Hi readers! This is my first story after about 16 years, so kind and constructive reviews are welcome! It is a multi-chaptered fic and I will try to update once every two weeks or so (hopefully less than that if everything goes as planned!).

WARNINGS: There will be multiple mentions of trauma, PTSD, drinking, drugs, violence and graphic descriptions

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

"It's true… it's all true."

Her words rang in Lucifer's ears. Evidence of his attempts to drown out the memory lay strewn about the room, the whiskey providing no respite. The man himself sat at the grand piano, a half-finished whiskey lowball and blunt in hand, attempting to create music that would no longer come to him.

"AAAAARRRGH!" He stood as the glass exploded across the room. No matter. Material items were the least of his worries.

His hard breathing was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone on the Bösendorfer's surface, reading 'Dr. Linda'. He ignored it. His senses refused to work, the ringing in his ears and blackness invading the fringe of his vision. A strangled sob materialized, surprising Lucifer. Is that…? With a tentative hand, he felt unfamiliar dampness diffuse across his stubble. He pulled back and rubbed the residue of tears between his thumb and forefingers, hardly breathing. Chloe… the only being that has made the Devil cry. He choked out a laugh and reached for another glass behind the bar. This one should do the trick.

Before he could take his first sip, his phone buzzed again, this time from Mazikeen. He groaned and placed the base of his drink against his forehead, only several seconds prior to the elevator doors opening to reveal the bandaged and bloodied demon herself.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"I could say the same." She glanced briefly at his current state, eyeing his disheveled and bullet-ridden Armani suit. The familiarity of the Devil's wrath was the only thing holding her back from inquiring about his puffy eyes and smudged eyeliner. "But I won't, because I don't care." Maze helped herself to a glass. The deafening silence was broken only by the clinking of their glasses and an absent "cheers". All was forgiven, they supposed wordlessly.

Chloe ran, her heart pumping almost as fast as her feet were hitting the pavement. Take Trixie and run. She yanked open the driver side door of her cruiser and turned the key. She had her sirens blaring as she pulled away from the curb, leaving tire tracks in her wake.

Where to first? Home to pack? Quit my job? Pick Trixie up from school?

She narrowly avoided a collision at the next intersection, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. School it is, Chloe decided.

Her tires screeched into the turnaround of Palm Crest Elementary and she bolted out of the car with the open door and dinging chime ignored. At the entrance of the double doors, she paused to collect herself in the reflection of the windows. Pull yourself together. The breeze picked up her hair, bringing her attention to the goose bumps that refused to disappear despite the Los Angeles heat. With one last breath, Chloe convinced her shaking hands to open the doors and step up to the office window.

"Chloe Decker," she flashed her driver's license. "I need to pick up my daughter. We've had a family emergency," she lied smoothly, inwardly thanking her mother for all the acting classes.

The man looked up at her quick entrance, startled. "I'm so sorry to hear that," he responded with an earnest expression on his face. "What's your daughter's name?"

"Beatrice Espinoza Decker." The keys clicked as his fingers danced across them. Go faster. She felt the blood pounding in her forehead.

"She's in her art class at the moment. Do you know where the studio is?"

Luckily she did, and took off at her brisk soccer-mom pace before she could thank him. Images of red eyes and flayed crimson skin flashed in front of her as she sped along, making her breath hitch and feet spill out from under her. With one arm she leaned against the wall, eyes closed and near tears. Not the time, Chloe. Trixie first. Cajoling herself into false composure, she walked on.

Ten minutes later, Trixie was sitting comfortably in the passenger seat of her car as Chloe drove along the familiar route home. "What's going on, mommy?" she asked.

"We're going on a vacation, monkey, isn't that exciting?" Chloe said, keeping her eyes on the road and deliberately away from her daughter.

Unfortunately for her, Trixie narrowed her eyes to peer at her mother and crossed her arms, dissecting her cheery tone. "I don't believe you. What happened? Is Lucifer okay?"

A breath escaped her without permission and her eyes shut as briefly as driving would allow, wondering what she did to deserve a child this shrewd. Chloe felt her brain short-circuit at the mention of the man, a myriad of conflicting emotions closing in around her. Fear and betrayal, she could identify for sure. But… what else was it that remained?

"I am the devil," he had claimed, citing utmost transparency.

"Not to me," thinking back to how naïve she had been. She even kissed him. The deep brown eyes she equated to safety and comfort flashed red, and perfectly coiffed dark hair shifted to inflamed fissures in her mind. This has to be a nightmare.

