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They’re bickering when it happens, because of course they are. They’re always bickering.
One moment they’re discussing (read: bickering over) whether they have time to stop to get Lucifer some breakfast on their way to a crime scene at an Axara concert, of all places—“I’m hungry.” “I don’t care.” “You should care.” “You should eat breakfast before you come to work like a responsible adult.”—and the next, the power goes out.
Normally, that wouldn't be a problem. An inconvenience, sure, but not a problem. But normally, they'd be bickering in Chloe’s car, or at her desk, or somewhere out in the city. This time, though, they're bickering in the precinct elevator.
And the power just went out.
The first sign that something is amiss is the overhead lights flickering off. There's nothing but complete and total darkness for a split second, and then the emergency lights flick on. They’re different from the normal lights—more yellow than white, and much dimmer—and they cast the elevator in a dim, hazy glow. The car itself, which had been gliding upward, eases to a stop, but the doors don’t open.
Chloe and Lucifer share a look.
“Is this a prank?” he asks.
She frowns. “I don’t think so.”
She presses the button for the floor they didn't quite make it to, but the elevator doesn't move. She tries the button for opening the doors next, but again, nothing happens.
Lucifer darts his hand out and jabs the button a few times in quick succession like a child.
Chloe sighs at him.
“What?” he asks. “Sometimes it works.”
Chloe decides it's not worth it to argue even though he’s wrong. “Do you have service?” she asks as she pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans.
He checks his phone. “No.”
“Me neither,” she says, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “I wonder if it’s a power outage.”
“Well, who needs power when you have a Devil on hand? Let me just pull open these doors—”
“No,” Chloe says, grabbing his arm. “I read somewhere that you're not supposed to do that.”
“Now isn't the time to follow the rules, Detective. You could plunge to your death.”
“Elevators have brake mechanisms that work even in power outages, Lucifer. No one is plunging to their death.”
He sighs. “Well then what are we supposed to do? Sit here and hope someone notices our absence?”
“No,” Chloe says. “We call for help.”
She presses the red emergency call button on the elevator panel. It takes a minute or so for someone to answer, and Lucifer sighs repeatedly as they wait.
“If you would just let me pry the doors open a few inches—”
“No.”
More sighing.
Eventually, a man named Jose comes over the intercom and informs them that Chloe was right—there's been a power outage, and half the city is in a blackout.
“How many people are in there with you?” Jose asks. “Cameras went out with the power so I can’t see a thing.”
“There’s two of us.”
“Ah, okay. Well, that’s too bad. If there were a bunch of you crammed in there I could’ve moved you up the list. Can’t do that for just two though. Someone will come get you, of course, but I’m not going to lie, it’ll take a while. Lots of emergencies to deal with first.”
“Of course,” Chloe starts, but Lucifer cuts her off.
“I beg your pardon, this is an emergency. There might be only two of us, but I’m important enough to count for far more. And I need breakfast.”
Jose laughs. “I’ll have them bring you a breakfast burrito when they come, your highness.”
“Oh?” Lucifer says.
Chloe gives him a look. “He’s pulling your leg.”
“Oh,” Lucifer says with a frown.
Jose laughs again. “You two hang tight. I’ll let you know when someone is on the way.”
There’s a crackle of static, and then the speaker cuts out.
“Well,” Chloe sighs. “Might as well get comfortable.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Lucifer replies. “We're not waiting around to be rescued like a pair of damsels in distress. We're going to save ourselves.”
Chloe arches an eyebrow. “And how, exactly, are we going to do that?”
“Elevators have hatches in the ceiling,” he replies, gesturing upward. “We just need to find the hidden handle, pry open the hatch, and then we can climb out.”
“What are we going to do when we get onto the top of the elevator?”
“Scale the walls to safety, of course.”
She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t Mission: Impossible, Lucifer.”
“Well not with that attitude.” He drops to one knee and beckons her toward him. “Come on. Drape your leg over my shoulder.” He pats his shoulder.
She recoils. “What? Why?”
“Because then you can drape your other leg over my other shoulder, and I’ll hold you on my shoulders while I stand. You’ll be able to reach the ceiling and find the hatch.”
Chloe frowns. “Why would we be facing each other to do that? Isn’t my…” She struggles to find the right word, flushes, and then changes course. “Isn’t it normal for me to climb onto your shoulders from behind?”
“Like it from behind, do you?” he says with a grin.
She gives him a look. “I'm not draping my legs over your shoulders, Lucifer.”
He leers at her. “Afraid you might like it?”
“Now I'm definitely not doing it. Front or back.”
“Come on, Detective,” he whines. “I'm not tall enough to look for the hatch myself. I need you.”
“I’m sorry, but no. It’s a terrible—not to mention dangerous—plan. And I'm pretty sure the hatch in the ceiling thing only exists in the movies. Not real life.”
“Detective, if you would just—”
“No.”
He sighs and rises to his feet. “Fine. I take it back. I don’t need you. How’s that feel, hm?”
“I’m devastated,” she says dryly.
She sits down on the floor, her back against the wall facing the door, and stretches her legs out in front of her.
Lucifer mutters something under his breath about her unhelpfulness in times of crisis.
She rolls her eyes. “Hunger pangs aren’t a crisis.”
“How very cavalier of you, Detective. Millions of people starve to death every year.”
“Yes, but you’re not one of them.”
“I very well might be. We could be stuck in here for days. Weeks, even.”
“Guess you better find that hatch then.”
He glares at her.
She smiles sweetly.
He huffs at her and cranes his neck to study the ceiling. She watches him search in vain for a hatch, and barely resists the urge to say I told you so when he doesn’t find one. He paces like a caged animal for five minutes after that, clearly unwilling to admit defeat. Finally, after informing her that the LAPD should have planned ahead and installed vending machines in all its elevators for situations exactly like this, he gives up and drops onto the floor next to her.
“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he announces.
Chloe snorts. “Really? The worst?”
“The worst.”
She turns her head to look at him. “I thought you don’t lie.”
“It feels like the worst right now, so it’s not a lie,” he counters, flicking an invisible piece of lint off his sleeve. “It feels true now, even if it isn’t or won’t be later.”
“Hm,” she hums.
He swings his head around to look at her. “What does that mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“Hm,” he mimics, though he makes a face as he does it, which annoys her.
“It means nothing,” she says irritably. “It means hm.”
“Liar,” he says pointedly. “It was a judgmental hm.”
She frowns. “I wasn’t judging.”
“You were judging.”
“No I wasn’t. And you’re one to talk. You’re the most judgmental person I know.”
He huffs. “I am not.”
She gives him a look. “The first thing you said to me this morning was a snide comment about my boots.”
He frowns. “I just don’t understand why your footwear always has to be so…sensible.”
He says the final word as if it tastes revolting, and she rolls her eyes.
“I’m a cop. That’s why. And after you finished insulting my boots, you moved on to my phone case.”
“Because it’s boring. If you would just use the—”
“I’m not using a phone case with a shirtless picture of you on it no matter how many times you nag me about it.”
“Actually, I was going to suggest the Devil emoji one.”
She ignores him, because she’s not using that one either, and he knows it.
“You also criticized Dan’s hair—”
“He looks like a Troll doll.”
“—and Ella’s weekend plans—”
“Who spends their Saturday practicing an alien language for fun?”
