Archive of Our Own

Lucifer doesn’t realise he’s smiling as he walks down the stairs at Lux until he hears Maze say—

“Someone just had a nice fuck.”

He didn’t, actually. He hasn’t had sex in over a month, as a matter of fact, which is the longest dry spell he has ever had while on Earth (at least if you don’t count the unspeakable number of times he’s taken himself in hand.) But he did just watch Chloe do yoga, and that’s practically as good as a nice fuck. Maybe even better.

It’s not the reason why he’s smiling, however. Or, well, not the only reason.

“Are you jealous?” he answers as he goes to pour himself some whiskey.

Maze snorts and gets up from where she’d been sitting with spread leather-clad legs in one of the booths. She twirls a blade around her finger as she joins him by the bar. “Please. I came straight from an orgy.”

Lucifer arches an eyebrow, although her words are anything but surprising.

“Not that there was anything straight about it,” she adds with a leer, licking her teeth.

Not very surprising either, Lucifer thinks and hums non-committedly as he takes a swig of whiskey. He couldn’t really care less about what or who Maze is doing. All he can think about is what he’s doing tonight. Or rather, the person he’s doing it with. She’s probably getting out of the shower by now, or perhaps she’s already enjoying her late breakfast, barefoot on the balcony, towel wrapped around her head as she soaks up the morning sun. Just the thought of her makes his heart beat a little faster—

“Lucifer,” Maze bites, her sharp tone cutting through his thoughts. He hadn’t even noticed she was talking to him. “I said, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in, like, forever.” She reaches behind the bar to grab a bottle of Belvedere, unscrews the cap with one finger, and pours the vodka into her mouth.

“Oh, you know, here and there,” Lucifer replies. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked.” He flashes her a smile.

It’s not a lie, but the whole truth is that he’s mostly been at home every night for the past month, getting his arse beaten in board games or watching rom-coms and crime series. If he’s been at Lux, it’s only for an hour or two—except for the one night the Detective joined him—before he’s gone back upstairs to spend the rest of the night with her, or, if she’s gone to bed, clean up the kitchen and read a book on the sofa to the sound of her snores. 

“Seriously, what’s with the smile?” Maze asks, putting the vodka down on the bar with a loud clunk. “You look… happy.” She looks him over inquisitively, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And not like, post-orgasm or just-tortured-a-Nazi happy. You look…”—her nose wrinkles in disgust—“human happy.”

Lucifer takes a sip of whiskey, his lips spread into a smile. “Is that a crime now?”

“Why are you happy?” Her tone tells him to cut the crap. She makes it sound like he’s rarely, if ever happy. And perhaps she’s right. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this.

He’s not sure if he ever has.

He gently puts his glass down. “Because,” he starts, not caring about the probably ridiculous grin on his face, “the Detective and I are going on a date.” 

Whatever Maze had been expecting, it doesn’t seem to be that. He doesn’t blame her. He certainly hadn’t expected it either. 

“You’re going on a date,” she says, as if trying to wrap her head around the words, “with Chloe.”

He smiles in answer. 

“Like a date-date? Like with dumb little candles and boring smalltalk and”—she makes a face—“no sex? Just a date?”

“Mm-hm.” His lips curve with the rim of his glass as he takes a swig.

“You’re…” she makes a gesture at his person, eyebrows raised “…going on a date?”

Lucifer furrows his brow, a little annoyed. “Are you having a bloody stroke? Yes, I’m going on a date. How is this so difficult for you to comprehend?”

“Because it’s you,” she says, like it’s a sufficient explanation in itself. “You don’t go on dates. You’ve never been on a date.”

Her words don’t bother him—in fact, they just make his lips twitch into a small smile—because, as a wise, incredibly sexy woman once told him, “There’s a first time for everything.” 

Maze seems unaffected by his words, like they bear no significant meaning to her. And of course, they don’t. She’s not-

“What are you gonna do if it goes to shit?” Maze asks, toying with the neck of the Belvedere. There’s barely any concern in her eyes, just plain curiosity. “It’s not like you can ghost her in her own home.”

Lucifer frowns. “Why would it go to shit?”

Maze quirks her split brow.

“I’m having dinner with her, Maze. Not performing an open heart surgery.” He pours a little more whiskey into his glass. “What could go wrong?”

“Are you seriously not worried?” she asks with a frown.

He gives her a bemused look. “What would I be worried about?”

“Hey, don’t ask me. I just thought you’d be sweating bullets and tearing your precious hair out over this. I mean, seems like a pretty big deal. Going on a date, with Chloe… But if you’re not worried, that’s great.” She gives him a smile and turns around to leave. 

Lucifer grabs her wrist before she can. “Should… should I be worried?”

Maze yanks her hand back, but stays. “You tell me.” She shrugs. 

Anxiety suddenly starts creeping up his spine, cold little spikes that prickle his skin. His heart beats faster. Maze is right; going on a date with Chloe… it is a big deal, and—

“What if it does go to shit?” He looks at Maze. “What if I fuck up my only chance at-“ He stops short. He doesn’t know exactly what this date is a chance at, but it feels like a chance at something. Something exceptional and life-changing and most likely incredible. And even if he ruined that chance, it wouldn’t be the worst part, would it? Because Chloe is not just an inconsequential Tinder date or someone he’s bumped into on the street like in one of those rom-coms they’ve been watching together. She’s… her. His best friend and his roommate, and if this date does go wrong somehow, in one way or the other, he wouldn’t only lose his chance at something incredible.

He might also lose her.

He must look like an anxious, jittery mess because Maze looks at him with something dangerously close to sympathy.

“Look, do you want my advice?” she says, leaning on the bar. Her voice is straight to the point and impatient, but not apathetic. 

Lucifer lifts an eyebrow. Yes, he’s worked himself into a nervous frenzy, and he could need some friendly support, but this is Maze.

“Right, ‘cause you have a shit load of experience,” she fires back at his sceptical expression.

Lucifer presses his mouth together. “What’s your advice?”

Her usually sharp and fierce demeanour softens slightly. It’s almost as uncharacteristic as her words. “Just, be yourself and do what feels right.”

Lucifer blinks. And Maze says he has changed. “Well, thank you, Maze. That’s actually quite… useful.”

A dark smirk pulls at Maze’s lips. “I learned it from sex.”

Lucifer snorts and lifts his glass to his mouth. “Of course.” 

“Speaking of sex,” she says, popping an olive into her mouth from an abandoned martini on the bar, hopefully her own, “I hope you end up boning tonight. The sexual tension between you is getting kinda suffocating.” She dramatically adjusts her choker. “And not in a fun way.” She gives him a pointed look, and then she walks away, the Belvedere dangling from her fingers.

Lucifer huffs. The thought of him and Chloe having sex hadn’t even struck his mind. Well, he’s always thinking about having sex with Chloe, but the possibility of it happening tonight hadn’t occurred to him. And why would it? They’re just having dinner. No one said anything about sex. The Detective explicitly said she was not asking him to take her from behind (but what a lovely and frustrating image that put in his head). It’d been with a glint in her eye and while she’d aptly been down on all fours, but still. He doesn’t expect them to go any further than a little more flirting than usual, except for, well… unless they… unless they kiss.

His heartbeat quickens at the thought alone. 

