Chapter Text
He started the fire on purpose. Sharp flint touched to dry tinder. His mind supplied the necessary steel.
Sure, it smoldered beneath the surface for thousands of years, an aquifer of fire; but eventually, heat triumphed and flames burst forth.
He couldn’t help himself. God was a dick and a pyromaniac.
He watched as fire devoured trees older than Jesus, houses still under construction. What will the flames consume next?
A question to which he already knew the answer—but Seeing isn’t always the same as Living, and God fully intended to follow this little experiment closely, this time, and for a very good reason.
God was bored.
He was tired of waiting for change. He was bored with his children, content in the same molds as when he created them eons ago. The only one who’d struck off on his own bored him, too. Lucifer’s decision to be the devil was a real drag and so was his relentless dedication to his self-inflicted “punishment.” An overreaction, as usual, to what should have been a routine disagreement fizzling out with Samael stomping off to his room.
Teenagers. Can’t live with them. Can’t kick them out. At least without giving them an accidental, extra kick of free will and power. Oopsie.
God would never admit—not that anyone would ask—that he got a little thrill whenever he beheld what his son had created. All out of spite. God had drafted Hell. That much was true. A sandbox, a play kitchen, a lab for experiments, sealed off for the safety of the universes around it. But Lucifer had taken it and made it what it is now in a fit of petulance. A very grand fit, indeed. What a mind!
And Lucifer truly had no idea what he had done. What he was capable of. Hell, as it functioned in this, the year of Himself 2016, was on Lucifer. Most of it, anyway. God looked forward to their impending confrontation. Lucifer might be humbled for once, if he’ll stop to listen, which is never guaranteed—but that’s where the fun lies. If nothing else, God will get to needle his most reactive child after so long without.
God continued reflecting as he fussed with a bit of spring cleaning. So many abandoned projects. He browsed through his card catalogue files in disgust. He should toss the lot of them in a black hole. Maybe into a star to watch the clutter burn up. From great schemes (water, anyone?) to chess-like micromanaging (ugh, those miracles simply have too much free will), it was all so much junk at this point.
The truth is, God was out of fresh ideas. That irritated him. That creative block made him want to lash out. Ruin someone else’s day. Pick at someone’s scabs until they bleed.
He thumbed through the card on his wife, the Goddess. Was it a case of absence making the heart grow fonder? Or was he close to admitting a change of opinion? What had all the fuss been about, anyway? His estranged wife had figured it out first, that it was fun to throw challenges and obstacles at his pets to see how they scrambled, like human boys with ants and a magnifying glass. Made in his image, after all.
Sometimes they didn’t scramble. They froze or gave in to what they assumed would be their fates. That was a good diversion, too. Observing suffering and defeat always scratched an itch for him. Yes, maybe he’d been a tad extreme in his response to her hijinks. Hindsight is 20/20. He huffed. More like omniscience is a multi-dimensional 20/20. Altering the course of a long-decided outcome was totally his prerogative.
God was bored with his miracles, too. He’d tried sending miracles to Lucifer for thousands of Earth years. A thought, an intention was sufficient, and poof! A woman, or just as often a man, was made with a desire-filter pre-installed. Unfortunately, all the miracles in history are no good unless Lucifer actually crosses their path. His son, it seemed, was not as predictable as he had expected. This time, God made sure. Enough of sending miracles into the world willy-nilly. He hunkered down and used his Sight to observe his favorite, the angel formerly known as Samael. He peeped backwards and forwards in time before deciding where to send his next miracle. Seems as if Lucifer was in an English-speaking phase and he was drawn to progressively sunnier climes. God knows Lucifer has a sense of irony. Los Angeles it is.
It will be good.
God is ready to witness a new story unfold. Please, let it be a sufficient distraction.
He already knows the stories of the sleeper miracles, who lived their lives blissfully ignorant and uninterrupted by the devil. He wants to know the story of the final miracle, who has a chance to see into Lucifer’s heart and mind, who will be in the right place at the right time, all because God got tired of waiting and gave the objects—humans—that orbit his son a little nudge.
Too bad that singer will die for it. Pretty voice. Oh, and that fighter who took the bullet. Eh, human lifespans are so variable anyway. And he himself is occasionally shocked at the way humans freely abuse each other. So what if it’s a little calculating on his end? It’s for a good cause. His entertainment.
