17. Seventeen

“It’s Constantine,” John Constantine says, narrowing his eyes at Lucifer. “And you bloody well know that.”

“Do I?” Lucifer says with a sneer. 

Constantine seems unamused. “I’m here to do you a favor, mate. You might watch your mouth for once.”

“You’re here for Zatanna,” Lucifer corrects. “And you won’t leave until you know her debt has been paid. So spare me the threats, Johnny boy. You’re stuck here whether you like what I have to say or not.”

Constantine glares. “Now listen here, you—”

“Okay,” Chloe cuts him off, stepping forward to slide between him and Lucifer before things get out of hand. “Can you guys just, like, not do this right now?”

“He started it,” Lucifer says petulantly. 

“Thanks,” Chloe says dryly, shooting him a look over her shoulder. “That’s exactly the kind of maturity I was looking for.”

Lucifer has the grace to look a little abashed. Chloe turns back to Constantine and finds him smirking. 

“Zee told me you had him on a leash,” he says. “Didn’t believe her, but clearly I should’ve.”

“He’s not on a leash,” Chloe says, putting her hand on Lucifer’s arm when he steps forward angrily. He stills beneath her touch. “And if he's going to watch his mouth, then so are you. Act your age, yeah?”

Constantine bows his head. “My apologies, love.”

“Don’t call me that,” Chloe says before she can stop herself. “He calls me that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Chloe sees Lucifer snap his head in her direction. She doesn’t look at him, though she feels a slight flush rise to her cheeks. She thinks at some point, she’s going to have to tell him how much she likes when he calls her that. Though it’s probably obvious at this point, since she all but begged him to say it last night. 

“Does he now,” Constantine says quietly, glancing between them with clear interest. He smirks at Lucifer. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Yes, that seems to be the consensus,” Lucifer says, straightening his jacket. “I assume Zatanna filled you in on all the pertinent details?”

“Was a bit of a show and tell, actually.” 

“And?”

“And you’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess, Luci.”

“That’s helpful, thank you,” Lucifer says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Whatever would we do without such insightful analysis?”

Chloe frowns. “Wait. What do you mean show and tell? ”

“I mean I met a few of your biggest fans,” Constantine replies. “They were quite insistent that you deserve better than the likes of him. I can’t say I disagree.”

For a second, Chloe has no idea what he’s talking about. Whenever she hears the word fans, she thinks of the creepy guys who recognize her from Hot Tub High School. But then she realizes who he’s talking about, and all the breath rushes out of her lungs. 

“You saw my daughter?” she demands, taking a step forward. “How? When? Is she okay?”

Remorse flickers across Constantine’s face. “No, I’m sorry, lo—” He catches himself and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Detective. Your daughter is under the careful watch of the LAPD, and it would’ve been close to impossible to get her alone. That, and Zee was quite insistent that we leave her be to avoid retraumatizing her. She wasn’t one of the people we sought out.”

Disappointment washes over Chloe, followed by a tidal wave of guilt. Retraumatizing her implies Trixie was traumatized. And she was, wasn’t she? Her fear of Lucifer might have been planted by a supernatural being, but she didn’t know that. To her, it was all real. She was afraid and upset and she wanted her mom, and Chloe abandoned her. 

Lucifer smooths his hand over her back the way he did last night after her nightmare. Chloe bites her lip and forces herself to swallow the emotion that’s welling up in her throat like vomit.

“Who did you see?” Lucifer asks Constantine, his hand still rubbing over Chloe’s shoulder blades.

“Tiny little brunette at Zee’s club,” Constantine answers as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his coat. “Talks a mile a minute. Helen, I think.”

“Ella,” Chloe corrects. 

Constantine nods at her. “Right. Ella.” 

“You can’t smoke here,” Lucifer says. 

Constantine freezes with a cigarette halfway to his mouth. “Why not?”

“Because the Detective doesn’t like the smell.”

Constantine glances at Chloe.

“It’s fine,” Chloe says, shaking her head. “I don’t mind.”

“It most certainly is not fine,” Lucifer says. “This is our home. No smoking.”

His emphasis on our home draws Chloe’s eyes up to his face, but only momentarily. 

“We’re outside for Christ’s sake,” Constantine says incredulously. 

“I don’t care if we’re on the bloody moon, ” Lucifer says, straightening to his full height. “She hates the smell and I won’t have her smelling it. Now you either put those away, or I’ll shove them down your throat one by one and then pull them out of your ass and feed them to you again.”

“Lucifer,” Chloe murmurs. 

“It’s all right, Detective,” Constantine says, shoving the cigarettes back in his pocket with a glare. “I can behave even if he can’t.”

Lucifer seems unfazed by the insult. 

“I paid a visit to Maze,” Constantine continues, still glaring at Lucifer. “She looked a little worse for the wear. Surprised to hear that was your doing, considering what you were willing to sacrifice on her behalf the last time I did you a favor.”

Chloe glances at Lucifer again. He avoids her gaze. “I was looking for answers.”

“Did you find any? Or was she too busy bleeding to speak?”

Lucifer’s expression darkens. “I wasn’t aware you cared for demons. In fact, last I checked, you made a living hunting them.”

“I make a living hunting evil,” Constantine corrects. His eyes flicker over Lucifer with disdain. “In all its forms.”

Chloe bristles at the implication, but Lucifer laughs. “I seem to remember you saying something similar the last time I was with you and Zatanna. Although, you two weren’t together for much longer after that, were you? Apparently she realized your judgment is suspect.”

It’s Constantine’s turn to bristle. “Don’t speak of what you don’t know, Luci.”

