For Who Could Ever Love a Beast?

Chapter Song: I'll Be Good – James Young

Part One

The air thickened around her, heavy and electric with a lack of movement. Her eyes were locked on Pierce, unwilling to move from where she stood even as he kept the gun pointed at her. Neither were willing to back down and her throat tightened with fear; though, courage washed over her, pushing against her natural instinct to run and survive. She'd felt it many times before as a cop; and yet, no matter how many times she put herself in the line of fire it never ceased to amaze her how impossible it was to get rid of the sensation—the heart-beating possibility of death that she had to slog through every time she did her job. This time though… this time…

It had nothing to do with her job.

Her mind worked—cogs shifting as she considered her options. She might not have time to take out the man next to Pierce; however, if she could take Pierce out, she could keep the other man's shot blocked—keep him from hitting Lucifer—and hopefully get another round off in his chest before he could react fast enough.

She had, if nothing else, excellent aim. And she gambled hard on that.

Her heart skipped once—hammered harder than ever in her chest just once—as she inhaled and reached for the gun on her hip. Time seemed to still, to slow, as the feel of metal sliding against the leather of her holster hummed up her hand and wrist, as she shifted her footing just so and lifted her hands—positioning herself in a familiar way, one she'd done a hundred time over. And then she exhaled as she fired, as the bullet left the barrel. But Marcus moved, the bastard; and she grit her teeth as it hit his shoulder. In that same movement her breath hitched, her chest flexed, as something rammed into her chest like a freight train.

The man next to Pierce had fired. And fuck did it hurt; she held fast to the gun in her hand even as the man behind her screamed a heart retching 'NO!' and caught her as she stumbled into his arms—gasping for breath that had been knocked out of her.

She fought to stay conscious, rallied against the pain threatening to make her pass out. She refused to give into the sluggishness trying to overpower her, to render her unconscious. "Not yet," she bit off—growled even—as she pulled on strength from somewhere deep within her and leveled her gun at the thug who'd shot at her, who was turning his attention to Marcus now that he thought she wasn't a problem anymore. She didn't hesitate; she fired off two rounds in his back. He dropped. She moved to aim for Marcus next, her gaze locked on him, when the click of guns above her caught her off guard.

Chloe's heart stopped.

One guy she could handle; one on top of Marcus had been stupi—even for her; but it had been better than the alternative. He'd wanted to kill Lucifer. Lucifer, who was clutching her like a lifeline and breathing her name like a mantra. Like he couldn't believe she wasn't dead in his arms.

But as she whispered his name in return—weak from the pain in her chest that had pounded through the bullet proof vest and still trying to catch her breath—the men on the balcony had aimed and were readying to unleash a volley.

She was going to die.

She was never going to watch her daughter grow up.

She was never going to tell Lucifer that she... that she loved him.

How was it when you were so close to the end of it all, watching the drop from the edge of a thin precipice, how was it only then you realized what was most important?

How?

And just like that, just when she thought it was all over—she really was going to die in a rain of bullets in the arms of the man she loved, her vision was obscured in pearlescent white—glowing, and brilliant, and humming with a force she couldn't name but was overwhelmed by the presence of.

Feathers.

A curtain of feathers that didn't seem real enclosed her like a blanket—a shield. And briefly, she wondered if she'd already died. If this was some kind of prelude to the afterlife. Because what she was sensing? Definitely not bird feathers. She didn't know how she knew, but there was something instinctual about the knowing—the knowing that she was in the presence of something holy... divine. Pure and beyond her reach.

And yet... there they were, enthralling her—weaving into her sense of awe.

And then came the shots—the blotches of red—shattering her focus; Lucifer's voice once more screamed—shouting NO—in her ear. Desperate, broken, pained; it was the kind of scream you associated with a wounded animal. It was the kind of sound she wound have made if she hadn't been able to save him.

It took her brain a moment to catch up and realize what she was seeing—the red on the … wings. Blood.