He quickly pushes it down. It only makes hope blossom in his chest, and he doesn’t dare hope. Not for something he’s thought about- wanted for so long.

Whatever happens, happens. 

…

As the day bleeds into afternoon and the clock creeps closer to seven, Lucifer finds himself getting more and more nervous—to the point it actually becomes ridiculous. He’s the Devil, for crying out loud. He doesn’t get nervous. And yet, he’s sweating bullets and pulling at his precious hair like Maze had predicted.

It doesn’t matter how many times he tries to convince himself tonight is no different than any other night he’s had dinner with the Detective; he still spills as he pours a glass of whiskey to calm his nerves and his hands still tremble when he buttons up his carefully chosen shirt.

Because it is different. 

It becomes even clearer when he steps down the stairs from his bedroom a minute after she’s subtly told him to hurry—and sees her.

He stops dead at the sight.

It’s not the first time he’s seen her dressed up. He’s seen her in all sorts of dressy outfits, for that wedding last month and nights at Lux—even for date nights with other people. But it’s the first time he’s seen her dressed up for a date with him. 

And she looks… unfathomably, jaw-dropping gorgeous. So much that he can’t speak—can’t think. She’s just… wow.  

A small smirk tugs at her lips, as if she’s enjoying his reaction, but Lucifer can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. He just stares at her, taking her in. 

But it’s not just that; almost everything about the night is different. From their penthouse being swapped out for a candlelit restaurant—his favourite Mexican restaurant, as it turns out, which she has chosen—to her sultry make-up and loose, wavy hair; the hint of bold lace that peeks out through her sexy, slightly sheer blouse; the way she softly presses her leg against his whenever they accidentally brush under the table; the way she laughs and smiles, freer and happier than ever; the unrestrained flirtation in her eyes and her voice and her words and the way her gaze keeps dropping to his lips; the butterflies in his stomach; how indescribably, unprecedentedly beautiful she is; how much he wants to kiss her. 

There are frissons of possibility as they flirt, but for once he doesn't know where it will lead. Like a song being composed as it’s played. Like a gamble he doesn't mind losing. Every second he’s with her is a victory anyway.

For two and a half years, he’s been propositioning her, and she’s always said no. Always pushed away when he tried to pull her in (except for that one time where the tables turned for a night outside that karaoke bar, but there were atrocious amounts of alcohol involved in that). She’s never explicitly shown any interest in him. Not the same kind of interest he’s loudly declared for her, at least. Not until she asked him out this morning. Not until now.

She’s looking into his eyes, the most beautiful and sexy smile on her lips. He’s just told her about a lovely Tuscan village he once went to, with incredible wine and kindhearted people and an astonishing view of the Thyrrenian sea. “I’d love to see it sometime,” she says, low and honey-smooth, like she means it. Like she wants him to take her there, just the two of them. 

It makes him rather giddy. How… interested she is in him, not merely platonically, but in a warm, flirty way that makes his heart beat a little faster with its novelty. And it’s not pure sexual desire either; she’s not just being polite as she waits for dinner to be over so she can get him alone and pounce on his body. She doesn’t pretend to listen as she undresses him with her eyes. She just… listens, and laughs, and looks at him in a way he’s never been looked at before.

It feels… nice. Incredibly nice. So nice a part of him tells him he doesn’t deserve it, that it can’t be real, that this is just the sweet sunshine before a cataclysmic storm—but another part of him doesn’t care. They’re here, on a date, after two and a half years, and that’s all that matters. She’s lovely, and he’s happy, and it doesn’t matter what happens or doesn’t happen tonight; if this is all he gets… he’s more than content with that. 

They’re the last guests to leave the restaurant, neither of them in a rush. His whole body is wound tight and trembling with nerves; as he puts a gentle hand on her back as they go to his car; as he drives them home and his fingers graze her leg; as they walk into Lux side by side; as he leads her to the elevator, fingers linked together; as she leans into him after her small stumble and holds onto him; as she looks up at him with eyes that twinkle like starlight. As they both lean closer and closer.

“I’d rather not share you just yet,” she whispers, deflecting his stuttered and delayed invitation to a dance and a drink at Lux.

He smiles, his gaze falling to her mouth. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut. His heart is pounding, loud and fast. “I’m all yours,” he tells her.

And then, after two and a half years and a beat of nervous hesitation…

They kiss.

The tightness snaps in his chest at the touch of her lips. Equal surprise and joy flows through his body like liquid warmth. It’s unlike any kiss he’s ever had. Soft and sweet, unhurried. Meaningful. As if his life suddenly makes sense. As if she’s breathed life into him with her impossibly soft lips.

He almost doesn’t know what to do with his own body, so caught off guard, so awed. Just do what feels right, the advice echoes in his mind, so he deepens the kiss and holds her closer to him. She moans, and he sighs, revelling in her heavenly taste and the feel of her lips and her tongue and her warm body against his. Delicious, intoxicating, life-changing. Incredible.

It ends before it’s really begun.

It all happens in a blurry flash. One moment they’re smiling and kissing as they step into their home; the next, Chloe’s looking at him in devastating sadness and anger as a woman he’d almost forgotten and hasn’t invited comes onto him.

And as quickly as she came into his life, Chloe leaves, and Lucifer’s world shatters before his eyes.

He stares in shock as the elevator doors close. His lips still tingle with the echo of their kiss. For the second time in his life, it feels like he’s been locked out of Heaven.

He only faintly registers Maria’s fingers starting to work on the buttons of his shirt. He gently grasps her wrists to stop her. “Not tonight,” is all he says, his tone void of any emotion.

Maria shrugs, uncaring, and says something about seeing if Maze is around before she leaves too.

And then he’s completely alone. 

A broken breath slips past his lips and fills the stifling silence.

…

He’s in shock, at first, his mind having a hard time catching up with all that just happened. Then he bursts into action. Almost manic, he pours himself a generous glass of whiskey and pulls out his phone. He nearly calls her, his thumb hovering over the button, but he has a feeling she wouldn’t pick up. He sends her a text instead, apologising, trying to explain, again, that it was all a misunderstanding. He really had no idea Maria would be there. 

He waits ten minutes. She doesn’t respond. He waits an hour. Still no reply. He waits for the elevator to chime and her to come back home, but she doesn’t.

He sends her another text. I’m very sorry, Detective. Just for emphasis. 

He paces the living room floor to the point he almost wears a hole in his Louboutins. Finishes a bottle of whiskey, and then one more. Another hour passes. She still doesn’t answer. 

Please let us talk about this, he writes, fingers trembling. His breaths are quick and shaky.

No response.

“This was a mistake,” she’d said. Did she mean the kiss? Their date? The past two and a half years?

His chest tightens in anxiety. What if she doesn’t come back? Or what if she does, but their friendship is ruined? Can they fix it? What if they can’t? What if this is it? What if she just slipped out of his life forever? 

At least… Even if she—the thought makes him swallow the hard lump in his throat—if she leaves for good, all her possessions are still here, so she’ll have to come by and get her things eventually. And he’ll be there. She’s not going to move out before they’ve talked. He knows she won’t. 

He sits down and stands up again, restless. He thinks of playing his piano to collect his thoughts, but he’s not sure it’s even physically possible for him right now, with how his hands are shaking. 

