Chapter Text
When the elevator doors open to the penthouse, Chloe and Linda cautiously step inside.
“Well, no sheets on the furniture, that’s a good sign,” Chloe says, glancing around the open space.
The bad sign being, of course, that there doesn’t seem to be any sign of Lucifer either.
“And it looks like...” Linda steps forward, eyeing the piece of luggage sitting in the middle of the room like a beacon. “Yep, the overnight bag is missing. So maybe he did go out of town,” she says, almost apologetically.
Chloe is nodding a bit too much. “On my birthday.” Because that totally figures. “You know, speaking of, this is stupid. What are we doing here? We should be celebrating.”
“Yes,” Linda agrees fervently, following her back to the elevator. “We should be celebrating.”
Though she’s trying to hide her disappointment, her hurt, her...everything else when it comes to Lucifer, Chloe wonders how much more it’ll take before she gets it through her thick skull. Lucifer is going to Lucifer, no matter anyone else’s feelings in the matter. It’s a lesson she should have learned a long time ago, and yet, here she is, spending her birthday tracking down her wayward partner.
Again.
“Yeah,” Chloe says. “So where to?”
Linda looks at her with a bit too much sympathy, then she glances back at the penthouse, considering. “Hmm. Actually, I do know this place with an awesome sound system and all the top shelf you can drink.”
Chloe’s lips twitch as she turns to the therapist. “Best views in the city?”
“Seems a shame to let that sunset go to waste.”
Without looking, they reach out at the same time to catch the elevator doors as they close, matching smiles growing on their lips.
An hour later, the penthouse is entirely theirs.
Top-shelf booze flows like water, the music is cranked high enough to rattle the wall of windows, and the L.A. skyline glows beneath them as if the whole city is in on the joke.
Chloe is barefoot, tipsy, and now wearing nothing but her socks and Lucifer's white silk dress shirt, the collar slipping every time she raises her glass. She skids across the marble floor, lip-syncing with the song while trying not to fall on her face. Across the room, Linda claimed one of his many, many robes—a black one, silk again, of course, that completely swamps her tiny frame as she dances around with an oversized magnifying glass.
If Lucifer wants to disappear on her birthday, then fine. This can be his punishment: two women completely taking over his kingdom. Maybe he should’ve invested in a lock for that damn elevator.
So when Linda says, “Let’s go take a peek at his sock drawer,” Chloe gives her a mock gasp and a response of, “But Doctor Martin, aren’t you his therapist?”
“There’s nothing I don’t know about Lucifer Morningstar,” Linda says, looking at her through the magnifying glass.
Chloe drapes herself over the piano. “Except what’s in his sock drawer,” she says, pointing drunkenly.
With a mischievous grin, Linda leads the way back to the closet. Which is less a closet and more a boutique showroom. The room is just...it’s ridiculous. Gorgeous, polished oak racks and walls, soft carpeting, a bench in the middle, and naturally, a full-length mirror along one wall. This seems to be the only place in the penthouse with doors—aside from the bathroom, there are a few narrow doors along another wall. But that isn’t the focus of the room.
It’s the clothes.
Rows upon rows of suits, shirts, and slacks, all meticulously organized and sorted by designer, then by color. Armani, Prada, Burberry, Tom Ford, Brioni—the list goes on. And the colors... Everything from charcoal to blues and greens and purples and reds, even a few pinks. Obsessively sorted.
Chloe runs a hand over a jacket that probably costs more than her entire wardrobe. “He’s got a problem,” she mutters. “This is bordering on compulsive.”
Linda snorts. “Compulsion is a...generous word for it.”
“You think he even wears all these?”
“Who knows. Knowing him? Probably. He takes fashion...very seriously.”
Rolling her eyes, Chloe darts for the dresser in the corner. The top drawer is an assortment of wrist and pocket watches that could put a jewelry store out of business. Some look like they could be antiques—one looks nearly ancient. It’s little more than a delicate, golden sphere with filigree, and the hinged sections open to reveal both a tiny, meticulous dial and little chambers. The thing is beautiful, fragile, and impossibly old, yet still ticking.
“What even is this?” she mutters to herself.
Linda appears at her shoulder. “Oh wow. That is a 1505 pomander watch,” she says, sounding awed. “The earliest known pocket watch known to man.”
Chloe stares at her. “How can you possibly know that?”