“—and Pierce’s muscles—”
“He looks like he’s wearing shoulder pads from the 80s beneath all that horrible plaid.”
“—so, yeah, pretty judgmental.”
He huffs, adjusting a cufflink, and then sticks his nose in the air. “It’s an inherited family trait.”
“Mhmm.”
“See,” he says. “Judgment. Come on, out with it. What do you have against my commitment to the truth?”
“Nothing,” she insists. “I just think that if you can change the definition of truth based on your feelings, then what does the whole no lie thing really even mean? You say you don’t lie, and that implies you’re honest, but not lying doesn’t mean you tell the truth.”
He doesn’t say anything. She glances at him because his silence is uncharacteristic, and finds that he’s watching her with considerable interest. He twists to face her.
“All right then,” he says. “You want to hear the truth?”
“Not really,” she says, because it’s never good when he gets that glint in his eye.
He grins. “Nice try, Detective, but you started this, so let’s finish it. You and I, truth or dare, right now.”
She frowns. “What?”
“Truth or dare,” he repeats as if it’s somehow a less insane suggestion the second time he says it. “You ask me a question, and I will answer it with complete and total honesty. The unvarnished truth. You must do the same for me.”
“I must? ”
“Rules of the game,” he says with a shrug. He leers at her. “Unless we dare each other to do all the filthy things we both know we want to do, in which case there will be a lot less talking.”
“Hah,” she says, though it comes out sounding a lot more breathless than she likes.
He gestures at the camera in the corner of the elevator. “The power is out, so the camera doesn’t work. The rude gentleman on the other end of the speaker confirmed it. No one would know.”
“I would know.”
He grins. “Lucky you.”
“Hard pass.”
“Speaking of hard—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
He waits a beat, letting the innuendo hang in the air, and she’s annoyed that his unfinished sentence is somehow even more inappropriate than whatever it is he was going to say. She should’ve just let him say it. Then she wouldn’t be imagining all the ways she could deal with his hard things. Like climbing into his lap. Or palming him through his pants. Or—
She clears her throat and shifts against the wall, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Scared, Detective?” he asks with a smirk.
“Of playing a middle school party game with you?” she says, shooting him an unimpressed look. “No. I’m just not doing that on the clock.”
“We’re stuck in an elevator in the middle of a blackout,” he points out. “We’ve been told we’re going to be here for a while. No cell service. No files or crime scenes to peruse. No suspects to interrogate. There’s no work to be done, darling.”
She huffs at him. He’s not wrong. But that doesn’t make his suggestion right. Playing a game like that with a man like this is definitely not a good idea.
“Come on, Detective,” Lucifer cajoles, nudging her with his elbow. “Live a little. I promise I won’t tell your colleagues that you let your hair down and had some fun.”
“I have fun,” she says, offended.
“Hm,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
He’s provoking her. She knows he’s provoking her. He’s no different than the boys at school who tug on Trixie’s hair to get a reaction, except she’s not Trixie. She’s a grown woman. She’s a divorced single mom and a homicide detective for the LAPD, and she is not going to sit here in this elevator and play truth or dare with her alcoholic womanizing partner who won’t stop smirking at her.
“No.”
He looks undeterred. “May I ask why?”
“Because you’re you,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “If I say yes, the first thing you’re going to do is dare me to—”
The intrusive thoughts are back, a brief fantasy of unzipping his pants and bending over him, and she can feel her face burn with a blush.
“You know,” she finishes lamely.
“I don’t, actually,” he says with a smile that tells her that he might technically be telling the truth, but only technically. He doesn’t know what sex act she’s thinking of, but he knows it’s sex.
He leans a little closer to her. “Care to elaborate?”
“No,” she says, turning her nose up at him. “I do not.”
He chuckles. “You know I can’t dare you to do anything unless you ask for a dare, correct?”
“Oh,” she says. Her face heats with a blush. “Well what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’ll just pick dare every time.”
He grins wolfishly. “I can only do the dares that you assign me, Detective. So unless you don’t trust yourself not to dare me to slide my hand down the front of your jeans—”
“Okay,” she cuts him off, her face burning even hotter. “Not what I meant. What I meant was that you’ll just pick dare every time to avoid ever having to answer a question with total honesty.”
“Hmm, yes,” he says with a thoughtful frown. “I see your point. We’ll have to adjust the rules. ”
“How?”
“You can pick between truth or dare for yourself, but I can only pick truth.”
She lifts her eyebrows in surprise. “You can't pick dare every time?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “All I can do is honestly answer whatever question it is that you ask.”
She narrows her eyes at him, because there has to be a catch. There’s always a catch.
“Oh, come now, Detective,” he says with a laugh. “There's no need to look so suspicious.”
“There's a lot of reasons to look suspicious.”
“Like?”
“Like what’s in this for you?”
“A way to pass the time in this Dad-forsaken tin can,” he says, gesturing at their surroundings. “It’s not like I can play my phone games. All the good ones require cell service.”
She snorts.
“Besides, it gives me a chance to learn a few things about my intrepid partner that I might not otherwise have a chance to learn.”
“You could just ask.”
He smiles. “I’m not the only one who strategically tells the truth, darling.”
She considers telling him that she might be more willing to be open and vulnerable with him if she could trust that he wouldn’t run off to marry a stripper in Vegas afterward, but that’s probably a can of worms she shouldn’t open.
“You have my word that whatever you say to me will not leave this elevator,” Lucifer says, pressing his palm to his chest. “And while you might question my willingness to tell the whole truth, I don't think you question whether or not I keep my word.”
She sighs, because he's right. He doesn't make promises very often, but when he does, he keeps them. It’s one of the things she likes most about him. Everyone else in her life—namely her mother and Dan—has a habit of not following through. Lucifer, on the other hand, always follows through.
Well, other than that one time he stood her up for dinner. But she doesn’t like to think about that. It makes her feel stupid, and she hates feeling stupid.
“We can even start with an easy one,” Lucifer says as if he can sense that he's almost won her over.
“Easy?” she repeats.
“Truth or dare?”
She hesitates, not because she’s tempted to pick dare—that’s definitely not going to happen—but because she still isn’t sure she wants to play.
Lucifer smiles, waiting patiently, and she sighs and gives in.
“Truth.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
She studies him for a moment, trying to figure out if it’s a trick question, but she doesn’t see how it could be.
“Blue,” she replies.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he says. “Now it’s my turn. Ask me.”
She frowns. “I thought you could only pick truth?”
“Yes, but you still have to ask. Takes the fun out of it otherwise.”
She sighs. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
He gives her a look. “Really? You have me completely and utterly at your mercy, and that’s what you want to know?”
“That’s what you picked.”
“Because I was trying to put you at ease.”
“Well I can’t think of anything else,” she says defensively. “It’s not like I was prepared to get stuck in an elevator and play truth or dare.”
“Well at least try, Detective.”
“Fine.” She thinks about it, drumming her fingers on her thigh. “What’s your middle name?”
“I don’t have one.”
She tips her head back and gazes up at the ceiling with a sigh. “Of course you don’t. Because that would be too easy on me. Give me a minute.”
He fidgets beside her. She assumes he’s just being impatient until he says quietly, “My given name is Samael.”