He doesn’t even try to sleep. As the hours pass and night becomes early morning, he loses hope she’s just gone out for some fresh air around the block. She’s most likely taken a taxi to her mum’s vacant flat; he knows she has a key. The more time that passes, the less possible it seems she will be coming back anytime soon. Still, he stays up, waiting.

At five in the morning, he sends her one last message. I understand if you need some space, he types, because he does, even if he wishes she didn’t. I’ll leave you be. Just know that the doors are always open.

He looks at the text and winces slightly at his own words. If the doors weren’t always open, his ex-lover wouldn’t have let herself in, and he wouldn’t be sitting here with his hundredth glass of whiskey, typing another text the Detective won’t respond to. 

Of all the ways he thought the night would end, this was not one of them.

He deletes the full stop in the last sentence and adds two words at the end: Just know that the doors are always open for you.

With a defeatist sigh, he hits send. 

He doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he’s startled awake by the loud, silvery ping of his phone. He frantically grabs it from where it’s lying next to him on the couch, heart in his throat, and lifts it to see that it’s—finally—a message from her.

Thanks, it says. Nothing else. No x at the end. No emoji. Just that. But it’s a response.

Behind it, a goofy selfie of the both of them from that wedding they attended together smiles innocently at him. He locks his phone with a click. 

At least he’s got a sign of life now.

…

He tries to go about his day as if it were any other Sunday, but it’s impossible. Because his Sundays usually involve kindheartedly annoying Chloe, trying (and failing) to win against her in Monopoly, or at least chatting to her once in a while and making her a cup of coffee. 

When she’s away for work and he has some time on his hands (and he often does), he usually cleans. But he cleaned the living room rather thoroughly yesterday, and the Detective did the rest of the rooms. He has some suits that need to be dry cleaned, but he doesn’t want to go out of the house in case she comes back, so he doesn’t go to get groceries either. They don't really need anything anyway; Chloe has shopped for nearly the whole week. He sweeps the balcony and cleans the hot tub, and, once that’s done, resorts to re-organising the kitchen drawers, arranging his books based on how much he liked the author in real life, and then sorting his collections of pocket squares and sex toys by colour and function, respectively. It keeps him busy for a few hours, but it doesn’t keep him from checking his off-silent phone every five minutes.

It’s not lost on him that he hasn’t tried his two go-to modes of distraction, but he’s not in the mood for either drugs or sex. He doesn’t even want sex with himself. He just wants her. Here. Not even in his bed, just… here. In the penthouse. With him.

He wants to call her, even if it’s going to roll over to voicemail. He wants to leave a thousand voicemails until she finally picks up. He wants to go to her, show up at the doorstep of her mum’s flat, knock on the door and beg her to come back. 

But he doesn’t. He said he’d give her some space, and his word is his bond. 

He’s still a little confused as to what happened last night. Did the Detective really think he’d invite someone over for sex when he was going on a date with her? If she doesn’t think that, if she actually buys into his (true) explanation… then why is she still mad? Or sad? Or whatever emotion that’s making her stay away from him? 

Does she… Did she realise it wouldn’t work out between them? That she doesn’t feel for him in that way? That… they can’t live together anymore?

In hopes of drowning out his thoughts, he sits down to play at his piano, but it only makes him sadder. It’s not the same when she’s not there to listen.

Dinner is even worse. It’s not seldom he eats on his own, but this is very different from those nights where she’s just working late. He barely eats anything, not that hungry. 

He’d lived alone for five years before her, and yet the penthouse never felt this empty.

…

She doesn’t come home that night either.

He installs a lock on the elevator the next day and texts her the code in case she comes home. She doesn’t. Not that day, nor the following day. Not even to pick up some clothes. For each time the sun sets and she hasn’t come back, he loses a little more hope that she will.

Maze calls him after a couple of days. He doesn’t answer. When she sends him an angry text asking him why the fuck the elevator won’t take her to his penthouse, he doesn’t answer either.

On Tuesday, five days after she left, he goes to see Linda. It’s just his regular, weekly appointment, but it suits him fine. He hasn’t talked to anyone since Thursday, his unresponded texts notwithstanding. 

They talk about what happened. The date. The kiss. The not so happy ending. Linda asks him how it makes him feel, the fact that she left like that. Lucifer doesn’t know where to begin, how to put it into words, but he tries: 

Sad. Afraid. Lonely. And if he’s being honest with himself—and you should always try to be honest with yourself in therapy—a little mad. At himself, for giving people the impression they can just barge into their home whenever they desire and for not getting a lock for the elevator a little sooner, but also at Chloe. She just… left. She barely even let him explain himself. She still won’t let him explain himself—won’t talk to him, apart from that single one-worded message. Thanks.

Linda praises him for giving her space, says something about growth and progress. He smiles half-heartedly. At least he’s doing something right. She asks him what he’d like to say to Chloe, when they talk about what happened—Linda strongly encourages that they do, and far be it for Lucifer to disagree with her. It’s Chloe who doesn’t want to talk.

He says he wants to tell her that he wishes their date hadn’t ended like that. That he’d like to start over and try again. Unless she’d rather they put everything past them, forget it happened (he can’t, but he can pretend, for her), and just be friends like they were before. He wants to tell her he’s missed her. That he’s sorry. He’s sorry he ruined their date. Their… their kiss. He’s sorry she thinks it was a mistake. He’s sorry he’s not… good enough.

He says all the things he’d like to say to her to Linda, and then he goes back to a penthouse that’s as empty as he left it.

Until the elevator chimes an hour later, and Chloe comes back home.

…

They don’t talk about what happened. Not really. He waits for an earful from her, the harsh, verbal slap he deserves, but it doesn’t come. Instead she tells him he hasn’t done anything wrong. She just… needed some time away for a bit. To think. 

She doesn’t say much more than that, and he doesn’t dig for more, because she’s home. Now they can finally get back to normal.

Except… it doesn’t feel like normal. 

They have dinner together almost every night like they used to, but there’s not a lot of their smooth, delicious banter; there’s more uncomfortable silence and basic questions about work. The flirty undertone there was before is gone.

But she’s here. And she rolls her eyes and smiles at the jokes he makes, and that’s good enough for him.

It gets a little better with time. Their banter sneaks its way back and they start teasing each other again. They watch Bones and play board games, although not as often as they used to. The Detective works a lot, often late.

By the time two weeks have passed since she came back, things are fine between them. They’re not exactly where they were before, but not in a bad or awkward place either. The possibility of them someday getting back to normal feels within reach.

But only for a moment, because then, everything changes.

…

Lucifer hums as he saunters through the different aisles at the market. He’s in no rush and in surprisingly good spirits, taking his time picking out nice, fresh ingredients for dinner and a few delicacies too, just because. He pays for everything with a smile and friendly greetings to the vendors. 

With his arms full of brown bags stuffed with all kinds of delicious goods, he makes his way down the street to his car. He’s close to the Detective’s work—perhaps he should pop into the nearest coffee shop and drop by the precinct with a tall non-fat almond milk latte with sugar-free caramel drizzle. He’s not sure if she’d be that fond of him turning up at her work unannounced, but she did look a bit tired this morning, definitely like someone who could use–

The Detective. She’s- she’s there. Sitting outside a small café across the street and having lunch. Her hair is wound into a tight, low bun the way it only is for work, and she’s wearing her uniform, something he rarely gets to see. He smiles, wanting to go over there and tease her about loving a woman in uniform, because if she’s got time for a lunch like that, she’s got time for his well-meaning comments.