Lucifer's wings?

She turned her head then, looking up at the man who cradled her in his embrace. She gasped as he cried out—wincing against the pain; the pain he was taking to shield them—her.

Her heart, the organ in her chest that had been beating a mile a minute from the onslaught of fears and realizations, strained in a different way. Disbelief and something else she couldn't process washed over her.

"Oh Lucifer…" she managed to whisper, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek as the gunshots stopped, as she heard someone hollering for them to stop.

Chocolate browns captured hers as he looked down at her. What she saw was mixture of gentleness, regret, anger, and …she didn't know… and yet did. Wholly. Completely. He reached down where the bullet had hit her, thumbing at the hole—the vest underneath—his breath releasing a shaky exhale, a gasp. His gaze shifted to relief, eye closing once before meeting hers once more.

"We don't have much time, Detective," he whispered, voice tight. "Cain has put a stop to his hired guns because he doesn't want to hurt you. But I still need to get you to safety. Away. I—."

"I can help," she snapped back, forcing herself into cop mode—a safe place to be until she could process the fact that her partner might be… she shoved it aside. "Get us cover. Now."

"Detective—."

"We don't have time to argue, Lucifer!" she hissed. "I can't move without…" she motioned to his wings, at a loss for words. Already, she could hear men moving—Pierce.

"Bloody hell," her partner snapped back, "you'll be the death of me, Detective. Half a dozen millennia of close calls against beings older than sin itself, and I'll be laid waste by a bloody broken hea…" he trailed off, his voice choking on the word even as he snapped to motion, pulling his wings back just enough to move and… dash? She didn't know what to call it, the speed at which he got them out of the way of the returning gun fire. She heard him hiss again; a few must have caught the wing he was using to shield them.

Once she was behind a handful of statues and art pieces that looked to be made of warped steel, she let out a sigh. It was easier to stand when she didn't have to worry about jeopardizing Lucifer. Her chest strained once again as she caught sight of his bloodied wings.

His wings.

Chloe shook her head, forcing herself to focus. Mental assessment and possible breakdown later; Marcus now. This became especially apparent when shots were being fired at them again, twanging off the art pieces around her. Chloe turned, dislodging her magazine clip with a push of a button on her semiautomatic; in the same breath she reloaded another and took up a spot. One idiot was open from her line of sight, so she fired. He dropped like a rock. The rest of the thugs shouted and started taking cover.

"Lucifer—" she started, intent on asking if he had a gun.

"Keep firing, Detective. I'll take care of the rest while you cover me."

Before she could argue, there was a whoosh of air around her and his presence—of which she was acutely aware of—was now absent. Chloe cursed, but kept firing. She caught a glimpse of him on the balcony, coming up behind one of the men that were using what looked like an AK. He turned to face Lucifer and Chloe gasped, firing several shot even as Lucifer used his wing to attack at the same time.

Two down and he was moving again.

Chloe did her best to keep up, all the while wondering where Pierce was. One more down. And then the last one was tossed out into the center of the rounded room, sliding across the floor on his back. Lucifer was striding up to him as he moved to stand. But Chloe was faster. She aimed—fired. And he was down.

When Pierce walked out into the open she readied another.

But even as she moved to fire the warning—because he wasn't armed—her gun clicked. Empty. "Shit." And she didn't have another magazine.

"I'm out," she shouted to Lucifer.

"That's fine, Detective. Stay where you are. I'll handle this," he called back loudly.

Like hell, she thought. They were at an advantage. Two against one. So she darted out from behind her hiding spot, holstering her gun as she made a beeline for Pierce. Both men were walking towards one another—fully intent on ripping each other apart.

She was fifteen or so feet away when she hit some kind of invisible barrier and stumbled. It took her a moment to regain her balance. "What the hell?" she snapped.