She turns her head to look at him. “You told me your given name was Lucifer.”
He frowns.
“God given, I’m afraid,” she repeats as a reminder in her best British accent.
He grimaces. “That was a terrible impression.”
She scoffs. “It was a great impression.”
“That’s technically true. The name bit,” he clarifies, “not the bit about your horrible impression being great. I was technically given the name Lucifer. But the unvarnished truth is that my name is Samael.”
She studies him. He’s said Samael twice now, and both times, there's been an undercurrent in his voice that she can't quite place.
“You don’t like it?” she asks.
He shifts his attention to the closed metal doors of the elevator. “No.”
She waits for him to elaborate, to go on one of his famous rants about how much he despises his parents, or maybe launch into a speech comparing her daughter’s hooker name to his official one. But he just keeps staring at the door, his body tense and jaw clenched.
She’s opening her mouth to change the subject when he finally speaks.
“It means poison of god.”
She blinks in surprise. He doesn’t look at her. His body is tense like he’s angry, and her heart feels like it’s being squeezed.
She sets her hand on his knee. “I don’t think you’re poison.”
He turns his head slowly to look at her. She can’t read his expression, and he’s shut her out enough times for her to wonder if he’s about to do it again. She hates that it’ll hurt her if he does. She should be used to him keeping her at arm’s length by now.
He surprises her with a soft, almost shy smile. “Thank you, Detective.”
“Just telling the truth,” she says with a shrug and a smile.
She didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a nod to the game they’re playing, and also a fact, because he’s many things, but poison isn’t one of them. Just like all the other times they’ve stumbled into a moment of intimacy, though, tension sparks and hums between them.
She likes it. She really likes it, because when all his attention is focused on her the way it is right now, it makes her feel like she’s special. Like she’s not just a single mom with a difficult job and no romantic prospects, but someone who’s worthy of being cared for and adored by a magnetic, beautiful man.
When his gaze flicks down toward her mouth, though, she knows she needs to look away.
She clears her throat and breaks eye contact. She moves her hand too, even though she wishes she could leave it where it was.
“Truth or dare?” Lucifer prompts after a beat.
“Truth.”
“What’s the best sex you’ve ever had?”
She gives him a look. “Seriously?”
He grins. “You're welcome to change to dare if you prefer.”
She’s definitely not doing that.
“You promise you're not going to tell anybody?”
“You have my word,” he says, setting his palm over his heart. “Whatever we say to each other in this elevator will remain our secret until the day I perish.”
She snorts at his flare for the dramatic. “His name was Jed.”
“Jed?” Lucifer repeats. “Who names their child Jed? ”
“If you're going to interrupt I'm not going to tell the story,” she says pointedly.
He mimes zipping his mouth close and tossing away the key.
“His name was Jed,” she starts again. “He was the first boy I ever loved. Well, first man.” A memory flashes before her, and she smiles. “Definitely a man.”
Lucifer opens his mouth, and then promptly closes it.
“No, he wasn't the one I lost my virginity to,” Chloe says, rolling her eyes. “He was just the first one I loved. Like, real love.”
Lucifer smiles.
“We were young and stupid and, like I said, in love,” Chloe continues. “We went on a road trip, and there was this cherry stand, so we stopped and bought a bunch. And then we drove over to this lookout point, and sat on the hood of his car, and watched the sun go down while we tried to tie knots in the cherry stems with our tongues.”
Lucifer leans forward eagerly. “Can you do it?”
“Yes,” Chloe says proudly.
“Impressive,” he hums.
She smiles. “I’m pretty good at it.”
“Of course you are,” he replies, his voice dipping toward a purr. “I assume Jed expressed his admiration?”
Chloe flushes. “Yeah.”
“Right there on the hood of the car? Where anyone could see?”
She shifts awkwardly against the elevator wall. “Like I said, we were young and stupid—”
“I’m not judging,” he interrupts. “Just trying to get the full picture.”
“Picture?” she repeats, frowning.
He smirks. “Did the two of you demonstrate other uses for your tongues before you got to the main event?”
It’s been a long time, but the memory of what transpired on the hood of Jed’s car that evening is still vivid. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and lifts one of her shoulders in a coy shrug.
“You little minx,” Lucifer says appreciatively.
She can’t help but laugh.
“Where is he now? Married with kids in the burbs?”
“No, actually. He’s a famous DJ.”
Lucifer gapes at her. “You’re telling me you had public sex with a DJ? As in, one of those ingrates who mixes songs together and calls it music?”
Chloe frowns. “What do you have against DJs?”
“They’re fake musicians. They scratch records and fist pump like idiots. It requires no talent.”
“You have DJs at Lux.”
“Yes, and they’re all hand-selected after an extensive auditioning process, which is absolutely necessary because the majority of them are terrible.”
“Well Jed isn’t terrible. He performed at Coachella and he’s won a Grammy.”
Lucifer scowls. “Good for Jed.”
Chloe smiles. She knows he’s not jealous. He's made it abundantly clear that although he'd happily have sex with her, there are no meaningful feelings on his end. But he looks jealous, and that brings her more joy than it should.
“Truth or dare?” she asks.
“Truth.”
She doesn’t have to think about it this time, because his confession about his name sparked an idea.
“Why don’t you call me Chloe?”
He blinks at her in surprise.
“Unvarnished truth,” she reminds him.
He frowns. “I don’t call anyone in the precinct by their first name.”
“You call Dan Daniel.”
“Well I can’t call him Detective. That’s your name.”
“You could call him Detective Espinoza.”
“He doesn’t deserve the title.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Unless it’s paired with douche. Then it’s acceptable.”
Chloe rolls her eyes.
“Oh, the Doctor and Ms. Lopez,” Lucifer points out. “I never call them by their first names, either.”
“So, what, you’re just being polite and professional?”
He grins. “Let it never be said that the Devil is not a gentleman.”
Chloe shakes her head and looks away.
“What?” Lucifer asks. “Why do you look disappointed?”
“Because you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Strategically telling the truth.”
“But I am being polite—”
“When we first met, it was polite,” she cuts him off, shifting her gaze back to meet his. “When we’re working, it’s professional. But we’re partners now. We’re not always working. And you still don’t call me Chloe. You asked me to prom two weeks ago and still didn’t call me Chloe.”
He frowns. “I rarely call anyone by their first name.”
“That’s not true. Jana the flight attendant stopped by unannounced for sex and she was Jana. All the Britneys get to be Britney. But I‘m still just Detective.”
His frown deepens. “I had no idea it bothered you.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” she insists. “It just…”
She trails off because she doesn’t know how it makes her feel. Or maybe she does, and she’s just afraid to say it.
I’m not the only one who strategically tells the truth, his voice says in her memory. She feels a flash of guilt. She can’t ask him to be honest if she’s not going to return the favor.
“It makes me feel like you want to keep me at arm’s length,” she says before she can chicken out. She looks down at her fingers, which she’s twisting together in her lap. “Which is fine. I get it. I’m not fun like them. Or, you know, into your…”
She frowns, unsure of the right word.
“Hobbies,” she decides. “And you know, maybe being partners just means something different to me than it does to you. Maybe that’s why you always shoot me down whenever I tell you that I’m here for you if you ever want to talk.”
She hadn’t meant to say that.