“You should follow your own advice, John. You don’t know Maze. She has a history of working with my enemies, and I had every right to assume she’d taken up with one again. I didn’t realize it was magic until well after I started questioning her.”

“Questioning her,” Constantine repeats with a snort. “Is that what they call it where you’re from? Where I’m from we have a different name for it. Lightbringer my arse. You’re nothing but darkness, mate.”

“Oh it’s light you want, is it?” Lucifer says. He steps away from Chloe and holds his hands up. “Let’s see if we can’t brighten this place up a bit then, hm?”

“Lucifer,” Chloe hisses. She wraps her fingers around his forearm and squeezes. She can feel the heat of his body even through the fabric of his shirt and jacket, and she wonders how close he is to going supernova again. 

Lucifer huffs and looks down at her. “For Dad’s sake, Detective, why can’t you leash him instead of me? ” 

“Because I don’t care about him,” Chloe says, tightening her hold on his arm. “I care about you. And you’re not leashed, okay? Can we drop this sexist bullshit about who wears the pants or carries the leash or whatever? You want to light him up with your laser beam hands, fine. Be my guest. But he’s the best chance we’ve got at fixing this, and you said that’s what you wanted. You gave me your word.”

“Laser beam hands?” Constantine says incredulously. 

Neither Chloe nor Lucifer pay him any attention. Lucifer stares at Chloe, clearly frustrated, but she stares back unflinchingly. Finally, he sighs. 

“Fine,” he mumbles, dropping his arms. He fusses with his jacket and then huffs again as if to make sure she knows he’s annoyed. 

Chloe rises to her toes and brushes a kiss over the underside of his jaw. “Thank you,” she says softly.

He goes rigid. When she drops back down to her feet, he visibly relaxes and gives her a brief, half smile. 

Satisfied that he’s not about to barbecue their guest with his newfound light powers, Chloe turns her attention to Constantine. 

The sorcerer holds his hands up in a placating gesture when she narrows her eyes at him. “Detective—” 

“Stop talking.” 

Constantine closes his mouth. Chloe can see Lucifer smirking out of the corner of her eye, but she ignores him. 

“Look, you guys obviously don’t like each other. And normally, I’d feel bad about asking you to work together. But you know what? I don’t care right now. I don’t care what he did to you, and I don’t care what you did to him, and I don’t care how either of you feel about it. All I care about is fixing this damn spell and getting back to my kid. So are you going to help us or not?”

Constantine studies her for a moment, and then he smiles. “I can see why Zee likes you.”

“Is that a yes?” 

He nods. “Yes. I’m at your service, Detective.”

“Great. So did you see anyone besides Ella and Maze?”

“Your doctor friend,” Constantine replies. “Zatanna said that you thought she was fighting the spell. That intrigued me, and I wanted to see it for myself, so we paid her a visit.”

“Was I wrong about her fighting it?” 

“No, you were spot on. It’s quite remarkable, actually. I’ve only seen that kind of resistance a few times before. And never from a human with no magical ability.”

“Perhaps her resistance can be explained by the fact that she carried and gave birth to a celestial child,” Lucifer suggests. 

Constantine tilts his head. “It’s possible there are residual effects.” His gaze flickers to Chloe. “Wouldn’t be the first time that a touch of the divine made a human immune to something.”

“Did you see anyone else?” Lucifer asks.

“No. I saw all that I needed with those three.”

“And what’s the verdict? Who’s the culprit?”

“There’s no signature in the magic,” Constantine says with a sigh. “But it’s ancient and powerful, and that narrows the list considerably. As does the flicker in their eyes. I assume you noticed that?”

“Yeah,” Chloe says. “Blue and silver.”

Constantine nods. “Exactly. I’ve seen it before. It’s the work of Morpheus.” 

“Are you certain?” Lucifer asks.

“I’d bet my coat on it.”

“Your coat?” Chloe says incredulously.

Constantine grins and plucks at the edges of his trench coat. “I’m quite fond of this coat.” 

“Dad knows why,” Lucifer mutters, eyeing the coat with distaste. 

“Not all of us spend hours in front of a mirror every morning,” Constantine retorts.

Lucifer grins wickedly. “And it shows.”

Chloe sighs at them. They both look briefly sheepish.

“Who’s Morpheus?” she asks. 

“Dream,” Lucifer replies. “They’re one in the same. Morpheus is just another one of his names.” 

“Is he who you had in mind when you told Zee you thought you knew who it was?” Constantine asks.

“Yes,” Lucifer confirms. “The effects of the spell are very much in line with what he’s capable of. And he and I have a history that gives him a clear motive.”

Chloe remembers what he said a few minutes ago—Dream came after you because of me—and she turns to look at him. “What history?” 

Lucifer looks uncomfortable. He shifts from one foot to the other and fiddles with his cufflink “It’s a long story. The upshot is that we’ve had several interactions over the course of millennia, and they were all less than enjoyable.”

“That’s usually what happens when you put two blokes with egos the size of the universe in the same room,” Constantine mutters with a snort.

Chloe shoots him a look. He holds up his hands in an unspoken apology. She turns back to Lucifer. 

“So he’s doing this just because he doesn’t like you?”

“Not quite. Your involvement seems to indicate that he’s exacting his revenge for the last encounter we had.”

Chloe frowns. “What does that mean?”

Lucifer takes a deep breath. “Dream had a lover,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Her name was Nada. She refused to join him in his realm for the rest of eternity, so he sent her to Hell.”

Chloe blinks at him, stunned. “Wait. She didn’t want to marry him so he sent her to Hell? ”

“Yes.”

“So you knew her.”

“I did,” Lucifer confirms. “I still do, I suppose. She’s still down there.”

“Was she evil when she was alive?” 

