Canto IX

The only thing more unpleasant than getting into Purgatory is getting out of it. Once a soul comes here, for better or for worse, it is only supposed to move in one direction, and that is very much not the direction Lucifer is trying to go. As usual, that's him. Busy bee bolloxing up the bastard's big. . . he can't think of a synonym for "stupid plan" that starts with the letter b, and even in his extremity, he is annoyed that he cannot properly complete witty alliterative bon mots. At any rate, the point is that it is just like him to throw a monkey wrench in Dad's designs for things. It crosses his mind to wonder what happens if he can't get out at all. Sit here for a few thousand years and develop a deep appreciation for trees, fog, and rocks? Bloody hell. He'll drown himself first.

The image of Chloe, her face, how she looked when he told her to go, the way it felt when she took that first step away from him and did not look back – again, as he told her – hangs over him with every step he himself takes, feeling as if ten-ton weights have been chained around his ankles. Whether that is Purgatory trying to keep him here or a reflection of his own emotional state, he doesn't know. She's probably on her way to heaven by now, she might even be there. If so, even one member of his worthless family has to have decided to return her to Earth, haven't they? If nothing else, to rebuke Mum for unjustly dragging her to hell, when it was not decreed, according to the great Plan ™, either that she die or that she go to the Bad Place for it. Unless they know, of course, exactly what Chloe means to him, and are using her, one insignificant little human, to make a point about some divine protocol or other. His bloody father does that a lot.

Please, Lucifer thinks, grimacing, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Please, don't punish Chloe for my sake. Just get her home. Please. Please. Please.

After some minor eternity of endless trudging, he finally reaches the beach where they washed up in the first place. The iron-grey water does not look any more warm or welcoming than before, and Lucifer eyes it balefully, unable to work up any enthusiasm to again submerge himself (and his designer suit) in it. He could stand here and make a ruckus until someone opens the door from the hell side, as he advised Chloe to try with heaven, but he has a sneaking feeling that the Morrigan, at least, are perfectly happy to have him gone. They have their own ideas about how hell should be run, and with Chloe, their new dark queen, they were finally getting the chance to try. He's grateful he got her away from those hags, at least. He was nearly too late.

Lucifer stands there a long moment more. Nothing brilliant has occurred to him, and he has just resigned himself to going bloody swimming, when the water starts to hiss and smoke, sending up plumes of white steam that grow thicker and thicker, veiling the drab grey world from sight. His feet leave the ground, he spins dizzily around and around while demons with red-hot pitchforks rip out his innards (he has a more than theoretical knowledge of what that feels like) and for a moment, he is completely weightless. Then he crashes flat on something hard with an extremely humiliating sound, and while he is thinking that the devil absolutely does not return to hell by doing a faceplant and an oof, he sees a familiar pair of glossy black high heels click toward him. A manicured hand reaches down to help him, and his mother's voice says, "Oh, thank heavens. I didn't know if it would work. Honey, are you okay?"

"What did you – " Still feeling unpleasantly punched in the chest, Lucifer manages to sit upright with another grimace, ignoring her hand. He has a sense of distinct foreboding: they, after all, did not tell her where they were going or what they were doing. "Mother, what are you – "

"Getting you out of that horrible place, of course." Charlotte looks confused that he would even have to ask. "What's going on? Where's Chloe?"

"Gone," Lucifer says, with a certain grim satisfaction. "Out of your reach for good, Mum. So you can stop pretending that you ever actually wanted the best for us."

"But I do." Charlotte steps back as he gets to his feet, looking around. Yes, he's definitely back in hell. Wonderful, just bloody wonderful. "I knew something was wrong, so I came here and just started messing around a little. Then I saw you on the other side of the door, and had to try to get you out. I did, obviously, so now we can – "

"Came here and just started messing around?" This is not good. Lucifer has always known that his mother is powerful – she's the damn goddess of creation, after all, and unlike his father, she has no qualms about using it. But if she was able to pull someone from Purgatory back into hell without even really knowing what she was doing, that opens the door, quite literally, for far more. Maybe she can pull all the souls in Purgatory back into hell, back to the torment and damnation they were supposed to have escaped. He's an angel – if she's strong enough to move him between realms, a few chump-change mortals aren't going to be a problem. She's been here by herself, examining everything, determined to learn the details of her prison. It took her two nights to absorb an entire law school curriculum. Whatever she's done now –

"So," Lucifer says, forcing himself to keep a casual tone, even as he knows the answer. "No chance Amenadiel has, er, popped by with anything, is there?"

