Trixie doesn’t respond, he tries again. “Trix.”

Three steps, and the distance between them is null again. “Trix. What’s – wrong?”

Why are you running away from me all of a sudden? Did I react that horribly? is what Mike really wants to ask, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. Trixie, brash, exuberant, confident Trixie, is quiet, averting her eyes and biting at her lower lip. When she finally answers, her voice is small, unsure.

“You know.”

“Huh?”

Well, that was unexpected. He knows what? That Lucifer is -

Oh.

It hits him then.

“Trix, I’m fine!” Mike cries. “I don’t mind one bit. I’m not – running away, or – saying anything mean about him, or anything. I don’t mind.”

Trixie doesn’t say anything at that, just blinking up at him with eyes suddenly gone owlishly wide, then waves two fingers in front of his face.

“Okay, Mike. How many fingers are there?”

“Two?”

She then moves on to pinch her own cheek, hard, then winces. “Ouch.” Then: “This is not a dream.” Trixie looks up at Mike, hopeful. “This – isn’t a dream?”

“Hey!”

Mike reserves the right to be indignant, here. Here he is, having come to terms with the hugest, most mind-boggling revelation of his life, and Trixie thought it had all been a dream. “Your lack of faith in me wounds my heart.” Which is also the truth, kind of.

“Oh, Mike.” is Trixie’s answer. Before Mike knows it, Trixie’s arms are wound tight around his neck, Trixie almost having been carried straight off the ground by her momentum, and Mike is being hugged within an inch of his life. I’m going to suffocate if we carry on like this, thinks Mike, but then again he doesn’t suppose he minds terribly much.

Trixie is here, solid, real, her, and Mike dares to think he might be becoming a permanent fixture in her life. Mike knows, now, and he doesn’t mind, and he’s going to be friends with Satan, and goddamn if that isn’t something cool.

If he dies, he’s dying happy, and he’s perfectly fine with that.

And a (Not So Short) Bonus: ⇩

“Trix, don’t I get a prize for that? I mean, apparently I was pretty good as far as revelation-ers go.”

“Geez, Mike, don’t wriggle your eyebrows like that! You look like a pervert.”

“You wound me, Trix. And you know what kind of prize I mean.”

“Michael Hawkins, I know for a fact that you are the biggest prude to have ever prude-ed, and there is no way on Earth you’re brave enough to do that in my mom’s house.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know - ”

“Go to sleep, Mike. Big day tomorrow.”

“Doubt it can possibly be bigger than today. Today was exhausting.”

“You never know - ”

“Gods, now you’re the one who’s doing the eyebrow wriggle. Trix – oh, you are totally having me on! And – stop laughing! Arrgh! You slapped a pillow on me!”

“......”

“Trix, I know for a fact that you are pretending to be asleep. Open your eyes now or so god help me – dammit. I really need to stop using that phrase.”

“ - Go to sleep, Mike.”

“Gotcha!”

“ - Mike.”

“Huh?”

“Love you.”

“......”

“Huh?”

“Just basking in happiness.”

“You are such a dork.”

“Trix?”

”Yeah?”

“Love you too.”

Chapter Text

It’s well past midnight when Mike hears the sounds.

It’s a little bit like a whimper and also a little bit like a moan, almost like someone in pain, and it’s more than a little scary, what with the corridors awash with bluish-white moonlight and swathed in shadows that nearly seem alive. Mike pauses, heart pounding, glass of water forgotten in his hand.

Is it a burglar or something?

Mike should like to think that he has the devil himself on his side and so has nothing to fear (Lucifer had saved him back at the ice cream shop, after all) - and the thought lends him a sudden burst of courage.

Yeah, Mike is feeling some Sherlock vibes tonight. And he probably owes it to Lucifer to try and defend his property, too, after all that’s happened today. So Mike creeps forward, slow but sure, paying special attention to his cup so as not to drop it and alert whoever it is to his presence. The doorway the sounds are coming out of isn’t far, the room connected to it wide and dark and spacious, and – most importantly - there is someone in it.

Mike gulps, mouth suddenly dry, and inches toward the open doorway. There’s something inside that’s making soft thumping noises, and moving about in a way that almost seems like – writhing, and Mike really, really wants to run away. But because Mike does manage to be brave about half of the time, he gathers his meager courage and gets ready to scream for Lucifer.

Just then, the shadows shift a little in the room, and a beam of moonlight shines squarely through the wide windows, illuminating the two figures tumbling about on the king-sized bed. Mike sees a glimpse of bare, glinting skin, stretched taut over defined muscles, a flash of something that might just be teeth, and then something turns around to look towards him, dark and gleaming and predatory.

Mike can’t help himself.

He screams.

It was probably something along the lines of ‘Arrrgh – Lucifer – there’s something in your house, oh gods please help me don’t want to die yet’, but in retrospect Mike isn’t so sure. What does happen next, though, is that the lights of the room flicker on as if by magic (maybe it was, because no electric lights could be that blinding shade of white), Mike comes face-to-face with Lucifer’s very bare and very muscled torso, Chloe is looking very disoriented from under the sheets, and gods, Mike wishes the Earth would just open up and swallow him right up.

“What?” Lucifer growls, dark eyebrows descending over squinted eyes like thunderclouds. Mike’s brain, already having detached itself from reality, notes idly that Chloe’s face is looking redder by the second.

Mike opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, closes it again, and he really needs to look away, he really needs to look away, but his brain has logged out somehow and his eyelids are not responding to his commands.

