“Go in, your mom’s already inside,” the nurse said as she hurried out.
“My what?” Lucifer watched her back disappear round the corner, already focussed on the next patient. He entered the room, and as always the smell made him want to run away. He tried not to wrinkle his nose at least. He remembered the spawn had found it hilarious when he’d made a whole Broadway production out of it, pinching his nose and moaning and whining on the day she’d broken her wrist, but now… now, it probably wouldn’t be hilarious at all.
Linda was all very pale and frail-looking, her skin almost translucent and her hair, once blond and now so white, fanning around her head in a sickly halo. Maze was on one side, looking lost and holding a veined hand in hers. Chloe, still in her work-out clothes, was on the other, sitting on the one decent-looking chair in the room and watching Maze.
“Hello, love.”
“Lucifer.” She looked up at him as he came to her side, sliding his fingers along her nape. She was so beautiful, her striking eyes and the smile she’d always had just for him, her expressive face and her long, soft hair. “The doctor said she’d had a stroke, but she got good care very quickly. She’s just asleep now.” Her fingers intertwined with his on her shoulder; and as always when they touched, he felt home again.
“What happened exactly?”
Maze looked up from Linda’s strangely blank face. “We were in that coffee shop she likes. She started listing to the side, slurring her words. A guy at the next table recognized the signs and called 911. I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice wavered on the last words.
Chloe shifted on her chair with a wince and suddenly, it hit him. Her greying hair. The laugh lines at the corner of her eyes. The shoulder she’d been shot in, that pained her sometimes. The nurse had thought the Detec – she wasn’t a detective anymore. He still looked like a human in his thirties, and she… didn’t. His eyes met Maze’s, and he read in them what he felt. What he feared, suddenly.
They remained there, silent and together, until a doctor shooed them out to do her job.
“Hey.” Chloe slipped her arm in his and steered them to Maze. “Come with us tonight?”
Lucifer wanted to say no. He wanted to say, don’t come, stay away, I’m keeping my Detective all to myself, I’m not sharing her with you – with anyone; he wanted to keep the world away and forget about what was coming, sooner or later. But Maze looked so relieved… Her first friend here on Earth had just stepped that little closer to death – and to heaven, of course. Not down there. Not ever.
He nodded at Maze when she raised an eyebrow at him, and as they left the hospital Lucifer tasted ash on his tongue. It never left his mouth, even when they ate listlessly at Maze’s favourite taco place, even as they drank more than was reasonable. Ash. Just ash.
That night, sitting on their bed, his ankles crossed, he watched Chloe. He watched her remove the necklace he’d given her all those years ago, he watched her undress and drop her clothes in the hamper as she walked to the bathroom, he listened to her humming to herself as she turned on the shower. He stood up and ditched his own clothes, opened the shower door, slipped behind her. The water was warm already, running on her soft skin, lightly freckled and glowing. She’d always been, in his eyes – even in his darker times, a beacon of light calling him back to sanity, reeling him in from his very own hell. He’d never realized how hell could be inside him, too, before he’d left it. He’d never have got out of it without Chloe. Without Linda. He curled a bit around her as she leaned back against his chest, eyes closed and smiling softly. Trusting.
“She’ll be fine.” He didn’t answer. “Lucifer, I know you don’t want to think about it, but this is life. Human life. You can’t escape it. We can’t, I should say.” She turned around and grabbed her shampoo. “Wash my hair.”
He let his fingers sink into the strands, lathering and massaging her scalp, and she grinned and kissed him and put foam all over his face, and he loved her. He loved her.
Once they got out, she sat at her dressing table and handed him a brush, and he started running it though her hair, careful and slow, then plaited it.
“Talk to me.” He didn’t want to, really. “Talk to me, Lucifer.”
He finished the plait and slung it over her shoulder, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. “Someone at the hospital thought you were…” He didn’t want to say it.
“That I was your mother? Yeah, nothing new here.” He stared at her then. “Didn’t you notice the way people look at us?”
“The… what way?”
“Well, you know. Older woman and her boy toy.”
“They’re just jealous you’re with me and not them.”
“I think it’s probably the other way round, especially these days. I am getting older. You are not. I’m grateful that you’re still here, but time won’t be kind to me, Lucifer. It isn’t to Linda.”
The doctor. He didn’t want to remember her in that too-white, sterile bed. She’d get better, they’d said. But she was 81. 81. He bent and slipped an arm under Chloe’s legs, another in her back, and carried her to the bed. Their bed, the one they’d shared for years. Decades, even – decades with her much-loved decorative pillow that her grandmother had embroidered, with his beloved black sheets that made her skin look even more luminous. He caught her hand when she reached out to turn the lamp off, and realized then that they hadn’t made love in clear light in… months, probably.