“My grandfather was a watch collector. I learned more about the history of watches than I ever wanted to know. The thing in your hands is...insanely expensive.”
“Why does Lucifer have it?” Shaking her head, Chloe carefully places it back in its spot. “I swear, some of the things he collects—it’s like he spends his time at estate sales or something.”
“Hmm. Definitely ‘or something’.”
The sock drawer is next. Like the suits, it’s carefully arranged by color, looking like some deranged rainbow. Different materials and designs.
“Who needs this many socks?”
Chloe digs deeper and finds the next drawer: cufflinks. Hundreds of them. In every variety. More plain ones in onyx and mother of pearl and gold and platinum. Ones with little devil horns, pentagrams, even a set with wings and another of tiny handcuffs. Stones—diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. Of course ones with his initials and music notes and why does he need this many?
“Wow,” Chloe breathes, staring at them. “I don’t...even know what to say.”
“You should see the pocket square collection,” Linda says blandly. “What’s next?”
Underwear.
Silk boxer briefs, to be exact. All neatly folded, several pairs still in the packaging.
Chloe blinks, then whispers, mostly to herself. “I didn’t think he actually wore underwear...”
Next to her, Linda cackles so loudly she nearly spills her drink.
The bathroom offers fewer laughs. The room itself is a statement—black marble (heated) floors, Assyrian stone walls with the same motif as the bedroom, heated towel racks. The shower is like a steam room with multiple water heads, and could likely fit at least four people. Because of course he needs an orgy-sized shower. Same with the sunken bathtub that’s more a jacuzzi. Like everything else in the penthouse, it’s decadent and extravagant and beautiful and outrageously Lucifer. Every inch designed for luxury and comfort.
And then Chloe ends up opening a cabinet under the sink.
It’s filled with more meticulous organization—this time, the illegal kind. Leather baskets with unmarked boxes made of crystal, silver, and carved wood. And inside the boxes...
“Holy crap,” Chloe breathes, wide-eyed.
So. Many. Drugs.
Cocaine. Ecstasy. Pot. Psychedelics she doesn’t even know the names for. Pills that aren’t labeled, all carefully sorted. Amphetamines. Even—
“What...is that?” Chloe asks, looking in a sandalwood box with little black resin coins wrapped in wax paper. There is also a pair of ornate pipes that look centuries old.
Linda clears her throat awkwardly. “I believe that is...opium.”
Sighing, Chloe replaces the box. “Of course it is. This is...beyond felony. I don’t even know what this is.”
“You gonna turn him in?” Linda asks, only half-teasing.
Standing from her crouch, Chloe closes the cabinet door more forcefully than necessary. “I should,” she mutters grumpily. She takes the whiskey bottle from Linda’s hand and drinks deeply, wincing at the burn, then marches out of the room.
Preoccupied with the question of how Lucifer hasn’t yet died of an overdose—or gotten himself arrested—Chloe pulls the wrong handle on the wrong door in the closet, and finds herself staring into a room she immediately wishes she hadn’t found.
At first, she thinks it’s some kind of avant-garde art installation. Then she registers the leather. The gleaming chrome. The wall-mounted racks and velvet-lined drawers. A ‘toy closet’ is putting it lightly—this is an entire annex, a curated museum to kink.
Restraints in every size and material. Rows of whips that look like they belong in a medieval arsenal. Harnesses, spreader bars, riding crops, paddles engraved with delicate filigree. Something with enough gears and a motor to qualify as heavy machinery.
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. Only a choked sound comes from her lips while heat floods her cheeks. “Oh. My. God.”
Linda peers over her shoulder, not at all fazed. “Oh, that one’s interesting,” she says, pointing to something that looks like a cross between a chair and a gynecologist’s table. “It has adjustable angles. Very ergonomic.”
Chloe gawks. “Linda!”
“What? You think this is the first time I’ve seen this room?” Linda steps right in, examining shelves like a tour guide. “Our relationship wasn’t always professional.”
“Yeah,” Chloe says, grumpy again. “I remember.”
Her friend sends her an apologetic look, but her eyes shine with mischief.
Unable to let her curiosity die, Chloe’s eyes flick to another wall. More shelves. More racks.
Dildos. Every shape, every size, every material imaginable. Sleek glass ones that look more like modern sculptures. Silicone in neon shades. A disturbingly lifelike row of flesh-toned options, some with veins so realistic she actually steps back. And one—holy mother of crap—shaped like a dragon.