“Not that you have to talk to me,” she says quickly. “I’m not pressuring you. I know you have Linda, which is great. She’s great.”
“Detect—” he starts, but then abruptly stops. Probably because he realized what he was about to call her. He doesn’t correct himself and say her first name, which kind of hurts. But then he doesn’t say anything at all, and suddenly she feels very, very stupid. It wasn’t even her question to answer, and yet here she is, oversharing. Asking for more than he wants to give, or at least more than he wants to give to her. No wonder he keeps her at arm’s length.
“You know what, forget I said anything,” she says, waving her hand with a forced laugh. “It was a stupid question. Let’s just move on.”
He’s silent for a beat, like maybe he doesn’t want to move on, but then he clears his throat. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“Have you ever had a sex dream about me?”
She snaps her head toward him, feeling whiplashed. She just rambled at him about partnerships and sharing feelings and that’s his next question?
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She blinks, baffled by the sly smile on his lips, and then it hits like a slap. The hurt she should be used to by now. The rejection. She wants intimacy. He, decidedly, does not.
She clears her throat and looks away. She can’t stomach his flirty smirk when she knows it doesn’t mean anything.
“Kind of personal, don’t you think?”
“Name of the game, darling.”
She hums, and then waits for him to criticize her for it. He doesn’t.
“Sex dream, you said?”
He grins. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m clarifying.”
“Not just a sex dream. A sex dream about me.”
Her heart is suddenly beating so hard she feels short of breath, but she meets his gaze because avoiding it feels like an admission.
“Ever had any fantasies about the Devil?” he rephrases, his voice like hot honey. He glances down at her mouth. “Unvarnished truth, don’t forget.”
It suddenly occurs to her that he must know. He knows about her dream with the horns and all the…horniness. He’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. But how? How would he…?
Recognition clicks, and she lets her head fall back against the elevator wall with a thunk. “I’m going to kill Maze.”
He frowns. “Why would you—” He cuts off with a gasp, eyes wide. “You have sex dreams about me!”
She stares at him in horror. “You said—”
“I most certainly did not. I only asked. You said you were going to kill your roommate, thereby implying that you fantasize about me and she knows it.”
He’s right. He did only ask. She’s the one who more or less confirmed it. And now she wants to die of embarrassment.
“They must be quite loud if Mazikeen is aware of them,” he says, impossibly smug.
Her temper flares courtesy of her mortification. “Why would you even ask something like that?”
“Because dreams indicate subconscious desires. And now I know you desire me even though you deny it.”
She makes a sound of disgusted disapproval and scoots a foot away from him.
He grins at her, clearly unbothered by her attempt to establish some distance. “So what did I do in this dream?”
“I'm not having this conversation.”
“Did I go down on you? Did I—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Lucifer.”
He doesn’t, but he also doesn’t stop grinning at her.
“I hate you,” she informs him, though the blush burning her cheeks undercuts it, as does the fact that she can’t seem to look him in the eye.
“Hate sex then,” he says. “Every night you punish me for my insolence in your dirty, dirty dreams—”
“It was one dream. One time.”
“Left you that satisfied, did I?”
“Actually you ghosted me and married a stripper,” Chloe snaps. “And then you brought her into my workplace, paraded her around in front of all my colleagues, and humiliated me. So, yeah, no more dreams after that.”
His grin fades. “You felt humiliated?”
“Are you serious?” she says, her voice rising as memories of that period in her life flood back. “Everyone in the precinct knew you’d just up and left without saying a word to me, Lucifer. And believe me, they had lots of fun talking about it. And not just behind my back, either. They did it to my face.”
He frowns. “You never told me that.”
“What was I supposed to say? That Jones and Brauer from Vice brought a male escort who looked like you to my desk one morning and asked if I wanted to borrow him before they booked him because they heard I couldn’t solve a case without a fuckboy?”
“They said what? ” Lucifer interjects, thunderous.
“Or what about when I overheard a bunch of uniforms talking by the vending machines about how I drove you away because I’m such a rule-following nag?” she forges on. “Or maybe I should’ve told you that the guys in Narcotics had a bet going. Half of them thought you got tired of waiting for me to put out and just left. The other half thought you slept with me and then bolted because I was a shitty lay.”
Lucifer looks aghast.
“And you know what?” Chloe continues, tears stinging her eyes. “I didn’t even care. I didn't care what anyone said, or what they thought, because all I cared about was finding you. I was worried sick. I had trouble sleeping. I spent spare time I could’ve been with my kid trying to track you down. And then you finally showed up, and it turns out that the whole time I was afraid you were lying injured or worse in a ditch somewhere, you were actually just—”
She cuts off abruptly, because if she keeps going, she’s going to cry. She can feel it welling up in her throat, a sob that she's been pushing down for months, and she doesn't want to let it out. She doesn't want to still be upset about this.
Lucifer is staring at her like he’s horrified, and she hates it. She took a risk that day in the hospital and held out her heart, and he took it and smashed it under his red-soled shoes. If there’s one thing she’s learned being a cop, it’s to never make the same mistake twice. She’s not going to start now, no matter how he looks at her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, voice clipped. “Let’s just move on. Truth or dare?”
“Detective—”
“Truth or dare?”
Her voice, angry but wavering, echoes through the elevator.
“Truth,” he says quietly.
She fixes him with an interrogative stare. “Why is everything always about sex for you?”
He frowns. “It’s not.”
“It is,” she argues. “You’ve asked me three questions so far, and two were sex related.”
He shifts as if he’s uncomfortable. “Sex is the language I speak best.”
“Bullshit. You’re one of the most articulate people I know, Lucifer.”
“About facts,” he retorts. “About opinions. But I’m not very well-versed in feelings, am I? And you, Detective, have a hard on for feelings.”
“I have a what? ”
“A hard on. It’s when—”
“I know what a hard on is, Lucifer. God, I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like just because I don’t bang someone new every night that I somehow don’t understand sex. Just because I don’t do it like you do doesn’t mean I don’t want it or don’t like it. And just because I don’t host an orgy every weekend doesn’t mean I’m a prude who only does it in missionary like it’s a chore.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t host orgies every weekend.”
“Right,” she mutters. “Because that’s the takeaway here.”
He blinks at her in surprise.
She folds her arms over her chest and glares at the elevator doors.
Silence descends, and it’s loud. She realizes suddenly that not only did he not answer her most recent question, he hasn’t answered any of them. He doesn’t have a middle name, fine. Not his fault. But he didn’t tell her why he doesn’t call her by her first name. He didn’t tell her what his favorite color is. He didn’t tell her why he’s so fixated on sex. Meanwhile, she’s bared her soul, and all he’s done in response is ask her inappropriate questions and make fun of her answers.
“Truth or dare?” he says quietly.
I don't want to play anymore, she almost says. Because she doesn't. There's a lump in her throat, and her eyes are burning with tears, and she doesn't even know why she's so upset right now. It’s so stupid. Why is she surprised by his behavior? Why does she keep expecting him to treat her like anything other than a diversion to pass the time? At what point does opening up to him become masochistic instead of hopeful? She should quit before this gets any worse.