But as he goes to cross the street and takes his first step—he notices him.

The man sitting across from her.

Lucifer stops immediately. He frowns, racking his brain to figure out who this man is, but he comes up with nothing. Maybe it’s someone she works with. He’s wearing regular clothes—depressingly basic—and most of the people she talks about are officers like her, but still. He could be a colleague. 

… A colleague who’s resting his hand on top of hers. 

Lucifer watches them, searches for any sign that Chloe is uncomfortable with the man’s touch, but… she looks anything but. She doesn’t move her hand from under his, even if it means she has to eat her tamales one-handed. She even laughs at something he says, genuine and beautiful. The man smiles. The Detective smiles back at him.

Lucifer swallows.

He looks down at the pavement with a grimace, having seen enough, and then he walks away.

…

“How was your lunch?” he asks her casually as he’s cooking dinner later. 

She closes the fridge and unscrews the cap of her water bottle. “It was fine?” She gives him a quizzical look. “Thank you.” 

“Did you enjoy your tamales?”

Her brows knit together in even more confusion. “I- How d’you know?”

“I was in the area,” he replies simply, nodding to the brown bags on the counter, branded with the market’s logo. 

Chloe slowly follows his gaze. “Oh.”

“But you seemed quite preoccupied, so I didn’t want to interrupt…” He stirs a bit in the wok on the stove and glances up at her. “Who is he?”

Something unreadable flickers across her face. Part of it is surprise he can tell. Another part tints her cheeks pink.  “Ah… He’s Dan,” she says. “He’s a Detective I’ve worked with.”

So he was a colleague. “You looked rather friendly with him,” Lucifer notes, trying his best to sound neutral.

The Detective puts the cap back on her bottle and goes to sit on a bar stool in front of him. “Well, he- he is a friend. Sort of. I’m- we’re…” She takes a small, deep breath and meets his gaze. “We’re dating, actually.”

Lucifer feels it like a punch to his stomach. It’s the answer he’d expected, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. 

He averts his gaze, turning his focus back to the stir-fry. He feels her eyes on him, awaiting his reaction. 

“I see,” is all he says. 

It’s quiet for a long second, before she changes the subject. “What did you get at the market?”

He puts on a smile and tells her, about the ingredients for this new dish he’s making, bought from the most lovely Chinese grocers, the truffle oil and the Indian chilli-flavoured chocolate he couldn’t resist buying, the tea he thought she might like. She smiles at him, but all he can think about is how she’d smiled at that man. The man she’s dating. Dan.

Lucifer already doesn’t like him. 

…

He’s not that worried in the beginning. It’s not like Chloe hasn’t gone on dates before. She’ll go out with someone for one night, occasionally go home with them if she feels like it, and then she’ll come back home, and that’s it. A flash in the pan. There’s no reason it wouldn’t be the same this time. 

But… for some reason, it’s not. Because this time, she doesn’t just go on one date. She continues working a lot, often coming home well after dinner, sometimes with a smell of cheap men’s cologne lingering on her. And when she is home, she sends and receives an awful lot of texts. More than she used to, at least. 

It gives him an odd feeling. Like a fat man sitting on his chest—but not in a fun way. “You’re jealous,” Linda says when he tells her about it, and he scoffs, because the Devil doesn’t get jealous. 

He’s just… He just wishes she was home more often. Like she used to.

…

Chloe feels something flutter in her belly as she sees a text from Dan. 

Can’t wait to see you x

She smiles, but doesn’t reply. She’ll see him soon anyway.

She applies some lip gloss as the finishing touch and checks herself in the mirror one last time before she leaves her bedroom. 

“Oh, good, there you are!” Lucifer smiles at her as she comes up the stairs. “The pizzas just got here. Or pizze as they say in- wait… where are you going?” His cheerful face falls into a frown as he takes her in. All dressed up with a clutch in her hand, car keys dangling from her fingers.

Chloe looks at the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and the wine glasses waiting to be filled. The TV, all set-up and ready to play the newest episode of Bones.

Guilt sinks like a heavy stone to her stomach. 

“I’m going out with Dan,” she reminds him, glancing down at her keys. 

Lucifer’s shoulders slump, his confusion turning into obvious, heart-wrenching disappointment. Chloe knows he tries to hide it, but it doesn’t matter; she knows him too well. 

“Oh. Right,” he says. “I forgot.”

“I’m sorry,” is all she can think to say, although she doesn’t know why. She’s got no reason to apologise for spending the evening with the guy she’s dating. So why does she feel like she has to?

“It’s all right,” he tries to assure her, but it’s not that convincing. Not when he looks like that, eyes sad and small, lips barely forming a smile.

“We’ll do it another time?” she offers. 

His lips twitch just a fraction upwards, but it looks forced. Fake. “Yes. Another time.”

She tries to give him a reassuring smile and nods to the steaming pizzas on the counter. “Will you save me some?”

He smiles, for real this time, although it’s got a melancholic edge to it. “Of course.” He looks down his suit and brushes some invisible lint off his shirt. “I’m not that big of a fan, anyway.”

Chloe presses her lips together around a smile, her chest aching with a memory. Of the first time they had pizza together, one of the very first nights she stayed here. She’d just ordered some for herself, thinking Lucifer was eating out (or eating someone out), but then he’d been home, and she’d insisted they share it. He’d been disdainful at first, of how messy and greasy it was, watching her eat with an almost appalled look on his face. She’d asked him if he’d really never had pizza before, to which he’d replied, “Yes, but never like that.” Then he’d pulled out a fork and knife (from God knows where, because they didn’t have a kitchen then) and Chloe had almost laughed directly into his face. Of course, he’d eat pizza with cutlery. At least until the point she’d made enough fun of him that he’d tried to eat it like a normal person… and then—to Chloe’s amusement and Lucifer’s horror—immediately gotten sauce and cheese on his suit. 

So yes, she knows he’s not a big fan of pizza. And yet, he’d still ordered pizza for them tonight. They have pizza pretty often, actually. Or at least… they used to. 

Before she left, and came back. Before she started spending her evenings with someone else. 

As irony would have it, the place Dan has chosen for them is a small, Italian-inspired eatery. Close to work, because he’s coming directly from there, and he’s practical like that. He orders a pizza. Chloe doesn’t. It’s greasy with cheese and pepperoni and not very Italian. It doesn’t seem to bother him.

He just eats it, like a normal person. 

…

Lucifer is still up when she comes back. He’s on the balcony, having a smoke, definitely not waiting for her to come home. She doesn’t seem to notice him as she steps inside the penthouse, looking slightly dazed and with a content smile on her face.  

The only comfort he gets is the sight of her necklace still hanging around her neck, shiny and silver. 

…

“You’re going on an awful lot of dates with that Dave,” Lucifer notes as he watches the Detective go through the stuff in her fanciest black clutch on the kitchen counter.

She glances up at him, a hint of annoyance in her eyes. “His name is Dan.” She turns back to her searching. “And we’ve only been on three dates.”

“So tonight is your fourth,” he concludes. 

