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The first week is the worst. She’s a back-alley explosive with a highly sensitive trigger, snapping when she should soften, retreating when she should pounce. (She and Trixie silently agreement to survive on leftovers for as long as possible after the sight of a ketchup bottle left her sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of the market.)
At work, she’s brittle and sharp, cutting off any conversation before it can venture beyond the task at hand. She grits her teeth at the sympathetic glances cast her way in the precinct, but the pulse of the city eventually draws their attention away to more pressing and important matters allowing her to find her footing again.
She slips now and then, of course. There is the occasional pause after getting the rundown from Ella, unconsciously leaving space for a quip that will never come (Ella, ever the saint, pretends not to notice), a triumphant smile flashed to an empty chair when a confession is finally won, or the sudden craving for ranch puffs at odd hours of the day.
When the next case finds them at a magic show with a magician somehow done in by his own illusion, she can’t help but think, Oh Lucifer, you’re going to love this one…
And if her mind whispers a possible response? Well, no one needs to know.
-----
Monopoly becomes a weekly staple in the Decker household. They never discuss Trixie’s newfound preference for the shoe, nor does Chloe object whenever Trixie shyly offers to play for Lucifer as well. Everyone deserves a coping method, after all.
The next roll lands him in jail and she cannot help but muse smugly, So much for the devil’s luck, darling.
An outraged huff echoes from the corner of her mind, and she chuckles softly while reaching for the dice once more.
____
The city is quiet when she bursts out into the alley, her suspect’s white shirt flashing in the flickering light before he disappears around the corner. Adrenaline hums in her veins as she takes off in pursuit, forgetting all about the would-be partner she left behind somewhere in the bowels of the club.
“I don’t need a partner,” she had told the Lieutenant, a strait-laced woman who had been transferred from Sacramento in the aftermath of Pierce’s death, “Really, it’s not necessary.”
“It’s policy, Decker,” the Lieutenant replied, not even bothering to glance up from the collection of paperwork spread out on desk. “Everyone needs someone to watch their backs –“
“I already –” Chloe interjects immediately.
“Look Decker,” the Lieutenant sighs, finally directing her full attention to Chloe. “It’s been three months. I am appreciative of the assistance Mr. Morningstar provided during his tenure, but he is clearly not coming back, and I cannot leave one of our strongest detectives wallowing on the bench any longer. It’s done.”
Her boot catches on the jagged edge of the sidewalk, sending her off balance, though she manages to catch herself on the wall before going down completely. The brick scrapes her palm, but the momentary flash of pain is nothing to the frustration that darts down her spine. It’s taken weeks for them to discover a name, combing through evidence and needling witnesses for hours on end, she can’t afford to get distracted and lose this guy.
Gritting her teeth, she picks up the pace, darting around a random couple in order to get him in her sights once again. The chase continues for another couple of blocks and Chloe cannot help but glance to the side, half-wishing that she’d catch a glimpse of his long stride stalking past her in order to finish this, as she feels a stitch burn along her side.
She’s running on fumes, lungs aching, but she can’t give up, she just can’t, and it’s desperation more than anything that causes her gasp, “Lucifer, please –"
Chloe’s heard stories about the second wind that distance runners claim to experience, though she’s always dismissed it as a myth. But suddenly there’s a warmth against her back, like the nudge of a gentle breeze, and she feels the pain melt away as her body kicks into another gear.
Well done, detective, the voice murmurs as she peels the perp off the sidewalk by his cuffed wrists. Well done, indeed.
____
The speed dating event is Ella’s idea. She announced it during their latest Tribe night, angle of her smile making it clear the invitation is directed to Maze and Linda, and she knows she only has herself to blame for the irritation that slithers along her spine.
“I’m in,” she announces, squaring her shoulders.
She could practice her interrogation skills if nothing else. Her close rate has taken a hit over the past few months due to the lack of divine intervention and she owes it to the victim’s families to do better.
So, that weekend she allows the group to fuss over her, tugging on her hair, sweeping make-up along her cheeks. She only needs to veto two outfit suggestions from Maze (a new record) before they are ready to depart.
It’s a standard set-up, ladies assigned to individual tables while the gentleman rotate every fifteen minutes. The first few are awkward, she’s rusty, too used to leaning on her badge, but she manages to find her footing after the third gentleman departs.
No one fits the bill for romantic consideration, of course, and she has to exchange wine for tequila after Maze sends one too many “helpful” texts (wtf is that face decker), but she manages and that’s enough.
It’s a small victory, miniscule in the grand theme of things, but she feels electric and it’s all too easy to convince the others to continue the party at the night club next door. She loses herself in the pulse of the beat and writhing bodies, hydrating with tequila shots until the world softens completely.
She hasn’t felt this good in ages, all loose-limbed and disconnected, and so she doesn’t mind when a man enters into her space. He’s tall enough, and if she squints just right his eyes are almost the right shade. An ache rattles her chest, a longing that runs soul-deep, and she can’t help but rise up onto her toes to murmur “And what do you desire?” against his mouth.
The voice which has been her constant companion all evening, encouraging and occasionally cajoling, is suddenly dead quiet. He tastes like betrayal.
____
Her hands are still shaking when she lets herself into the condo, and she barely remembers to kick off her shoes before diving under the covers. The tears are white hot against her cheek and the pillow barely muffles her screams. Thank god Trixie isn’t home.
The voice is still silent.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Oh god I’m sorry, she pleads, a miserable wretch, until another wave of sobbing leaves her incoherent.
Hours later, she hovers on the edge of a restless sleep. The mattress dips beside her and she feels the brush of gentle fingers along her brow.
Be at peace, she hears, a gentle whisper that is warm and familiar.
She promises herself she will call Linda in the morning, but for now she allows the hallucination to pull her under.
____
It’s later than normal, sunlight warm against her eyelids. She opens them slowly, mentally bracing herself for the dull ache of a tequila sunrise – only to freeze at the warm presence against her back.
Mentally cursing, she rubs at her face while dulled senses try to rearrange a series of blurred memories into a narrative that explains her current predicament.
She’s an adult. She can handle this. (She can’t fucking handle this.)
Steeling herself, she slowly turns over.
His face is smudged, bits of ash clinging to his hair, and his eyes are impossibly warm. It’s difficult to see where the grunge ends and his facial hair begins, but the flash of teeth are no less brilliant when he grins.
“Hello love,” he says. She hates herself for imagining something so beautiful.
But there are bits of ash floating in the air around them, and her eyes lock on a smudge of darkness staining the space between them. It’s a detail she wouldn’t think to include, especially given how ardently Maze had dodged any of her questions about Hell, so how could that exist?
Her eyes flash upwards towards his face again, and she can sense the tension in his frame even as he remains still. A predator forcing himself to submit. Waiting.
She moves in an instant, hands tangling in his hair, chaining him to her as she buries her face against his neck. He smells of sulfur and heat, but there is a subtle strain of Lucifer underneath and she cannot help but shudder in relief.
“This is real, isn’t it?” She whispers, drawing back to meet his gaze. She sees her own wonder echoed back at her before he closes the gap between them once more.
He tastes of joy.