Work Text:
‘She saved Lux. No strings attached. I didn't even ask.’
‘Well, Chloe saw that your home is a very important place to you. Does it really surprise you that she'd want to help you protect it?’
Devil’s Due
„…and yes, sure, he got the number of that Canadian girl before we even got into the church. And yes, he texted her through the whole service but…it’s the thought that counts, right? Dude made an effort and, man, I appreciate that. Also, by the way, our vic has chalk in his stomach. No kidding. Pink chalk. And not just a bite or two. Like a lot. A-lot-a-lot. Whatever that is about.”
“Hold on. Hold. On.” Chloe raised her hands in the universal 'time-out' gesture. She was still trying to recollect how they had gotten from stomach content analysis to ‘by the by, I took the guy who thinks he’s the devil to church last week’. “You went to church? With Lucifer? As in...our Lucifer?”
For a second, Chloe lived in a world where 'Lucifer' was just some name people had. Like Tom or Steve. The things your mind could get used to...
Ella’s eyes widened and her lips clicked shut as if she had realised that she had said more than she should.
“Okay – okay. I’m kinda sworn to secrecy on that one. Although, technically I’m just not allowed to tell you about his end of the deal. So I guess that means I’m still free to tell you about the church thing, but…”
“…you asked Lucifer for one of his favours?”
“What? No, no. He asked me to help him with something."
"Oh."
"Yeah, he came to me and asked me for a favour. So I was all: ‘Yeah, yeah, sure, no problem, hit me, what do you need, buddy?’ But he wanted some tit-for-tat kind of thing and I tell him: ‘Nah, we’re good, that’s not how friendship works for me!’ – but he totally insisted and I was worried. - Because what if he really needs help but doesn't accept help if I don't make it an official I.O.U. with him? You know how difficult men can be about that kind of thing, right? So…I had to think of something, you know?”
That made sense, Chloe figured. Which was to say that it didn’t make sense at all. Except in the world of one Lucifer Morningstar.
“And …you asked him to go to church with you?”
“I know, I know. It’s a bit … much. Among co-workers. But it’s not like he’s one to keep religion out of the workplace. And I thought best case, he finds something he was truly looking for. And worst case, he gets some new inspiration for his role or tries hitting on the priest.”
“He didn’t hit on the priest, did he?”
Please say no, Ella.
“…no, just on that Canadian girl. Jenny - she was really nice. And her fiancé, later on. The three of them actually left together. Nice couple. Hope they had fun.”
Chloe winced. “Sorry about that.”
“Ah, no! Whatever, good for them! The point is: Lucifer is my bud. And when my friends need help, then I’m there for them, you know? And I’m not gonna ask for a…a - kidney or a car or sex in return or for anything they wouldn’t actually want to give me under any other circumstances. Does that make sense?”
Sometimes Chloe thought there was a sliver of fear in Ella’s eyes when she asked questions like that.
‘Does that make sense?’
‘Did you see that too?’
‘Did you just hear that?’
“It does. Basic consent-rules. It’s-” Chloe pretended to study the mangled corpse on the photo between them. This was just...casual conversation. Among colleagues. Office talk. No big deal. The bare intestines really looked rather pinkish in a not-organic way, would you look at that.
‘-decent of you,’ she wanted to say.
‘So you noticed it, too,’ she wanted to say.
‘Is it eating at you too? Does it frustrate you; does it make you so, so, so angry, does it make you sad and shatter your heart and terrify you? Do you want to shake him sometimes because he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care or he’s just so twisted that he thinks that’s how the world works and how it will always work for him? That it is all there will ever be for him and that it's the best he can hope for? That maybe he thinks he doesn't deserve better?’ she wanted to say.
“-nice of you,” she said.
It was an inelegant conclusion at best.
It was useful, at times. Chloe would be lying if she said that it wasn’t. Often borderline illegal. Sometimes outright illegal. Frequently weird and unprofessional and morally ambiguous. But useful.
“Deeply unpleasant man. You wouldn't believe the deal I had to strike for my lease.”
Chloe had eyed him. Not too long ago, that glare would have been one of scrutiny. She would have tried to get a read on this man; would have tried to figure out what kind of business he had his hands in.