“Darling, no. Let me see you.” She squirmed a bit, looking away. “Please.” He slipped his hand under her still-damp towel, inside her thigh; she was so warm there – she’d always been. She laughed when he let his stubble tickle her neck, and then she tore his own towel off and pushed at his shoulders and he followed her lead, as always; and he marvelled at her all over again – that she was here, still here; that she loved him in spite of his many flaws; that – oh, yes, here… He tried to keep his eyes open, to fill himself with her sight and her sounds and her scent; and then she caught him in her gaze and he couldn’t look away, he couldn’t escape her, and it was the best prison ever.
Too bad he was bound to be released from it.
Chloe stared at the little crack in the ceiling plaster, left by the light earthquake a few months ago. Lucifer had never mentioned it, had maybe never even seen it. She was never quite sure whether it was wilful ignorance or genuine lack of care, just like he’d behaved so far with all the cracks life and time had left on her. She wasn’t blind to it, and she’d thought he and Maze weren’t either – especially with Linda and her regular application of the get-real stick, even after she’d quit her practice. But apparently, she didn’t get all the way through.
The bed-side lamp was still switched on, and made the night sky seem even darker outside the window. There was no star, no moon, no nothing up there; just like Mazikeen had described hell. She wondered what they’d both do, after: leave LA? Leave Earth? Stay, for their human friends’ sake – for Trixie, maybe? And then?
She’d never been quite sure of the exact relationship between Maze and Linda, but she suspected Maze would be as broken up about what was looming at the horizon as Lucifer would be… later. She scratched a bit at his scalp and he clutched her braid a bit tighter in his fist with a long sigh. She didn’t mention how damp her neck felt, where he’d rested his head.
“Will you go to Elysium tomorrow?”
“No. They don’t need me.” But he was the heart and soul of it, like he’d been at Lux 30 years ago.
“You haven’t been in a while. You enjoy it.”
“I enjoy it here too.” His leg slid a little higher over hers with a soft, skin-on-skin sound. “I should sell it.”
“No you shouldn’t. And anyway, without you they’ll never be as successful. Your baby artists will just flounder and it’ll all fizzle out.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do.” He needed the distraction, he needed the activity, he needed the music. Her very own devil was a big softie, and she should have realized it back when she’d met him after the murder of his protégée. Well, it had quickly become clear anyway. “We’ll bring breakfast to Maze, then we’ll all go visit Linda, then you’ll go to Elysium and let me have some me time.”
He tugged the soft sheet a bit higher over them. “I want we time.”
“We have plenty of we time. Can you turn off the light?” They – well, she needed sleep. She’d never quite known whether he actually did or if he just liked it, but she suspected he often spent nights at her side just touching her, a hand drawing soothing circles on her stomach and his nose in her hair. She’d catch him at it sometimes.
They’d talk more tomorrow.
Mornings. Mornings were a horrid thing, although certainly not a he thing. Probably yet another invention of his father’s, hah.
He looked at the little pill bottles and creams that had started to colonize the bathroom counter over the years. He hadn’t really paid attention to them, he’d always assumed they were normal lady things. He checked he hadn’t left any shaving cream on his face and started reading the labels. Oestrogen cream. Vitamin supplements. Words like pain, osteoporosis… Other odds and ends that made his blood run cold, as he read the names and what they were for.
She found him still staring at them when she came up to check why he hadn’t joined her downstairs.
“We’re going to be late, what’s – oh.”
He turned to look at her. “Do I hurt you? Chloe, do I hurt you?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“When we make love. Do I hurt you?”
Her eyes fell onto the cream. “Ah. No. You don’t. Because I use this.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know...” He jerked his hand towards the shelves.
“Now you do. Come on, Lucifer; get dressed. I told Maze we were coming and we still have to buy some things first.”
He nodded, because what else should he do? He nodded, and he got dressed, and they swung by the shops and drove to Maze’s and he cooked breakfast and they ate mechanically.
There was a soft chime from Chloe’s pocket. “Oh. Trixie is coming too.”
How did humans cope? He should probably ask – who should he ask about these things? Could he ask Beatrice how he was supposed to cope with her mother’s eventual death? Could he ask Maze about Linda’s? He wished he had faith, a human faith in his father – but he had no faith. He didn’t need to. He knew.
He let the voices wash over him, vaguely humming here and there to pretend he was following the conversation – treatment, care, help. Words. He only focused on the ankle around his, the hand squeezing his wrist, the thigh brushing his on the kitchen bench.
Maze cornered a nurse who said Linda was was awake, that she was doing as well as could be hoped – Chloe shuddered. It didn’t sound all that good. They watched Maze walk in first, because they didn’t want to overwhelm her; and when she came back a few minutes later she looked… sort of blank.