She clamps a hand over her mouth. “That—that cannot be comfortable,” she mutters weakly.
Entirely unbothered, Linda plucks one up and gives it a curious wiggle. “Oh, this one’s dual density. Nice.”
“Linda!”
“What? It’s research.”
Then there's the vibrators. Chloe has been, ahem, making use of her pathetic bullet vibe that would explode in shame at what she finds here. Boxes and boxes, as though Lucifer bought out an entire shop—or six. There are bullet vibes, but nothing like hers, in rainbow metallic finishes. Rabbit ears twitching from their packaging. Wands with hands so large they could double as blunt force weapons. A bright pink one sits plugged into its charger on the shelf like it’s waiting to be called to duty.
Chloe blinks, dazed—and unwilling to admit she's...imagining things. “He’s got more electronics in here than Best Buy.”
Linda laughs. “Oh, trust me, sweetie, none of these are for the Geek Squad.”
The next shelf has strap-ons in every configuration she can imagine and several she can’t. Harnesses hang neatly on hooks like purses in a high-end boutique. Chloe’s jaw drops at one that looks...hydraulically complex.
“Nope,” she says immediately, backing up a step. “Nope, no, I don’t want to know how that works. Hm-mm.”
Of course, Linda leans closer with a smirk worthy of Lucifer himself. “It’s a double penetration set. Actually quite—”
“Moving on!” Chloe nearly shouts, flinging a hand wildly as if she can physically wave away the explanation.
Further in, she (unfortunately) recognizes butt plugs that sparkle like gemstones under the soft closet light, their jeweled bases catching the glow. Paddles arranged in a tidy fan on the wall. Restraints sorted by leather, silk, and chain. Chloe’s gaze snags on one piece of machinery in the corner—a metal frame with clamps, adjustable arms, and what looks suspiciously like a drill attachment.
Her stomach lurches. “That...that’s power-tool territory.”
Linda tilts her head, considering. “Mechanical thrusting machine. He likes efficiency.”
Slapping both hands over her face, Chloe groans. “I cannot unsee this. I’m going to die in this closet. You’re going to have to tell my daughter I expired of secondhand embarrassment.”
Clearly enjoying every moment, Linda just chuckles. “Admit it, Chloe. You’re curious. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I’m horrified.” Chloe peeks between her fingers anyway, her eyes betraying her. “And maybe...seventy-five percent curious.”
“I’ll call that progress,” Linda smirks, sipping from the bottle. She reaches for a leather flogger. “The thing about Lucifer—he caters to all desires. The man has done everything you can imagine and more, and for him, sex is...” She shrugs helplessly. “It’s a means to an end.”
Chloe says nothing, swallowing. That’s something she’s known for a long time, and one of the biggest reasons she never gave in to him.
“But...” Linda goes on, softer, “you must know things would be different with you, right?”
Glancing at her friend, Chloe shrugs. “Would they, though? I mean, it’s clear from all this—” She gestures at the room at large. “—we have....vastly different interests.”
To add some levity, she thinks, Linda waves the flogger around, the fronds whipping through the air. Chloe snatches the handle, panicked, then drops it like it’s radioactive when she realizes she’s actually holding the thing. It lands with a heavy thwap against the floor.
The women exchange a look and dissolve into helpless laughter.
“This is just...” Chloe shakes her head. “Insanity.”
Linda leans down, scoops up the flogger, and sets it back on the hook with deliberate care. Then she gives Chloe a look that’s half-therapist, half-devilish older sister.
“You know,” she says lightly, “he’d be more than happy to give you a demonstration.”
“Linda...” Chloe says in warning.
Shrugging, the other woman sips from the bottle again. “I’m just saying, the man is...” She sighs. “Meticulous. He’d make sure it’s perfect for you. Lucifer only invests in things he plans to use, Chlo.”
Chloe’s heart stutters with a wild mixture of indignation, jealousy, and a spark she absolutely refuses to name. She turns on her heel, muttering, “We are never speaking of this again. And don’t you dare ever mention this to him.”
Linda follows, and Chloe can practically feel the smugness radiating off her. “Of course not,” Linda says sweetly. “Just like you’re not going to think about it the next time you two are working a case together.”
Groaning into her hands, Chloe leads the way out of the closet. “I hate you so much right now.”
She glances back in time to see Linda grin. “No, you don’t. You just hate that I’m right.”
