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Lucifer rolls his shoulders slightly against the sudden ache as he steps up to the Detective’s apartment door. He suspects the apprehension of what he’s about to do is getting to him, affecting him physically. After all, the Detective makes him vulnerable, and Dr. Linda says stress can manifest in different ways. He doesn’t get it entirely, but he’s certainly stressed at the moment.
After the day they’ve had, he wonders if this is even the best idea. He’s changed his mind a dozen times on the way over, but refused to turn around. It’s long past time he did this; if anybody deserves to know the truth about him, it’s Chloe. Dr. Linda helped him see that he needs to give her the choice about whether to remain his friend or not. The drive to tell Chloe the truth, to finally let her in and give her a choice is higher than ever.
When it comes to most humans, he knows precisely how they react—reduced to a puddle of mindless whimpering, blithering terror. He’s seen it countless times and for the most part, never saw those humans again. Dr. Linda was an anomaly. It took two weeks for her to return his phone calls, but she chose to continue as his therapist—and his friend. He hopes that Chloe might react similarly. Even if it takes time for her to come to terms with what he is, perhaps she will make the same choice, to remain his friend, his partner. His Detective.
Taking a deep breath, he lifts his fist to knock on the door and freezes. Does he really want to do this? To see Chloe flinch in horror at the sight of him? To watch her run away? To never see her again? She told him on the beach tonight that she knows who he really is; she sees good in him where even he doesn’t. And he likes the way she looks at him. He doesn’t want to lose that.
But how fair is it to her to continue hiding? The longer this goes on, the more he feels as if he’s lying to her, something he never wants to do. Especially not to her.
The door swings open with his fist still in mid-air and on the other side stands the Detective, clearly settling in for the night. She’s changed into a loose long-sleeve shirt and comfortable pants. All her make-up from the day is long gone and her hair hangs around her shoulders in loose, golden waves. Yet again, he’s frozen, this time by how beautiful she is.
She eyes his raised fist and her lips twitch. “Hi.”
“Ah. Hello, Detective.” A bit sheepishly, he lowers his arm and slides his hand into his pocket. “I was just about to knock.”
Her eyebrow lifts, ocean blue eyes dancing in amusement. He wonders just how long he’s been standing out here.
Clearing his throat, he rallies, reminding himself why he’s here. “I assume you got my message?”
Chloe nods, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come inside. “I did. I’ve been waiting for you to get here.”
“Ah,” he says, something like guilt settling in his gut. His hesitation and Los Angeles traffic jams have kept her up past her usual bedtime after an incredibly trying day. “My apologies, Detective. If this is a bad time, we can talk tomorrow, if you like?”
Shaking her head, she again gestures for him to come inside. “No, it’s fine. I couldn’t sleep, anyway. I just poured a glass of wine. Do you want one?”
“Perhaps just a small one.” If only to give him something to do with his hands. “Thank you, Detective.” He hesitates to step inside, wondering if this will be the last time he’s welcomed into her home—her life.
She raises an eyebrow again. “Are you okay?” Her eyes narrow on him, studying him. “You seem...stressed.”
Swallowing, he can't seem to formulate an answer as he finally steps across the threshold, inhaling the vanilla scented candle she’s burning. It reminds him of her. Perhaps it’s slightly creepy to know what she smells like, but they’ve been in close proximity for a year and a half now; and he rather likes her scent. Quite a bit.
Shaking himself, he stops in the middle of the apartment and turns back to her as she grabs two wine glasses from the kitchen. The only lights come from the soft glow above the stove and the fireplace in the living room. Orange flames dance behind the glass doors and he watches them for a moment, thinking of different flames in a place far less welcoming than the Detective’s home.
She hands him a glass of wine that he sets on the peninsula for now, which prompts another raised eyebrow from Chloe. “Well, as I mentioned in my message, Detective, there is something I need to tell you. Or...to show you, rather. You see, it’s recently come to my attention that I’ve been remiss in our friendship. I have always told you the truth, but if I’m being completely honest, I’ve not told you the entire truth. And...well, I want to. I want you to know me—all of me, even the parts I don’t particularly like about myself.”
Chloe furrows her eyebrows. “I don’t... What do you mean, Lucifer?”
“There is a side of me that I’ve kept hidden, because...well, it’s terrifying. And not just about me—my family, my past, where I lived before moving to Los Angeles. You deserve to know the whole truth and it’s time that I told you. That I stopped hiding.”
Confusion flares in her eyes as she sets down her wine glass. “Lucifer, I told you tonight—if you think I don’t know who you really are—”
“I’m wrong,” he finishes with her. “Yes, and I appreciate that more than you can know, Detective, but I want you to know everything. I want for us to be able to speak freely, rather than repeating how this most recent case went. You were right in that I knew more than I let on and I only kept it from you because...I was trying to keep you safe. However, you were wrong about me not trusting you. I do trust you, Detective, more than anybody, which is why I want to give you this choice about whether to...to be my friend.”
Chloe doesn’t say anything, but her confused eyes are scanning his face, his eyes, as if trying to work out where this is going.