But quitting feels pathetic. It feels like sitting at a restaurant table alone, pretending like you don’t see the people around you casting sidelong glances as they realize you’re being stood up. It feels like walking into a penthouse and finding sheets on furniture. It feels like getting a voicemail and hearing someone say that they’re coming over, that they want to tell you everything, and waiting with your heart in your throat, only to fall asleep on the couch and wake up the next morning to realize that they never came. It feels like finally getting your career back on track, finally becoming the kind of detective that your colleagues respect and admire, and then risking it all to have your partner’s back, only to realize that he never even thought about yours.
She swallows around the lump in her throat. “Truth.”
“Will you forgive me?”
She isn’t expecting that. She whips her head toward him, inhaling sharply.
“It’s not a demand,” he clarifies softly. “And it’s not a question of ability. I know you can, because of course you can. You’re you. I’m asking you to tell me the truth, even if it’s unkind, about whether you would choose to forgive me if I…” He frowns, his gaze traversing her face as if he’s looking for something, and then he smiles ruefully. “I’ve done it backwards, haven’t I?”
She frowns. “Backwards?”
“I should apologize first. For humiliating you. For fleeing without a word. I had my reasons, and if we weren’t trapped at the moment, I’d share them with you. Not as an excuse, mind you. Just so you’d understand.”
He glances down at his hands, which are motionless in his lap. “For what it’s worth, I was trying to do the right thing. But I can’t imagine how it must look to you. What a monster I must seem for being so careless and cavalier with your feelings.”
She opens her mouth to tell him no, to reassure him that even when she’s at her lowest he’s never been monstrous to her, but she can’t seem to get her vocal cords to work.
“I do hope you realize that despite how it may appear sometimes, your feelings matter a great deal to me,” he continues, glancing up at her. “You have my deepest apologies for making you believe otherwise, and my sincere assurance that it pains me immeasurably to know that I caused you so much suffering.”
She stares at him, shocked and speechless. She’s imagined this so many times—a moment stripped of tension, sexual or otherwise, where he would look her in the eye and simply acknowledge that he hurt her. That’s all she’s ever wanted. She doesn’t want to punish him. She doesn’t want him to grovel. She just wants to know that her partner, this man she cares so deeply about that it scares her, recognizes how much power he has over her.
She finally finds her voice. “Lucifer,” she starts. But then that cursed sob shoots up into her throat and she chokes on it, her eyes flooding.
“Detective,” he says in alarm.
He reaches for her, but seems to think better of it and stops, his hand hovering between them. He looks distraught.
“Sorry,” she says, waving him off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” She huffs out an incredulous laugh and swipes her eyes. “God, this is embarrassing. I’m so sorry.”
He lowers his hand and rests it on her knee. It’s just the tips of his fingers, barely even a touch, but she goes still. She can feel the warmth of his skin through her jeans.
She looks up at him, vision still a little blurred, heart in her throat.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed of,” he says quietly. “I’m deeply sorry, Chloe. Forgive me.”
And oh, now she wants to kiss him. She wants to lean forward, curl her hand around the back of his neck, and forgive him with her lips and tongue and—
“Yes,” she breathes. “Of course.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t believe her. Which, okay, fair. She’s still crying.
“You’re crying,” he points out as if on cue.
“I just didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that,” she tells him honestly, wiping her fingertips beneath her eyes so she won’t ruin her mascara.
He looks pained. “I apologize for not saying it sooner.”
“You said it now, Lucifer. That’s all that matters.”
He looks unconvinced.
She sets her hand over his and tangles their fingers together. “I mean it. And I meant what I said at my dad's trial. You're the best partner I've ever had.”
“Even after everything?”
“Even after everything.”
He smiles sadly. “That doesn't cast your previous partners in a particularly pleasant light.”
“You refused to leave last week while I defused a bomb,” she reminds him. “You let my kid paint your face. You gave me a prom.”
“I’d give you anything,” he murmurs.
The tension returns with a vengeance. He’s looking at her like it’s not a hyperbole, like he really would give her anything, and their fingers are still tangled on his knee. The dim lighting in the elevator feels kind of moody and romantic all of a sudden, and oh, she is in so much trouble.
“Except my Corvette,” Lucifer adds quietly. “You’d grind the gears.”
Chloe snorts, and then she full-on laughs, grateful for the tension break even if part of her wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t made a joke.
“I like my cruiser better anyway,” she says, letting go of his hand. “I’m not enough of a peacock for your car.”
“It does require a certain kind of cock,” he muses, and she laughs again.
“Truth or dare?” she asks, wiping her eyes one more time. “But for real this time.”
He tilts his head. “For real?”
“You can pick dare.”
He blinks in surprise, and then his lips smooth into a smile. “Truth.”
It’s her turn to blink in surprise.
“Least I can do,” he murmurs. “After everything.”
She really wants to kiss him.
“Okay,” she says. “What’s your—”
“Ah ah,” he cuts her off, clicking his tongue. “Don’t be nice.”
“Nice?” she repeats with a frown.
“I know you. You appreciate that I’m willing to be truthful even though I don’t have to be, and you want to reward me for it.”
“You’re not a dog,” she scoffs.
He grins. “No, I am not. But you are disgustingly good and perpetually concerned with the comfort of others. Which is why you were planning to ask me a simple question instead of a probing one.”
She stares at him because he’s right. She was going to repeat her question about his favorite color.
“Probe me, Detective,” he says with a wicked grin. But then it softens. “Ask me something you want the truth about. Something you’ve always wanted to know. Take your time. We’ve plenty of it.”
She hesitates, unsure, but he nods at her encouragingly, so she does. She thinks it over, rifling through her memories, and then a question materializes.
“Why did you stand me up the night you asked me to dinner?”
The encouraging smile freezes on his face, and then fades. Her first instinct is to apologize, to shake her head and tell him nevermind, but she presses her lips together and refuses to give in to the impulse.
He clears his throat and glances down at his hands. “I’m sorry for that too. I know it hurt you.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” she says honestly. “I just didn’t give you a chance to explain when you came over the next day, so I thought…maybe you could do it now?”
He doesn’t reply. His brow is furrowed as if he’s trying to figure out what to say, and she’s suddenly afraid that she’s about to hear something that will hurt. After the humiliation of being stood up, she swore she’d never put herself in a position to be disappointed by him again. Yet here she is, waiting for an explanation that could be not only disappointing, but devastating.
He fidgets. Clears his throat. Fidgets again. He won’t look at her, and even though she’s still braced for impact, her heart aches for him. He’s clearly trying to find the right words.
“Doctor Linda says I chickened out,” he says eventually.
“Is that true?”
He finally looks at her. “Yes.”
She hadn’t expected him to admit it, even with their agreement about unvarnished truth.
“Oh,” she says softly.
“I should've texted you,” he says, dropping his gaze as if he’s ashamed. “I know that. But I didn’t know what to say. I felt foolish.”
She has a million follow up questions, but she doesn’t want to inundate or interrogate him. Especially not when he looks like a kicked puppy.
“Well,” she says on an exhale, “if it makes you feel better, you weren’t the only one who was nervous. I almost chickened out too.”
He glances up at her in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah. I think I tried on every piece of clothing I own trying to find the right outfit.”
“For me?” he says, and the look on his face—like it thrills him that she struggled to pick out an outfit to wear to dinner with him—makes her smile.