Back in the safety of the bedroom, Chloe leans heavily against the edge of Lucifer's bed, trying to forget everything she just saw. She tugs on the hem of the dress shirt that barely falls to her mid-thigh, while Linda collapses into helpless laughter onto the massive mattress. Both of them are way too drunk to remember what ‘boundaries’ are.
“All right,” Chloe mutters, pulling open a nightstand drawer mostly to distract herself. “What’s the worst he’s got in here? More narcotics? An actual human skull?”
What she finds makes her jaw drop. And she thought the toy closet was bad.
Condoms. So. Many. Condoms. Every kind imaginable—ultra thin, ribbed, studded, glow-in-the-dark, flavors she’s not sure are legal. And those are the ‘normal’ ones. In a sectioned tray beside those, she finds The French Tickler XL, The Gladiator (which is thick, studded, and ringed like armor), The Jellyfish (transparent, with dangling fronds that are almost horrifying to look at).
Linda sits up suddenly. “Oh, you found the good stuff. The ones with vibrator rings are great. And the Venus Flytrap—that one has these flaps that grip back and—”
“Nope,” Chloe says quickly, intending to slam the drawer shut. But she notices the trays with travel-sized bottles of lube in varieties she doesn’t even recognize—again, neatly organized.
Warming cinnamon inferno next to the cooling peppermint breeze. Champagne flavored. Glow-in-the-dark neon gel. Absinthe infused ones. Molten chocolate lava. UV-reactive gel.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “He's, um, very organized.”
”Kinda impressive, right?” Linda says, reaching for a condom pack called The Rattlesnake. She shakes it and what sounds like beads rattle inside.
Chloe finally succeeds in slamming the door shut, her face flaming. “Nope. Not looking. Not thinking about it. Not happening.”
Linda grins, tipsy and merciless, pocketing the condom. Because of course she does. “I mean, imagine the planning that goes into this stuff. The man clearly believes in preparation. And safe sex, so that’s a plus, right?”
Groaning, Chloe covers her face. “Stop.”
But Linda just laughs harder, tugging the drawer back open again. “You didn’t even check the second one.”
Entirely against her better judgment—and because whiskey makes her braver—Chloe yanks open the drawer beneath it. At first, all she sees is a leather-bound, worn book. But when she shifts it aside, her breath catches at the last thing she thought she’d find.
A photograph.
Of her.
It’s a candid moment, taken at the precinct—her laughing at something, her hair falling loose around her face. The kind of photo she didn’t know existed. Neatly tucked under the book, as if to keep it hidden but close.
Chloe freezes, her throat tight, while the room suddenly feels too warm.
For once, Linda is quiet beside her. She glances between Chloe and the photo, her teasing expression softening. “Well,” she says gently, “that certainly explains a lot.”
Unable to respond, she just stares at the picture as her chest aches. She’s torn between disbelief and a feeling she refuses to name.
Why does he have it at all?
Looking around the penthouse, there are no photographs of anyone else. He has art on the walls—including the creepy, juggling mermaid-clown. And the stained glass windows near the bedroom. But she’s never seen even a hint that Lucifer is sentimental enough to keep photos, not even of his family.
And yet, he has one of Chloe.
She shuts the drawer slowly, careful not to disturb what’s inside. “We should, um, stop,” she says quietly, starting out of the room so she doesn’t have to look at the knowing, sympathetic look on Linda’s face.
As they step back into the main room, the fun and confusion and embarrassment come to a grinding halt.
At least until Linda’s phone rings. She digs into the pocket of Lucifer's robe and pulls it out, smiling, and then she sees the caller ID. Her eyes widen comically. “Oh, oh oh!”
She holds out the phone towards Chloe who sees Lucifer's smug face filling the screen. “It’s Lucifer,” Chloe gasps, darting for the remote for the stereo system.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Linda says, bordering on panicked. “Officially, officially creeped out!”
“Okay, don’t answer,” Chloe says hastily, then quickly changes her mind. Maybe they can find out where he is. “No, wait, answer it, answer it. Just don’t say we’re here or what we were just doing.”
Really hoping Linda's acting skills are worth anything, Chloe looks on anxiously. And a little irritated; so Lucifer has been ignoring her calls and texts, but calls Linda?
Linda takes a deep breath, then answers, forcing herself into professional mode. “Hmm. Hello?”
Lucifer's voice is loud enough through the phone Chloe can hear most of the conversation. “Ah! Doctor, I didn’t think you were going to answer. I’m just calling to reschedule my therapy appointment. I’m on a quick trip out of town.”