Lucifer shakes his head. “No. She has plenty of guilt, but it’s...well, it’s like the guilt you occasionally express. It’s misplaced. She’s taken responsibility for things that aren’t hers to claim. My father has a system for ensuring that such souls aren’t misplaced for eternity when they die, but Dream bypassed that when he damned her.” 

Chloe gapes at him. She thinks about what she knows of Hell—the ash and the darkness and the loops designed to torture—and a deep sense of horror wells up in her chest.

“That’s not fair,” she murmurs. “She doesn’t belong down there.”

“I agree.”

“Well can’t you, like, set her free? You’re the king.” 

“That’s not how it works, Detective. There are rules built into the fabric of Hell that are beyond my control. Only my father can break or bend them.” 

“But you said that it was possible for souls to leave,” she insists. “You said people could walk out of their loops.”

“They can. But only if they let go of their guilt. It’s never been done. And I can’t do it for her.” 

“So she just gets tortured for the rest of eternity because her boyfriend was a jerk?” Chloe exclaims. “How is that justice?”

“It’s not,” Lucifer says quietly. “But she isn’t being tortured, Detective. I made her as comfortable as possible, I promise you.”

There’s a faint hint of anguish threaded through his voice, and it gives Chloe pause. She stops focusing on her own anger and focuses on the man in front of her, and she immediately sees it in his eyes. 

Guilt. 

“Lucifer,” she breathes.

“I have absolute control over the loops. I tried to make hers as close to her version of Paradise as I could. I did my best, Detective.”

“I know,” she soothes, stepping toward him. “I know you did. I’m not blaming you.”

“She was happy last I saw her,” he insists, sounding increasingly desperate. “Not as happy as she would be if it wasn’t an illusion, I’m sure, but I—”

“Lucifer,” Chloe cuts him off firmly. “I know.” She reaches up and holds his face in her hands the same way she had just before Constantine showed up. “It’s not your fault, babe. None of this is your fault.”

He stares down at her, desperation still in his eyes, and Chloe holds his gaze and brushes her thumbs over the stubble on his cheeks and waits. He exhales slowly after a moment, and then he wraps his hands around her forearms.

“I like that,” he murmurs. 

Chloe frowns. “Like what?”

“When you call me that.”

Chloe blinks at him for a moment, confused. And then she realizes what he’s saying—the Devil likes it when she calls him babe—and she smiles. “Yeah?”

He smiles too. “Yes.”

Warmth floods through Chloe’s body. She feels like she’s going to melt into a puddle. God, she loves him so much. 

She’s pulling his face down toward hers when Constantine clears his throat. 

“Yeah, still here,” he says dryly. “If you could save the snogging for later, that’d be aces.”

Chloe presses her lips together as heat rises in her cheeks. She drops her hands from Lucifer’s face and scoots a more respectable distance away from him. 

“Sorry,” she says to Constantine. She clears her throat and glances up at Lucifer. “What were you saying?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he murmurs. His gaze trails down her body purposefully, and Chloe feels a different kind of heat flare deep in her body. 

“You were explaining why Morpheus hates you,” Constantine says pointedly. 

Lucifer sighs and looks away from Chloe. “Dream came to his senses after his sister, Death, pointed out the injustice of his actions. He came to fetch Nada and undo what he’d done. But she didn’t want to go. He appealed to me, and asked that I alter her loop to take the form of Hell rather than Paradise. He thought that might inspire her to leave with him.”

“But you refused,” Chloe guesses.

He nods. “I did.”

“Why couldn’t he just cast a dream over her like he did to everyone in L.A.?”

“Because it’s my realm, Detective. His powers are weakened in my realm, just as mine would be in his. He knew he couldn’t take her from me and get out unscathed, so he retreated. And now he seeks to take from me what he believes I took from him.”

He doesn’t say it, but Chloe hears it all the same. He’s trying to take you.

She shakes her head. “He can’t take me from you.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m starting to see that.” He gazes at her for a moment, and then he turns toward Constantine. “We’ll need your assistance to contact Death. She talked sense into her brother once, she can do it again.”

“She’s more likely to respond to a summons from a celestial than a human.”

“Yes, well, that may be true, but we don’t have much of a choice. I believe my channels for such communications are being blocked.”   

Constantine frowns. “What?”

“My brother won’t answer me when I pray,” Lucifer clarifies. “Neither will my father.”

Chloe looks at him in surprise. “You prayed to your dad?” 

He meets her gaze. “I told you, Detective. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“How do you know you’re being blocked?” Constantine wonders before Chloe can respond. “What if they’re just busy? No offense, mate, but your dad isn’t exactly the most responsive chap.”

“My brother always answers, even when he’s otherwise engaged,” Lucifer replies. He tips his head toward Chloe. “And my father has never ignored a request I’ve made on her behalf.”

Chloe wonders what requests he’s made on her behalf, but she doesn’t ask. 

“Something is interfering,” Lucifer continues. “Or, rather, someone. I can’t be sure I’m not being monitored, either. That’s why I visited Zatanna in person rather than summoning her. And it’s why I had her summon you rather than doing it myself.”

Constantine smirks. “And here I thought it was because you knew I wouldn’t answer you.” 

Lucifer matches his smirk. “That too.” 

Constantine slides his hands into his pockets. “So what is it you’d like me to say?”

“Tell her I’d like to speak with her regarding a matter of grave importance. She can name the time and place. I’m happy to submit to any other demands she might make as well. She can name her price, though I suspect she won’t have one. She’s not the type.”

Constantine nods. “All right.” He glances at the massive house behind him and the giant pool around him. “I can’t do it here, though.”