She pulled into the driveway just in time to avoid the question. "Go pack your things." Trixie rolled her eyes and got out of the car intentionally slow, grabbing her bedazzled backpack along the way. Echoes of her shoes stomping harshly on the concrete to the front door were heard around the complex.

The refreshing air conditioning hit Chloe as she entered. Everything was exactly the way she left it. Why did she feel so surprised the world was still the same? Was it even real? Did she actually see what she thought she did? Is Lucifer actually the –

"Mommy, where are we going? Can't Lucifer come with?" Trixie's voice came from her room, along no audible signs of packing.

Chloe walked toward her room and leaned against the door frame deliberating how much to tell her daughter. Trixie was way too smart for her own good... a shadow of the truth would be better than nothing. As she stepped through the doorway, she glimpsed the "No boys allowed" sign, with "except Lucifer and Daddy" scribbled below. Her heart skipped and nausea threatened to take over. How did he convince her daughter to adore him so much? Did he trick her? Why Trixie?

"Monkey," she started, moving to sit on the painfully bright bedspread of the 9-year-old. "I learned something about Lucifer today." She looked down at her fiddling hands, the pause becoming increasingly longer.

Trixie's eyebrows raised. "And? I learn new things in school all the time. I don't need to go on vacation."

Chloe closed her eyes, the clock ticking loudly, a pleading reminder of her desperate attempt to run. We need to go, she thought as she meticulously planned out her next words. "It scared me, monkey. He's not the same person I thought we knew."

Trixie huffed in disbelief. "It's Lucifer, Mom," she said. "He's just a shoe."

Everything screeched to a halt, the ticking of the clock and her heart going silent, her breath echoing in her ears. It's just Lucifer. Images of her partner swam in front of her eyes, of them playing monopoly on this very floor with a unicorn painted on his cheek courtesy of Trixie, his pure glee when Trixie listed Lucifer first on her "no boys allowed" sign ahead of her ex-husband Dan, and his roguish charisma as he paraded proudly around the precinct. How could she compare her partner, the man she knew and loved, to the Devil that appeared before her?

"Mommy, don't cry." Chloe sensed the wetness moving down her cheeks too late. Eyes closed, she distantly recognized her daughter's small arms around her, the numbness she held at bay finally taking over. Silently, the tears continued on their steady course with no signs of relenting.

Her daughter's innocence was astounding, for who could love the Devil?

Trixie could.

Lucifer's irritation grew as his phone continued to buzz. He gripped his hair in exasperation as he lounged on his Italian leather sofa. Linda was relentless. His blank stare gazed about the penthouse, the bottles remaining untouched from his binge, undergarments of nameless people left hanging in odd places. The last several days were a blur of drinking, drugs, and meaningless sex with faceless men and women. None of them filled the Chloe-shaped hole in his chest, the physical ache only increasing. Had it been only days ago? Or weeks? He shrugged, his red silk robe falling from his left shoulder. His favorite Armani suit he wore that day was dropped carelessly on the floor, ruined not only from the bullets, but by the image of her once warm and inviting orbs dilating in shock. It was his last vivid memory. Thank you, LSD… or was it MDMA this time?

His phone interrupted his emerging itch to return to hell. He couldn't remember the last time Daniel Espinoza willingly phoned, especially now that he blamed Lucifer for Charlotte's death. Her murder was committed by Cain and Cain alone; he refused to take responsibility.

He forced his usual cheery tone heard often at the precinct, "Hello, Daniel, called to - "

"You're needed at the station to give a statement."

"Needed, you say?" a self-satisfied grin emerged on his face. "It's not the first time I've heard that line, Detective Douche, but from you, well color me surprised."

Lucifer could all but hear him counting to ten before replying, "Do you want to be arrested for murder?"

"I have always enjoyed my time in handcuffs, Daniel, I'm sure my quality of life will hardly be affected. It may actually improve, considering the circumstances." He absent-mindedly brushed crumbs from the night before off his robe.

"I'm not in the mood for your shit, man. Come down to the precinct and give your statement, or else they're bringing in Chloe. I don't know about you, but that's the last thing she needs after witnessing her ex-fiance's murder, by her partner no less."

"No need to be petulant, sir Douche. I will see ewe in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Get it? That was one of my better- "

Click.

He stared at the blinking 'Call Ended' underneath 'Detective Douche' on his screen. "…and to think I was considering changing your title."