"You won't be getting in anytime soon," Pierce told her. She looked down at the floor, trying to figure out what it was even as he explained. "It's a celestial trap. It won't break until I release it or I'm dead." Chloe's eyes narrowed on the runes on the ground, the faint glowing hum.

"I am impressed, Cain," she heard Lucifer say with a lyrical lilt to his voice—an angry and sarcastic sing-song, "The materials you would need to cast something of the like must have been costly—and hard to find. But, indeed, you've done me the favor of not only trapping you with me, but of keeping the detective out until I'm finished with you."

"Only one us leaves, Lucifer," he retorted. "And it won't be you."

Chloe could only watch on helplessly as the two men fought, as Marcus swiped at Lucifer with a curved blade. She desperately wanted to call for backup, for help. But… if she did that… Her throat caught as she gazed down at the bloodied feathers on the ground, at the ones coming out of Lucifer's back still. He was using them to fight Pierce; to block and attack. And her gut twisted every time the other man cut into him or his wings.

Fuck, why? She needed—.

Suddenly and unexpectedly—quickly—Lucifer maneuvered his grasp on Pierce's wrist and shoved the curved blade into his chest. Chloe gasped as he dropped to the floor, as Lucifer followed his descent and leaned over him. Speaking.

She couldn't hear either man at this distance, but she could only watch—hands pressed against the invisible barrier, as Pierce died—as soft burnish of red flame cut and spread over Lucifer's face and visible skin.

What…

It started in her stomach—some kind of mixture of dread, terror, and fight or flight instinct. It was slow at first as she tried to figure out what she was seeing. The wings... the deep red skin... the heated fiery gaze that glowed like... like...

Hellfire.

Her heart caught in her throat as he turned to look at her, as the full force of what she was really looking at hit her. Hard.

"Detective …? Are you alright?" He moved one step towards her and she couldn't help it. She took a step back, her body visibly shaking once.

"It's all true…" she whispered.

His reaction was instantaneous—as if she'd triggered something old and raw within him. He flinched as if she'd struck him. And then something tore in his gaze—anguished and raw and brutal—as he looked down at his hands. "Detective… I…" he started, visibly swallowing once as he closed his eyes.

Resignation.

Self-loathing.

She felt it from him more than saw it and her heart gave a sympathetic flex even as terror kept her glued in place. "…I told you, didn't I?"

Her eyes widened as he teetered, stumbling once. He was falling. He was going to hit the floor. Somehow, empathy won out and she forced her legs to move, forced instinct to take over; she caught him and crumbled in the weight of him to the floor. At the same time her own words washed over her—reminding her of the man she'd judged him to be based on his actions:

You are not a monster. Not to me.

She was still terrified; even as her own words echoed in her mind, she knew she was afraid. The instinct that had told her to catch him, told her to help him; the other, the scared part, told her to run. Far away.

He was The Devil—an incomprehensible being of power she could barely wrap her mind around.

And yet….

Chloe took in a deep breath, fighting back the tears her eyes were shedding because she was fighting a state of shock the same way she'd fought to stay conscious to protect him earlier. Her body had no idea what to do and went for whatever helped alleviate some of the frightening stress. She was holding a literal a literal fallen angel in her arms. And, fuck, he could be dying.

The man she loved, she reminded herself, could be dying.

Her mind, heart, and gut pulled in three different directions as she stared down at his red burnished skin—skin that felt as normal as her own, if not slightly warmer, despite the unnatural look of it—and at his broken and bloodied wings. And for a moment… all doubt, all fear, all questions cleared…

He was like this because of her.

Because he'd been protecting her.

Her grip tightened on his torn and bloodied jacket, his shirt. He hadn't been shot in the chest, but she could see a gunshot wound on his arm through the tear in the fabric. How many more where in lodged in his wings? How many hits had he taken to keep her alive?

You arenot a monster. Not to me.

Chloe closed her eyes. Once. And the when she opened them again—locked on the man in her arms—a decision was made. She dug in her jacket for her phone. Hands shaking, she looked up Maze's number and dialed. Her breathing was ragged and her throat felt tight when the other woman finally answered, saying, "Yeah, Decker?"