“I’ll find a doctor.” She stalked outside, her gait mechanical and her eyes empty; and Trixie followed her.
Chloe took Lucifer’s hand and dragged him inside. Linda’s eyes were open, but there wasn’t much difference otherwise. A corner of her mouth went up, and she made a sound – cut it off abruptly. Her lips moved soundlessly, and then she started again.
“Hiii-ii.” Linda frowned. She tried to write on a pad left on her lap, but the hand holding it kept slipping.
Lucifer stood there, unmoving and shell-shocked; and Chloe elbowed him. “Doctor! Glad you’re awake.” He sat gingerly on her bed and steadied the pad, and she started to write.
speech hard
weak left side
will get better
“Of course you will. You’ve got the best doctors here, soon you’ll be right as rain!”
old
“Not that old, Linda.” Chloe remembered her own mother’s struggle with age, how she’d tried to pretend it didn’t exist. It always caught up with you, though. Always.
Linda was clearly trying to put on a brave face, but Lucifer’s flirting was not enough to lift her spirits; although her beautiful, clear eyes did light up when he wiggled closer to her and wound his fingers through hers. She marvelled at how he’d changed since she’d first met him. How much she had, too – she hadn’t felt jealousy in a good long while. She knew she had no reason for it.
On the other hand, Trixie had never lost the habit of barging in, and this time she was dragging Maze after her. She squeezed Lucifer’s arm before kissing Linda’s cheek.
“The doctor said you’d need some help at first,” Maze said.
Linda shook her head.
“But I – ”
“Nnuh.”
Maze opened her mouth again, but Chloe cut her off. “I think we should leave you to plan things, right? Linda, let us know if you need anything. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
She watched Lucifer’s hand untangle itself from his old friend, the first who’d ever known what, who he was; who’d untangled him, too. He must be devastated, seeing the plagues his father had chosen to inflict on humanity. Wars and pain and disease and old age. He didn’t have his good doctor to hash it out with anymore – he’d always been reluctant to open up to Chloe about some things, as if he thought they would make her turn away from him. Think any less of him. Make her blame him. They wouldn’t; she was sure they wouldn’t – but she’d never force him.
They walked out of the hospital into a bright, cheery morning light.
“Let’s go walk on the beach,” she said. Side by side and bare-footed on the sand, as so many times before.
It was very strange, coming to see Linda and trying not to talk about himself. He had never really lost the habit, even after she’d kicked him out of therapy; and she’d let him. He’d always assumed it amused her – the devil’s therapist. It did have a ring to it, right?
He found her sitting at a table bathed in light streaming from the window, her cane by her elbow, doing her best to thread buttons on a long silver ribbon. He sat opposite her and watched silently for a while.
She moved her lips silently before speaking – she’d made progress, but she was still very slow and careful. “For the tree,” she explained. He raised his eyebrows. “Garland.”
A cupboard door was slammed in the kitchen, and Maze stalked out with a tray. “Physical therapy,” she said.
He watched Linda trying to cut the thread cleanly, her fingers slipping again and again. He didn’t help her. Maze looked on, fingers tight on the back of the doctor’s chair to let her work it out herself.
She got better. Buttons garlands were hung at Elysium too, eggnog was drunk, carols were sung.
She had a second stroke two years later. It was her last.
Chloe looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her breasts were far from what they’d been back in her acting days. Her belly was wrinkled, the skin above her knees sagging. The scar on her shoulder had never entirely faded. She liked it, even when it twinged – a reminder of what had started then. Her eyes were not clouded, and she had laugh lines because of Lucifer, of Trixie – of a good, long life. Her hair was still thick and long – she took great care of it, knowing how Lucifer loved running his fingers through it, whatever the color. She’d kept fit, but fit when you were 75 was not fit when you were 35. And she was somewhat over 75 now.
One day soon, she would not be able to hide that going up stairs was tiring. That she couldn’t run, that she couldn’t hear the high notes on the piano anymore. That she had stopped going to the firing range because her eyesight had deteriorated so much that it was ridiculous. That everything hurt, sometimes – well, often. That sex sometimes left her breathless, and not in a good way – although she suspected he’d noticed, because it had been a while since they’d had the more athletic kind. He’d been, she suddenly realized, suspiciously gentle and soft and undemanding, lately; doing all the work and all focused on her. It was… weird, she decided. She missed the old kind, but she wasn’t sure her body could take it. Still, this was a bit too much in the other direction. She should, maybe, urge him on a bit. Just to see Lucifer, her Lucifer, lose it a bit over her, over them; see his eyes flutter and feel his fingers grip her hips and hear the choked-off sounds he made in her ear. Just once again, before going back to old people sex.