Chloe looks up at him again, brows slightly pulled together in surprise and confusion. She hasn’t told him where she’s going, but it’s not that hard to tell.

“You’re wearing a new dress,”—he nods to the short, black, quite flattering dress under her oversized blazer—“you’d never spend that long on your make-up if you were just going out with friends, and you’re wearing perfume.”

She smiles at him, but it’s wry at the edges. “You watch too much Sherlock.” Her tone is too nettled to just be teasing. 

“But I’m right,” he says. “You’re going out with him.” It’s not a question.

“Yes,” she confirms and stops rummaging about in her purse to meet his gaze. “Do you have a problem with that?”

He crosses his legs on the piano bench and lets his whiskey glass rest on his knee. “I just think you should tread carefully, Detective. I mean, what do you really know about this man? He could be a murderer for all you know.”

She sends him a look. “He’s a homicide detective.”

“Yes, quite the perfect cover-up for a killer, wouldn’t you say?”

He expects her to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t even seem to acknowledge him. She just checks the time on her wrist and starts looking through her clutch with even more stress.

“I hope our conversation isn’t ruining your romantic evening with Dan.” His words are drenched in sarcasm; he does hope he’s ruining it. He hopes he’s making her late. Just the thought gives him an ugly and strong sense of satisfaction. The fact that he’s taking her time away from him. 

She snaps her eyes to his. “What is with your sudden obsession with my love life?”

Lucifer scoffs. “Obsession…” He’s not obsessed. He’s just… taking an interest in her well-being. Like he always has. 

She crosses her arms and stares at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, agitated breaths. Her eyes spark with anger. "You know, if you wanted to be the one dating me, maybe you shouldn't bring other people over."

Indignation flares inside him. “That was not my fault, Detective! I already told you, I didn’t invite Maria! She just-”

“No, but you know her name,” she cuts him off sharply. “You know the name of almost everyone in LA because you’ve had sex with them, and I can’t even date one—one guy”—she gestures aggressively at him with her clutch—”without you acting like a jealous prick? You’re such a hypocrite, Lucifer.”

“Hypocrite?” A feeling of unfairness spreads through him like a wildfire. “Detective, I haven’t-” He cuts himself off.

She frowns, narrowing her eyes at him. “Haven’t what?”

His teeth grit. “Nothing.” He shifts his legs on the piano bench. “But stones and glass houses and all that on your clear indifference to my… relationships.” The word tastes odd in his mouth. He’s not sure ‘relationship’ is the right term. Inconsequential lovers, more like. There’s only one person he’s ever wanted a relationship with. 

“You and I are very different,” she says, her voice hard and defensive. “I don’t bring Dan here. I don’t shove him in your face.” 

“No, you just constantly text him when you’re home and sneak off on dates with him every bloody chance you get.”

“I don’t sneak-“

A sickening thought suddenly hits him, the fire blazing in his chest immediately put out by ice-cold dread. He almost doesn’t dare ask, but he needs to know.

“Have you kissed him?”

An indecipherable expression flashes across her face. “That’s none of your business.”

“That’s a yes then.”

“Why do you care?” she asks.

Because you kissed me! he wants to scream. “Who says I do?” he says instead.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “The fact that we’re even having this conversation tells me you do.” 

Lucifer huffs and adjusts the cuffs of his shirts. 

"Seriously, what's the matter with you?” The look in her eyes is wild and irritated. “I've been on dates before. You've never acted like this."

His jaw clenches. He avoids her gaze. “This is different.”

“How is this different?” she demands, as if she really doesn’t know, as if nothing has changed for her. And all the anger that’s been building inside him since he first saw her with someone else suddenly rises to the surface.

He stands up in a flash, slamming his glass down on the piano. “BECAUSE WE-“  He stops himself short, the words lodged in his throat.

“Because-“ he tries again, his breaths quick and heavy.

She looks at him with wide, expectant eyes.

He averts his gaze. “Because. It just is.”

“Lucifer, I don’t have time for this.” 

He snaps his eyes back to her. “No, all you have time for is Dan.” 

“He’s my boyfriend!”

Lucifer recoils. The words sting like a thorn bush, sharp and painful. He tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Right. Well. I didn’t realise you were one to get serious so quickly.” 

The look in her eyes softens ever so slightly. “Well, it’s not that quick,” she defends, but her voice is calm and not heated, unlike before. “I’ve been seeing him for two months.” 

Lucifer doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t agree. Two months is that quick. At least considering it’s only been two months, two weeks, and five days since he was the one she was going on a date with. It almost feels like a different lifetime. A distant dream. Forever gone and out of reach.

“This doesn’t have to change anything between us,” she insists, and perhaps it’s in his imagination, but she almost sounds like she’s trying to convince herself too.

Lucifer isn’t convinced. He almost scoffs at the absurdity. “Doesn’t it?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Because I’m quite sure it already has, Detective.”

“Well, only because you let it!” she snaps, the heated anger back at full force. “You don’t have to act like this! You don’t have to look like I’ve betrayed you every time I get a fucking text! Dan has nothing to do with you.”

Fury boils inside him. “Do you think I choose to feel like this?!”

Something shifts in her eyes. “Like what?”

He presses his mouth shut. 

“Like what, Lucifer?”

He lifts his chin. “Does it matter to you?”

A flash of hurt passes across her face. She turns her gaze away from him and heaves a tired sigh. “I can’t… I can’t deal with this.” Her voice is croaky.

“Well, then I’m going to make it easy for you.” He grabs his whiskey glass from the piano and turns to go to the balcony. It feels good. Right. To be the one walking away for once. “And by the way,” he says, not bothering to turn to look at her, “they’re in the pocket of your beige leather jacket.”

Out on the balcony, he leans against the railing and decidedly keeps his back to the penthouse. He hears her click her clutch shut, but he doesn’t see her hurriedly go to look in her jacket for her car keys. He doesn’t see the look on the face when she finds them exactly where he said they’d be. He doesn’t see her send Dan a text apologising for being late, and he doesn’t see the glance she casts in Lucifer’s direction before she pushes the button for the elevator. He hears the ding as the doors open, but he doesn’t see her step inside and leave him again. He doesn’t see her let out a visibly shaky breath once she’s alone. He doesn’t see her sniff and swallow the tight lump in her throat.

He doesn’t see her clench her eyes shut and try her best not to cry.

…

He goes down to Lux once she’s gone. It’s still early, but the floor is already packed with people. They’re drinking and dancing like they’ve got no worries in life, or like they’re trying to escape them. Lucifer joins them.

He parties like he hasn’t partied in months. He drinks until he’s lost count on how much and sniffs a line every time the offer comes up. He revels in the deafening cheers from the patrons as he performs on the piano, wild and hectic, and dances with every beautiful stranger who hits on him.

He lets their hands wander over his body and bends his neck to listen to whatever filthy things they have to say. Lets their fingers trail up to unbutton the first buttons on his shirt and their lips brush against his neck. He even lets them grind against him and moan his name in want and desperation. 

But he doesn’t let them kiss him. And he doesn’t take any of them home.

He can’t.

It doesn’t matter how attractive they are, or that he used to leap at any chance to fulfil his carnal desires. It doesn’t matter that a small part of him secretly likes the idea of the Detective finding someone in his bed when she comes home from her little date, and it doesn’t matter that it’s been several months since he had sex with another person.