“Disappear wherever you like,” Lucifer says, waving his hand. “But don’t be gone long.” He glances at Chloe. “We don’t have time to waste.”

Constantine glances at Chloe too, and then nods. “Right. Back in a jiff.”

And then he disappears into thin air. 

The Detective visibly startles when John disappears.

She whirls around, glancing behind her, and then scans the rest of the patio with her mouth open and her eyebrows furrowed. Lucifer watches her, his lips pressed together in an effort not to smile. She’s adorable when she’s confused.

“Did he just…?” she asks.

“Teleport, yes.” 

She turns toward him with an adorable frown. “I was going to say apparate. Like in Harry Potter.”

“You really need to expand your magical horizons, Detective.”

She gives him a look. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

He laughs. 

She smiles. The sun is fully gone, and the soft lights on the patio along with the flickering fire nearby are casting an ethereal glow over her. She’s beautiful. 

“How long do you think he’ll be gone?” she wonders, oblivious to his admiration.

Lucifer lifts a shoulder. “Could be a few minutes, could be a few hours. Hard to say with him.”

She purses her lips and hums thoughtfully.

“Why? Is there something you’d like to do to pass the time?” A thought strikes him, and he makes a show of looking her up and down with a suggestive smirk. “I can think of a few things.”

“I’m sure you can,” she says, laughter threading through her voice. “But seeing as we don’t know when he’ll be back, I’d rather not get naked.”

“Modesty,” Lucifer scoffs. “Truly one of my father’s worst inventions.”

She smiles at him. “That should be your tagline.”

“Too wordy,” Lucifer says, waving his hand. “I think hashtag sex genius explains everything quite succinctly.”

The Detective rolls her eyes and turns toward the house. “I’m not even dignifying that with a response.”

She starts up the walk leading through the pool, and Lucifer follows her. 

“I don’t need a verbal response, you know,” he informs her. “Your body has responded on your behalf on more than one occasion. You needn’t confirm that I’m a fabulous lover when I’ve such ample evidence from you to prove it.”

“Mhmm,” she hums noncommittally. 

He takes the three steps up onto the patio in one stride. “Oh come now, Detective. There’s no shame in admitting it.”

She glances at him over her shoulder with a smile. “I thought you didn’t need confirmation?”

“I don’t.” 

“Then why are you fishing?”

“Fishing?” he repeats incredulously. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how hard you’re working to get me to say that you’re the best sex I’ve ever had.”

He scoffs. “I don’t need you to say that. I know I am.”

She doesn’t reply. He frowns at the back of her head. 

“Aren’t I?”

She smirks at him over her shoulder. “You’re fishing again.”

He sputters at her and slows to a stop on the threshold between the patio and the kitchen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows she’s teasing him. He knows it. Even if he didn’t know how many times he’s brought her to orgasm (yes, he keeps a running total, and no, that’s not weird—she’s so damned gorgeous when she comes and he waited so long to witness it that he intends to remember every single time it happens no matter how many there are), he can say with complete and utter certainty that there’s no way that Daniel or that ham-fisted neanderthal Cain ever gave her as good of a time as he does. 

But then he remembers Jed. Her first love. He said they had amazing sex. What if Jed is better at sex than him? What if she thinks of Jed when she’s with him?

The Detective is in the kitchen, studying the contents of the refrigerator with a slight frown. He wants to close the distance between them and kiss her senseless until he’s certain that he’s the only man she’s thinking about, but he feels sick to his stomach all of a sudden. What if, because she’s immune to everything else about him, he’s not as good with her as he was with everyone else?

She glances at him, and then double takes. Her eyebrows furrow. “Lucifer?”

“Hm?” he says, snapping to attention.

She studies him for a moment, and then her expression smooths out. She tilts her head at him the way she does when he’s done something she disapproves of. “Really?”

“What?”

She shuts the refrigerator doors. “Stop overthinking it. I was just teasing you.”

“I wasn’t overthinking it.” 

She arches an eyebrow at him.

“I wasn’t,” he insists. “In fact, I was under thinking it. Negative thinking. Very hard to do for you mere mortals, but I’m the Devil so I happen to be an expert.”

The Detective opens her mouth, but seems to think better of what she was going to say and presses her lips together. She studies him again with her hands on her hips, and for a moment he feels like a suspect in one of her interrogations, and then her expression softens. 

She crooks her finger at him. “Come here.”

He doesn’t know what she wants, but he never turns down the opportunity to be close to her. He crosses the room obediently. She reaches for him when he’s within arm’s length, her fingers dipping beneath the lapels of his coat to tug him closer. His hands find her waist out of habit.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, tilting her head back to look at him. “I forget, sometimes, that this is all new for you.”

He frowns. “Don’t be ridiculous, sex isn’t new for me. I’ve slept with—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.” 

He swallows what he was about to say.

“I meant being in a relationship,” she clarifies. “Caring about someone enough to want to be the best they’ve had.”

“Ah.” 

He wants to make a joke, or an innuendo, or something that will make it clear that he is not at all insecure about his abilities in the bedroom, but the ability to form additional words seems to have abandoned him.  

She smooths her fingers down his lapels. “You are, by the way,” she says, her voice soft. “The best I’ve been with, I mean.”

The tension in his chest evaporates instantly. “I am?”

He’s embarrassed by how breathlessly relieved he sounds, but he forgets his embarrassment as soon as she smiles. He dreamt of that smile so many times in Hell. His memory didn’t do it justice.

“Yeah,” she says. “But that’s all I’m going to say about it, because if I keep talking your ego is going to get huge and blow the roof off this place.”