Now it was only a warning – to please not confess to any crimes in front of dozens of police officers at a crime scene, today. Not to any new ones, anyway. The precinct was already more than aware of his drug habits. (Chloe had a sneaking suspicion that some officers around the precinct actually alerted Lucifer after a particularly successful raid, giving him first pickings.)
“All completely legal,” He had gladly reassured her. “If somewhat…well. Let's say -morally ambiguous-.”
Dealing with a mob boss?
– ‘Oh, not to worry, Detective, Maria owes me a favour.’
Dealing with a corrupt politician?
– ‘Ah, you mean Jonathan. Trust me, he will talk. Still owes me a favour, the little maggot, and I do have him on speed-dial.’
Zookeeper running a meth lab from the basement below the big cat habitat?
– ‘Ah, good old Joey. I’ll just give him a quick call. We’ve got an open tab, after all. Saved him from Maria once. The lion, that is, not the head of the Sicilian crime syndicate.’
Looking for a random archivist with access to confidential files concerning a series of attacks in the early 90s?
– “Trust me, I know just the guy for the job. After the weekend I gave him, it’s the least he can do.’
Trying to get the name of the lover of a murdered pop star out of a Hollywood therapist?
– ‘Right, the answer is yes, we can take a trip to pound town if we must, but first, you're gonna have to tell us, Linda.’
…which bled right into the obvious downsides.
Like when someone (say, a responsible, well-situated female police officer in the context of a strictly professional work situation) entered his penthouse.
And Lucifer, for absolutely incomprehensible reasons, decided that the sensible course of action would be to take off his fricking clothes. Because he had seen said police officer naked earlier that same day as well. After breaking into her house. To make breakfast. Because that’s what he had felt like doing that morning and if Lucifer Morningstar felt like doing something he just went and did it. Even if it was (unfortunately really, really infuriatingly good) omelettes.
‘I decided turnabout's fair play. You know. Tit-for-tat sort of thing.’
- and that too, had been the prelude to another deal, another offer. Because inside that impossible, unreachable dimension that was Lucifer’s brain, the mission of the day had been to have sex with her. For some dumb Lucifer-reason. And -
‘I mean, look at me. Huh? Now, you can't argue with that, can you?’
- apparently, it hadn’t as much as occurred to him that someone's eyes might linger on the knotted twin-scars carved into his flesh rather than the 'goods' on display.
(No, he had even been perfectly happy to tell her about the scars, even if it was just more delusional devil-talk. Perfectly acceptable inspection of the merchandise, up to that point, it would seem. He hadn’t been surprised that she noticed the scars. He had been surprised that Chloe had cared. Cared about what went on with that body he had dangled in front of her beyond the decision whether or not to jump its bones. And that was...so much worse.)
Back then, his raw, wide-eyed shock, watching him whip around like a feral creature under attack, his warm hand snapping around her wrist, holding her, stopping her - they had been a first crack in what had previously been an ocean of smooth, impenetrable obsidian. And a glimpse at something large and painful pulsing underneath the surface.
It was supposed to be a surprise.
The solution had come to her much like the solution to a case: Seemingly unrelated facts coming together like jigsaw puzzles to form a picture.
(‘Oh, I was the kind of kid who did jigsaw puzzles picture-side down,’ Ella had said earlier that day. Chloe had not been that kind of kid. But boy, did she know what it would feel like to flip the finished thing around for the first time and see the pieces fit to form a complete picture.)
While Chloe was brooding over her case report, Maze had been helping Trixie with her homework (for a bartender turned bounty hunter, she was surprisingly and graphically well-versed when it came to ancient Egyptian funeral rites). With Trixie folding tiny cardboard pyramids and Maze talking gleefully about the fate of graverobbers, lost in underground labyrinths and traps, Chloe's thoughts had wandered back to Lucifer and what he told her about prohibition tunnels. About cracks in mirrors. And a plan came together.
She had solved it. The case of saving Lux.
That was supposed to be the surprise: The solution. For once, Chloe had felt entitled to a little smugness of her own. It was so neat. So simple. And yet, elegant and effective. Stylish. Something that Chloe was sure Lucifer of all people would appreciate. (Also, by the way, legal. No ‘sphincter-loosening nightmares’ required, thank you very much.)