“Yeah,” she says with a laugh. “My bedroom looked like a tornado ripped through my closet. I finally picked this skirt because I remembered that you—”
She stops talking abruptly when she realizes what she's about to say, and then her face burns with a fierce blush.
“That I what?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, waving off his question as casually as she can. “Water under the bridge, right?”
He looks like he wants to push her for an answer, but he doesn’t. They sit in silence for a while, tension humming between them as they avoid each other’s gazes.
“Truth or dare?” he asks eventually.
“Truth,” she says, both relieved and disappointed that they’re going to move on.
“Do you think I’m boyfriend material?”
She snaps her gaze toward him in surprise.
He’s staring at her, his expression earnest and curious. She searches his eyes, wondering why he’d ask that, but she isn’t brave enough to voice the question.
“Yes,” she says honestly.
He frowns. “In the time that we’ve been stuck here, we’ve discussed several instances where I hurt you deeply.”
“So?”
“So if I’m capable of hurting someone that deeply, that many times, then the correct answer is no.”
“Correct according to who?” she challenges. “You asked me what I think, so I told you.”
“But how—”
“You’re not perfect, Lucifer,” she cuts him off. “But neither am I. I'm sure there are times that I've hurt you, or that I haven't been the kind of partner or friend that you needed. Does that mean I’m not girlfriend material?”
“Don’t be absurd,” he scoffs. “Any man would be lucky to have you.”
“Okay, well, I think any woman would be lucky to have you.”
He stares at her. She stares back, because she wants him to know that she means it. He can be self-centered and immature, but he can also be selfless and serious. If he cared enough about a woman to want a relationship, she’s sure he’d be more of the latter than the former.
His attention drifts down toward her lips. Warning sirens start to blare in the back of her mind. She should probably change the subject.
“Truth or dare?” she asks.
“Truth,” he says, glancing up to meet her gaze again.
“Are you uh…” She clears her throat and licks her lips. “Are you thinking about dating someone? Is that why you’re wondering about being boyfriend material?”
He smiles faintly. “It’s crossed my mind, yes.”
“Oh,” she murmurs.
Her heartbeat kicks up to a thrum. Who has he been thinking about dating? It has to be one of his bed partners. There’s no other reasonable explanation. But she can’t remember him ever mentioning any of them. At least not more than once, or with any sort of affection.
“Truth or dare?” he asks.
Dare, a voice hisses in the back of her mind.
She clears her throat. “Truth.”
“Do you like Pierce?”
She blinks in surprise. “Do I…what?”
“Do you like Pierce?”
“You mean my boss?”
“Yes.”
She frowns, confused, but she probably shouldn't be. It's not the first time one of his questions has seemed to come out of left field.
“He’s better than the last two lieutenants I guess,” she answers with a shrug. “I know we didn’t get off to a great start, but—”
“No. Not that kind of like.”
She frowns again.
“Ms. Lopez thinks you like like each other,” he says, tugging absently on one of his cufflinks. “Five-alarm chemistry, she says. Apparently you’d make beautiful, strong-jawed babies.”
Chloe snorts.
Lucifer swivels his head toward her with a narrow-eyed stare that wouldn’t be out of place in an interrogation room. “So you agree?”
“I don’t think five-alarm chemistry is even possible with a guy like Marcus.”
“Oh so he’s Marcus now,” Lucifer says petulantly.
Chloe tilts her head. “Why do you even care?”
“I’m just curious.”
She hums pointedly.
He gives her a look.
“What?” she says, unapologetic. “You said unvarnished truth and that was a blatant sidestep. Judgmental hums are warranted.”
“It’s not my question and thus my complete honesty is not required,” he shoots back. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. The answer is no. I don’t know him well enough to like him the way you’re talking about.”
“What if you did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? ”
“What do you want me to say?” she asks, throwing up her hands. “I don’t know.”
“Well if he asked you out, would you say yes?”
“Is there a reason I shouldn't?”
He falters for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the challenge, and then he lifts his chain defiantly. “Yes. He’s not good enough for you.”
“Not good enough for me,” she repeats.
“Nope.”
Her temper flares unexpectedly. He’s sitting here telling her that he’s thinking about dating, but when the possibility of her dating comes up, he thinks he has the right to shoot it down?
“Who is then?” she asks.
He blinks in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Who is good enough for me?” she repeats. “You hated when I was with Dan. And any time a guy flirts with me in front of you, you get mad.”
“I do not.”
“What about Tommy Bahama?”
“Who? ”
“The guy who hit on me at that pool party after Jana was murdered.”
“Oh please, Detective. He was a douche.”
“What about Mack from the Top Meet case?”
“You mean the killer we put behind bars?”
“So if a perfectly nice doctor who coaches little league on the weekends, does Doctors Without Borders every summer, and is not a douche or a killer asks me out, that’s cool with you?”
He scoffs. “Well if you’re going to make up men—”
“I’m not. Trixie’s pediatrician asked me out last week.”
Lucifer gapes at her. “Did you tell him yes?”
“Why do you care?”
He opens his mouth, and then promptly shuts it. Her temper flares again.
“Okay, fine,” she says. “Truth or dare, Lucifer.”
“Dare,” he says smugly.
He thinks he’s got her. He doesn’t.
“I dare you to tell me the truth about why you care so much about who I date.”
He frowns. “Well that’s not fair.”
“You know what’s not fair?” she says angrily. “This. You.”
“Me? ”
“I know you don’t want me, Lucifer.”
He opens his mouth.
“I’m not talking about sex,” she snaps before he can say something crude. “I’m talking about a relationship. A real, grown-up, committed and monogamous relationship where two people support each other and build a life together. That’s what I want, it’s what I’ve always wanted, but that’s not what you want. At least not with me. So why do you care if I try to find it with someone else?”
“Are you sure that’s not what I want with you?” he challenges.
“Seriously? ”
Her voice echoes through the elevator, angry and a little harsh, and his bravado evaporates.
“Detective,” he starts.
“You had me, Lucifer,” she interrupts, incredulous. “I was yours. You’re the one who walked away. That’s all you ever do. I try to move forward with you, and you walk away.”
He stares at her, apparently shocked by her words. She is, too. They hang in the air like smoke after a bomb detonates, and that’s exactly what she feels like just happened. Her heart is racing. Her ears are ringing. She’s confused and hurt and kind of pissed off, and the guilt that’s written all over Lucifer’s expression isn’t helping.
“I mean, what am I supposed to do?” she asks him, her voice wavering as unwelcome tears prick her eyes. “What do you want from me? I keep trying, and you keep walking away, so then I stop trying, and then you say stuff like that, and we’re right back where we started. It’s not fair.”
“I know—”
“You don’t know,” she says as her vision blurs. “It’s not fair, Lucifer. Everyone gets to have you. I have to watch while everyone gets to have you, but I’m not allowed to have anyone. Not Dan, not Pierce, not anyone, because even though you don’t want to be with me, you don’t want anyone else to be with me either. I’m not a toy that you can just pull out of the toy box whenever you feel like it. I’m a person. I deserve—”
Her voice catches and breaks. Tears finally spill from her eyes and she huffs, annoyed that she’s somehow crying again during this stupid game in this stupid elevator during this stupid power outage.
He doesn’t say anything. She isn’t sure whether his silence relieves or infuriates her. Maybe both. Not that it matters to him how she feels. Clearly all that matters is how he feels, regardless of what he said before.