He swept a handful of dust from the top of the card catalogue chest into the palm of his other hand, tossed it out of heaven, and brushed his hands clean. Tidying done, he turned his back on his office. He wanted to be on Earth, and so he was.
^~^
Lucifer hums to himself, drying off carelessly after his shower—tepid water, because even he’s affected by this heat wave—and tossing around ideas for his next set, whenever that might be, as he readies himself for an evening with the Detective. They’re going undercover and she’ll need to wear a dress. That puts a spring in the devil’s step like nothing else. Tabling that particular source of anticipation for a moment, he turns his thoughts back to Lux. What do the club goers need to hear? How can he elevate and improve their lives? Of course he’s always open to improvising. No one alive, ever, has ever been able to read a room as he does. He knows down to the exact tempo how to carry his guests to the night club experience they need, soften them up or wind them up, then slip them into the capable hands of his hand-picked DJ.
He’s in the mood for some Bowie. “Ch-ch-ch-changes,” he sings to his own handsome image in the mirror as he applies a dab of beard balm to his stubble. When he’s in a certain kind of mood, he amuses himself by hanging out in his devil bod. He flicks back and forth in time to the lyrics. Lucifer, devil, Lucifer, devil. Beauty, beast, beauty, beast. “Ch-ch-ch-changes.”
He’s still got it. “Grrr,” he snarls lightly. “Arrgh.” He curls his lip, a Billy Idol-devil-pirate. Still the devil, fearsome and formidable. Sigh. Wouldn't it be nice to exist happily, without all this dried up carnage for a body? Still, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Or at least use it. “Turn and face the strange…” He helicopters his dick in time to the chorus while changing back and forth between forms. Take that, Dad.
He rocks his hips to the beat, amused at his swinging dick. Devil dick to Morningstar and back again. The balls really are quite average, that was no lie, but his dick is another story. He would never use the word flaccid—unpleasant sound, unpleasant connotations—but he likes to think of his resting dick as on standby. He gives it a little stretch, pleased with its reaction. Nothing average about that, resting or erect, in either form.
Nothing average about the Detective, either. She’s quite one of a kind. He can’t wait to keep cracking away at her. Perhaps there will be some dancing tonight at this event. He can just imagine how she might feel in his arms, pressed up against him. A petite woman, ninety pounds soaking wet, and boy, would he like to get her soaking wet. “Strange fascination, fascinating me,” he croons to his hairbrush, then carefully underlines his eyes in kohl.
A horrifying thought occurs to him and he widens his devil eyes, making them flash red and black like strobe lights. What if she doesn’t understand the importance of the dress code for tonight? What if she shows up in—gasp!—jeans and a bargain t-shirt? He mentally runs through his collection of happily abandoned dresses and settles on one that he would truly love to see her wear.
In his devil form, he flexes, body-builder style, in front of the mirror. “I’ll be b-a-a-a-ck,” he says in his best Terminator impression. He flashes his eyes. “Vould you like a taste of vhat avaits you in hell?” He swivels his hips again and sings in his own melodious voice, “Ch-ch-changes.”
Now he’s got an earworm. He knows from life experience that the only way to vanquish an earworm is to play out the whole piece, work it out of his system. He wraps the towel low around his hips and drifts to his piano, still flickering back and forth between his two forms, forgetting that he’s supposed to be getting ready. He starts working out the chords for “Changes.” Smiling to himself, he changes forms again while going through the refrain. His hands instinctively stay in human form. Claws don’t treat the keys right. He loses himself in the verses. He loves to lose himself to a song, and he starts over before he even holds the final chord long enough.
He doesn’t notice when the elevator doors slide open.
“Lucifer! What the hell?”
He looks up, lost in a musical fog.
“We have the Players tonight and you’re dressed in a costume?” The Detective’s sharp voice drags him back to reality.
“Detective!” He stands up abruptly. The bench scrapes back and the towel falls off. “I lost track of time.”
“Did you at least do what I asked?” She approaches him, frustration and impatience written all over her brow, her hand raised to block part of her vision.
“Of course, yes. Everything’s arranged.” He follows her annoyed gaze. Costume? What on Earth? He glances down—a cold fist twists his insides. He’s showing her the devil. He changes back to Lucifer in the blink of an eye.
Her voice is high and quick. “Howdidyoudothat?” She hustles up close to him, the click-click of her boots echoing through the penthouse. Her eyes are alert, her head cocked. “Where did your costume go?”
“Not a costume—”
“Do that again.”