“Oh,” Linda says, feigning ignorance. Badly. But Lucifer seems to buy it.
‘Where is he?’ Chloe mouths.
“W-where?” Linda stammers.
“Nowhere special. Just Vegas.”
“Vegas? Again?”
Chloe feels her heart sink.
“What you doing in Vegas?”
Leaning closer, Chloe waits for his response that never comes. Instead, she hears him purr to someone else, “Oh. Don’t you look ravishing?” Then he seems to remember he’s on the phone. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go, Doctor. Speak soon.”
“Bye,” Linda says, ending the call and looking at Chloe.
Chloe tilts her head. “What did he say at the end there?”
Linda hesitates. “Um, something about...radishes,” she lies through her teeth.
Sucking in a deep breath, feeling suddenly sober, Chloe shakes her head. “He didn’t say ‘radish’. He said, ‘ravishing’, didn’t he?” She nods. “He’s in Vegas with someone ravishing on my birthday.”
The other woman seems at a loss for what to say.
“You know what? Why—why do I even care? Why do I care? This is stupid.” She moves to sit down at the piano again, wondering why she lets Lucifer do this to her. Every. Damn. Time.
“Okay, feelings...feelings are not stupid.”
“Well, this one is, okay?” Chloe snaps. “This feeling is stupid. Okay. Lucifer and I are friends, partners, that’s all. I’m totally past anything romantic. Full on, rearview, in the past.” Even to her own ears, she sounds like she’s way too defensive.
But what else is she supposed to do?
The guy she refuses to admit feelings for ditched her on her birthday. At some point, she has to come to the conclusion that this whole thing...it’s just...it’s pathetic. And it’s ridiculous. How long has she known that Lucifer doesn’t do romance? She just saw the proof with her own eyes. He does dildos and butt plugs and things Chloe doesn’t know the names let alone the functionality of. He meticulously organizes his condoms and lube for easy access. He does one-night stands and Britneys and Candys and models.
And sure, okay, he keeps a photo of her in his nightstand, but who even knows why it's there to begin with. Maybe it means nothing at all. Because with Lucifer, reality is rarely the same as what her mind, or even her heart, tries to convince her is the truth.
There was a time she thought her feelings were reciprocated, and then she was poisoned and Lucifer ghosted her for two weeks, leaving her to wonder if he was dead in a ditch somewhere. Then he showed up like nothing happened with a ditzy blonde bimbo on his arm—and wedding rings.
“Meet Candy Morningstar. My wife.”
Five words that wrecked Chloe in ways she still can’t examine too closely.
Now it feels like déjà vu all over again.
The anger drains as quickly as it flared, leaving her feeling hollow and aching. Her voice cracks when she adds, “He’s just...Lucifer’s just my friend. You know?”
Which is the whole problem. And she hates that it’s still a problem.
“I know,” Linda says gently, her eyes full of sympathy.
Chloe pushes herself up from the piano, cheeks still hot from booze and humiliation and hurt, and beelines for the bar. Her balance isn’t great, even with the sobering phone call. “I need another drink,” she mutters. “Or ten.”
She must still be drunker than she wants to admit, because she stumbles slightly when she misjudges the edge of the counter and her hip knocks into it hard enough to make her wince.
“Oh, you okay?” Linda asks worriedly.
Out of the corner of her eye, Chloe catches movement—something fluttering to the floor, landing soundlessly on the marble. At first, she thinks it’s paper, but then she actually gets a look at the thing.
A pure white feather.
Long, elegant, and unlike anything she’s ever seen outside of a museum—and even then, this makes those pale in comparison. And it’s not just sitting there; it glows faintly, as though caught by the lights from the windows. Only the light is blocked by the bartop, which means...it’s coming from the feather itself.
Chloe crouches slowly, her hand shaking as she reaches for it without thought.
The first thing she registers is the warmth.
Not the way something gets warm from the sun, or from body heat, or even pressed against electronics. The warmth comes from inside the feather, radiating into her palm, sliding up her wrist with a soft hum. Her whole body prickles, alive and alert, while her heart feels too big for her chest.
“Oh,” she breathes, the sound barely audible to her own ears over her roaring pulse.
Across the room, she faintly registers Linda going absolutely still. “Chloe,” she says with painful caution. “Maybe you should, um, put that down.”