She takes a deep breath and reaches up to wipe her face.
He catches her wrist before she can.
She freezes. A tense beat passes where neither of them move, and then she slowly turns her head toward him.
There’s so much anguish etched into his expression that it takes her breath away. He leans forward and lifts his free hand to gently thumb away the tears on her cheek.
“You frighten me,” he says quietly.
She sniffs. “What?”
“That’s why I walk away,” he says as he drops his hand away from her face. “Because I’m frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Disappointing you,” he says with a wry smile. “Driving you away. Losing you. I firmly believe you’re better off without me. But every time I try to give that life back to you, I discover that I’m incapable of letting you go. It’s like holding my breath under water. Sooner or later, I have to come back to the surface.”
He glances at his fingers that are still curled around her wrist. He coasts his thumb gently over the back of her hand, tracing the ridges of her knuckles, and then lets go.
“Back to you,” he finishes softly.
She can’t seem to find her voice. She’s not sure she’s breathing, either.
“I care because no one is good enough for you,” he tells her, holding her gaze. “Myself included.”
Her heart flutters. Her brain yells at her to stay focused.
“That’s not your decision to make, Lucifer.”
“I know. But I suspect you were going to tell me that you deserve to be treated better than the way I’ve been treating you, and you’re right. You deserve someone worthy of you. But I’ve yet to meet a man who is. I’m certainly not.”
She doesn't know if he meant to make her remember their conversation on the beach before she kissed him for the first time, but this moment feels exactly like that one. Sitting on the floor of a dingy and dim elevator is nothing like standing in the sun on the beach, but it feels the same. There he is, telling her she’s too good. And here she is, wanting him desperately regardless of what he thinks about it.
Friends, he says in her memory, a ring on his finger and a stripper in tow. That’s exactly what we are. Just friends.
“Tell me you’re just trying to be a good friend,” she whispers. “Tell me that’s all you see me as.”
He smiles sadly. “I don’t lie.”
Her chest aches. Her eyes warm with fresh tears. “Please, Lucifer.”
“I can’t, darling,” he murmurs, and even though his voice is soft, it feels like a razor blade. “I won’t lie to you.”
“So you’ll just string me along instead? How am I supposed to keep living like this?”
“Chloe—”
“Don’t.”
She pushes herself to her feet and turns away from him, swiping at her eyes as she paces the short distance to the elevator wall. When she turns back around, he’s on his feet too.
“I’m done with this,” she tells him. “I can’t do it anymore. I want the truth.”
He nods. “You deserve it.”
“Then tell me how you feel about me.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not your turn, darling. It’s mine.”
“What?” she demands, even though her brain is record-scratching over hearing a second darling in less than a minute.
“Truth or dare?” he says.
She stares at him, waiting for the punchline or a shit-eating grin, but neither come. She huffs out a wretched, incredulous laugh.
“You’re doing it again,” she accuses. “Walking away. Running.”
He takes a pointed, purposeful step toward her.
“Funny,” she says, but neither of them are laughing.
“Truth or dare?” he repeats.
She levels him with a glare and steps backward.
The corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to smile. He doesn’t. He just takes another step forward.
Her heart starts to race. She steps backward, and her shoulder blades hit the wall of the elevator. She’s trapped. She lifts her chin anyway, a silent challenge.
He steps forward and rests his palms on the wall on either side of her so she’s caged in. She has to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. He isn’t touching her anywhere, but she can feel his presence like the press of a hand.
“Truth or dare.”
This time, it’s not a request. It’s a command. A shiver drills down her spine.
“Truth,” she says with as much attitude as she can muster.
His gaze slowly travels her face like he’s memorizing her, and then their eyes finally meet.
“Do you want me?”
She narrows her eyes. “You mean do I want to sleep with you?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean do you want me.”
She wasn’t expecting that. She wasn’t expecting the insecurity lurking in his eyes either, or the way he seems to be holding his breath. It makes the flame of anger in her chest flicker and die. The tension stretches between them, so taut that she feels like she might be able to reach out and pluck it like a guitar string.
“Yes,” she whispers.
There’s no triumph in his eyes. No smug satisfaction. Just a flash of wonder and awe, and then a furrowed brow of confusion.
His gaze drops down, and then he gently pulls the bullet necklace that’s fastened around her neck out from under her shirt. He stares at it, his thumb rubbing against the steel, while she stares at him, waiting.
“Why?” he whispers.
“It’s not your turn.”
His gaze flicks up to meet hers in surprise.
“Truth or dare?” she asks.
He tilts closer to her without saying anything. She feels so small pressed up against this wall with him looming above her. Every nerve ending in her body feels like it’s humming, vibrating, desperate for contact. But she’s done taking steps. It’s his turn.
“Truth or dare, Lucifer.”
He lets the bullet drop onto her sternum and puts his hand back on the wall. “Truth.”
She curls her fingers into the jacket of his suit and arches off the wall just a little, just enough to bring their mouths inches apart.
“Do it,” she breathes.
His eyebrows gather. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said I deserve the truth. And I know what language you speak best. So speak it. Tell me the truth.”
He shakes his head, but his eyes are glued to her lips with a look of unabashed longing. “You’ll think it’s all I want.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
He glances up to look her in the eye. She inches closer. They’re breathing the same air.
“Please,” she whispers.
He lifts his hand to cup her face. She tips her head into his palm. He watches the path of his thumb as he traces it along her bottom lip, and then he presses down to part her lips.
“I’m not worthy of you,” he murmurs. “But there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to become so.”
He leans forward and kisses her. The brush of his lips is so soft it makes her ache in a new way, and she knows. He didn’t give her his word. There’s still room for strategic truth telling. But she knows.
He means it.
She kisses him back. It’s the beach all over again—tentative but persistent, and so perfect she’s afraid she’ll open her eyes to find it’s all been a dream. He flicks his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she opens her mouth for him with a whimper.
“Chloe,” he breathes, his voice ragged.
The dam breaks. She tugs him closer, her hands fisted into his jacket. He cradles her face in his hands and pins her back against the wall. They’re starved for each other, ravenous after so many near-misses and almost-theres and not quites.
“I want you to choose me,” he says, ducking his head to kiss along the line of her jaw. His hands drop to her waist and he tightens his hold, pressing his hips into hers. “Choose me.”
“You have to let me,” she pants. She clutches his face and brings his mouth back to hers, kissing him again. “I can’t choose you if you won’t let me.”
His fingers dip beneath the hem of her shirt, his skin warm on hers.
“Chloe,” he says in a low voice. His hands are still but she can feel it. She can feel how much he wants her.
She’s going to tell him yes because of course she is. How could she not? But she doesn’t get the chance.
“Hey-yo, how we doing folks?” crackles a voice from the speaker on the wall.
Chloe and Lucifer jolt apart like teenagers caught in the backseat of a car. They stare at each other, and he looks…he looks wrecked. He’s wild-eyed and breathing hard, his hair mussed from her fingers. She wants to snag his jacket and pull him back. She wants her fingers in his hair again.
She takes a step to her right and presses the intercom button instead.
“Hey,” she greets. “We’re good.”
Does she sound like she was just making out with her partner? She’s pretty sure she does. Hopefully Jose will chalk it up to intercom static.