He just… doesn’t want to.

…

He comes home in the early morning, alone and reeking of alcohol and self-pity.

The Detective’s already up, sitting at the kitchen counter with her morning coffee. “You look like Hell,” she greets him. 

He snorts. “Ba-dum-tss. Never heard that before.” He goes straight to pour himself some coffee, but the French press is empty. Apparently she’d only made enough for herself. He pours himself some whiskey instead and downs it in one go.

“I didn’t know when you’d be home,” she explains, slight guilt in her voice.

Lucifer hums non-committedly and pours more whiskey into the glass.

“Did you have fun?” she asks.

He looks up at her with a wry smile. “Best night of my life,” he replies and takes a swig of whiskey. His throat feels like an ashtray. 

He decidedly doesn’t ask her if she had fun. If she did, he doesn’t want to know. 

“Look, I’m sorry about the way we ended things last night,” she says, putting down her mug on the counter. “We both could have handled that better.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “You definitely could.”

“C’mon, Lucifer! I’m trying to be the bigger person here.” 

“Surely, you can see that’s rather impossible.” He gestures down himself with his free hand. 

“Can you just act your age for once?” Her eyes are hard and irritated. “Do you honestly think you have any say over my life?”

Her words jab at something deep inside him, something inside his very core. He straightens his spine and holds her gaze, instantly serious. “No, of course not.“

“Then you need to stop acting like you do.” She wraps her hands around her mug. “We're friends, Lucifer. But that doesn't mean you’re the only person in my life. You're going to have to accept that. “

He barely listens to what she’s saying, because he suddenly notices her neck. Or rather, what’s missing around her neck. 

The penthouse is dark and quiet when he finally comes home. The only light is the dim glow from the elevator, just illuminating the empty prosecco glasses and ripped wrapping paper on the coffee table—and the two women sleeping on the sofa.  Lucifer’s lips twitch at the sight. Miss Lopez is almost lying in Doctor Linda’s lap, wearing her glasses, it seems, while Linda’s sleeping in a slanted position that looks anything but comfortable. On the coffee table, he can just make out the outline of a glass box containing a sharp, glinting knife that can only be a gift from one person.

A slight sense of alleviation spreads in his chest. He’s glad they could be here when he wasn’t. 

But still… the bad conscience that’s lived like a heavy stone in his stomach since he had to leave barely after they’d had breakfast this morning is still very much there.

Sulphur and ash cling to his suit and skin, and he should probably take a shower—he is going to take a shower—but first, he needs to check on her. 

He quietly makes his way down the stairs to her bedroom. Thankfully, her door is open. He peers inside, making sure she’s decent, before he steps inside.

He must have been louder going down the stairs than he intended, or maybe she heard the ding of the elevator, because she sits up in bed with a yawn and reaches over to turn on her bedside lamp, bathing her room in a soft light. Her face is bare from make-up and her hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and she looks… rather adorable.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, lingering in the doorway.

She rubs her eyes, and her voice is raspy and unbearably soft as she says, “Yeah, but it’s okay.”

He walks over to her bed and, tentatively, sits down on it. “How- how was your day?”

“Good,” she nods. “I went to work after you… after breakfast.” She looks down at her duvet.

Lucifer looks down too, guilt weighing on him.

He’s grateful when she continues. “Ella had… well, let’s just say her birthday surprise wasn’t exactly G-rated.”

He looks up at her with a lifted eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh? Do tell.”

“It was pretty much like your ‘gift’ for me last year,” she explains, making air quotes around “gift”, even though it was quite a thoughtful and legitimate present he gave her. “Except there was only one stripper cop this time.”

Lucifer snorts in mock-derision. “Only one? Sounds boring.”

He means it playfully, but the Detective looks serious as she gazes into his eyes and says, “Yeah. A bit, actually.”

Lucifer swallows. His mouth feels dry. He clears his throat. “And after that?” 

She shifts a bit on the bed, getting more comfortable. “Ella, Linda and Maze invited themselves over for sushi and wine. And then we just… had sushi and drank wine. And Ella suggested we play this insane version of charades, and we did, and it was… pretty fun actually. We borrowed some things from your closet. I hope you don’t mind.” The tip of her ears turn a little pink.

“Not at all,” he assures her with a smile that quickly turns wistful. “I wish I could have seen it.”

She gives him a smile back, small and faint. “Me too.” 

The look in her eyes makes something clench inside his chest, prodding at his bad conscience, and he’s suddenly overcome with the urge to say something.

“I’m sorry I just left without telling you why or where.” He glances away for a second before he meets her gaze. “The truth is… I had to sort out a rather urgent and critical matter in… well, let’s just say I would much rather have been here with you and our friends, drinking prosecco and playing party games.” 

Her lips twitch into something genuine. She looks like she believes him. He’s glad. He couldn’t bear it if she thought he’d leave her on her birthday unrepentantly.

“But now that I am here and you’re awake, would you like your present?”

She tilts her head a bit, an endearing look of curiosity and surprise in her eyes. “My present?”

He smiles and reaches out his hand for her to take. “Come on.”

She hesitantly pulls back her covers and grabs his hand as she gets out of bed. Their eyes fall on her attire at the same time. 

She blushes. Lucifer grins. “Looks better on you than me.” His gaze flickers over her and the white dress shirt she’s wearing. His white dress shirt.

She purses her lips around a smile and blushes even more

He leads her up the stairs and through the living room to his bedroom. “Please, take a seat.” He nods to his bed and turns on the bedside lamps before he goes to unlock his safe, punching in the code as he glances back at her. When it opens with a gentle click, he takes out the small, square box that’s been in there for a couple of months now, and goes to sit next to the Detective on the bed. 

“Forgive my tardiness, but I was in quite a rush this morning.” He hands her the gift and she takes it with an impossibly soft smile that only makes his pulse quicken even more. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, before she’s even opened it. 

He smiles back at her and watches her open it with bated breath. 

She pulls off the lid and puts it aside, glancing up at him as she pulls out the necklace nestled in there.  She lets out a breath of surprise as she holds it up by the chain. The silver gleams in the dim light as the pendant twirls in the air. “It’s beautiful!”

“Oh, it’s…” Lucifer finds himself saying, almost feeling a little sheepish.

She studies it for a bit. “What is it?”

He chuckles. “Well, it’s the cufflink.” He gestures to the pendant. “The one you didn’t rip out, remember? On the balcony at that party. The first time we met.” 

“Oh,” she breathes in realisation and nods. “Yeah.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I remember.”

“Well, I thought since you’re the first, and hopefully only, I’d commemorate the one time I brought someone home and didn’t have sex with them,” he explains, nodding to the pendant.

She laughs, and the sound fills every dark corner of his soul with sunshine. 

“So, uh, happy birthday, Detective,” he tells her, his chest light for the first time since Amenadiel dropped him off Downstairs this morning.

She doesn’t say anything, but she smiles, her eyes glistening a bit as she glances down at her gift, and then she reaches out for him. 

He lets out a surprised “oh” and scoots a tad closer to her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. She rubs his back, and he strokes his thumb against her shoulder, leaning into her warmth. 