He is so Doomed.

“Mike,” Chloe’s voice drifts from under the coverlet, sounding almost squeaky and also thoroughly mortified. Mike blubbers frantically, but forming coherent words is a bit beyond him right now.

“Look, boy,” Lucifer demands, and he looks as if he is reconsidering every good thought he has ever entertained about Mike until this very moment. “I assure you, I am very open-minded about things like this, but to come in search of – this - ”

Before Mike can hear any more about the unforgivableness of his actions, he squeaks, drops the water, and promptly flees.

Mike dashes up the staircase like someone possessed, runs into the guest bedroom, slams the door, and slides to the floor, heart pounding so hard Mike would swear it’s trying to escape from his ribcage. He tries to catch his breath, chokes for a bit, and fails, utterly.

Gods, he’s just -

He’s just walked in on his future in-laws.

He would like to wail that he’s been scarred for life, and he probably is, because try as he may, he cannot – cannot – erase the image of Lucifer and Chloe tangled together, like some – octopus, or deep-sea creature, or something, and the sounds – the sounds, oh gods. Gods. Almost as if on impulse, Mike presses the heels of his palms into his ears. It really doesn’t help much, but, well, at least it’s an effort.

But that isn’t what’s important right now, because Satan is pissed off at him right now, and Mike is really, really beginning to wish that he’d never been born. He’s pretty sure Lucifer would be pretty skilled at making his life miserable if he ever puts his mind to it, and just now – he’d seemed pretty willing, hadn’t he?

There’s a faint squeak in the distance, and Mike yelps, curling in a little around himself.

It’s going to be a long, long night.

Chapter Text

Mike, because he would like to think himself a man of logic, approaches the Problem in stages.

First, he prays, because he would like to think that God would be kind enough to aid a guy in an endeavor against Satan. (Except Lucifer isn’t really evil, truly, and God was kinda awful towards him, so Mike isn’t that sure if he wants His help after all. He crosses out the plan midway.) Next, he lies ramrod straight on the bed and tries his best to hypnotize himself into forgetting the events of the past hour or so. But, well, he has never been a psychic, to be honest, and it doesn’t work half as well as he’d hoped it to. Mike’s mind punishes that particular effort with a sudden image of the shift of muscles in Lucifer’s shoulder, and Mike groans.

He admits defeat sometime after three in the morning. Maybe, he thinks, if he’s lucky enough, Lucifer might be so pissed off that he decides to explode the mansion overnight or something. He might end up dead, sure, but at least he won’t have to face Lucifer come morning.

When Mike does manage to drift off into sleep, it is fitful and uneasy, and he dreams of terrible things.

Mike wakes up to Lucifer’s face inches away from his own.

“Gah!” Mike yelps, before instinctively scrabbling away from the man, because those eyes are eyes of a predator or Mike will be damned. (He probably is, anyway, but Mike tries not to think about it. Live happy, die happy, all that.) Lucifer is too fast for him, though, and a hand shoots out and clamps hard over his mouth.

“Shhh,” he says. “Beatrice is sleeping.”

And indeed she is. Mike looks on with barely concealed betrayal as Trixie snorts a little in her sleep and turns over, making herself a blanket burrito in the process, which is utterly adorable but also not helpful whatsoever to Mike’s continued wellbeing. Lucifer harrumphs and proceeds to drag him out of the bed, towards the corridor. Mike, because his mom taught him better, puts up some token resistance but is dragged like an empty pillowcase out of the door. By the gods, that man is strong.

The door clicks, and it sounds like Mike’s fate being sealed. Mike gulps, staring hard at his socks. “Please don’t kill me.”

Lucifer looks baffled at that. “Why would I? What would I even do with your soul?”

Mike’s heart gives a happy little beat, hopeful. “You aren’t?”

“No,” Lucifer says, impatient, and Mike is about to burst out in one of his patented idiotically happy grins when Lucifer stops him with a gesture. “None of that, now. I didn’t say I’m done talking.”

Mike shivers a little. “There’s more?” He is totally going to hate Karma from now on if it turns out there’s some previously unknown crime that he’s committed, because then it obviously hates him, a lot. Lucifer crosses his arms and taps his feet, impatient, against the polished marble of the floor.

On Mike, it would look like a nervous five-year-old. On Lucifer, it looks – divine. (Literally, too, now that Mike knows the truth.)

“Look, boy,” he says, deadly serious. “I’ve thought this over.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve thought this over, and – well, I don’t mind the principle. I am quite something, after all, and I can’t say I don’t enjoy watching from time to time, too.” Lucifer waves a vague hand towards himself, as if demonstrating a point, and it does highlight all of Lucifer’s assets, like those legs that just go on forever, or his slender, lithe predator’s build. Mike is dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Listen,” says Lucifer, so he does. “What is the problem is that Chloe is quite uncomfortable with these things, and she – boy, I cannot have you ruining all of my future nights like that. That is absolutely horrid. You understand?”

Mike isn’t sure that he does. That – is most certainly not what he’d imagined Lucifer might say. Also, Lucifer looks positively horrified, as if the thought itself is too terrible to entertain, and that look if sheer horror is so disproportionate to the whole situation that Mike feels a little numb.

“I’ll – be careful,” he says, stilted, unsure, unbelieving, but it must have been enough for Lucifer because he simply nods and spins on his heel. A wave of dizzy relief rushes over Mike as he hurries after Lucifer. “So where are we going now?”

“You’ll see.” is the answer.

Well.