She sighed.
She felt old, now. She felt ridiculous holding his hand when they were out and about, and the way people stared… Here he was, perpetually young and beautiful and unchanging while she… wasn’t. She didn’t want to go back to their usual favorite restaurants, she avoided tender gestures in public. She’d rather people think she was his mother, or… or. He, apparently, hadn’t seen the looks. The sneers. The whispered, cradle-robber. Free-loader. And worse. So much worse. Harold and Maude was a great movie, but it wasn’t real life.
She frowned at the bruises she’d collected over her thighs and arms – a few dizzy spells when standing up too quickly, a few table corners on her way. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice, otherwise he’d just ban all furniture from the house and cover the walls with pillows or something else just as silly and Luciferish.
She should get dressed, really.
Where was she?
They’d had a lovely evening, sitting on the beach for a while and then a nice dinner and then, just… just being together; he supposed. She hadn’t wanted to watch a film or read cuddled up against him, so he’d played for her and she’d even sung a few songs with him in her low, quiet voice. She grew tired more quickly now, and so he’d held her hand when going to bed and she hadn’t, for once, sent him away because it was way too early for him; and so they’d made love – slow and delicate, but he’d still left bruises on her hips where he’d held her too tight. She always said she loved it, but he really should be more careful. She bruised easily these days. Too easily.
His eyes fell on an envelope in the kitchen.
Lucifer,
I’m sorry. I really am. I love you.
But I’m leaving.
I know I’m being selfish, but I want you to remember me… alive. Not as I’m soon going to be – weak and ill and needy. I don’t want you to see what I’m about to become, and I know what you’re thinking, I know what you want to say – but my answer is still no. I won’t be in pain, I promise.
I can’t face goodbye, either. And you’ve always sucked at goodbyes anyway. It’s just easier that way, for both of us.
I’ve made Trixie swear she wouldn’t tell you where I’m going. Don’t make her break her vow.
You have a long life ahead of you – don’t forget us, but move on, too. We’ll meet again one day, I know it. I promise your father is not safe from Detective Decker.
Love always,
Chloe
He folded it back up and stared at nothing for the rest of the day.
He’d found her.
He’d found the little building on the cliff, its big windows letting the sun brighten every room – in every room, where someone was waiting to die, bathed in light and painkillers. Probably. Hopefully.
He’d tried to respect her wishes, but… well. At least he hadn’t asked her daughter. He hadn’t made her break her vow, as the – as she’d asked.
He wouldn’t go up. He wouldn’t see her. He wouldn’t hold her hand and touch her cheek and smile as he drowned in her eyes. Could she still open them? Could she still talk? Could she still squeeze his fingers, if he came up? Was she even still conscious.
He hadn’t seen her in too long.
He sat on an ornamental rock, right under her open window – he could see the wind-chime Beatrice had made long ago hanging there, tinkling softly in the late afternoon. He could hear the medical equipment beeping regular and quiet, the hushed voices. He recognized them. He wished he could hear her voice, just once. Just one last time, to cherish and remember forever. He hadn’t known it had been the last time, when she’d left. He hadn’t known.
He’d give everything, anything for her to walk out and take his hand and chide him and kiss his cheek and smile at him. Anything. The skin around her eyes crinkling with decades of happiness, her cheekbones still high and sharp and her eyes still so vivid… He knew better. There was no deal he could make that would turn out well.
He got his switchblade out, opening and closing and opening it again. He pricked his thumb once in a while, watched a drop of blood well out; and the taste of iron, stronger that the hospital smells wafting out of the building, reminded him she was still alive, that leukaemia had not taken her yet.
Until the steel would not pierce his skin anymore, and then he knew.
From her mother’s room, Trixie watched him stand up and walk away. She wasn’t sure she’d ever see him again; she even doubted he’d come to the funeral. He hated the things.
The nurses had turned the machines off, and the room was mostly silent – her mom had refused everyone but her daughter in the end. “I know you’ll remember me as I was. I know you’ll remember the good things, one day soon,” she’d said. She’d tried to plead Lucifer’s case, but her mother had been adamant – no one, and especially not him. Even if it breaks his heart, even if he asks me, even if I think you’re wrong – I’ll do it, mom. I did it.
And it did break his heart, and he didn’t ask me, and I’m not sure now you were wrong. I don’t know what I’ll do, when it’s my turn. I don’t know what I’d do, if I had to watch everyone die and be forever young, knowing I’d never see you again.
They’d had the best of times, and now it was the worst of times; and Lucifer Morningstar, Bringer of Light, disappeared into the dying light.