"I need your help."

There was a brief second of pause before Maze said, "Where are you? What happened?"

"Lucifer… he… He might be dying." She rattled off the location. "I… I don't know if I can get him out by myself. And the crime scene… there are bloody feathers everywhere and I—"

"Did you say feathers?" Maze asked.

"Yes, and there might be cameras," she got out. "I need help."

"Is he breathing?" She asked next. "Is he hurt anywhere vital? Chest? Stomach?"

Chloe made did a quick check. "Yeah, he is. And no, he's not. Just… his arm has a bullet and his wings are…" she trailed off again, her heart suddenly breaking just a bit. She sucked it all in—forced herself to.

She had to be strong, she reminded herself.

"Ok, good. He's not dying, Decker. Trust me. Now listen, is there any way you can get him out and into your car? Did you bring a car?"

Chloe looked around the room frantically, spotting a cart of some kind. There was a sheet draped over it. "Yeah, I have my car. And there's a cart. I... I might be able to wheel him out."

"Ok, good. Because you need to get him out of there now. If you don't need to wait on me you shouldn't. Got it so far?"

"Y-Yeah." she managed.

"Get him in that cart. Cover him with something so one sees what you're doing—anything will do. And then get him into your car. Take him to Lux and go to the loading dock. Ring for someone to open the door and when they do ask for Tony. He'll help you get Lucifer up to the penthouse, no questions asked. Got it? Can you do that, Decker?"

"I… I think so."

"If you can't get him out of there, call me back. Understood? I'll meet you there when I'm done cleaning up the scene."

"Alright," she managed, eyes focused on the man on the floor before her. As Maze said goodbye and click of the call being disconnected sounded, Chloe's eyes swept over him again—the deep red of skin, the softness of his unconscious features despite the sharp angles, and the torn and jagged state of his wings. Her heart strained, her throat clotted with something, and her heart began to crack and she—.

Chloe swallowed it all down—again—and forced herself to stand. To cross the room and get the empty cart with the large white sheet draped over it. She dragged it to the man on the floor and reached for him—trying to lift him. But he was so much bigger than her; so much taller. And his wings weren't making it any easier.

He groaned and she let out a gasp before saying, "Lucifer?" Another groan. Good. Maybe. She was desperate and didn't want to wait on Maze. "I need you to try and stand. Just for a minute. I have to get you in this cart. Ok? Can you do that?" Another groan, and this time she thought she heard him say 'Detective…?'. "Please," she begged, her arms tugging him from under his arms. His cheek was on her shoulder. "I don't think I can do this without you," she whispered.

And just when she was about to give up and call Maze back, he put weight under his legs, hissing once. She let out a sigh of relief and helped him get into the cart. She covered him with the sheet as best she could.

Getting him into her car took work; more work than getting him into the cart had involved. But she was doing something, and doing something meant not thinking about the fact that a man she cared deeply about, that she loved… she swallowed it all again. Doing something meant not focusing on the white elephant in the room. And so she trudged on, thankful that he'd been half conscious enough to help her get him into the car.

Once she got to Lux she did as Maze asked. The guy named Tony carried him from the car and through the empty club. Chloe followed silently behind all the way up the elevator. Her eyes were locked on Lucifer even when Tony gently laid him on the bed.

"You need me to get anything?" the brickhouse of a bouncer asked, breaking her out of her spell.

Chloe jumped once and met the big man's gaze. "Um… yes. Medical supplies. Bandages. I need too to clean his wounds and…" She thought hard about his injuries—how many she'd counted when Maze had asked. Bullet wound on his arm. Two deep cuts on his chest from Marcus' blade. Another cut on his hip and who knew how many were on his wings… Her gaze drifted over those. They hung limp on his sides; he was lying face down.