At least Mike is alive and healthy. He counts that as a victory, thank you very much. So there’s a grin spreading across Mike’s cheeks as he cries, “Mystery doesn't suit you, Lucifer!” and Lucifer responds with a vaguely disgruntled snort.

Yeah, so far so good.

His mom had always told him he could be a tad overdramatic sometimes.

“A man of the Decker household,” Lucifer says, face the picture of solemnity, “must know how to cook a proper breakfast.”

Mike blanches. “Is that a must?”

Mike is, hands down, the worst cook he knows and ever will know. His mom had banned him from the kitchen after botching a perfectly prepared pancake mix by mutating it into some black, gooey alien life form. (Or something that looked like it anyway.) Mike’s culinary prowess, in other words, begins and ends in the market – woe befall any and all who dare invite him into the kitchen.

Lucifer scowls. “You are not telling me that you plan to send Beatrice off to work on an empty stomach.”

Mike bites his lip. “She might – actually appreciate that a lot more. Than, uh, the alternative.”

Lucifer’s face is positively thunderous. Mike wonders, for a brief moment, if he is going to smite him where he stands. Maybe by the time Trixie heads down, he will have been reduced to a smear on the floor, and she won’t have to worry about bad breakfast food anymore.

“Nonsense.” he tuts, then proceeds to don his ‘kiss the cook’ apron with deft fingers. “Anyone can try. Now, make me an omelet.”

“Lucifer. You heard the part about my being a disaster of a cook, yeah?”

“Of course. That is why I’m here to help.” An elegant, musician’s finger, tapping impatiently on the varnished marble of the counter. (And who even makes a kitchen counter out of marble, anyway?) “Proceed.”

Mike flails, stalling desperately. “Uh, I don’t get an apron? You know, kiss the cook?”

Lucifer flinches back as if Mike would make a grab for his apron any minute. He looks positively miffed. “No,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “The other one is Chloe’s.”

Mike sighs, resigned, and turns towards the frying pan Lucifer has brought out. Now, was it eggs first, then the oil? Or oil first, then the eggs? Wait, was oil for the fried eggs or the omelet?

He can always argue it’s artistic license or something, he thinks, if all else fails. Maybe black rubbery omelet will be all the rage in twenty year’s time. He rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, apprehensive, and gets to work.

Three failed attempts at an omelet, two burnt fried eggs, and an absolute disaster of a pancake mix later, the stovetop declares that it has had enough and goes out in a violent bang of sparks.

Mike’s eyebrows are almost singed clean off, but thank the – someone, Lucifer flies in to the rescue, dousing the flame with a wave of his hand and staring at Mike, flabbergasted, hands on his hips. “How is that even possible?” he demands. “In all my long years of life - ”

Mike is splattered all over with various mixtures and raw egg, a bit of flour dusting his forearms, and probably smells a little bit like a car wreck. Lucifer isn’t much better, which is quite a feat – considering Lucifer had been the supervisor, not the cook. Mike hangs his head, miserable. “I know,” he says. “I’m special that way.”

“You, boy, are getting rich very fast and hiring a cook.”

“Oh.” Mike brightens a little, then. “I’m not – failed, or anything? You know, horrible marks on the cooking test being kick-out material – or – something?”

“I should have kicked you out the moment I met you,” Lucifer grumbles, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up a little in places, a few strands escaping his perfect coif and falling across his forehead. It looks unfairly good, instead of making him look frazzled and tired as it should have, and Mike resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him. “But the child seems to tolerate you, anyway, dad knows why. Now move over.”

Relieved, Mike grins, scurrying over to the counter stool to sit and watch. Lucifer is a literal wonder of a cook – he starts fires with a snap of his fingers, and there is no way on Earth his stove naturally yields flames that shade of bluish-white. Lucifer checks its temperature by sticking a finger right into it, and Mike almost yelps in alarm before he remembers, oh, devil, right.

The man is so ridiculous sometimes it’s difficult to reconcile him with the image of a ruthless, all-powerful king of hell. (And at other times it is way too easy. The man is going to give him whiplash one of these days, Mike swears.)

Lucifer must have heard something, though, because he grunts something like “I’m fine.” before going on with his cooking. The man must be using some of his crazy-fast powers, because there is now way in hell – pun intended – any human could be so many places at once.

Unfair. Totally unfair. If Mike had any of those awesome powers, he would not waste them to cook. Something more productive, maybe. Like taking over the world. Sheepish, he runs a hand through his unruly curls as Lucifer promptly begins plating breakfast, a veritable feast of food that sets Mike’s mouth to watering in no time at all.

“What are you doing, boy? Bring out more dishes!”

“Yes, sir! Coming right up, sir!”

In a stroke of luck, Mike manages to locate a stash of dishes and passes them on to Lucifer one by one. They fit seamlessly in with the rest of the house, tasteful but flashy nonetheless, and each of them probably cost more than his mom’s entire crockery set. They soon settle into a comfortable rhythm, pass – plate – set, and that is how Trixie and Chloe find them, both women still in their pajamas and rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

Standing side-by-side like this, the mother-daughter resemblance truly is striking. Mike takes in the proud upturn of their noses, their full lips, and their slender, straight build, and an inexplicable surge of fondness rises in him, making him feel tingly and warm all over. (Once he manages to get over the traitorous flush at seeing Chloe after yesterday night, that is. Their eyes meet, they blush like a pair of overripe tomatoes, and instantly come to a mutual agreement to never mention It again.)  