Turning away from the window at last and her eyes avoiding the bed, Trixie started to call everyone and warn the funeral home that it was time.
so this is what you wanted
freedom
a life among humans
are you happy?
has it brought all you desired?
you can’t have it both ways, my son
I am sorry
I couldn’t let you lead all my children on this path
and so I had to remove you from Heaven, lest you had them all follow you
it was for the best
do not worry, my son
those humans you loved, they are all here, safe and happy
why are you angry still? why are you sad?
but she’s a demon. made to punish sinners
now you must go back to hell, for that is your responsibility until the end of this world, Samael
it is a hard task, but an honour too
and then evil and demons shall be defeated and go back to the void from whence they came
and all those that strayed and repented will be forgiven
yes, even you
I see you are still full of wrath and despair
I hope you find your way to peace before the end of days
for I hope we will meet again, son
Lucifer opened his eyes.
So they were talking again, after a fashion. Or rather, his father had drilled into his head as he had been trying to forget reality for a while, surrounded by all the drugs and alcohol he could get his hands on – and that was a lot. It wasn’t a solution, he knew from experience; but he needed to breathe. He needed a respite, before deciding what to do. But someone had already decided for him, it seemed.
Well. At least that was sobering, he supposed.
He looked at the mid-day light playing on the ceiling, on the walls. He didn’t want to go back to hell. He should talk to Maze. Maybe.
Or… or, he could go to hell, and wait there for the end of times; wait for the seven-headed dragon and the woman with a crown of stars and, probably, for Michael to throw him in the Lake of Fire; and then he’d be dead for good – as dead as Uriel. He assumed that was the Plan; at least that’s what was prophesied, right?
He took her letter from the low table where he’d left it and as he opened it once again, let the sight of her handwriting comfort him. He wondered if the ink wasn’t fading already. Maybe he should have it preserved? Put it under glass, never to touch it anymore. He couldn’t do that to her, she’d hate it.
She’d asked him to go on living, and he knew – after so many hours with Linda talking about it, back when his dear Detective had fretted over her first wrinkles, her first white strands; before he’d buried it all at the back of his mind – that time would help, that it wouldn’t always feel so raw. So new. So… forever. But as long as there was pain, there was her, too. He clung to that, however stupid it was. He could see Linda, back in her stilettos and smart suit days, roll her eyes and ask why he insisted on misunderstanding everything. The fond lilt in her voice, the way she blushed at times when he forgot to rein his thing in, the occasional glimmer of awe at who he actually was, the smile as his so very unangelic antics.
He missed her, too. As he’d miss Beatrice, one day. As he even missed the Douche. Hah.
A bit of tidying, a bit of food. Well. A bit of staring at her closet, a bit of smelling her favourite coffee – an atrocious cheap blend he refused to drink. He’d still buy it again and again and again anyway, just to open it and stick his nose in once in a while. It would be another small piece of her he could have.
He walked back to their main room, read Beatrice’s messages. He didn’t know what to answer, so he didn’t. He’d spent the afternoon shuffling around, and he still hadn’t decided what to do. Sitting on the piano bench, he rested his hands over the closed lid. How many hours had she sat here with him, half-asleep on his shoulder or hammering out a tune with one finger just to make him cringe? He’d played against her, around her, behind her; he’d played for her. It would take time, a lot of time before he could face the black and white keys again. The silence suited him, right now. He thought he could hear a soft breath behind him, fabric brushing against fabric; he wanted to think he only had to turn his head and she’d be there.
He kept his eyes on the glossy black wood.
Outside on the porch, he watched the light fade from gold to red to dark. His cigarette burned bright in the gloom, and he suddenly remembered her scrunched-up nose when the breeze would blow the smoke in her face.
He studied Beatrice as she walked up to him, the only sound her shoes on the gravel. She took a cigarette from his pack and he held out his old-fashioned lighter.
“It’s tomorrow.” She blew out a long plume of smoke. “Will you be there?”
“Maybe.”
“I figured you’d say something like that.”
“Why did you come then?”
“To check on you.”
“I’m – ”
“No you’re not. Anyway, you were here for me often enough. Now it’s my turn.”
“I don’t need… I didn’t… you don’t owe me anything.”
“I know. I’m here because I want to, not because I have to.” She tugged him back inside and pushed him down on the couch. “Let me guess. You’ve been moping and drinking all day long?”
He looked down. “While you’ve been dealing with paperwork and the funeral home and…”
“I didn’t deal with anything. Mom had set it all up already, back when she found out she was sick. I wanted to tell you… If you leave, I’d understand. I don’t want you to, but I’d understand.”
He looked up at her greying hair, and still saw the little girl who’d latch on him out of the blue and who’d friended Maze. All too soon, I would be her turn; but at least she’d be with her mother again. “What do you think I should do?”