They stay like that for a moment, before she pulls away. “Put it on me?” she asks, her smile sweet and blinding.

“Of course.” There’s nothing he’d rather do.

She holds it out for him, and he takes it, unclasping the lock as she turns her back slightly to him. He gently brushes away the small hairs at the back of her neck which haven’t made it into her bun and lifts the necklace over her head. The pendant falls with a whispered sound to her chest, and then he locks the clasp behind her neck. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” she says, low and soft, as she turns back around to look at him. She glances down at her new piece of jewellery and holds it between two fingers, studying it.

He’d had the idea almost since her last birthday, when he’d remembered the cufflink lying in his safe, a keepsake from a night that changed his life. Sometime in September, he’d executed on the idea and cashed in a favour from one of LA’s finest jewellers. They’d raised an eyebrow when he’d told them about his plan and showed them the cufflink, but they’d been willing to try. 

And now here it is, hanging around her neck. The very cufflink he once thought would be the only thing except the memory he’d get to keep from the night they met, now molten into a small silver rectangle, rough on the front, and smooth on the back. He’d thought it looked nice when the jeweller had first handed it to him… but it’s nothing compared to the sight of it on her.

“My eyes are up here,” she  chides, but there’s no real heat in it, only gentle teasing.

Lucifer looks up at her and lets out a small, amused huff. “Believe it or not, darling, but I was simply admiring how well it suits you.”

A smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth. “The necklace or your shirt?”

Lucifer grins. “Both.”

Chloe snorts and rolls her eyes, almost automatically reaching up to touch the necklace in question between her fingers. Lucifer can’t help but smile. 

Not a day goes by where he doesn’t see her wearing it after that.

Until now.

Lucifer stares at the bare spot around her neck.

She’s taken it off. 

The sight hits him like an unexpected, numbing blow to the gut. He drags his gaze up to hers. “Yes, Detective,” he says, not knowing what else there is to say.

For a fraction of a second he thinks he might see a flicker of empathy on her face, but it’s gone before he can hang onto it.

“And pull yourself together,” she tells him, eyeing his dishevelled state up and down. “You look like a homeless magician.”

With that she walks off, and Lucifer stares after her and the necklace she’s no longer wearing. 

…

He starts going to Lux more and more often. He might as well fill his nights with drinks and drugs every time the Detective goes on one of her many dates or “works late”. People are as interested in him as they’ve always been, treating him like their deepest carnal desires on legs, but the arousal he expects still doesn’t spark. 

He asks Linda about it, confused and at a loss to understand it. He’s gone back to touching himself, because he does have needs, so it’s not like he’s “miraculously” developed a case of Erectile Dysfunction or Male Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder or any of the other diagnoses he’d come across when he’d googled it in frustration one night. Other people just don’t… do it for him. He recognises a pretty face and a gorgeous body when he sees one, but it doesn’t turn him on. Not anymore. Not enough, at least.

His fantasies, however… 

It’s rather depressing, actually. How little it takes. How it’s the only thing that can get him off these days. Depressing and insanely pathetic, that they’re always, exclusively—with no exception—centred around her.

“Does it bother you that you don’t want to have sex with other people?” Linda asks him. 

Lucifer wavers. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He takes a swig of water and crosses his legs. “Only because it would make it easier.”

“Make what easier?” Linda prompts.

“You know…” he makes a vague gesture and hopes she understands. He’s not sure he does, but that’s what he pays her for, isn’t it? To understand him when he doesn’t understand himself.

“In what way do you think it would make it easier?”

Lucifer uncrosses his legs and leans forward. “Well, if I could just shag someone brainless every night then it could keep my mind off- and I’d- she’d- we’d be-” 

“You’d be even?”

Lucifer doesn’t answer. “How is it so easy for her? How can she just… get a bloody boyfriend right after she and I…” he trails off. “A boyfriend, Doctor.” The word scalds his tongue like it’d scalded his ears when he’d first heard her say it.

Linda gives him that look, like she wants to challenge something he’s said. “What makes you think it’s easy for her?”

Lucifer snorts. “Well, she certainly doesn’t look that troubled when she comes home from a date with him.” In fact, she looks… happy. In a way that sickens him. “And meanwhile I’m…” He gestures down at himself. Normally, he wouldn’t question his own looks, but his looks aren’t “normal” at the minute. He’s got dark circles under his eyes from not having slept in what feels like days. His hair is ruffled from his distressed hands. He even looks thinner, his appetite nearly absent for longer than he cares to remember. 

He heaves a sigh of frustration. ”Why does it have to be like this? This… hard.”

Linda looks at him in sympathy. “All break-ups are hard, in one way or the other. For both parts.”

Lucifer scoffs. “Break-up?” Annoyance curls through his chest. “How can we ‘break up’ when we didn’t even have anything to break in the first place?”

Linda looks at him like there’s something he’s missed. He doesn’t like that look. “Just because we don’t label feelings doesn’t mean they’re not there,” she says, letting the words hang in the air for a moment, before she continues.

“You and Chloe have a deep, special bond that goes way beyond your date and your kiss. You may not have called it anything apart from ‘friendship’ but that doesn’t mean your feelings for each other aren’t as strong as people who are in a relationship—they might even be stronger in some cases. And when that bond is threatened, unnamed as it is, it can be very distressing.” 

“Yes, well, I don’t want to be distressed, so, please, Doctor, tell me how to make it go away!” His voice is high and shaky with desperation. 

Linda gives him a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Lucifer, but I’m afraid there are no quick fixes for a broken heart.”

Lucifer exhales in exasperation and looks down. He can’t bear the look of pity in her eyes.

“Have you tried telling Chloe how you feel?” she asks him.

He looks up at her. “What, exactly, shal I tell her, Doctor?” He puts his glass down on the table and holds her gaze for a moment, irritation and so many other emotions he doesn’t like burning inside him. “That I hate that she’s with Detective Douche, even though he makes her happy?” His breaths turn quicker. “That I can’t stop thinking about her, like a simpering sap? That I haven’t had sex with anyone since our date, or a month before that? That I miss her, even when she’s there? That- that for a moment I felt like maybe, just maybe I could find an inkling of real happiness in this long, miserable existence just for it to be ruined… by… by…" He inhales shakily. 

“Yes,” Linda says. “That’s exactly what you should tell her.”

Lucifer scoffs. “Well, I can’t.”

Linda seems unconvinced. “Why not?”

“Because…” He lets out a trembling breath. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. She deserves someone better. Someone worthy of her… and that isn’t me.” It hurts to say it out loud, a sharp pain piercing through his chest. It hurts because it’s true.

“Did she say that?” Linda asks, a hint of scepticism in her eyes.

“No, it’s what I’m saying.”

Linda leans back in her chair, resting her folded hands on her notepad. “What makes you think you’re not worthy of her?”

“I’m the Devil, Doctor,” he reminds her, anger lacing his tone. “I’ve- I’ve hurt people- tortured people. And she doesn’t even know. She doesn’t know who I really am. That I’m… a monster.” He looks to the side, aeons worth of shame and self-loathing weighing on him, clawing at him.

“When is Chloe’s birthday?” is all his therapist says.

Lucifer glances up at her, not sure if he heard her correctly. She seems to be waiting patiently for his answer. Lucifer frowns. 