"I'll bring our big med kit," Tony finally told her when she trailed off and became quiet for too long. "You need more than that and I'll get it for you. I'll bring you some warm water and some wash cloths too. That alright?"

"And soap," she agreed.

He nodded in her peripheral and disappeared entirely. Chloe didn't move until the elevator doors chimed, signaling the bouncer was gone.

She… she needed to get him out of those clothes, she told herself. She couldn't clean anything if she didn't do that first. So she took in a deep breath again and looked around the room for a pair of scissors. She came up empty until she hunted around in his nightstand. A descent set of kitchen scissors sat in the drawer and she snatched them up. And then she started to cut his clothes away—slowly, gently, and with intent. She carefully maneuvered to avoid his wings, stiffening every time she jostled them—causing him to cry out softly in his unconscious state. Something sliced through her—jagged like a knife—each time she slipped up.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, tears in her throat; because he was pain, because he'd done it for her, because he was The Devil, because he—.

Her heart began to break then, shatter just a bit as a heavy weight pressed on her chest at the sight of him once it was all removed; once he was naked and all she could see was red burnished skin and bloodied broken wings.

Her legs gave out on her and she managed to reach for the bed, to let herself sit down on the edge next to where he lay. The top edge of a wing brushed her back, but she barely noticed. She just sat there, transfixed on him—as if staring could somehow help her process what she was seeing.

Chloe had never been particularly religious. Her mother had never had an interest in church and her father had been too busy being a dedicated cop and family man to bother. She'd been once or twice as a child because a friend had invited her, but nothing that impressed upon her a belief in a higher power. She wouldn't have said she was nonbeliever either, but she'd always sort of ascribed to the idea that when you died you went somewhere better; or maybe you reincarnated into a bird or something. It had been a comforting thought for her, believing that her father had gone somewhere to either be at peace or start anew.

She let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh, refusing to look away from him.

Monstrous, he'd called himself, as if no one could love him—as if he was not worthy of love.

For who could ever love a beast…?

The quote echoed in her mind, not quite Disney. It would be easy to smile, but she couldn't manage it. Because all she could manage to wonder was what she'd been avoiding for the last hour. No... it had been a lot longer than that. Maybe… maybe it had started when she'd tried to get a look at the scars on his back all that time ago.

Chloe was so lost in her own thoughts she almost didn't hear Tony come back with the supplies. She thanked him and once more, didn't get to work until he was gone again—telling her to call downstairs if she needed him for something.

Once more, she summoned the mental and emotional strength and got to work. Wet cloth in hand, she began the process of cleaning his wounds. Aside from the gunshot, they all appeared to be surface; though she had no doubt he's lost a lot of blood via his wings. The pain his body was trying to process had likely caught up with him at the end, forcing him to pass out.

He shifted, making a sound now and then as she worked. And once more she found that knife cutting at her insides. She tried to be gentle, God help her. Though... maybe that wasn't best phrase at the moment. She pushed the thought aside and gave a sigh as her gaze settled on the oozing gunshot wound. She could do that last. For now she needed to roll him on his side and clean the cuts on his abdomen—bandage them. Hopefully he wouldn't need stitches.

Chloe maneuvered herself then, reaching for his shoulder and side. The action forced her to duck under his wing and she whispered an apology when he cried out. She began to push, palms pressing into the smooth warm texture of his burnished skin when she felt eyes on her. Chloe stilled as her gaze met with fiery red—locking. Fear rattled through her once more and her breath caught. But fighting alongside that fear—the fear that the man under her grasp was older and more powerful than anything she could ever imagine, that he could probably squish her like and ant if he wanted—was also a longing. And empathy.

Love.

Unconditional.

A love that didn't give a damn about what he was; only who.

Her heart jumped with it, beat a million miles a minute as they held gazes.

And then, all at once, he was gone. A flurry of bloodied feathers scattered around her. In a matter of moments he was across the room, wings wrapped around him like a shield that completely blocked her view.