“It’s all true, Detective,” he says softly, fervently. “I am the Devil. My father is God. Mazikeen is a demon and Amenadiel is an angel. Before Los Angeles, I spent billions upon billions of years in Hell, ruling over the souls of the damned and demons as punishment for rebellion against my father and Heaven. I came here to Los Angeles to start over, to be my own man and live my own life, and only since I became your partner have I found any...” He searches for the correct word and smiles a little when he does. “Meaning. Purpose. A home.”
She takes a small step towards him, her suspicious expression softening as she returns his smile. “Lucifer...”
He shakes his head, asking her not to interrupt; he needs to get through this before he chickens out again. “I once told you I couldn’t offer any proof like horns and a tail—” Only faintly does he wonder why she averts her eyes briefly and blushes. “—But I’ve...another form of proof. One I had hoped you would never have to see, because...I-I don’t want you to be afraid of me. And when humans see this...proof, they have a tendency to...well, to go a bit mad.”
Lucifer wishes she’d tested that blood sample she had after Malcolm and the hangar instead of listening to Amenadiel. Or maybe an accidental glimpse of his eyes flashing with hellfire. Anything but the full, terrifying blast of his Devil face.
“It’s a punishment, you see, for the guilty. I used it in Hell and occasionally here on Earth.”
Chloe sighs, crossing her arms and looking down. “Lucifer...” she says quietly, shaking her head. “I thought you actually came here to tell me something, but I don’t know if I can deal with this whole Devil metaphor right—”
“That is what I’m trying to tell you, Detective.” He sounds a bit desperate to his own ears. “It isn’t a metaphor. Believe me, I wish it were.” The muscles in his back tighten again and he tries to subtly stretch them, but it only seems to be getting worse.
Ironically, a metaphor for what’s happening here with the Detective. She doesn’t look pleased right now and before long, she is going to lose what little patience she has with him.
It’s time. “Detective, please,” he says softly. “I know you don’t believe me—it would be so much easier if you did—but if you’ll allow me a few more minutes of your time.”
She half-shrugs and nods. Grudgingly. But he thinks there's a small part of her that is curious despite herself. “Okay. Show me your proof, then.”
Taking a deep breath, he nods back, and exhales slowly. Closing his eyes, he calls on his Devil face, waiting for that familiar heat to flow through his veins.
“Lucifer? Are you okay?”
Opening his eyes after several seconds, he frowns at her confusion.
Chloe tilts her head, an odd look on her face. “You look...gassy.”
His hand flies to his face and feels scruff and soft, smooth skin. “What on Earth...” he mutters. This isn’t...this has never happened. His Devil face never fails to appear, not for billions of years. Hell, sometimes it shows up when he doesn’t want it to. So why the bloody hell isn’t it working now? “I don’t understand...”
“I do,” Chloe says, her voice hard—and maybe a little sad. “You know, I keep expecting you to let me in and you just...” She scoffs, shaking her head. “Lucifer, I think you should go.”
“No, Detective! I swear to you, I am the Devil, but my Devil face isn’t working. W-which I don’t understand.” He grunts softly when his back muscles spasm painfully. “I-it should work.”
Sighing, Chloe closes her eyes and tilts her head to the ceiling as if praying for patience. Lucifer scoffs inwardly; that won’t do her any good. “It’s late, Lucifer, and I’m exhausted. I don’t have the patience for—”
Lucifer cries out abruptly, unable to swallow it down when the pain in his back worsens and sharpens. His knees start to give out and he reaches out to the peninsula for balance; he thinks it might have cracked with how hard his hand slammed down on it.
“Lucifer! Lucifer, what is...?” He can only faintly hear Chloe’s worried voice.
He doesn’t understand what’s happening; the last time he felt anything remotely similar was when he crash-landed in Hell. A thousand knives are stabbing into his back and twist, fire erupts in his body. His knees give way and he drops to the floor. Electricity shoots through all his nerves and he couldn’t respond to her if he wanted to. Pressure in his head makes him wonder if his skull can actually explode.
Lucifer tries to suck in a breath, but his lungs feel full of glass. An inhuman sound reaches his ears and it takes long moments to realize it’s coming from him. Beyond that, he can hear Chloe calling his name, her hand on his shoulder. He focuses on that, on her and anchors himself to reality and Earth; his soul feels like it’s being ripped from him.
“Hey, Lucifer? I need you to take a breath,” Chloe calls urgently, her other hand on his cheek. Her fingers stroke his hair. “Can you do that?”
He’s bloody well trying!
Forcing his body and his mind to focus on what’s happening to him, he realizes the source of the pain is his back—more specifically, his wing scars. As if the muscles are trying to tear through his skin. What is happening right now? More importantly, why couldn’t it wait until he was well away from the Detective?
Chloe continues speaking to him, but her voice is fading; like she’s at the far end of a tunnel and he can't make out what she's saying. There’s a ringing in his ears that is steadily growing louder, the worst case of tinnitus in the history of the universe. Then, just when he thinks he might actually die from the pain, the pressure in his back releases and all the pain recedes completely. Around him, he can hear thumping sounds, things crashing to the floor, a startled yell, but the only thing he can focus on is the sweet relief of the lack of pressure and pain, and pulling air into his lungs again.