“You two are adorable,” Trixie declares, laughter in her voice, and Lucifer bristles immediately at that. Mike catches something about ‘divine charisma’ and Lucifer’s characteristic ‘I’ll-have-you-know’s’, and stifles a grin.

Later, at the breakfast table, Trixie presses her foot into his calf and leans over to him, murmuring “adorable” into his ear, and Mike doesn’t think he minds much at all.

And yeah, to be honest, he’s beginning to suspect Lucifer is one big fluffy devil too.

Chapter Text

It turns out Chloe and Lucifer hadn’t had anything planned out after that, so they end up gathered haphazardly around the giant full-screen TV, full and drowsy and content. Chloe, being the queen of the household that she is, takes full control of the remote.

They flick through several channels – Discovery channel (Mike, no! It’s a spider special, for goodness’s sake!), several news stations (I refuse to watch humans sabotage themselves on a weekend), and a cooking show (I’ve had enough cooking to last a lifetime. Gods, no.) - before finally settling on a rerun of some kind of fantasy romance with way too many shirtless men.

It doesn’t seem to have much of a plot, consisting mostly of the male actors ripping off their shirts and looking heroic. The heroine has lipstick on that’s a horrifying shade of deep burgundy and prowls more than walks. What the show lacks in finesse it makes up with sheer muscle, though, because there is no way in hell that those abs are natural. How many chicken breasts do you even have to eat just to keep up that bulk?

It’s disturbing rather than hot, Mike thinks, shuddering a little in his spot.

Chloe gives Lucifer a long sideways look and pokes him in the side.

“Those are some pretty impressive bodies,” she grins, a faint twinkle in her eyes. “Don’t you think?”

Lucifer’s face can only be described as incredulous.

“You can’t seriously be complimenting those – those - ” Lucifer’s arms flail about for a moment, indignant, as Lucifer splutters, frantically searching for some word to convey his sheer horror. “oversized bucket-heads.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Trixie chimes in, thoughtful. Mike can hear the undercurrent of mischief in her tone, though, and halfheartedly wonders if riling the Devil up is really a good idea. Lucifer’s spluttering and flailing, though, is so silly that Mike can’t help himself either. He leans back into the couch. “I’ve heard broad and strong is all the rage these days. You know, something that you can feel.”

Right on spot, the actor on screen flexes his very defined and also quite overlarge pectorals. Mike stifles a snort.

“Feel,” Lucifer grumbles with feeling. “Next thing I know, you lot will all be drooling over Amenadiel.”

“Amenadiel is nice,” Chloe adds as an afterthought. Lucifer glares at the TV set then at Chloe as if both have personally offended him somehow.

“I thought you were in love with me.”

“Can still appreciate beauty in life, though.”

Just to himself, Mike honestly doesn’t think he’ll ever meet a man more befitting the word ‘beautiful’ than Lucifer, but Lucifer doesn’t need to know that. Lucifer gapes like a fish out of water. Mike can’t resist any longer.

“You shouldn’t judge your worth by your looks, you know,” Mike says, raising an eyebrow. “Insecurity does not become you.”

“Oh, for the love of - ” Lucifer throws up his hands, then points an accusing finger at Mike. “You just wait, boy. When you’re not expecting it...”

He’s just been threatened by the prince of darkness himself. Mike should probably feel a lot more afraid than this. He isn’t, though, and before he knows it he’s stuck his tongue out at the man like a kindergartener.

Lucifer makes a rude gesture at him and presses a pillow over his face. “Should have kicked you out,” he grumbles, barely intelligible, and Chloe laughs and presses a kiss into the sliver of skin by his chin. “Oh, come on, you big baby. You know I love you.”

“Haven’t forgiven you either,” Lucifer says, petulant, peeking out just a bit. “I am hurt.”

Chloe whispers something like ‘show you how much I appreciate-later-bedroom’ that Mike definitely wants to unhear, and Trixie groans. “Gods, mom! You two are like bloody teenagers!”

Mike snorts too, then, and winds an arm around Trixie to pull her a little closer.

It doesn’t occur to him how easy it all was, how comfortable to shift into the banter and poke fun at Lucifer, to laugh with Chloe and snuggle with Trixie, until much, much later.

Right now, though, he’s content, and that’s all that really matters.

They end up not switching the channel.

Mike and Trixie poke each other and giggle like high-schoolers whenever a particularly ridiculous scene comes up, and Chloe and Lucifer watch, indulgent, draped across the sofa a little ways to the side. They mock the actors and bad CG’s and try to mimic the heroine by pinching their nostrils and talking with their tongues curled against the roof of their mouths, and are generally total dorks.

It’s wonderful. What’s more wonderful, though, is Lucifer’s reaction when he realizes that it’s a show about angels and devils.

“I must pay a visit to whoever made this atrocity,” Lucifer hisses, eyes on the verge of flashing red. (The CGs in the show generally make the character’s eyes shine a sickly shade of vermillion that verges on pink, and they aren’t very good effects either because the CGs sometimes don’t align with the eyes.) “This is blasphemy. How many times must I insist that I do not have horns?”

“You don’t?” Mike asks, curious.

“No,” Lucifer snaps, irritated. “And I don’t make a habit of running around with ripped shirts, either. How ridiculous is that?”

“Don’t tell me you’re still feeling insecure.” Mike pokes Lucifer, light and teasing. “Wonderful abs, though, I think. They almost look like washboards, don’t they?”