Chloe turns, the feather clutched tight in her fingers, feeling the unbelievable softness stroke her skin. “What...what is this?” she whispers, eyes locked on it.
“Nothing,” Linda says quickly, her voice a bit too high-pitched. Her smile is forced and brittle, her eyes wider than when Lucifer called. “It’s—it’s just...you know, probably a prop. From...one of his costumes. You know Lucifer.”
Shaking her head, Chloe looks back at the feather. “This doesn’t feel like a prop,” she says faintly. She brushes her thumb across the vane, shuddering when it practically purrs against her touch. “It feels...” She falters, struggling to find words. “...alive.”
Crossing slowly towards the bar, Linda’s eyes flick from Chloe to the feather. “Chloe,” she says softly, gently, as if cajoling a wild animal or talking someone off a ledge. She reaches out a hand. “Please. Just give it to me, okay?”
Chloe pulls back, protecting it without knowing why. It just feels important. “Why? What is it?”
The feather’s glow seems to deepen with her heartbeat. She can’t stop touching it, stroking it over her palm, across the inside of her wrist. Every nerve lights up in response. In the back of her mind, a voice scoffs and says it’s probably a sex thing. But she knows intuitively it’s not. Whatever it is...it’s...bigger. Like safety and power and reverence all wrapped into one impossible sensation.
It’s a feeling she knows all too well, and not in connection with feathers. To a person.
One specific person.
What’s more, she’s seen a feather like this—whole wings, actually.
That black market auction, back when she and Lucifer first met. He was out of his mind searching for what Chloe thought were cosplay wings. But for whatever reason, they were important to him, so she helped. And then the wings were brought out on stage—massive, gorgeous, white wings she couldn’t take her eyes off.
And then there's his scars. Those huge, crescent-shaped ones with raw, pebbled skin. When Chloe reached out to touch one without thinking, he spun around with inhuman speed and grasped her wrist almost to the point of pain. But it was the look in his eyes she really remembers, a haunted, ancient expression so full of pain it made her heart ache for someone she barely knew.
“Don’t, please.”
Her throat tightens. “This is his, isn’t it?” she whispers, barely realizing she’s speaking.
Linda hesitates, her hand falling limply to her side. She looks at a loss.
Chloe’s chest aches, her mind racing through every impossible claim, every smug smile, every I’m the Devil he’s ever tossed out like a joke. She always brushed it off, rolled her eyes, scoffed, told him to be serious, Lucifer. But this feather, a tangible, radiant thing, doesn’t let her this time.
Without thinking, she lifts it to her cheek. The down brushes her skin, impossibly soft, and her breath catches at the surge of warmth it leaves behind.
“No,” she whispers faintly. “This...this isn’t...this can’t be normal. This is—” Her eyes fly to Linda, pleading for a pull back to sanity. “It’s him.” Her voice cracks. “It’s...like it’s part of him.”
Linda swallows hard. “Chloe...”
Chloe clutches the feather tighter, protectively, pressing it against her chest as though it might steady her heart. “I mean...all those times he said it. All the ridiculous things. I thought he was—” She laughs, a broken, almost hysterical sound. “Metaphors. Delusions. But this—” She stares down at the feather, luminous in her hand. “Why does this make me want to believe him?”
Sighing heavily, Linda steps closer, eyes soft with both sympathy and warning. “There are things about Lucifer you don’t know, Chloe. Things that would...change everything. And that’s not an exaggeration. It’s not drama or metaphor. It’s—”
Tears prickle the corners of Chloe’s eyes, feeling the deep down knowledge she’s been denying for years flood to the surface. Between emotion and alcohol, she doesn’t want to say the words, but they’re on her trembling lips anyway and she forces them out. “It’s all true, isn’t it? Lucifer...he’s...he’s the—the Devil.”
Silence.
For a long moment, nothing happens and no one speaks. Chloe holds her breath, waiting for confirmation, or, preferably, denial. The world has narrowed to the feather in her hand and the way Linda finally, silently nods.
Chloe sucks in a sharp breath that hitches in her throat. She doesn’t even know how she knows, only that the feather has burned through all her refusals and denials and avoidance. Her hand closes protectively around it again. It’s both the softest thing she’s ever touched and heavier than anything she’s ever carried at the same time.
“Why don’t we... Let's sit down, okay?” Linda says gently. When Chloe hesitates, eyes flicking to the feather, her friend’s eyes soften a touch. “I won’t take it from you. Just...please, come sit down.”