“Absolutely not.” The thought sickens him. “Why aren’t you screaming and running away?”
She takes one step back and scans him thoroughly. Her eyes widen briefly when she tries to skim past his dick, then she raises her hand again to shield it from view. “Seriously. How did you do that? Are you a magician? Is there a trap door?” Her brow furrows.
“I’ve told you, I’m the devil. Magician, my arse.” This whole encounter has him rattled. Why is she not screaming in terror?
“Yeah, your arse is out. What are you doing naked?” She shakes her head quickly. “Forget it. I don’t want to know what weird fetish you’re playing out right now. I need to know how you did that. Let me see your piano bench.” She runs her hands along the top of his bench, then smoothly down the sides and underneath.
If only she would run her hands over his skin with the same gentle precision. He says impatiently, before his cock gets carried away with the idea, “You won’t find anything there but my music, Detective. Are you seriously doubting me after what you’ve just seen?” Of all the stubborn, short-sighted humans. “I really am the devil.”
She rifles through his piano bench, measuring the depth with her hands. “I can’t see how there could be a false bottom here.”
He snorts.
“Oh, zip it already. You seriously expect me to believe that you’re the devil and I just saw what, your hidden devil body? Give me a break. Stop playing games.”
“You are maddening to the nth degree, Detective. How can you possibly deny the evidence of your own eyes? Are you, an officer of the law, such an unreliable witness?”
“Show me again. Do it.” She puts her fingertips on his upper arm, lightly, yet somehow he feels it in places he didn’t know could feel. “Go on. I don’t have time for this.”
“I don’t want to. Not my fault you don’t believe what you see.”
“Come on, Lucifer. You could have shown me ten times by now.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Lucifer! Enough already! Show me what you just did!”
“Fine. Your demand is my command.” He flashes back and forth between forms angrily.
“Lucifer,” she breathes, then the only sound is the hum of his air purifier, his concession to the crisis outside.
He doesn’t know when she removed her hand. He only knows he misses it. She stays so close that he could lean down and kiss her, if she wanted it. Why doesn’t she want it? His lips practically twitch, longing for her. She makes him feel so alive.
He can’t proposition her again, not now. “Happy now? Or feeling a bit guilty?” He does a slow pirouette, playing it up and hating himself, still changing back and forth.
“Stop—no, stay there. Stay like that a minute.”
She touches his devil shoulder and he burns like the redwoods up north.
^~^
Chloe braces her hand against his shoulder to stop him. She can’t tell—she has to know—what is that?
“Stay like that. Let me see your back.” He pauses for her, mid-turn, and she leaves her fingertips on his—it’s not skin, not scales—she doesn’t know what. Up close it looks like clotted blood, but it feels dry and tight like scar tissue. “Lucifer, your back. Near your shoulder blades. You’ve got—”
“What, Detective?” He pinches the words out, near his breaking point.
“You have—I don’t know. Stumps.” It looks like charred logs, leftover from a campfire, protruding out along the inside of his shoulder blades; gray ash over black carbon, the same exact spot where silvery scars line his other back. His human back, for lack of a better word.
“What of them?” He scowls at her, his face red, inflamed, and cracked. His eyes are beady. But she knows those dark brown eyes. Lucifer. A cold shadow creeps down her spine and she shivers. The devil.
The charred things twitch and ash flicks into the air. It takes everything she has not to gasp or jump away. “They’re burnt. They’re charred. What happened to you?”
“Are you not looking at the rest of my body as well? Surely you can put two and two together.”
She shakes her head, irritated at him. “I don’t understand.”
“For a detective, you sure are slow on the uptake. This is my devil body that my dear old dad gave me when I landed in hell, that incinerator of hope and joy.”
“But—”
“Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve seen my own back like this. Not sure what you’re looking at exactly, but I know that I’m done showing you.”
She refuses to blink while he changes back into the man she recognizes. Her hand is still touching his shoulder and she can feel the rough ridges slip away to reveal soft skin over taut muscles. “Lucifer. Your back. Your scars—” Her hand hovers in the air, not quite reaching for his scars.
“That’s where I had Maze cut my wings off.” His hand traps her wrist in the air. “Don’t. You’ve had enough.”
“Okay.” Her eyes search his. She lifts his hand off of hers. “Do you hurt?”
He flinches, his eyes wide and dark. “Who are you?” he demands and stumbles backwards.
She can see the moment he replaces the mask.