“There’s no right or wrong, Lucifer, and I’d like to keep you around as long as I can. But I’m not sure you can cope well with… well, with us.” She brushed her hand over his forehead, and he closed his eyes. “Look at you, you haven’t changed at all. I wonder if you ever will.” She paused. “We’re born with it. With death. It hurts, and then we move on. But you… you were never meant to know.”
He let his head fall back on the backrest. “I’d like to sleep.”
“When’s the last time you did?”
“Not since the letter.”
“Hm.” She prodded him until he lay flat on the couch, and threw the hideous plaid her mother had loved so much over him. “Sleep, then. I’ll stay.”
“You’re not my mum,” he grumbled.
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Sitting on the low table, she smoothed his hair and hummed softly a little tune, the first he’d ever taught her; and slowly, slowly, the plaid grew heavier and the humming fainter and then nothing.
Morning light woke him up, and the past 24 hours came back to him and left his stomach hollow again. He blinked his eyes open and there in front of him, glinting a little in the early light, was a silvery strand of hair. He wriggled a hand from under the plaid and hovered above the dark red pillow. Could he touch it? Should he?
Faint sounds were coming from the kitchen, and the smell of coffee wafted out to him. Two parents in the police really did bad things for your tastebuds, in spite of his efforts to educate her palate. He sat up, still wrapped in the plaid, and finally dared to pick up the lock of white hair. It was Chloe’s. The colour, the length… He wove it around his fingers, never losing a single hair. he’d keep it, he decided. He looked around and his eyes fell on an elongated box he’d brought from his old penthouse. It must have held a scribe’s tools, millenia ago. He took hair and box into the bedroom and rummaged into Chloe’s odds and ends drawer, until he found a small piece of blue ribbon. He tied it in a little knot around the hair, and put it carefully inside before joining Beatrice in the kitchen.
“Hello, Lucifer.”
“Morning.” He looked around. “You didn’t have to. Especially not today.”
“Stop talking nonsense and sit down.” She pushed a glass of fresh juice towards him. She must have gone shopping this morning. “How many times did you cook breakfast for mom and me?” She sat in front of him. “Look, I, well. I never told either of you. But when Ash died… I wouldn’t have made it without you. So, well. Just…” She blew a breath and rolled her eyes. “Ah, whatever. Just eat, okay?” She was so much like her mother at times.
He remembered when her partner had the accident. A quick, painless death, the doctors had said. Beatrice had stayed with them and he and Chloe had taken turns cooking, staying with her until she finally slept, making her sit out in the sun. “I liked Ash.”
She huffed a laugh. “Me too. I mean, when you didn’t scare her off and I realized it was because you didn’t need to, well. I knew.”
“Well, your previous boy- and girlfriends were all terrible.”
“That they were. I’m glad you and Maze were here for me those times. Seeing their faces after you did your thing… Priceless.” She pushed a plate at him.
“Ah. The infamous Decker sandwich.”
“Of course. What else?”
He’d never forgotten the first time Chloe had made him one. He never would.
After he’d swallowed a few bites and some tea under her watchful eyes, he managed to send her away, promising he’d at least try to be there in the afternoon.
He wandered through the house, and finally decided he should maybe take a shower. Shave. Style his hair. Just… look his best for her, one last time. He almost used her shower gel, but he found he couldn’t. The mere idea of opening it, of the smell of almost-but-no-quite her all around him… too soon. It was too soon. He put it back on the shelf and grabbed his usual one, trying hard to empty his mind.
Still dripping, he opened their closet, and stared at his suits – well, some of them. This was, mostly, her closet – had been. He looked at her clothes, more colourful than his usual dark suits. Cardigans and jackets and shirts and blouses and skirts and dresses and trousers… He walked inside and buried his head in a pile of sweaters, his eyes closed. He was probably supposed to get rid of it all. Give them to a charity, maybe. Not keep them here until they crumbled into dust.
He remembered Maze trying desperately to find something to fill her days after Linda… after Linda. She’d settled on taking up forging knives again, as she’d done in hell. It had been hilarious, to see her march into a traditional blacksmith’s fiery kingdom and demand to use the tools. He’d laughed at her, then watched her take her rage out on plain steel – methodically hammering it until it bent to her will, until her sweaty face hid her brimming eyes. He hadn’t laughed in the end. He’d begged her to teach him.
The good doctor would probably tell him he needed an outlet, too.
He turned his back on Chloe’s side and grabbed her favourite suit – the one he’d always worn when he wanted to see that spark in her eyes. He hesitated, then picked a pocket square that was the exact colour of her eyes. He was the devil. Conventions were not for him.