“My ego isn’t the only thing that’s huge,” he says automatically. “And speaking of blowing—”

“Okay, stop talking.” She drops her hands from his jacket with a sigh. “I regret everything I just said. I take it all back.”

He shakes his head. “No take-backsies.”

She cracks a smile, and then snorts out a laugh. He smiles, pleased with himself. He likes her laugh. He likes it even better when he’s the catalyst.

He nods at the refrigerator. “Were you scanning for something in particular?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I just realized I haven’t eaten in, like, forever. I’m starving. You think Postmates delivers out here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If you’re hungry, I’ll make something for you.”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“Well of course. I’m an excellent chef. What is it you desire? Risotto? Coq au vin? Ooh, arepas.”

She crinkles her nose. “I was thinking something easy and quick. Like, comfort food?”

Lucifer mentally shuffles through all the recipes he knows by heart until he finds one she’ll love. “I know just the thing.” He slides his hand over the small of her back and guides her toward the pantry. “Be a dear and fetch me a loaf of brioche from the pantry. Oh, and an onion.”

“You have brioche in the pantry?” she says incredulously. 

“Well of course, darling. I’m not a barbarian.”

The Detective snorts and heads for the pantry. Lucifer eyes her ass for a moment—it really does look spectacular in jeans—and then turns back to the refrigerator and flings open the doors. He pulls out all the ingredients he’ll need, setting them on the island behind him. He closes the doors when he’s done and heads for the wall of wine bottles nearby. He scans his dozens of options, finds a Pinot from a good year, and plucks it from its place.

When he turns back around, he finds the Detective with the brioche and an onion in her hands and her mouth open as she stares at the cluster of food he left on the island. 

“Is that a ham? ” she asks, looking up at him.

“It is,” he confirms, striding toward her. 

She shakes her head. “Lucifer, I said easy.”

“This is easy,” he says, pausing at a nearby cupboard to pull out two wine glasses. “Trust me.”

“I’m not sure I do given that you’re, you know, you. What are you making?”

“It’s called a croque monsieur.” 

“Crook what?”

“Croque monsieur,” he replies, unable to resist a smile. “It’s French. It loosely translates to Mr. Crunch.”

She doesn’t reply. He sets the glasses and the bottle of wine down next to the food he gathered from the fridge and turns to face her.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows are gathered in disbelief. “You’re making me something called Mr. Crunch?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You needn’t worry, Detective. I’m certain you’ll love it.”

“And you know this because?”

“Because you’ve never met a sandwich you didn’t like. Especially if there’s melted cheese involved.”

She perks up. “Oh, is it like a French grilled cheese?”

“More or less.” He brandishes his finger at her. “But your orange goop will not come within a thousand miles of what I’m about to create. Over my dead body.”

“Hey, come on,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows. “That stuff is great. It tastes good and it takes forever to expire.”

“That’s not exactly a point in your favor, Detective.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Okay. Fair enough. How can I help?”

He nods at a nearby drawer. “Grab the corkscrew and pour us some wine while I start the bechamel.” 

“I thought we were making sandwiches?”

“We are, darling. Just handle the wine, hm?”

She sighs but does as she’s told. Lucifer takes his jacket off and drapes it over a nearby stool, and then slips his cufflinks off and starts to roll his sleeves. When he’s done, he pours some milk into a saucepan on the stove. He drops a hefty dollop of butter into a second saucepan, and then turns the oven on to broil. 

He hears the cork of a wine bottle pop, and he glances over his shoulder at the Detective. His eyes get caught on the way her ponytail sways as she moves, and his heart does a funny sort of flip in his chest. 

He feels...lighter all of a sudden. Freer. They’re still in the middle of a nightmare—literally—and there’s still guilt gnawing at the edges of his mind, but something seems to have shifted since their discussion outside. He isn’t holding his breath anymore. He doesn’t feel like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice, swaying at the slightest breath of wind, hoping that he doesn’t fall to his demise. Maybe it’s having third-party confirmation of who’s behind this. Maybe it’s knowing that there’s finally a plan in motion to correct it. 

Maybe it’s her. 

He knows it’s her. It’s always her. She has this way of soothing him, of seeing past the reflection that everyone else sees and wanting him, regardless of the shadows around his soul. He used to worry that his darkness would eclipse her light. And he still does, sometimes. But every time he steps toward that precipice, every time he sways in the wind, she yanks him backward and wraps her arms around him and whispers I love you.

Miracle doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

He doesn’t mean to stare. She’s hungry, and it’s not as though he hasn’t got plenty to do so that she’s properly wowed by his culinary skills. But he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her. He’s always admired the female form, but it’s been clinical. A means to an end. He sees, he admires, he wants, he takes, he moves on. 

But the Detective...there’s no moving on from this. Not even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t. He wants to bask in her. He wants to paint her and photograph her. He wants to write sonnets about her smile and compose ballads about the shade of her eyes. He’s become what he used to loathe, and he’s not even sorry about it.

He’s admiring the sharp angle of her jaw—he used to fantasize about tracing his tongue along that jawline, and now that he can without risking a fist to the face he does so as much as possible—when she looks up at him.

She must realize he was staring, because a smirk spreads over her lips. “See something you like?” she teases.

His heart does that funny flip in his chest again, but he tries to play it cool. “Don’t say we can’t get naked and then tempt me,” he warns.

She laughs. He adds it to the list of things he’d like to write poems about. 

She grabs the now full glasses from the counter, and closes the distance between them. She offers him a glass, and he takes it. He can smell her shampoo and her perfume, a medley that’s distinctly her. He forces himself to sip his wine so he won’t inhale her like a madman. 

“Do I want to know how much this wine costs?” she asks, swirling the red liquid in her glass.

“$13,000 or so, last I checked.”