“You want to know if it hurts? Why, Detective, do you want to kiss it and make it better?” He purrs with his familiar teasing grin firmly in place. “What I want to know is if you think this evens up the ledger. I saw you naked, you get your own eyeful in turn. You know, tit for tat. Or should I say tits for—”
“Okay.” She blinks and finally takes a step backwards. She looks away and tosses him his towel. The spell is broken. “Okay, Lucifer. Yeah, I’d say we’re even,” she says quietly. “But I’m not likely to quibble with the devil.”
“I’m still me.” He wraps the towel around his hips. His feet are poised to flee, but his body and eyes still face her. “You’d quibble with me, wouldn’t you?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Well, then. Quibble away.”
It’s all too much. Chloe decides to shut it down and prioritize. “Look, is there some kind of apocalypse going on that I should know about? Does me seeing you like that trigger some kind of end of the world countdown?”
“No, although I could ask you the same. You’re immune to my charms as well as my devil face. That’s two for two. No, three for three. I can’t read your desires. Are you sure my father didn’t send you?”
“At this point, I’m not sure if I know anything.” She frowns again, her original sour mood resurfacing. “Just what I need. Proof of the afterlife when the clock is ticking on a case.” She puts her hands on her hips. “So, you’ll still be the devil after we solve this case?”
“‘Til the end of time, Detective.”
“Fine, then put some friggin’ clothes on.”
And just like that, they step back into their established dynamic. “I will if you will.” He smirks. “You can’t go like that. I have just the dress.” He dashes up the stairs to his bedroom and back, proudly displaying a handful of fabric that might have enough cloth to make a dress for one of Trixie’s Barbies.
“I’m not wearing that.”
“I have shoes for you, too.”
^~^
Later, staking out the warehouse in the Detective’s cruiser, Lucifer lets the silence build. He knows she’s stewing, turning things over in her mind like an angry hamster on a wheel.
She shifts impatiently in her seat, her face mask hanging unattractively off of her ear. “Was it some kind of prank? An elaborate hoax?”
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and opens a crinkly bag. “Cool Ranch Puff?”
She shakes her head no and stares at him with those blue eyes. He knows she wants it all to make sense, but he so enjoys witnessing the intensity of her uncertainty. “You’re seriously still doubting the evidence of your own eyes?”
“Yeah, well, I know what I saw at Palmetto, too, and you know how well that’s working out for me.”
Oh, who is he kidding? He doesn’t want her to hurt or suffer. She saw him and didn’t run screaming, and that’s a novel sensation for him. And he hasn’t forgotten his recent vow to have sex with her. “If that’s what’s making you doubt yourself now, then whatever you saw at Palmetto, I believe you.”
The Detective doesn’t answer him. Something that could be sadness flickers across her face. He can’t have that.
“Really, now, what else would it take? You want to shoot me and find out that absolutely nothing at all happens?” He crowds into her space, wanting all of her attention on him, where it belongs.
She breaks into a smile. “I would love to put a bullet in you, or have fun trying. Would it shut you up for five minutes?”
“I could be quiet, but I’d be very smug about it.”
“Deal. But I’m not using one of these bullets. We have to account for every single one of them.” She turns to face him, a knowing smirk lighting up her eyes. “Tell you what. Last Christmas, Dan got Trixie a BB gun.”
“Ooh, sounds chaotic. And how do we feel about that?”
She rolls her eyes. “We feel angry about it, especially since Trixie had already told him she wanted a chemistry set, and he didn’t get it for her, and I didn’t get it because I thought he was going to.”
“Noted. One urchin, zero chemistry sets.”
She meets his eyes, that look—it’s definitely sadness—still there. “And we’re unhappy because he never once made time to show Trixie how to use it, after all that.”
“And while I always enjoy disparaging the Douche’s character…”
“I have it locked in my gun safe. Next chance we get, I’ll shoot you.”
“It’s a date, Detective.”
“It is most definitely not a date. No more than this undercover operation is.”
“Have I told you how lovely you looked in that dress? Red is my favorite color, you know.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Hey, is that Carver?”
^~^
Pleased that the bad guys were punished on his terms, then delivered into the hands of the law for further punishment, Lucifer is shocked to spot the Detective heading to her cruiser without so much as a backwards glance. “Detective, aren’t you forgetting something? Me? We rode here together.”