“I’ll show you washboards,” Lucifer declares, and begins to unbutton his shirt. Mike bites his lip to refrain from bursting into laughter. He knows Lucifer is fit, of course, with a sleekly muscled body that would set both men and women alike a-drool. He’s seen the man in swimming trunks, by the gods. (Or, well, God.) But Lucifer’s genuine ire is so ridiculous that Mike can’t quite help himself.

Chloe, who had been drowsing gently against the back of the couch, snaps awake and slaps her hand over Lucifer’s emerging midriff. “Lucifer,” she admonishes, “stop traumatizing our son-in-law.”

“They’re not married yet,” Lucifer argues, and Mike’s traitorous ears fixate onto the word yet. It feels suspiciously like implicit acceptance, or – approval, and a warm feeling blooms low in his gut. Lucifer isn’t done, though. “And he insulted me. Also, that upstart is ridiculous. I don’t breathe fire, for Dad’s sake. He looks like a bloody flamethrower!”

TV-Lucifer is roaring, tacky orange flames pouring out of his mouth, and Lucifer looks like he wants to leap right into the screen and throttle the life out of the man. Mike sends a silent prayer for the man’s soul. It would be horrible to be tormented in hell just for taking on some weird role in a cheap TV show, wouldn’t it? And yes, Lucifer is right, the man looks like a bloody flamethrower. Or a giant glow stick, watcher’s choice.

A glowing white figure appears on screen and proceeds to epically defeat TV-Lucifer, and Lucifer growls, the sofa’s handles groaning and bending under Lucifer’s tight grip. “Don’t tell me that upstart angel just bloody beat me,” Lucifer grits out through clenched teeth. “This is absurd. Absurd.”

Lucifer’s presence is growing steadily, suffocating and huge and absolutely nothing human, something awe-inspring and terrifying. It’s plenty impressive, but the sheer fact that he’s so worked up over a TV show of all things is so silly that Mike can’t help but feel inexplicably fond of this child of a man.

He likes their devil much, much more than any flame-throwing charlatan with ripped muscles and weird glowing eyes, that’s for sure.

“You ridiculous man,” Chloe declares, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she kisses Lucifer, long and firm and possessive. “I love you so much. You do know I was joking, yeah?”

“Chloe!” Lucifer cries, betrayed and scandalized in equal measure.

Trixie shakes her head and picks up the remote to change the channel.

Chapter Text

Their impromptu TV marathon lasts well through lunchtime and stretches into the afternoon. Mike gets a crick in his neck from straining to watch TV from his lying position, but he regrets nothing. (He had Trixie sleeping on his stomach, and it was so adorable that he couldn’t force himself to move, to wake her up, couldn’t.) Also, a sleep-deprived Trixie is a cranky Trixie, which is frankly detrimental to his wellbeing, and there’s that.

The skip lunch (officially, anyway) and munch on ordered pizza on the couch, instead. They get crumbs everywhere and it’s going to be a nightmare to clean, but it’s still mouth-wateringly delicious and Mike isn’t complaining. Lucifer tries to convince Mike of his manliness by stripping about three more times and Chloe has to physically hold him back.

Trixie is understandably cross.

“Stop trying to seduce my boyfriend,” she tells Lucifer. “I like him too much to lose him to your charms.”

“Ah, you do admit I have charms, then,” Lucifer replies, looking very happy with himself. “I can’t really help it, you know. I tend to be – magnetic.” He then proceeds to do something positively illegal with his tongue that thank gods Chloe isn’t seeing this. This is more than indecent.

“Not the point here!” Trixie grumbles, and winds a possessive arm around Mike. “He’s mine.”

“I’ve never tried to seduce the – boy, I’ll have you know,” Lucifer sniffs, a little offended. Mike bristles, because, well, he may not be some men’s underwear model but he’s still not that repulsive. He’s been told he’s pretty good-looking in that sweet, bookish way.

But then Trixie proceeds to snuggle into him like a cat claiming her treasure, and Mike isn’t going to say anything to that.

Chloe leaves sometime in the afternoon.

“Where are you going?” Mike asks, curious, careful to keep his voice down. Trixie is alseep, snoring softly, so adorable that Mike wants to reach down and squeeze her cheeks. He doesn’t. Trixie is one scary lady, after all, and he knows about the knives she keeps in her schoolbag.

“You’ll see,” Chloe replies, a glint in her eye that promises good things.

“Huh?”

“You’re in the know now. That bears celebrating.”

“Oh.”

Mike tries to be a good future son-in-law and go help her, but Chloe is immovable. “Young man, I am not making you prepare your own party,” she says, firm, and there’s nothing much Mike can say to that.

Mike has a theory that Lucifer and Chloe have some magical bond or something, because they seem unable to stay away from each other for prolonged amounts of time. True to that, some time after Chloe’s left, Lucifer unfolds himself from the sofa and makes for the kitchen, from where delicious smells have been wafting for a while now.

Mike can’t help himself, and he ends up giving Lucifer a salacious wink and a wriggle of his eyebrow.

“Have fun,” he says, grinning. Lucifer eyes him for a long while, and Mike squirms.

“Boys,” Lucifer grumbles, and then he’s gone, too. Mike shakes remaining drowsiness out of his eyes before focusing on the TV again. His eyes are beginning to hurt from so much exposure to television. He’s never been allowed to watch so much TV back at home, and it’s fantastic. He checks the top corner of the monitor, trying to divulge what exactly is playing right now.

Supernatural, the caption reads. Mike chortles.