He hadn’t made her life easy, he thought as he watched the people gathered around the… thing. The wooden, boxy thing doomed to burn down to ashes soon enough. Very few knew who he was, a good number thought he was a weird friend who roomed with her – because how could an old woman actually be with such a young-looking man? – and some must have thought he was sleeping with her in exchange for some favour, free lodgings maybe.
He stayed at the back, both because he couldn’t bring himself to come any closer and to avoid any awkwardness. Linda would have been proud of him – and then pushed him forward. She wasn’t here, and so he stayed where he was, watching the… coffin, it was a bloody coffin, glide away; away to flames and heat he could very well picture. Ashes to ashes, indeed. Beatrice walked to him and held his hand as it disappeared. He wondered how fast hell could burn away the dampness in his eyes.
Back in their little house… his house, free from her family and his – Amenadiel’s pinched face, Maze’s stony eyes – he had things to do. Decisions to make.
He went back into the bedroom, opened the closet again. He couldn’t bear to part with them, couldn’t keep them forever either. He thought of Linda, trying to reacquaint herself with her body after her stroke. Of Maze, adapting to a life without Linda. He looked down at his hands. He thought of piano strings and button garlands and the embroidered pillow on their bed. He thought of her hair. He remembered all the times he’d had a papercut at the station, nicked a finger in the kitchen or once a bullet in the thigh, around her. He smiled at the memory. He’d even got a burn, that one time. It wouldn’t happen again now she was… gone, but it still felt right to pretend to risk a little prick from a needle.
He got all her clothes out and started sorting them – by fabric and colour, age and texture, weave and wear. He got scissors out, thread and needle; he thought of the three ladies that his father always pretended didn’t exist and whom he’d found hidden in a corner of hell. Everybody always ignored them, but he never had, visiting them from time to time. They never said anything, always busy as they were, but they let him watch.
Now, standing in the middle of all her clothes, he had to start. Cut them up. Destroy them all and make something new. Could he, really? This jacket – she’d been wearing it, the last time they’d gone to a restaurant. And this scarf – she’d always wrap it around her neck when they went for a walk on the beach. Ah, he’d loved that dress… it had been left and forgotten at the back of the closet, but now he remembered it. He hadn’t seen it in, oh. Oh. Maybe 20 years? Why keep it then, if not to wear it? He could still picture her in it, laughing as the wind picked up the hem and giving him a peek at her thighs; the cinched waist and slightly low neckline. She’d been so lovely and bright. It suddenly came to him – how she’d started to avoid showering with him, how she’d always refuse to make love without turning off the light first. How she wore looser, longer clothes as the years went by. He knelt in the middle of the room and gathered a bunch of clothes – he missed her. He missed her already, missed knowing that at least she was alive on earth; and, his face buried in his armful of fabric, he tried to chase the faintest scent of her.
But it was gone.
He really had come to the funeral, after all. Honestly, Trixie wouldn’t have bet on it – it was only as she saw him, stiff and forbidding, that she’d believed it. He hadn’t said a word, had left as soon as the coffin disappeared. No one had followed, although she thought Maze and Amenadiel had wanted to. She’d seen the way they looked at him – worried and sympathetic.
But Lucifer Morningstar had never really managed to lose his innate self-centered tendencies. He wouldn’t be able to see others wanted to be with him, he couldn’t imagine anyone would need him as he needed them. He didn’t always realize he actually needed them, frankly. He always saw himself as a lone rock in a stormy ocean, and her mother had been the only one to consistently reach out to him – she’d always found safe harbour with him, and he’d always welcomed her. He’d tried, sometimes; when his dear Detective prodded him, he’d really tried to be there for Linda, for Maze, for his brother. But then he’d quickly run away, half-thinking he wouldn’t do any good – which wasn’t always wrong, so outrageous he was sometimes – , half-thinking he had better things to do.
He’d got better at it through the years though; in his own weird way. He’d taken Amenadiel to wild parties when he’d yet again failed to go back home (he even let him have Cosmos, which was apparently Not A Manly Drink in Lucifer’s book); he’d always upped the flirting with Linda those times she’d felt old and useless and ready to die; he’d always been there for Trixie too. She had long suspected it had all been for her mother, though; to impress her maybe. To prove her something. Or maybe not? Mom never knew some of the crazy nights they’d had, pranking one of her flames that had turned out to be an absolute jerk or dragging her through half the clubs in LA when she lost her first job, back when she thought she actually wanted to work in law. Hah.
Ah, well. Who knew what went on in his head?
Still, they’d all thought he’d keep in touch. Answer a message, go to Elysium to do something – anything. He’d always been hyperactive, after all. But… nothing. Nothing at all. Maze had disappeared soon after, as she had after Linda’s death. She hoped she’d be back before someone else died, this time. His brother had left, too – to parts unknown.