Though she hesitates, Chloe follows Linda across the room to the couch where she curls into the corner. Linda retrieves another bottle and two glasses before joining her. She busies herself with pouring for a minute while Chloe alternates her gaze between the feather and the penthouse, seeing it all in a new light.
The antiques in glass cases. The first editions on the bookshelves. The ancient Assyrian stone walls. She always assumed Lucifer was just...eccentric and rich and spent his wealth on things he doesn’t need. Now she’s wondering how much of this stuff has simply always been his.
When the silence gets to be too suffocating, Chloe opens her mouth, words tumbling over each other. “I don’t...why didn’t he just...tell me?” Her voice is rough and small and not entirely hers. “I mean, okay, he told me, but he didn’t tell me tell me, you know? All this time, I thought...”
Linda hands her one of the glasses, sitting against the cushions so their shoulders brush. “Chloe, you know Lucifer,” she says, her eyes softening into that complicated look of sympathy layered with regret. “He always tells the truth. He never lies. But sometimes...the truth is...well, it can be difficult for everyone involved.”
“But he told you?” Chloe counters, an edge of accusation in her voice.
“Only because I pushed him, because he had a moment of weakness. Chloe, I used to be like you—I didn’t believe this stuff either. Lucifer was just this...narcissistic, self-absorbed patient with enough traumatic baggage to fill LAX.” Linda huffs, rolling her eyes. “I got a bit...angry with him, fed up with the metaphors, and when I demanded he show me the real him...” Her eyes widen. “Well, he did. More than I could have imagined.”
Taking a quick sip, Chloe sniffs. “I just...I mean, he wasn’t hiding it. He’s been calling himself the Devil since the moment I met him. I was just—” Her throat closes. “I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him.”
“Believing means accepting things you might not have been ready to accept. And look, you weren’t wrong to hang on to normal, Chloe. You’ve been through enough.”
Chloe stares down at the feather, glowing faintly in her lap. Its warmth seeps through the thin silk of Lucifer's shirt, into her skin, all the way down to her soul, it feels like. She can’t seem to stop touching it, smoothing it with her fingers and watching the way light shimmers through its fibers. What she can’t get over is how much it feels like Lucifer—the way he makes her feel when she lets him.
She shakes her head hard, still blinking against tears. “But this...this is real, this is proof—and I can’t even explain why. The way it makes me feel is...” She trails off, unsure how to finish.
“Different,” Linda offers gently.
Chloe lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
They sit in silence while Chloe tries to reconcile what she knows with what she’s learning. As much as she likes to claim she knows her partner...well, that’s never exactly been the whole truth. Lucifer has walls she can’t begin to break down. Secrets that could fill a set of encyclopedias. He’s more than the club owner persona he puts out into the world, far more complex than that.
Yes, he’s brash and inappropriate and impulsive and reckless and...a thousand other things. But he’s also kind, generous, loyal, funny. She once told a courtroom full of people he’s the best partner she could ever ask for, and that’s the truth. He’s also the best friend she’s ever had. He has let her down so many times, but he’s also come through for her in ways nobody else could.
“Why me?” Chloe whispers without meaning to.
Linda frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean...why keep this from me? Why stay by my side? He could be anywhere, doing anything, with anyone. But he chose to work with me. To...” Her voice cracks. “...to care about me. And then he runs. He disappears on cases and after moments and on my birthday with some ravishing radish.” She spits the word like it’s poison.
Linda’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t try to sugarcoat it. “Because you matter to him. More than anyone else. And that terrifies him.”
A humorless laugh falls from Chloe’s lips. “Terrifies him? He’s the Devil.”
The more she says it, the more the words cement in her mind as truth. It's a truth that should scare her out of her mind, but the word is becoming synonymous with Lucifer. And Lucifer could never scare her.
Tilting her head, Linda smiles sadly. “Even the Devil can be afraid, Chloe. And Lucifer—without breaking patient confidentiality—he has more reason than most to be afraid of losing someone he cares about to the truth.”
Chloe thinks about that. About her own fears trying to worm into her mind, both rational and irrational. She’s seen the way some suspects react to him—the screaming terror, the crying, the begging to go to jail just to get away from him.
Benny Choi.
Lindsay Jolson.
Renny, throwing himself off a building.
Jimmy Barnes, driven to madness to the point he’s in a psychiatric facility.