“Lucifer!” He cries, in what he hopes is a carrying voice. You never know; Chloe and Lucifer’s mansion is just that big. “You’re a homicidal maniac now!”

Lucifer must have heard it somehow, though, because an indignant “Insane!” drifts through the corridors in response.

“Homicidal maniac,” Mike giggles, helpless. He’s going to start crying any moment now. That’s how Trixie finds him when she wakes up, face red from laughter and chortling to himself in short bursts.

“Mike,” Trixie asks, slow, eyes narrowed into slits. “You – okay?”

“Promise you I’m not crazy or anything,” Mike promises, but Trixie doesn’t seem all that convinced.

“You do know that crazy people usually say that, don’t you?”

“Love you too, Trix.”

“Crazy boy.” Trixie mutters, affectionate, and presses a short kiss to his cheek.

*

Thankfully, it turns out Lucifer does have a car that fits more than two people. As soon as Chloe is done with her ‘preparations’, the whole family is bundled into a sleek monstrosity that looks more like a fighter tank than adequate transport, along with a delicious-smelling bundle that looks fit to feed more than ten, and then they hit the road.

It’s a wonderfully pleasant autumn day, just the right mix of warm and sunny and nice and windy, and Mike rolls down the windows and sticks his head out, taking a deep breath that fills his lungs and flushes down his body.

“You’re going to get your head chopped of or something if we stop all of a sudden,” Trixie admonishes. Mike grins, feeling giddy and drunk on happiness. “Lucifer will save me. - Won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t count on that too much,” Lucifer says from the front, a dark gleam in his eye. Mike knows he’s joking now, though, so he just laughs and draws himself back into the car.

“Trixie likes me better alive.”

“Dad knows why,” is the answer. Mike puts on a face of mock indignance. “Hey!”

“Boys,” Chloe says, hands steady on the steering wheel and a laugh in her voice. “Boys,” Trixie echoes, eyes crinkled in an affectionate smile. Mike relaxes with a happy sigh.

They don’t have to drive terribly far until they arrive at their destination. It’s a small cove by the sea, more of a patch of sand than a beach, and it’s beautiful.

“This is awesome!” Mike cries, flinging his shoes and socks off and burying his toes into the soft sand. “However did you find this place?”

“I have my ways,” Lucifer smiles, all teeth and glinting eyes. He looks just as good on the beach as in the house, and he doesn’t even look out of place in his fine, pinstriped suit. Again, the sheer unfairness of the situation strikes Mike. He would look ridiculous in a suit on the beach, and Lucifer is, well, Lucifer.

He isn’t really human, though, so Mike isn’t holding much resentment for that.

“So, Chloe’s grand plan – wait, are we having a picnic on the beach? Oh gods – no, God, sorry, God – that is so fantastic.”

“I may or may not have mentioned to mom that you love beaches,” Trixie says, stretching her legs. Mike grins so wide his cheeks feel stretched and pulls her into an excited hug. “Oh, Trix, you are officially the best.”

“I know that.”

Lucifer makes a strangled sound of disgust that isn’t really disgusted at the unbridled display of affection. “You two,” Lucifer grumbles, and Mike grins again, twining his fingers with Trixie’s. Yes, them two. Not Mike, and Trixie, but Mike-and-Trixie. It’s a warm, wonderful feeling that makes him feel like he could take on the world and still win somehow.

It’s awesome.

Chloe and Trixie set up the picnic while Mike and Lucifer go into the ocean and do their absolute best to splash each other. The end result is Mike soaked through the bones and Lucifer barely even wet, and Mike groans at the unfairness of it all.

“I was so outmatched,” he says, and yes, he knows that he probably sounds like a five-year-old who hasn’t gotten dessert, but still. “You’re, like, the badass of all badasses. Of course I can’t win a splash war with you.”

“You’re the one who instigated it,” Lucifer points out, and Mike doesn’t have anything to say to that because he’s right. Mike gets a sudden idea, then, and he turns toward Lucifer, eyes sparkling.

“You know,” Mike says, hopeful, “I think I’d feel much better if you took me flying.”

“Flying!” Lucifer splutters, then spins around to face Mike, indignant. “Do you think I’m some private airline service, boy? This is absurd.”

“You have wings, though. You’ve got to admit that is so cool. You even showed me a feather.”

“You fainted after.” Lucifer sniffs, as if the memory is aggravating in its own right. “And I couldn’t, you know. Your brains would melt out of your ears.”

“Huh?”

“Humans and divinity. Don’t mix.”

Lucifer’s voice is a little tight, as if stating the fact will somehow drive Mike away from him. Mike rushes to reassure.

“Oh. I’m cool. Uh, you know, I do need my brain. So. Nice of you to let me know.” Mike squints at Lucifer. “You do know I’m not going to run away or – or start hating on you, right? I mean, it was a shock, but – I think I’m okay now. I’m not gonna get offended just because I’m a human and you tell me so.”

Lucifer’s eyes look suspiciously watery. Then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Insane,” he grumbles, and Mike gawks.

“You did not just insult me after I bared my heart for you.”

“Well, get used to it, boy,” Lucifer says, striding with purpose towards where the picnic is being prepared. “You are going to stick around awfully long. I can feel it.”

“Oh.” Mike blinks, then hurries after Lucifer. It’s to no avail; the man’s just too fast. “Wait! Did you just – I don’t know, approve of me?”

There is no answer, and Mike bites his lip and hurries on, muttering curses all the way.

Lucifer should be so glad that Mike still likes him.