Several days passed since Trixie convinced Chloe to remain in Los Angeles. Presently, Chloe sat hunched at an old desk under the stairs in her neighbor's basement. Empty coffee mugs, and rings on the desk to match, were lost in piles of books and papers scattered in a questionably organized fashion around her. The small lamp pushed into the corner of her desk fought off the encroaching darkness. Chloe put her head in her hands after taking in the sheer amount of books surrounding the room. God? Satan? Religion? Pfft, she knew only as much as the one Easter service she went to at the age of thirteen. Thank God for the retired priest a few doors down. Seeing the brightening eyes and upturned lips of the lonely old man when she knocked on the door was the only fleeting glimpse of light in this new hell.

"What can I do for you, my dear?" the hunched short frame appeared at the entrance.

"Hi, Father Hughes? I'm not sure if you remember me. I – I live a few doors down," she stammered. "Do you… have a minute?"

"Most certainly, I have many minutes," he chuckled. "Please come in, come in." Chloe shut the door for the old man as he shuffled slowly away, leading her into the living room filled with plastic covered furniture not unlike her own grandparents'. After assisting the old man with settling into his worn recliner, she seated herself onto the squeaky couch. The grandfather clock ticked quietly from across the room, heard barely over the running air conditioner. She adjusted her position, her seat groaning in protest, and cleared her throat.

The bulbous eyes examined her through his dense prescription bifocals from across the room. "Now, what can I help you with, young lady?"

Chloe moved to the edge of her seat and folded her hands to keep them from moving. "Do you know…" she looked down at her hands. Where was this anxiety coming from? She has sat in strangers' houses before, delivering the worst news possible to next of kin on a frequent basis. This isn't new. She inhaled quickly and allowed the tension to release from her shoulders as she exhaled. "I was hoping you could tell me about the Devil."

The glasses exaggerated his eyes as they widened like he was drawn from a cartoon. "Ah," he breathed, "The prince of darkness and father of lies, himself. You have a dangerous interest."

"Uh-huh," she tittered, filling the awkward silence that formed. He paused, expressive eyes squinting. She anticipated further questions, but he didn't press her.

"I have books downstairs. I am too old to get to them, and my children aren't around often enough to help me clear them out. You're more than welcome to use them. Keep them if you wish, books are meant to be read, after all." He smiled, revealing pearly whites that must be dentures.

"I… yes, thank you so much Father Hughes."

The first night was the hardest. Images of old paintings overwhelmed her vision, revealing variants of hoofed beasts, warped winged horrors, and tortured humans writhing under the claws of the Devil. Her breath quickened as she rifled through the pages, desperate to find proof that this is not all that he is, that she did not allow herself to be fooled by this... creature. The weight of the stifling air forced its way into her lungs, suffocating her rather than providing her with fortitude. Despite her fatigue, sleep did not come to her that night.

Chloe returned the next day prepared. Avoiding images altogether, she read page after page of debated history that she now knew to hold a modicum of truth. Hosts of unfamiliar vocabulary flooded her brain. What is an archangel? Nephilim? Seraphim? Samael? Enochian? She rubbed her eyes before returning to the book, stopping at the title 'War in Heaven' written in bold gothic print at the top of the page. Words stood out to her; Michael, heavenly host, and... "the dragon was cast out, that old serpent called the devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him." Their first kiss on the beach last year before he ran to Vegas came to her mind... was she deceived?

Sleep didn't come to her that night either.

And there she was, days later, hiding in Father Hughes' basement from the Devil himself. A yawn forced its way out. How late was it? Consciousness fluctuated, the screen becoming blurry before her, and her eyelids becoming heavy. Before she could succumb to sleep, Chloe heaved herself out of her chair with a grunt and forced herself to stumble home with books stacked high in her arms.

Did she know religion? No, but "murder boards", on the other hand, she knew. Upon her arrival, Chloe opened her bedroom door to reveal the most massive murder board she had ever created, covering the expanse of her bedroom with pictures, quotes, and any materials she could get her hands on. Lucifer was a puzzle, just like any of her perps.

Like every time she walked into her room, she immediately focused on the center of the 'board' where his picture hung, his smiling face looking toward the ripped half where her face should have been. His name, 'Lucifer Morningstar', was titled below. Tonight, however, she crossed out his self-appointed name and wrote 'Samael, archangel of light and music'. Dots started to connect in her head. The name of his club, 'Lux' and his last name 'Morningstar' weren't meaningless... they were an attempt at grasping on to the shadows of who he once was before his fall. After all, 'lux' was Latin for 'light' and his self appointed name of 'Lucifer' was 'light bringer'" Is this who he was before he fell? No matter how long she looked, she couldn't reconcile the dichotomy of who she knew and what she knew.

But... what was she looking for? Proof of what?