She snaps her gaze up to his, her eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

“Quite serious, yes.”

“Like...per case?”

“Per bottle, darling.”

Her eyes get even bigger. “Holy shit,” she murmurs. 

She’s adorable when she curses. She’s adorable all the time, really. He can’t stand it. She’s turned him into a pile of bloody mush. He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so gone for her. 

“Take a sip,” he says, nodding toward the glass in her hand. 

She glances down at the glass and then tilts her head. “I don’t…”

“Take a sip, Detective.”

She chews her bottom lip and then takes a sip. 

“Well?” he prompts. 

A slow smile spreads over her lips. “It’s good.”

“Better than your cheap stuff?”

Her smile deepens. “Maybe.” 

He’s not surprised that she won’t outright admit it. She’s quite stubborn when she wants to be. Another thing he adores about her. 

She sets her glass down on the counter with a soft clink. “So we’ve got French wine, and you’re about to make French food. You got any French music to complete the trifecta?”

“I could turn some on,” he offers, setting his own glass down. “But I think I’m in the mood for something else. Something better.”

“90s jams,” she says with a nod. 

He snorts. “No, Detective. Something that won’t make my ears bleed.”

She makes a soft sound of offense in the back of her throat. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then brushes past her toward the screen embedded in the wall. He taps it to life, and scrolls through the many playlists he has programmed into the system until he finds the one he wants. He presses play, and the soft strains of a guitar emanate from the speakers hidden throughout the kitchen, followed by a crooning voice.

If I fall short

If I don’t make the grade

If your expectations aren’t met in me today

There’s always tomorrow 

He turns to face the Detective, and finds her watching him with clear interest. “Who is this?” she murmurs.

“Solomon Burke.” He crosses the kitchen to stand in front of her. “This is my blues and soul playlist.”

She tilts her head. “I didn’t know you liked blues and soul.”

“Of course I do. There would be no rock and roll without blues and soul, and we both know how much I love sex, drugs, and rock and roll.” He claps his hands together. “Now, let’s talk bechamel, shall we?”

She glances at the stove. “Sounds complicated.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s easier than a cheerleader on prom night.” He turns toward the stove and flicks on the burner beneath the saucepan containing butter. “We’ll start with the roux. Very simple. Put some butter on the stove, and while it melts, we grab some flour.”

He pulls a container down from a cupboard near the stove, pops the lid open, and dips a spoon inside. 

“Two tablespoons should suffice, considering it's just the two of us. We won’t add this until the butter is melted, though. Nab me that wooden spoon, would you?”

She reaches toward a crock on the counter nearby and hands him the spoon he requested. He takes it from her and prods the rapidly melting pile of butter in the saucepan. He watches it, waiting, and once it’s melted he adds the flour and starts to stir.

“It needs to be perfectly blended or you’ll have issues down the road,” he tells her, eyeing the mixture in the saucepan. “Even once it's blended, though, you’ll need to keep stirring for a bit. Make sure the gas is on low.” 

He follows his own advice and turns the burner down a little. 

“The worst thing you can do is turn the heat up too high. You don’t want a roux with color in it, either. You want it creamy white.”

He glances up at her because she hasn’t said anything in a while, and finds her staring at him with that same intent look she wears at work. 

“What?” he says, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Where’d you learn this?” 

He opens his mouth to answer her question, but she waves him off. 

“Nevermind, don’t answer that. I’m sure some ridiculously beautiful French model showed you after a marathon sex session.”

“Actually, his name was Jacques.”

The Detective’s eyebrows lift toward her hairline. 

“He was quite old and very much in love with his wife, so there was no sex.” He tilts his head. “He did have very pretty daughters, though, and they—”

“Yeah, don’t need to know that.” 

He smiles. “You needn’t be jealous, darling. They weren’t as pretty as you.”

“Yeah, and how many women have you said that to?” 

He shakes his head. “Only you.”

That seems to catch her off guard. The smile fades from her lips. She searches his gaze, and he feels suddenly exposed. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, which surprises him. He doesn’t particularly like being vulnerable. But he does like the way she looks at him when he confesses something to her. Like she’s awed, or maybe honored. He can’t for the life of him figure out why she’d view anything about him as a privilege, but he doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He swallows and turns back to the stove. “So, we’re just about done here,” he says, trying to find neutral ground again. Even after all this time, he’s still not used to how easily a look or a word from her can knock him unsteady. “So we’ll set this off to the side to cool, and focus on the milk. Flick that burner on.”

She obeys as he sets the roux to the side. He grabs a knife from the block nearby and then turns toward the island behind him. 

“There are several ways to season bechamel,” he explains as he grabs the onion and starts to chop it quickly. “You don’t have to season it at all, of course, but I prefer mine infused with some additional flavor. You’re not opposed to nutmeg, are you?”

“Uh...no?”

“Excellent.” 

He finishes with the onion, turns back to the stove, and carefully pushes the vegetable pieces off the cutting board and into the saucepan of milk. He adds nutmeg and a few other spices after that, and then turns the burner up.

“Now, you have to be careful here,” he tells her. “You want to bring it to a boil slowly, and then as soon as it starts to bubble you turn off the heat and let the flavors infuse.” 

“Okay,” she says. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as she watches the milk. He wants to kiss her. He forces himself to watch the milk instead. 

When it starts to boil, he flips the heat off. 

“There. Now, as we wait, we assemble the sandwiches.” He wraps his hand around her elbow and pulls her gently toward the island, and then offers her a bread knife from the block on the counter. “You cut the bread.” 

She takes the knife from him with confidence, and then hesitates. “How thick?”

“How thick do you like it?” he says, leering at her.