Mike digs in to the veritable feast before him, cold mashed potatoes and corn, pulled turkey with cranberries and bite-sized sandwiches and fresh, fragrant juice that feels like it’s straight out of the refrigerator. Trixie steals his sausages, and he retaliates by tickling her, which soon evolves into an impromptu wrestling match, which ends only with Trixie sitting on top of Mike and wrangling a kiss out of him.

Chloe’s pointed cough jerks them back into reality, and Mike reaches for the salad, flushing horribly. Trixie jostles him and whispers ‘prude’ into his ear, but it’s full of affection and laughter, and Mike laughs too.

Later, they all lie on the soft, huge blanket that Chloe’s brought, watching the sun set and stars begin to dot the sky.

It’s almost surreal, Mike thinks. Here he is, lying on a blanket on a beach with his girlfriend and her stepdad the Devil, and he’s so, so happy he thinks he might burst. He is so glad that he hadn’t run, hadn’t given up, because he doesn't think he’ll ever find anything so right ever again.

Chloe’s soft voice breaks the silence.

“Lucifer,” she says, voice gentle and full of something suspiciously like love. “Do you want to show us?”

Lucifer doesn’t reply, and after a beat, Chloe continues. “Mike knows, you know.” Then - “I don’t want you to have to hide anymore.”

Mike doesn’t know what Chloe is talking about, but he wants to see whatever Lucifer has up his sleeve, whatever supernatural wonder the man is hiding. He wants to know more about this part of Trixie he’s never known before, wants to see and revel and understand.

Lucifer waits for a moment, two, then raises his hand.

The moment is charged, poignant, magical, and Mike doesn’t say a word for once.

Then blinking lights begin to gather in Lucifer’s hand, like fireflies or baby stars fallen to earth, and they’re beautiful. They blink and whirl, dance as light as feathers and joyous as a song, and Mike has to fight not to gasp.

Lucifer looks positively divine in the glow of his lights, like the angel that he is, as ancient as the Earth, brighter than all the Stars, tragic, serene, and yet – surprisingly tender, gentle. This piece of Lucifer slots seamlessly into all that Mike knows of the man, despite being so different than what Mike has thought of him, as if it is the final piece in the puzzle that is Lucifer, as if Mike has only now seen the entirety of him. It brings tears to Mike’s eyes, the lights dancing and twirling, adoring, around the man who brought them to life – Lucifer.

Lightbringer.

Lucifer blows, soft, and it’s almost as if a breeze ruffles through the entire beach, charged with something not quite of this world. the lights stream up into the sky, like a ribbon of sparkling stardust, and join their brethren in the sky. Lucifer breathes once, twice, then turns to look at Mike. His eyes are dark and fathomless, and for a moment, Mike is struck dumb.

Trixie is watching him, too, her eyes wide and earnest and hopeful, apprehensive, almost as she had been before Lucifer’s secret has come to light. And suddenly Mike knows exactly what he ought to say.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Mike grins, narrowing his eyes in mock annoyance. Lucifer gasps out a laugh that almost sounds like a choke.

“You,” he wheezes, and Mike knows that everything is going to be okay.

Chapter Text

It’s already well dark by the time they arrive back at the mansion. Mike takes in the sleek, modern facade that he’s become so used to so quickly. It feels strangely like home, even though he’s known the place for a grand total of two days or so.

It must be all the crazy things he’s gone through, he thinks. Still, he doesn’t regret one bit of it. Even though his worldview has been turned on his head and he might still get random bouts of panic from time to time. Even though his future father-in-law probably has the power to make his life hell should he ever deign to hurt Trixie.

It’s a good think he has no plan of the sort, then, yeah?

Mike tries to linger, help Chloe do the dishes, something, but Chloe is firm as she escorts him towards the staircase that leads upstairs. “Nonsense,” she says. “You’re the guest. And you’re never going to get back home early enough if you don’t start packing right now.”

Mike feels like a horrid guest, leaving Chloe to do all the chores like that, but she’s right, and he doesn’t want to stumble into his apartment in two in the morning. He bites his lips, guilty, and complies.

Trixie is already packing by the time he gets to their room. She doesn’t have much to pack, really, it being her parents’ home and all, and she’s more absentmindedly throwing things into her rucksack then double-checking them than anything else. Mike is packing his toothbrush when Trixie breaks the silence.

“You’ve – taken this really well,” she says, and Mike almost bangs his head on the door as he tries to turn around.

“Uh?”

“Lucifer,” Trixie says by way of an answer, and when Mike turns to meet her eyes they are wide, open, earnest, and surprisingly tender and vulnerable. Mike doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve a look like that.

“I haven’t even done anything much,” Mike protests, taking Trixie’s hand and plopping down onto the bed next to her. “Lucifer’s the hero, if anything. He saved my life, you know.”

“No one’s ever taken it this well.”

Trixie’s voice is quiet but filled with emotion, almost on the verge of cracking, and so, so grateful. Mike bites his lip and leans into Trixie, trying to push all his heart into the hug. “Oh, Trixie.”

All the stories he’s heard over the years of Trixie’s horrible boyfriends over the years flood him, then, and suddenly everything makes too much sense. Mike the former, who fled over the night without even telling Trixie, for one. And so many others too. “Oh.”

Then Mike scoots a little closer, so they’re pressed into each other side-by-side, and he can feel the heat of Trixie’s thigh on his own. He reaches out, tentatively, and squeezes Trixie’s hand. He knows now’s the time to be honest, not the time to start joking around or making light of things, and he braces himself, meeting her eyes squarely with his own.