"Go away, Detective," he bit off, his voice laden with forced anger. But she could hear fear woven there as well.

Pain.

"…No," she shot back, her own voice shaky but strong. Determined. "I have to finish. I still need to clean your front and apply the bandages. I—."

"Please, Chloe," he whispered, voice strained and begging, "Go away."

But she didn't stop; she pushed through the terror, the fear, and focused on the man she knew him to be—that he'd proven himself to be. Not the beast mythos made him out to be. She forced through the fear that he could probably break her into a million pieces if he wanted, gambling that he wouldn't. That if he were capable of that kind of violence against her he would have already wiped her from existence.

She took a step forward. One slow shaky step turned into three, turned into four, and by the time she made it to the other side of the bed she wasn't trembling at all. Just cautiously approaching him where he'd all but plastered himself up against the wall in some attempt to get as far away from her as possible.

Her wounded angel.

Scared.

Of her.

"Lucifer…" she whispered softly as her heart seemed to catch in her throat, as she reached out for him and her fingers grazed the soft feathers. "Please just let me—."

And then his wings opened wide with a snap of bones and breath of air along her face and chest, his red enflamed glare focused on her. She watched, gasping, as every muscle in his chest flexed—amber-gold and red glowing in his veins just below the surface like some kind of liquid flame, creating a sharp contrast against his skin. His eyes flashed. "Leave!" he shouted at her.

And for a brief moment that was all she wanted to do. The fear overwhelmed her once more—sucked her down like she'd been sheered naked to the core of her being.

But she didn't. The courage she'd managed to summon forced her to stand her ground, to hold his gaze, to set her jaw and glare back at him. "No!" she yelled in return with a much force as she could muster, "I'm not leaving you like this! I won't! So stop asking me to!"

"Damnit, Chloe—," he started up again, less loudly this time—making her think he'd realized his angry bear approach had failed to scare her off.

"No," she interrupted him, feeling like she was on a roll. "I get it," she went on, voice still strong despite the shake in it, "you're Lucifer—the actual Devil. Ruler of Hell. I get it," she repeated, holding his fiery gaze even as it burned through her like some kind of inferno. "I'm terrified," she admitted, rambling a bit. "But I'm not terrified because you're Satan, you idiot. I'm not even terrified because you look like some kind of burn victim—I got over that about an hour ago," she said through tears she couldn't stop, that rolled down her cheeks like some kind of embodied vulnerability and strength all at once. "I'm mostly terrified because… because how in the hell am I supposed to process that the man I love is an immortal being that could squish me under his foot if he wanted? How am I supposed to reconcile that… that…" She exhaled a breath, pulling herself back together. She only broke his gaze to close her eyes once, but met his again once she let it out, exhaling. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I don't want to be, but—" She cut herself off and took another step forward, causing the man in front of her to gasp and lift his hands as if to coil back into himself.

She fought the urge top flinch at the motion and pushed on, gently wrapping her hands around his wrists. "Please," she whispered, pleading, "I'm trying. So... please come back to bed. Let me help you."

AN :: So... this is a thing that happened. Don't judge. -shifty eyes-

I've been watching Lucifer since it aired on Fox. I have not finished season four yet, but I'm enjoying it so far. Kind of. I do wish they'd have used Lilith instead of Eve... buuuut... whatever. It might be best that they didn't. I'm kind of a Lilith fan girl and have a set image of her for my own supernatural series. Lucifer isn't too different from their rendition though. This show has inspired me to write my own angel saga in the same universe after I finish with my vampires and dhampires. But I'm rambling and veering off topic...

Anyway.

Hope you liked this. It's got four parts—including this one. Three more are not fully edited to my standards. I'm going to release one every weekend.

And PS, if you're interested in betaing for me for my original work, please message me. I'm currently making a list of beta readers. If not, that's cool to.

Also remember that reviews are love, but like love—are not demanded. (At least not from me.)

—Blade