She rolls her eyes. “I mean the bread, Lucifer.”

“An inch will do.” He leans toward her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrifyingly sexy when you wield a knife?”

“Yes, actually.”

He frowns. “Who?”

She smirks at him. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Was it Jed? ” he asks, curling his lip in disgust.

The Detective puts her hand on her hip. “Are you always going to say his name like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s a contagious disease you’re afraid you’re going to catch.”

“Now that you mention it, he does bear a striking resemblance to photos I’ve seen of genital warts.”

The Detective sighs and rolls her eyes and slices into the brioche instead of replying. Lucifer grins at her, and then bends down to retrieve a baking sheet from a lower cupboard and sets it between them. 

“Put them here?” she asks, holding a slice of bread over the baking sheet. 

“Yes.” 

She plops the slice down, and he grabs it so he can spread dijon over it. 

“How many?” she asks.

“Eight total, I think. Two sandwiches each.” 

She cuts the bread with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He wants to kiss her again. He used to think that if he ever got to the point where he could kiss her whenever he wanted, then the novelty would wear off and he wouldn’t constantly long for the feeling of her lips on his. 

He was wrong. 

He forces himself to focus on the task at hand. He carves the ham once the dijon has been spread, and lets her arrange the thick slices on top of the bread and then cover them with cheese. 

“Hm,” she hums, watching as he sets the second slices of bread over the first so that they finally look like sandwiches. “So where’s the sauce go?” 

“On top,” he replies, walking away from her to grab a strainer from a cupboard on the other end of the kitchen. “Then more cheese.”

As he walks back toward her, he watches her rearrange the sandwiches on the sheet. A smear of dijon ends up on her thumb, and she lifts her finger to her mouth absently and sucks it clean. 

Heat tugs at his groin, and temptation flutters in his chest. He obeys the impulse. He stops next to her, wraps his fingers around her wrist, and lifts her thumb to his mouth. 

She snaps her eyes up to meet his. He purses his lips around her thumb and sucks. She lowers her gaze to his mouth, her own mouth falling open a little. Tension cracks through the air. When she lifts her eyes back to his, he strokes his tongue lightly along the edge of her thumb and then presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. 

“Had to make sure you got it all,” he murmurs with a smile.  

Her eyes dip back down toward his mouth. Her pupils are dilated. She wants him. He can tell. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” he whispers.

She purses her lips around a smile as she pulls her hand away from his. “Jerk.”

He grins at her. He turns back to the stove and puts the saucepan with the roux back on the burner and flicks it on. 

She appears at his side. “What now?”

“We’re going to pour the milk into the roux through the strainer.” He does exactly what he says, careful not to splatter any on his shirt. “Then we’re going to whisk—hand me the whisk, darling.”

She hands him the whisk, and he turns up the temperature of the burner and starts to stir the contents of the saucepan.

“We’re going to whisk—slowly, mind you—and let it thicken.” He glances up at her. “And that’s it. See? I told you it was easy.”

She smiles at him. “You know, you’re a pretty good teacher. Either that or you’re just showing off.”

“I’ve no need for showing off, Detective. My extraordinary abilities speak for themselves.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “You’re not good at everything you know.”

He scoffs. “Name one thing I don’t excel at.”

“Monopoly.”

“How dare you,” he says, turning the burner up a little higher. “I’m a marvelous Monopoly player when I’m not playing with two cheats.”

“You’re also a sore loser,” she points out with a smile. “And a sore winner, if we’re being honest.”

“Yes, well, nobody’s perfect. Of course, some of us are more perfect than others. And I think it’s clear I’m as close to perfection as they come.”

“You can add humility to the list,” she says dryly. 

He narrows his eyes at her. “I said one thing, Detective. No need to go overboard and make a list.”

She leans closer to him, her chest pressing against his arm. “You want me to tell you some stuff you’re good at before you start overthinking again?”

“Now there’s a list I wouldn’t mind hearing. I can even supply the first. I am very, very good at making you climax.” 

There’s a slightly pink tinge to her cheeks all of a sudden. It’s adorable. 

“I was going to say you’re creative. And resourceful. And very sweet when you want to be.”

“Yes, of course,” he says disimissively. “But also sex.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Lucifer. Also sex.”

“I thought so.”

She sighs at him.

He reaches for a nearby wooden spoon and dips it into the bechamel. When he pulls the spoon out and sees that the back is coated with thickened sauce, he nods.

“It’s done.” He offers her the spoon. “Would you like to try it?”

She wraps her fingers around his wrist instead of taking the spoon from him, and then leans forward and licks the spoon. Which, to be fair, is what he implied she should do. But he didn’t tell her to make eye contact while she did it, and he sure as hell didn’t tell her to flick her tongue over the wood like that. Her fingertips are applying just the slightest pressure to his wrist, and his mind flickers toward a fantasy of what that pressure would feel like elsewhere. His groin tightens painfully.

She hums under her breath. “Delicious.”

He swallows. “Glad you like it,” he manages to say. 

She licks her lips, still holding his gaze, and suddenly all he can think about is that one time when those lips were wrapped around—

“Penny for your thoughts,” the Detective murmurs with a smirk. 

Lucifer glares at her. “Minx.” 

She grins and tips her head toward the stove. “You gonna finish these sandwiches, or do you need a minute alone?”

He huffs at her and grabs the saucepan. “I’d need far more than a minute.”

She hums under her breath again, and for some reason he finds it incredibly sexy. He decides to keep that to himself. She’s already smug enough. No need to give her further proof of her power over him. 

“So now that the bechamel is finished,” he says, turning toward the island with the saucepan in hand, “we spoon it over the sandwiches.”