Eventually, he manages to lift his head from where he’s down on all fours, his vision slightly blurry. Something still isn’t right, but he can’t pinpoint what it is just yet. Directly in front of him, Chloe is on the floor, too, her arms behind her, supporting her, almost in a crab walk. Her wide, slightly wild eyes travel back and forth to something on either side of him, her mouth hanging open in shock.
“Detective?” His voice is rough and quiet. “Are you all right?”
She doesn’t seem capable of responding at the moment, but she manages to drag her gaze to meet his, eyebrows furrowing. “It’s all true,” she breathes.
Lucifer starts to ask what she’s talking about when he feels movement at his shoulders, the whisper of fluttering...feathers? His mind is starting to catch up with what’s just happened and he suddenly understands. His wings. The wings Mazikeen cut off the night he decided he was done with Hell, done with his father’s plan and games. Lucifer will never forget the pain, both physical and emotional, or the freedom he felt as each wing was severed and hit the sand. The future was his, the possibilities were endless, and he felt liberated for the first time in his existence as if literal shackles had been removed. And that’s what the wings were, weren’t they? Shackles binding him to the throne in Hell, to his father.
How they’ve returned, he doesn’t know. No angel has ever cut off their own wings, let alone had them grow back. But it must be his father’s doing; a punishment for sending Mum off to her own universe instead of back to Hell.
Lucifer can deal with that later, though; right now, his only concern is Chloe and ensuring she is okay.
Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements that may frighten her more, he sits up on his knees, pulling the wings against his spine. Chloe’s eyes widen further. He can’t decide if she’s afraid or not. “Detective, I give you my word that you’re safe,” he says in a low voice.
“Y-you’re really...” she breathes, shaking her head as if to clear it. A frown appears on her lips, a dozen thoughts flashing through her eyes as she stares at him. “Lucifer, are you okay?”
He blinks dumbly at her. “Yes, of course.”
Chloe shakes her head, pushing herself more upright. “A minute ago, you were writhing and screaming in agony and then wings popped out of your back, and—wait, you said you don’t have wings,” she recalls suddenly. “When I saw your scars.”
“Yes, well, until a minute ago, Detective, I didn’t,” he replies wearily, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I’ve no idea how I have them now. I didn’t even know this was possible. But I suspect it’s my father’s doing.”
“Right. Your father. Who is apparently God.”
“Unfortunately,” he sighs. “But right now, the wings don’t matter. I need to know whether you’re okay. If you want me to leave—”
“No,” she says quickly. She takes another few seconds to study the wings on his back before meeting his gaze again. He watches as the panic in her eyes recedes, leaving only slight confusion and a determined glint he’s more than familiar with. “No, Lucifer, I want to talk about this. I mean, I finally believe you are who you say you are and you decide you’re just going to leave?”
“Well, most people wouldn’t want me to stick around once they know. I mean, it took Dr. Linda weeks to come to terms with my Devil face and even then, she has had difficulty wrapping her mind around it.”
Chloe blinks. “Linda knows? Okay, yeah, I guess that makes sense. But I don’t want you to leave.”
“But aren’t you afraid?” he asks, bemused. “Detective, I don’t wish to prolong your...suffering. I would understand entirely if you need time to wrap your head around this.”
“Oh, I will definitely need time,” she says, eyes widening slightly again. “But I also have questions and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can answer them, Lucifer. I want you to answer them. We’re partners. Wings or not, that hasn’t changed. You haven’t changed. Right?” She looks uncertain briefly.
He shakes his head slowly, hope starting to kindle and spark in his heart. “Right,” he murmurs.
Chloe scoots across the floor, closer to him. Her eyes travel to the wings again, then back to his face. “And I already know who you are, remember? Now I want to know the rest. If-if you want to tell me, that is.”
A breath rushes from his lungs as he tries to wrap his mind around this. Faintly, he wonders if this is a dream, until he remembers the pain of his wings returning and knows he’s wide awake. “I’ve wanted that for quite some time, Detective,” he says quietly. “To be able to confide in you, to talk to you about all of this.” To be completely honest with her.
Chloe gives him a small, tentative smile. “Then I know what my first question is.” Lucifer raises an eyebrow. She holds a hand out to him. “Can you help me up?”
Huffing a laugh, he climbs to his feet, taking her hand and easily pulling her up beside him. Then he glances around the apartment and winces. All around him is evidence of his wings returning—a hole in the wall behind him where one wing slammed into it, crumbled plaster dusting the carpet; a shattered wine glass on the floor, wine staining the tile near the kitchen; a potted plant knocked on its side, dirt scattered all over the place.
Lucifer sheepishly turns to Chloe as she also eyes the place. “Ah. My apologies, Detective,” he says as he takes in more and more damage. Behind him, his wings fluff and flutter agitatedly. “Right, I’ll pay for all of this.”