“No, I didn’t forget.” She increases her pace, not bothering with her mask. “The memory is very fresh. We sat in the car talking, then you slammed the warehouse door in my face and deviled out in there, and I had to explain to my boss why there were three people screaming their lungs out and weeping.”
“Ooh, ‘deviled out,’ you say. Methinks you might be accepting the truth after all.”
“Lucifer, I know what I saw. I just…I haven’t had time to think about it yet, okay?”
“Detective, you’ve seen a fraction of what I’m capable of. Don’t go convincing yourself that it was a trick of the light when you take your time to think.”
“I know what you’re capable of. You’re capable of arranging your own ride back to Lux. I’m done here. I’m done breathing in this air, and I need to get home to my kid.”
“Let me ride with you, then I’ll arrange my own transport from your mum’s house.”
“No.”
She opened her car door, then locked the car again before getting in quickly. Luckily for her, he’s very, very fast, and he doesn’t hold grudges against beautiful women who intrigue him.
^~^
Chloe can’t deal with any more Luciferness right now. It’s been a long day, facts that she knew to be true when she woke up have been proven irrevocably wrong, and what’s worse? It hurts the most that she has no one, absolutely no one, to talk it over with.
Except for the weirdo who just broke into her car. Who got her into this mess in the first place and has glued himself to her side.
Actually, that’s not the whole truth, either. She’s most upset that first of all, she forgot about Dan. In the midst of all of this craziness—the case, the devil, the late, late stakeout keeping her away from her daughter—she never once considered calling Dan. Not to talk about the plan, not to talk about who would take care of Trixie, and definitely not to talk about the naked man with scars on his back and burns all over his other body.
There was a time when he wasn’t far from her thoughts, when his opinion was the one she sought. And now? She actively dreads the idea of trying to discuss any of the above with him. It’s too much. She pretends to squint into the headlights of oncoming traffic and wipes her eyes so Lucifer doesn’t see.
What was the point of their separation again?
Was he supposed to realize how much he missed them, took them for granted?
Or was she supposed to remember how to rely on herself first, after being let down hard so many times?
She glowers at Lucifer.
“Yes, Detective?”
“Just my luck. I’m saddled with the devil.” She’s angry all over again. “What am I supposed to do with this information? It’s not like I can talk about it to anybody.”
“Well, of course, Detective, you can talk to me! Please talk to me about me!”
She rolls her eyes at him. How can she talk to him about how weird this whole thing is?
“There’s also Maze, my right hand demon. And to be thorough, my angelic brother knows who you are, although you’ll probably never meet, since he slows down time whenever he decides to share his unpleasant self with me. There. That’s three. You have questions?”
She laughs, an uncomfortable barking despair of a laugh. “You know, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the crazy one, because you’re the only one I can have any kind of conversation with. You and my seven-year-old daughter are the only ones who I can talk to. A seven-year-old and the devil. Not my mom, not my so-called husband, not…
“I talk to my mom, and I walk away with my feelings hurt. My husband doesn’t even want to spend time with me. So okay, Satan, looks like you’re it for stimulating adult conversation.”
“Fire away.”
“You’re not going anywhere, right? Not going to vanish tomorrow and make me think I imagined the whole thing?”
“Definitely not. Not when things are getting interesting.”
Chloe stays quiet until they’re almost to her mom’s beach house, wrestling with one aspect of what she saw. She might as well overstep. At least then she’ll find a boundary. “So you have…You had wings.”
“Correct.”
“And you…” She couldn’t bring herself to repeat it.
“Cut them off. I told you. The hatred runs deep. Got to stick it to my old man any way I can.”
“The hatred—”
“Dear old Dad is a right bastard.”
Somehow, that’s more concerning, because who would cut off a part of themselves because they hate someone else so much? It might be easier for her to accept if he called it self-hatred. Not that any of this was very easy to accept.
Those stumps. She can’t get them out of her head. They twitched, alive and begging for help. Fallen baby birds, flopping on ravaged ground.
^~^
Lucifer has no intention of letting the Detective give him the slip. There’s still a chance of sex, especially since they’re at her home, and that’s the only thing he can think of to break the hold she has on him.
So, when she says crisply, “Good night, Lucifer,” and locks her car, he follows her up the stairs, not quite half a step behind. He fights a strange protective urge to rest his hand on the small of her back. This can’t be easy for her. Poor human.
They have a small kerfuffle at her door, and she tries to dismiss him with a terse, “I didn’t need escorting,” but he slips inside ahead of her.