She follows him. “More cheese on top?” 

“Indeed.”

He spoons the sauce over the sandwiches, and she sprinkles some cheese over the tops. He sets the saucepan back on the stove when they’re done, flicks the burner off, and then reaches for the baking sheet. 

“And now we slide them in here to broil,” he says, opening the stove door and sliding the sheet in. “Only for a bit though. Just long enough to melt the cheese.” He straightens and turns toward her. “And that’s that.”

He expects to find her smiling, or maybe looking awed and impressed by his skill, but she’s staring at the stove with an odd look on her face. 

He frowns. “Detective?”

She snaps to attention. “Hm?”

“What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

She’s lying. He lifts his eyebrows at her but resists the urge to call her on it. 

She exhales slowly and tugs on her jacket. “I was just thinking that Trixie would love this,” she confesses.

Guilt roars to life in Lucifer’s chest and threatens to swallow him whole. He can still hear the urchin screaming at him—Liar! I hate you!—and he can still see the tears streaming down the Detective’s face as she drove away. His chest aches. 

The Detective is watching him. He can tell by the look on her face that she’s worried about him. He doesn’t like that. He knows she’d disagree if he said it aloud, but she shouldn’t be focused on him when she’s the one who lost everything. 

He clears his throat. “Well, now you know how it’s done. As soon as this is over, you can wow her with your new culinary skills.”

The Detective shakes her head. “I meant with you,” she says softly. “She would love doing this with you.”

Lucifer stares at her, at a loss for words. She stares back, empathy clear in her eyes. His chest aches again. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve her or her offspring. The urge to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe her in is overwhelming, but he resists. 

He smooths his hand over his shirt. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Sadness flickers in her eyes. He can’t stand it, so he opens the door of the stove and peers inside. The sandwiches look perfect, so he grabs a dish towel to protect his hand and pulls the baking sheet out.

“Here we are,” he says brightly, setting the sheet on top of the stove. He tosses the towel onto the counter, and then gestures at the finished product with a flourish and a bow. “Croque monsieur, mademoiselle.”

She smiles. “Can I try one?”

“By all means. Just don’t burn your tongue. We’ll need it later.”

She gives him a look. He grins at her. She rolls her eyes, and then steps up to the stove. She picks up a sandwich gingerly, and then bends forward and takes a small bite. 

Her reaction is immediate. Her head tips back, exposing the line of her throat, and her eyes flutter closed. She moans, and though he’s guessing it’s supposed to be in appreciation of the food, his mind goes to far more sinful places. His pants suddenly feel too tight.

“Detective,” he whines. 

She smirks at him. “Sorry,” she says, covering her mouth. She swallows, and lowers her hand. “That’s unbelievable.”

Pride flares in his chest. “Is it?”

“Yeah. I mean it’s…” 

She takes another bite, and her eyes roll briefly back into her head. He decides he’s not going to sleep tonight until he’s pulled a similar reaction from her with something other than food.  

She swallows and sighs. “Wow.”

“So you approve?”

“Oh definitely.” She sets the sandwich back on the baking sheet and lifts her sauce covered index finger to her mouth. She meets his gaze while she sucks it clean, and then smirks. “You have my full-throated approval.”

He steps into her space, looming over her. “You’re a tease, Detective.”

“Am I?” she says innocently. She darts her eyes over his body in a quick once-over. “Pot meet kettle.” 

It’s hard to resist her when she’s looking at him like that, but he’s determined not to be the first to give in to the tension simmering between them. He gestures at the food on the stove. 

“Would you say this is the best thing you’ve ever eaten?”

“Not enough for you to be the best at sex, huh? Gotta be the best chef I’ve ever known too?”

“Is that a yes?”

She tilts her head. “I don’t know. Those fries you definitely didn’t make when we had dinner the night your stewardess interrupted us were pretty good.”

“She wasn’t mine,” Lucifer corrects immediately. And then he winces. “Still sorry about that by the way.”

The Detective lifts a shoulder. “Ancient history.”

The air between them sparks again. Lucifer glances down at her mouth. He wants to kiss her, and judging by the way she’s leaning toward him, she wants him to. If he does, he’ll lose the battle of wills they’ve got going on. He’s not sure he cares anymore. He just wants to taste her.

He’s leaning toward her when her words finally catch up with him.

Ancient history. 

He stops. That’s not true. It’s not ancient history. Not for her. For him, maybe, because it was thousands of years ago. But for her, that night on the penthouse balcony and everything that happened after—the beach, her near-death experience, his disappearance and then his return with Candy on his arm—is far more recent. It’s a wound that hasn’t yet healed. He knows because it wasn’t that long ago that she stood before him, tears streaming down her face, and said You let me fall in love with you and then you married someone else. Do you have any idea how much that hurt?

Shame washes over him. He knew he’d hurt her, but he didn’t know it was deep enough to still bleed. The pain in her voice out on that patio, though, made it crystal clear that it’s an open wound, not a scar. 

He can’t ignore that. Not if he wants to be good enough for her. 

“Detective,” he murmurs.

Her eyes flicker briefly down to his mouth. “Hm?” 

His chest aches. She has no idea what he’s about to say to her. He doesn’t want to say it. Maybe he doesn’t have to. It’s not like she asked him to. He could just...put it off. Pretend it doesn’t matter until she tells him it does. 

Tell the truth, a voice that sounds like hers whispers in the back of his mind. 

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he says before he can lose his nerve.

He watches as suspicion blossoms in her eyes. His clever Detective. She always knows when something is wrong.

“Okay,” she says quietly. Her eyebrows furrow. “What is it?”

He takes a deep breath and takes the plunge.

“It’s about Candy.”