And so, two weeks after her mother’s cremation, Trixie went back to the house on her own, an urn with her mother’s ashes in the trunk. They should talk about what to do with them, at least. The decision had been left theirs to make.
The house was silent when she pushed open the door, left ajar as she’d never found it before. Dusk was making everything soft and vaguely mysterious, and she remembered who he was, suddenly. It was eerie, walking through a house that for so long had been full of music and jokes and happy “Detectives!” and mock-stern “Lucifers!” and now felt so… well, lifeless.
There was no sign of anyone, not even a glass left on the kitchen counter. The piano lid was down and slightly dusty, the ashtray empty and clean. She walked on, the urn cradled in her arms as her mother had carried her, so long ago. She stopped in front of their bedroom door.
Trixie nudged the door open with her foot, and froze. It was as if a hurricane had gone through. Colors and fluff and thread and torn pieces of fabric everywhere, you couldn’t even see the wooden floorboards anymore. After a while, she recognized the ruins of some of her mum’s favourite clothes, the remains of Lucifer’s expensive bedclothes and her great-grandmother’s pillow that had always adorned her mother’s bed before. She stepped in, gingerly. There, on the bed, was a bigger lump than there should be if it were only clothes.
He was there. Fast asleep, clutching pieces of – no. Clutching a blanket. A… quilt. Made of bits of her mother’s clothes, all stitched together and then sewn on their old bedspread. He was wrapped in it, almost cocooned; only a few tufts of hair and his nose peeking out. He looked so young to her now. She remembered how big and strong and funny she’d found him as a child. Now he mostly looked lost. She didn’t dare wake him up given the huge bruised-looking bags she could make out under his eyes. His lashes fluttered and his breathing sped up when she reached out to cover a bare foot with the quilt, but then he fell back into deep sleep.
She left the urn on the bedside table before leaving.
Death, Chloe thought, was certainly nothing like she would have imagined back when she’d been in her thirties.
Of course, after Lucifer came into her life, many things changed – including how she pictured the afterlife, since apparently there was an afterlife. Still, it was unexpected. She’d never really believed she’d go to heaven, even if he’d insisted she would, of course she would. She couldn’t accept they’d never meet again after her death, and yet again she refused to think she’d never jump in her father’s arms now that there was hope she might.
And now… now, she was back home. Sort of. She’d met Lucifer’s siblings, she’d hugged her dad and cried and laughed and always, always thought of him, forever away. She’d explored forests and waded in rivers and walked through orchards, finally sitting under a tree and eating a delicious pomegranate. She dozed in the shade, and afterwards she vaguely remembered talking with… someone? It was soothing and peaceful. ...maybe a bit boring.
And then, she’d felt it. Him. His pull. His call. She’d found herself drifting always to the borders of heaven, high up in a sky that wasn’t, there at the borders of an infinite land, her hands scrabbling at a wall that didn’t exist. She’d fought but there wasn’t anything to fight, and she’d screamed but there wasn’t anyone to hear her, she’d ranted and cried and struggled, until suddenly there was… nothing. Nothing at all, and she was drifting… down? up? Through? Sideways, for all she knew. And now, here she was, coalescing over… a marble box? Ah. Yes.
She sat on the mattress, looking at him. In the darkness just before dawn, she wouldn’t have seen much without the star low on the horizon, shining a single beam of light straight to them. Their old bedroom was a disaster. She felt a giggle come up, though, when she realized what he’d done. At the foot of the bed, the sewing was uneven, mismatched threads poking out and the squares of fabric badly cut. The higher her eyes travelled, though, it got better – he’d got better.
She waited a long time.
She watched the morning star dim until the sun drowned it out with its radiance, until the light on his face finally made him shift and squirm and frown and blink his eyes open.
“Chloe,” he breathed. He snaked a hand out from under the quilt, but rested his fingers on the fabric just before they could touch her. Silver hair was wrapped around them. “I dream of you.”
“I know. You called me.”
“Hmm?” He wriggled closer, eyes half-closed. “I’ll just go on sleeping forever,” he mumbled.
“No you won’t.” He only hummed something low and contented, his lashes fluttering on his cheeks. “Lucifer, I’m really here. Look.” She held a lock of blond hair away from her face. At least being dead meant she could choose her appearance, and she’d had it with the old lady shtick.
She saw a flash of brown from under an eyelid. “I dream of all of yous.”
“Lucifer.”
“Detective. Join me under the covers.”
Under the quilt you made of what was left of me, you mean.
And then she knew what she had to do. After all, there was no reason why they shouldn’t go everywhere they wanted to. Why limit ourselves?
“Come with me,” she said, holding out a red fruit.