It was a surprise - and Lucifer had been surprised.
But he hadn't been surprised by how she had done it. He hadn’t joined her in celebrating her cleverness, the swiftness of it all, the victory of snatching Lux right out from underneath Eleanor Bloom’s clutches, no.
He was surprised by the wrong thing.
Chloe had known what would happen before he had even started speaking. Sitting there, shoulder to shoulder on the piano bench like they had so many times before (she still couldn’t play worth a damn), she had felt it go where it would inevitably lead. She had seen the cogs turning behind those dark-bright eyes and beginning their calculations.
She had read it in the way his mouth twitched - clearly looking for the right words to thank her for the wrong thing.
And then he had said it, too. Outright. Put it into words. Because he didn’t even notice. Or didn't see anything wrong with it.
“I simply don't know what to say.” An invisible hand twisted a knife in Chloe’s chest. “I'm normally the one doing the favours. And for a price.”
He hadn’t been surprised by how she had saved Lux. -
He had been surprised that she had saved Lux. That she had bothered. That she had cared. That anyone –no, not just anyone, a friend, a good friend– would make a simple phone call for him.
‘I want to help you, but we have to find a legal solution.’
‘Okay. So I'm on my own, am I?’ – She had wanted to protest but the doors of the elevator were already closing between them. Like jaws.
Part of her wanted to be angry with him.
Because how could he think she would not help? How could he think so poorly of her, after everything they had done together? Everything they had been through, together? – but any anger or offence was snuffed out under a leaden blanket of sadness.
Because she knew him. She knew he did not think poorly of her. It just -
‘Detective, does that mean you're on my side now?’
‘Lucifer, this is your home, I've always been on your side.’
- didn’t occur to Lucifer. The concept, she had come to realise, was alien to him. The very nature of human bonding an untranslatable word in a foreign language. Like the tiny hieroglyphics on Trixie's little paper-pyramids that would never look like anything other than funny little pictograms to Chloe, regardless of how long and intently she might stare at them.
So she put it into the simplest of terms for him:
“Friends help each other out.”
Seconds ticked by between them.
She could watch her words sink in, drop like a rock into dark waters, out of her sight and out of her grasp for Lucifer’s mind to examine them and compute on its own terms.
Compute it did and some of the usual vibrancy returned to his eyes, clearing up the confusion.
“Let me at least buy you dinner tonight. To celebrate,” he said in a voice smooth and warm as silk. Chloe no longer felt like celebrating. “I know this amazing steakhouse and - and the chef's an absolute artist in the kitchen.”
Maybe the worst thing was the sincerity in his voice. The joy. And any other day, it would be effortless, any other time Chloe would be happy, any other situation and an invitation like this one would be interspersed with innuendo and sultry looks – a raised eyebrow and a suggestive smirk. But now it was happiness and eagerness and-
A debt.
A debt he was happy and eager to repay. A debt that he could never leave unpaid. (What did he think would happen? What did he think she would do if he didn't - did he even think about it, anymore? Or had it become second nature?)
“I mean, he's also a degenerate gambler and owes me a favour,” Lucifer mused, perfectly content with his world once more and there went that knife again, digging through her insides. “Otherwise, you'll just go home and eat one of those poisonous sandwiches you get from the vending machine at work.”
Chloe had never been less content with his world.
Part of her was hoping he might notice – ideally, notice it now. She’d be willing to deal with whatever fall-out would follow if only she would get to see a small line appear between his eyes, a moment’s hesitation when the penny dropped.
…because if he noticed, it would mean that he was not quite so far gone. It would mean that whatever life he had lived and whatever horrors and pain lay hidden in that mysterious past of his - that they hadn’t quite left him so alone and broken that he couldn’t even fathom why someone would want to do right by him without expecting payment or recompense.
He was smiling now – excitedly, and the sight burnt in her chest like ice. She was suffocating slowly.
“Come on, Detective.” He leant in a little closer, in the best of spirits because he didn’t feel the knife that he was pushing into her, twisting and turning around just as he did with the meaning of her words - “Friends help each other out?”
It wasn’t the first time she had tried. And it wouldn't be the last.