She turns her back on him and pays the babysitter, who simpers reassuringly at Lucifer, and she’s holding the door knob, ready to open the door and shut it fast behind him, repeating, “Good night, Lucifer,” when a high-pitched voice squeaks, “Mommy!”
He rethinks all of the life decisions that led him to this moment and tries to escape before she can get her grubby little paws on him, but it’s too late. The pajama-clad barnacle attaches herself to his legs, completely bypassing her mother. “Lucifer!”
The Detective plucks the unwanted appendage from his legs and attaches those sticky arms to her own neck.
“Lucifer, lock the door behind you when you leave.”
“Good night, Lucifer!” chirps the Detective’s needy little spawn.
What followed was an obscene ritual of intimacy and affection that nearly brought him to his knees with nausea. Hugs, quiet words, a story…all manner of horrors. He tried to distract himself by searching for her alcohol stash, but he could still hear them murmuring.
The Detective startles to see him still there, lounging in her kitchen, when she finally escapes the clutches of her offspring.
She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not having sex with you.”
“Yet. You’re not having sex with me yet. It’s okay. I’m a patient devil.”
“There is nothing patient about you and I’ve lost all of mine. You know, I thought I would be freaking out by now, learning that the devil is real, but you’ve really managed to destroy any mystery. The devil is real and he’s annoying.”
“Mmm, seems like this is the perfect opportunity to shoot me, then.”
“Lucifer, I’m not going to shoot you.”
“Right. The child would be jealous that you used her gun.”
“I’m not going to shoot you at all.”
“Not even a BB? Detective, you gave me your word.”
“I’m not going to shoot you. I’m going to drink this glass of water,” she pushes him out of the way to get to the cupboard, “and I’m going to lock the door after you leave.”
“Gun’s too loud?” He scans the kitchen. “How about a little stab?” He grabs a knife from the butcher’s block.
“Lucifer, put that down,” she hisses in a stage whisper.
“It’ll give us something else to discuss tomorrow!” He wants to goad her into losing control the way she goaded him earlier. She’s far too cool about it all. He hasn’t given her enough to think about.
He’s afraid that she’ll shut the door behind him and leave him out in the hellish air alone.
“Look! Bounces right off!” He raises his hand with the knife high and brings it down hard onto his left arm. Pain shoots up his arm. Blood spurts onto his skin. He pulls the knife out and stares at it. The air around him ripples. “What’s happening to me?”
The Detective rips off a stack of paper towels and applies pressure. She grabs his free hand and pushes it on top of the towels, so that her hand is pushing his hand on his own wound.
“Ouch! That bloody hurts!”
“You seriously did not expect that to cut you.”
It’s a statement, not a question. “I’m bleeding.” He’s so bloody confused. The throb of the wound—the touch of her hand—the blood on his arm—the scent of her, shampoo and stress, lip balm and gun powder. “What are you?”
“I guess I’m the exception to your rules.” She squeezes his hand, then lets go of it, peeling back the towel to check the wound. “Doesn’t look too deep. Let’s get it clean.” She pulls out her trash can and indicates for him to throw the towels away, then turns on the cold water at her sink. When he doesn’t move, she grabs his elbow and shoves his arm under the water. He stumbles.
“I’m definitely not having sex with you now, Detective, if this is how you engage in aftercare.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “Okay, clearly that didn’t go the way you expected, unless this is more attention seeking behavior.”
His arm throbs and he drops the facade. “Truthfully, and I never lie, very little has gone the way I expected where you’re involved, Detective.” For the first time, the truth scares him, and being scared—why, it’s absolutely thrilling!
She turns the water off and passes him another set of towels. “You know, I believe you. You’re not used to getting hurt.” She touches her own healing gunshot wound. “Jimmy Barnes showered you with bullets and they all bounced off. I thought I was imagining things as I was dying, but I wasn’t, was I?”
“No, Detective, I think you were seeing things quite clearly.” She covers his wound in gauze and tapes the edges, and he gets another thrill at the novelty of it all. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“No.” She takes him by his good arm and escorts him to the door. “I’ll call you. Don’t do anything stupid, like hanging outside breathing this horrible air to see if you cough.”
“Ooh, I wonder—”
She doesn’t get the privilege of finding out what he wonders, because she shoves him unceremoniously out and throws the locks loudly behind him.
Her loss, but he’s inclined to graciously give her the benefit of the doubt. Another chance, then, tomorrow, for the mysterious Detective.