“6th of November,” he responds. “Why?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she asks him another odd question. “What’s my go-to drink?”

Lucifer hesitates, not because he has to think about the answer, but because he’s never been this confused in a therapy session. “Well, you always appreciate a sex on the beach,” he eventually replies.  

“And Amenadiel’s?”

Slight amusement tugs at his lips. “Cosmopolitan.”

“What’s Maze’s most precious possession?” she asks next.

“Her demon blades,” he answers quickly, but thinks for a moment and adds, “And the blanket her mother gave her, but that belongs to the urchin now.”

Linda smiles. “And what’s Ellie’s favourite toy?”

Lucifer’s brows knit together. He doesn’t know where all these trivia questions are coming from, but he answers anyway. “The- the plushy caterpillar with the abominable combination of colours.” He shifts on the couch. “Seriously, Doctor, what’s the point of this? I thought we were supposed to talk about me.” 

“The point is…” she says slowly, looking into his eyes, “that you care.” She’s quiet for a second before she continues. “You care about the people in your life. You care about their birthdays, their preferences, their feelings. What makes them happy. That doesn’t seem very ‘monstrous’ to me.”

Lucifer’s jaw clenches. “Just because I know when the Detective was born, doesn’t change the fact that I’ve done atrocious things. It doesn’t change what I am.” 

“It may not change that you’re the Devil,” Linda agrees, “but maybe it can change who the Devil is. Maybe it means that the Devil is caring, and kind. Someone who is worthy.”

Lucifer grumbles and scoffs. Even if he was worthy of Chloe—that still doesn’t change anything, does it? He can’t tell her how he feels. Because Linda is right; he does care. There’s no one he cares more about than Chloe. And for some reason, inexplicable and frustrating as it is, she seems to care about Dan. 

So he doesn’t tell her how he feels. There’s no point. She’s happy, or so it seems. If he confessed his feelings, he’d only risk losing her. And he doesn’t want that.

If being her friend and living with her is all he gets… he can live with that.

But that doesn’t mean he’s happy about her and Dan together.

…

More than three months pass from they start dating till Lucifer meets the man. For three months, he manages to avoid him. And then suddenly, he’s just standing in Lucifer’s living room—their living room—holding hands with the Detective.

She lets go of his hand the second she realises Lucifer is there, but it’s no matter. He already saw it. Saw them, smiling as they stepped out of the elevator, into their home.

Upon the sight of him—this time a closer look than the first time Lucifer saw him—the Detective’s choice of lover becomes even less understandable. He’s not ugly, but not mind-bogglingly handsome either. Normal in such a boring way it’s not even funny. He’s wearing jeans, and a hoodie underneath his jacket, and that says it all, doesn’t it? If this is how little effort he puts into his looks more than three months into their… dating… well, then it can only get worse from here. 

Lucifer appraises him sceptically. As the Detective goes to change into something else—something that’ll make her look even better and even further out of this man’s league—Lucifer leans back against the bar and stays silent first. He has no interest in getting to know the man. Eventually, Dan initiates a conversation, only to speak teasingly, almost mockingly of the Detective and her career ambitions, and it only stokes Lucifer’s burning suspicion that this man is not right for her. 

Lucifer stalks towards him, needing to just ask him one question. He makes sure the man is looking right at him, and asks—

“Tell me, Detective Douche. What is it you truly desire?”

His face slackens instantly, and Lucifer sneers internally at how very uncomplicated this one is. 

Lucifer only faintly registers the Detective’s protests as she comes up the stairs; he’s too busy waiting for the Douche’s answer. 

“I want to be with Chloe,” he says. At first, Lucifer thinks he means he just wants to use her for sex and then toss her aside, but the man starts stuttering at that and explains that he simply really likes Chloe. And he seems genuine. Like he really does just find her amazing and wants to be with her.

Depressingly, Lucifer realises they have more in common than he thought. 

The Detective doesn’t seem happy about him questioning her date. She shoots him a scolding look, anger flickering in her eyes, and pulls the petty excuse of a man towards the elevator. 

“I’ll be home late,” is the last thing she says before they leave for their date. And that’s the biggest difference between Lucifer and Dan—apart from the obvious aesthetic inequality: Detective Douche actually gets to be with her.

Lucifer lets out a frustrated sigh the second the elevator doors close. 

Lucky bastard.

…

He stays in the penthouse for a bit, thinking. Then he shoots Maze a text, asking if she wants to go out for the night. He’s not particularly in the mood for debauchery, but… as much as he doesn’t love the idea of Chloe and him together, he doesn’t want to be in the way of her happiness. 

He stays away until noon the next day, giving Dan plenty of time to disappear in case she’s brought him home. He finds Chloe enjoying a cup of tea on the balcony, alone, one of her YA books lying open and forgotten in her lap. 

In the most neutral manner he can muster, he asks her about her date. She smiles. “It was… nice.” And along with the fact that something just seems different about her, it leaves Lucifer with no doubt; she’s had sex with him.

It gives him a sickening feeling, a dull, hollow ache twisting through his chest, but, as he tells her, he just wants her to be happy. 

As difficult as it is to see her be happy with someone else. 

Late at night, when sleep can’t find him and his thoughts roam in the darkness, Lucifer wonders– worries what will happen if she stays with him. He’s no fool; he knows she can’t keep living with him forever. Not when she’s in a relationship with someone else. Eventually, she’ll move out—and in with him. They’ll get married. Start a family. 

Live together. 

And Lucifer will stay here, left with nothing but the taunting ghost of what could have been. 

He thinks about it until nausea rolls over him in a nearly stifling wave.

He forces it down.

He imagines what would happen if she didn’t stay with him. But it doesn’t matter. Lucifer will lose her either way. Eventually. If he tells her how he feels and reveals himself to her—or if he does nothing and lets her slip like sand between his fingers. In one she’ll run from him completely. Hate him even. In the other, she’ll fade away into a life without him in it. One will tear his heart from his chest and leave him with a dark, ravaging hole.  The other will slowly kill him, as a human cut off from oxygen. 

Whichever it is, it’s out of his hands. 

…

Four months pass in total. Four months of jealousy, despair and agony—until it all ends. Right at his piano.

“Dan and I broke up,” she tells him, still wearing her jacket and shoes, and Lucifer is… confused. He thought she was happy with Dan.

“So did I,” she says, and first then, knowing she’s okay, he’s overcome with a sudden rush of relief only exceeded by the time the doctors told him she’d survive the gunshot to her shoulder. 

It seems… unreal at first. That it’s just the two of them again. He doesn’t quite believe it. Not until he comes home one day and finds her standing in the kitchen with two pizza boxes—and wearing her necklace. 

“I know you’re not a big fan of pizza…” she says, looking unsure, but so, so sweet. Her necklace glistens in the evening sun. 

With an awed smile and a tight, pleasant ache in his chest, he assures her, “I like pizza very much.”

The way she lights up makes him want to sigh.

They eat and chat and joke and laugh. Their banter is back. He teases her, she teases him. And they smile. They smile so much. 

For the first time in four months, Lucifer feels at home. 

Still, as a reminder that nothing lasts forever, it looms at the far back of his mind: Someday, he’ll have to show her the truth. 

But for now, he’ll pour some more wine into their glasses and offer her a slice of his pizza.