“It’s – a lot, really,” Mike says. “But it’s also something really wonderful, Trix. Like tonight, at the beach – I’ll never forget it. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like there’s this whole new dimension to the world I thought I knew, and it’s all so fantastic and frightening and awesome. Almost like living a fantasy story, yeah?”

Trixie snorts. “You and your fantasy novels.”

Mike feels safe to crack a grin then. “Should be glad my brain hasn’t started dribbling out of my nose yet,” he says. “The sheer amount of stories I ingest should have been more than enough.”

“I’m glad your brain isn’t melted,” Trixie declares, eyes glinting, and tackles him into a hug. “I like you just the way you are.”

Trixie is warm and solid against him, and Mike makes a soft, happy, brain-melted noise. Oh, he could stay this way forever.

Except maybe Lucifer might walk in and see them, and Mike might be hanged for daring to despoil his darling daughter. You never know about life.

Trixie draws back then, and gives him a soft, lingering look. “Thank you, though.” Her voice is bare, raw, and makes Mike fight back a stinging at the back of his eyes. “Really.”

They stay that way for a while after that, looking into each other’s eyes and snorting from time to time from the ridiculousness of it all, and generally happy and content. The moment is broken, though, when Chloe knocks at the door and wryly informs them that ‘she knows what they’re getting up to and they’ll be late if they don’t start packing right now’.

Mike takes a look at the clock, curses, and starts throwing things into his overnight bag in a mad frenzy.

They’re ready and down by the front yard in record time, and Mike is gasping for breath. But by the god(s, and he really needs to stop swearing by the gods, now that he knows He truly does exist) - packing is hard work. How did he never realize until now?

Chloe and Lucifer emerge at the doorway, side by side. The warm glow of the house’s lights illuminates them from behind, casting their faces in shadow, and Mike feels a pang in his heart, reluctant to leave.

He feels like he’s known these people forever.

It’s only been two days.

“So,” Mike says, grin loose and easy, “What’s the verdict? Do I pass the Test?”

“You passed it when you accepted me for who I was,” Lucifer says, voice even and surprisingly sincere. Mike isn’t used to this Lucifer, who doesn’t hide his affection beneath gruff words and innuendo, and it seems like Lucifer’s eyes are cutting straight through to his soul.

Who knows – maybe they really do. Mike doesn’t know all that Lucifer can do, yet, though he suspects it’s a lot. It exhilarates him and terrifies him in equal measure, and Mike can’t wait.

“You don’t even have to ask, you know,” Chloe says, pulling him into a quick hug. “I have a feeling you’re going to be around for a long, long time.” Then, a tad more teasing - “So, can I expect honeymoon babies, or is that still a while away?”

“Mom!” Trixie cries, bursting into a flush that’s impressively red. Chloe simply chuckles and pats Trixie on her back. “Better get going now. Wouldn’t want to miss the bus.”

“Right.” Mike nods, checking his watch. “So – we’d best get going, yeah?”

“Take care,” Chloe says, and the four of them exchange awkward hugs and temporary farewells ans Mike and Trixie walk, slow, towards the gate. Trixie has paired up with her mother, no doubt catching up on last-minute gossip, and Mike is left with Lucifer.

“Uh.”

“Take this.” Before Mike can blink, Lucifer is shoving something into Mike’s hand. It’s light, like air, and warm somehow, as if he has a piece of springtime tucked into his palm, and it sends a happy tingle down Mike’s arm. “Huh?”

“My feather.” And indeed it is – small, and a perfect, spotless white, downy and soft. Mike can make out the faint flow it gives off in the dark. “It will – heal any injury, and I’ll hear you if you call.” Mike blinks, and Lucifer is the grumpy dad he’s used to again. “Can’t have you dying so soon, after all. Awfully inconvenient.”

“Lucifer,” is all that Mike says, before pulling him into a quick sideways hug. Lucifer sniffs and turns away. Mike smiles at that, a burst of happiness and undeniable affection bubbling up his throat.

Later, as Mike and Trixie head down the road that leads up to the mansion, hand in hand, Mike looks back one last time at the mansion. It looks dark and forbidding in the dark, almost, the sleek white of the walls giving off an otherworldly sheen, and Lucifer’s feather pulses in Mike’s pocket.

I’ll take good care of Trix, Mike thinks firmly, fingers brushing against it. I promise.

Mike swears he heard Lucifer’s answering snort.

Chapter Text

Later, on the bus home, Trixie leans her head against Mike and sighs in contentment.

“We’re going home,” she says, and suddenly Mike is struck with the horrible, inexplicable urge to say something really, terribly cheesy. He gives in.

“No, we’re not,” he says, and Trixie shifts against him, curious. “Huh?”

“I was home the entire time,” Mike says, and it’s silly and cheesy and plain dorky, but he means every word of it. “You are my home, Trix.”

“Oh my – Mike.” Trixie’s face is torn between mortified and overwhelmed. She settles on punching Mike’s arm, then pecking him on the cheek. “You are unbelievable.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike wriggles his eyebrows in what he hopes is a salacious way. “I suppose - ”

“Do shut up.” Trixie giggles, without much heat, and leans back against her seat. “I am not seriously hearing this.”

“I know you love me.”

A pause, then Trixie answers, voice surprisingly tender. “Yeah.” She says. “I suppose I do.”

They watch the road pass by, then, content in their shared silence, and all is right in Mike’s world.

The End