“I’ve got good news,” Jose says brightly. “There’s a unit in your building already because the mayor got stuck in one of the other elevators. They’ve got him out so they’re coming for you while they’re there.”
“That’s great,” Chloe says.
It’s a lie. She wants them to go away so she can kiss her partner again.
“Should be just a minute or so, I think they’re already at your location. Don’t be alarmed if you hear any weird noises.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Chloe lets go of the intercom button. The elevator descends into silence. Lucifer still looks wrecked, and she’s afraid she might too. She’s not sure she cares—all she really cares about right now is getting Lucifer’s mouth back on hers—but then she realizes she should care. She’s at work. The last thing she needs is another reason for people to gossip about her.
She glances down at herself. Her shirt is a little askew so she tugs it back into place, and then straightens her jacket. She tucks her bullet necklace away. She smooths her hands over her ponytail, wishing she had a mirror. And then she looks at Lucifer.
He hasn’t moved. He still looks wrecked. Her body aches.
A metallic groan fills the air. Chloe startles in surprise. Lucifer does too, and that seems to be enough to snap him back to his senses. He has his suit straightened and his hair smoothed in seconds.
Disappointment washes over her. She’s not sure why. She should want him to look presentable. She should want them to be professional. And part of her does. Most of her, though, wants back the man who was panting and ragged and desperate for her.
Another metallic creak echoes through the elevator, and apprehension grips her. They’re about to get rescued. Which, yes, that’s great. But they haven’t talked about what happened. What if the elevator doors open and this thing between them evaporates into nothing? What if, once he’s no longer confined with her, he lets fear get the better of him? What if she’s barely resisting a fall, barely hanging on to the edge of a cliff by a single finger, but he hauls himself back up onto solid ground and bolts?
“Lucifer,” she starts.
And then the elevator doors glide open, and Pierce is standing there between two firemen.
“Decker,” he barks. “You okay?”
It takes a considerable amount of effort for Chloe to tear her gaze away from Lucifer.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m fine.”
“Good because I need you.”
Lucifer hadn’t yet looked away from her, but Pierce’s words send his head swinging toward the lieutenant.
“We were on our way to a scene,” Chloe reminds him.
“I sent someone else,” Pierce says gruffly. “You’re with me.”
She doesn’t look directly at him, but Chloe can see Lucifer straighten from the corner of her eye.
“Oh?” he says.
“Not you, Lucifer,” Pierce says to him. “You’ll embarrass me. Go home. Let’s go, Decker.”
“Lieutenant,” Chloe says, insulted on Lucifer’s behalf.
“That’s an order,” Pierce says. “Let’s go.”
He turns on his heel and strides away. Chloe has no choice but to follow. She shoots an apologetic smile Lucifer’s way, and then steps off the elevator.
She’s only made it a few steps when she feels Lucifer’s fingers catch her wrist.
She turns toward him in surprise. He steps closer to her, probably too close considering where they are, but she can’t get her mouth to work itself into a warning.
“Have dinner with me tonight,” Lucifer says, quiet but rushed. His expression is creased with…worry? Why is he worried? “The restaurant we were supposed to go to the night I was a fool. Seven o’clock.”
She gapes at him. “Lucifer…”
“Let’s go, Decker!” Pierce hollers.
“Wear the skirt,” Lucifer murmurs.
And then, after a quick squeeze of her wrist and without waiting for a reply, he’s gone.
The mayor. That’s why Pierce dismissed Lucifer and interrupted a conversation (and a kiss) that Chloe very much wanted to finish. Because he needed her to meet with the mayor to discuss some initiative City Hall is planning to launch.
She wants to punch him.
And okay, fine, it's not a bad initiative. It’s a public-facing taskforce that will be charged with making recommendations about how to improve the LAPD, and that’s something she cares about. She wants to help improve the Department, even if the reason the mayor wants her is because she’s a woman and a legacy with a tragic backstory that’s easy to exploit, rather than a detective with the top closure rate and zero tolerance for crooked cops (looking at you, Malcolm).
She should be excited about this opportunity. And she is. But she can’t stop thinking about Lucifer. She can’t stop remembering his body pressed against hers, and the sound of his voice when he begged her to choose him, and the look on his face when he asked her to meet him for dinner.
When she's finally finished with the mayor, she heads back to her desk. She's hoping she'll find Lucifer there so she can confirm that he meant what he said, and that he hasn’t changed his mind about dinner.
But her desk is empty. He's not by the vending machines, or in Ella's lab, or skulking around Dan’s desk looking for trouble to cause. He must have listened to Pierce and gone home.
She considers texting him. But no matter how she tries to word her message, she feels like she sounds needy or insecure or desperate. She's afraid the wrong tone will scare him away, and she doesn't want to scare him away. She doesn't want what happened in the elevator to be another almost in their long line of almosts. But she also doesn't want to be stood up again, and the idea of putting on that skirt and walking into that restaurant only to find another empty table makes her sick to her stomach.
She wavers all afternoon, trying to figure out if there's a way she can protect herself without making Lucifer think she doesn't have faith in him. Maybe she could pretend that something came up with Trixie, even though it's Dan’s night to have her. Maybe she could feign a stomach bug. Maybe she could show up early to the restaurant and stake out the front entrance and wait until she sees Lucifer go in before she goes in.
In the end, though, she realizes that there’s no way around it. She either has faith in Lucifer or she doesn't.
Two minutes before seven o'clock, she pulls up in front of the restaurant. The valet smiles at her as she hands over her keys. She pauses just outside the front entrance, glancing down to smooth her hands over her skirt, and then she takes a deep breath and walks inside.
“Good evening,” the hostess greets her with a broad smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yeah, it should be under Morningstar?” Chloe answers.
The hostess scans her list, her eyebrows furrowed, and panic closes up Chloe's throat. What if Lucifer didn't make a reservation? What if this time she's not even going to make it inside the restaurant before he stands her up?
“Oh, there you are,” the hostess says with a bubbly laugh, tapping her finger on the list. “Passed right by it on the first go. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your table.”
Chloe smiles politely and follows the hostess through the restaurant. Every step leaves her increasingly concerned that her heart is going to beat out of her chest. This is exactly how things went the last time she was here. The skirt, the valet, the hostess. It’s happening all over again. He’s going to break her heart. He’s—
Here.
He’s here.
Lucifer shoots out of his chair the moment he sees her. Chloe slows to a stop the moment she sees him. They stand there staring at each other, the soft strains of a string quartet and the dull clink of flatware scraping on plates filling the air between them.
“Is there anything I can get you?” the hostess asks.
She's glancing between them, clearly confused about why they're just standing and staring at each other, but Chloe can't seem to find her voice.
“No, thank you,” Lucifer says, his gaze traveling slowly up Chloe’s legs. The desire in his eyes makes her want to throw herself at him, public place be damned. “We have everything we need.”
“Great,” the hostess says. “Enjoy your meal.”
Even once she’s gone, Chloe stays rooted in place. Her heart is pounding for entirely different reasons than it was when she first walked through the door.
Lucifer is the one who takes the first step. And then another. And another.
He stops when he's standing before her, not quite as close as he stood in the elevator before he kissed her, but close enough to make her think about it.
“Hi,” she whispers.
He smiles. “Hi.”