Countless others.
“How long have you known?” Chloe asks, needing the distraction.
“Just over a year,” Linda admits. “I can’t go into specifics, but...what I saw—it was a lot. And I was, well, I’m not sure terrified quite covers it. I spent two weeks ignoring his calls, looking over my shoulder, having new locks installed on my office door.”
Chloe turns slightly to her. “So...what changed?”
“I realized something important. While the truth is overwhelming and insane and yes, terrifying at times, Lucifer is just...Lucifer. He hasn’t changed, he’s always been...this. The only thing that really changed was my perspective. Celestials—angels, demons, the Devil—they’re not really all that different from humans. They have their own emotions and sets of problems. They’re trying to fit in and belong, just like us.”
Chloe blinks, then stares. “Wait...how many celestials are around?”
“That I know of? Lucifer, Maze, and Amenadiel. The Devil, a demon, and an angel, respectively.”
A strangled sound leaves Chloe’s throat. “Maze is a...”
“Yeah, I know. But Maze wouldn’t hurt you, Chloe. Or Trixie or me or any of us. Like Lucifer, what you see is what you get with her. As for Amenadiel, well, he’s...still trying to figure things out.”
“Wow,” Chloe says weakly. “But how do you—” Her voice cracks again. She swallows and tries again. “How do you live with that knowledge? He’s the Devil, demons and angels and Heaven and Hell. How do you just...see him for therapy?”
A sad little smile curves Linda’s lips. “You’d be surprised how much the Devil needs therapy, Chlo.”
Despite everything, Chloe huffs a weak laugh.
Linda leans in, lowering her voice. “Look, there are things he told me that are his to share, not mine, and I can’t break his confidence. But I can tell you this much: what I saw, it scared me. And it still scares me sometimes. But he’s so much more than that. I mean, you’ve seen it. You know him as well as I do—”
“Do I?”
“You do,” Linda says firmly. “Lucifer isn’t just one thing; he’s...a culmination of his circumstances and his past, and above all else, he is good. He tries to be good and do good, despite what he claims. You have to admit, he’s not the same Lucifer we first met.”
She can admit that. Lucifer has grown and matured, and while he’ll always be...well, him, he’s never been what Chloe would consider evil.
“What did you see?”
Linda shakes her head. “I can’t go into detail. That’s his choice to show you, if he ever does. Let’s just say it wasn’t a feather. Speaking of, how did you even put this together?” she asks curiously.
Chloe looks down at the feather, clutching it tighter. It pulses against her palm as though it knows she needs the reassurance. “It feels like him,” she says hoarsely.
“What do you mean?”
Shaking her head, Chloe tries to find the words to explain. “I don’t know. It’s warm. It’s...strong. Comforting. Like when he’s—” She stops herself, flushing. “I don’t know. It just is him. I can feel it.”
Home.
The word pops into her mind with suddenness and confidence that startles her. She doesn’t voice it. And Linda doesn’t argue or press.
Chloe feels her eyes burn again. “So what am I supposed to do with this? How am I supposed to sit across from him at work tomorrow, knowing...” She gestures helplessly. “...knowing he’s not just some irritating charming nightclub owner. That he’s—” Her throat closes again.
“The Devil,” Linda finishes quietly.
Chloe nods, tears threatening to spill. “And he left me, Linda. On my birthday. To go to Vegas. With someone ravishing.”
Linda touches her shoulder, grounding her. “You know how he is, he’ll probably show up with some outrageous explanation—”
“That I’ll never hear,” Chloe finishes.
Sighing, Linda smiles sympathetically. “I get it,” she says gently. “Feelings don’t stop being real just because the truth is big. Or scary. Or complicated. One thing I know to be true? No one means more to him than you. And I don’t have to be his therapist to know that. Aside from this,” she gestures at the feather, “there are other things at play, Chloe. Reasons he’s done the things he’s done. And it wasn’t because he didn’t care.”
Pressing the feather to her chest again, Chloe closes her eyes, and for a moment, she swears she can feel wings brushing around her, invisible but real, sheltering her in their impossible embrace. And it feels exactly like one of Lucifer's hugs.
Her breath hitches. She doesn’t know if she wants to cry, scream, or laugh until she passes out. But she does refuse to back down from the truth.
Lucifer can do whatever he’s doing in Vegas. And she’ll be here when he gets back.
And then, they’re going to talk.
A lot.