"No, your brother isn't here yet." Charlotte links her arm with his, escorting him away from the door and toward a hell that officially no longer looks a thing like Los Angeles. She's apparently been redecorating as busily as Chloe did when she first got here. It's not endless fire and moaning damned souls, because the last thing his mother wants is to have to see all the filthy humans sweating and screaming out their tedious little sins. It looks almost like a Gothic cathedral, a dark, demented echo of the magnificent edifices that the humans used to build in honor of Dad. But as Lucifer looks at the soaring vaults and sculpted pillars and beautiful architecture of this church that is not a church, he realizes that it is made out of people. All the denizens of hell his mother could get her hands on, twisted and stacked and braided together and carved like stone, laid like building blocks, silent and cold as marble and granite themselves – except for their eyes. Their eyes are still alive, and Lucifer can see all of them looking at him. Begging him – him, of all people – to help them.

A horrible coldness goes through him. He tells himself that this doesn't matter to him, that they are here because they deserve to be, and that while her methods might be unorthodox (again, literally) at least his mother is carrying out hell's primary function of punishing the guilty. It's rather elegant, even. She always was an aesthete. So he turns his back on them, and allows her to walk him out of the cathedral and into the twisting streets beyond. It looks like a beautiful village in the Swiss Alps or something, picture-perfect old-world charm, if you can overlook the further fact that everything out here is built out of people as well. His mother has really outdone herself. Put the humans exactly where she thinks they belong, closed any procedural loopholes that could be used against her, and built hell into a nice little realm for them to have all to themselves, no interruptions. At least, of course, until she finishes her plan. She's isn't going to live forever in this place that would give Hannibal Lecter nightmares, not when the Silver City awaits.

"So," Charlotte says as they walk. "Chloe made it into heaven, didn't she? Of course she did."

Something about this, even more than the fact that she seems to have precisely guessed their plan, makes Lucifer's hackles stand up. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, son." Charlotte stops, turning to face him. "Surely you must have had some inkling, because you wouldn't have thought that such an absurd plan would work otherwise. You knew that heaven would take special notice of her, because. . .well. I know it's hard, Lucifer, but I'm here if you want to talk about it."

"What – " Wherever this is going, he doesn't like it. "What the bloody hell are you rabbiting on about?"

"Who Chloe is." Charlotte looks at him with her exquisite brow furrowing. "Oh no. You really don't know, do you?"

"Wh – well, I knew you were up to something when you started acting as if you were perfectly happy to have us together, but – "

"Of course I had to do that to her face, didn't I?" Charlotte puts her hand on his arm, and Lucifer jerks back from her touch. "She was already so suspicious and angry at me, I had to – "

"Yes, Mum, because you tried to kill her – "

"No, I took her here. I didn't kill her. I was thinking that she'd get to heaven, yes, but that you and I would come with her. That there was no way your father would permit his special little miracle to stay down here, and hence whisk her out. Open that door, the one that matters. Don't you see? It was for us, to get us back – you thought I'd raise an army and storm the gates of heaven, but why would I do that, when this way was so much easier?"

Lucifer feels as if he's still dunked in the freezing waters of Purgatory, or trapped on the return journey, spinning and spinning out of control. His eyes turn to burning coals. "What are you talking about?"

Charlotte looks at him searchingly. "Amenadiel didn't tell you either?"

"TELL ME WHAT?"

"Chloe. . ." She takes a breath. "Honey, this is going to be very hard for you to hear, but you have to. Chloe. . . all this time, she's been an agent of your father's, working for him. Unwittingly, it's true, but still. He had your brother bless those humans, John and Penelope, to allow them to have a child. Chloe. He was engineering you two toward each other, trying to trick you to make deals with him on her behalf, to put yourself in his debt. Don't you see? He's been using Chloe to maneuver and manipulate you. Back you into a corner. That's what she is. Just another tool of his. What you had was never real. It was just part of your father still trying to hurt you. My Lucifer, my Samael, my sweet little Sam. Isn't it enough?"

Lucifer stands riveted to the spot. All the air has been driven out of his lungs, the hope out of his heart, the light from his world, the atoms from his soul, until he's not sure how he's still standing upright. He wants to grab her, wants to shake her, wants to shout at her that she's lying, but he can sense the horrible truth behind her words. Is this why Amenadiel seemed so guilty about Chloe? Why he's not bringing Azrael's blade as Lucifer asked, knowing that this sticky situation will be sorted out one way or another, without his interference? Lucifer's worst fear has just been confirmed. Chloe's life, her very existence, is nothing but a bargaining chip that his father can put forward or pull back at will. She hasn't even known that she's been a pawn on a cosmic chessboard, a living embodiment of divine blackmail. As if God Almighty created the light, the very word and element from which Lucifer takes his name, the most brilliant and strong and lovely and kind and brave woman in the entire world, and used her to set the trap. That in reaching for it, in daring to touch it, in thinking he was worthy to have it, he fell into the abyss. Just to be reminded, over and over, how much he isn't. Monster. Monster. Monster.

Lucifer can't breathe. He's aware of an overwhelming need for a drink or twelve, but even hellish liqueur cannot solve this problem or make him remotely sane again. He can feel the scars on his back burning, the ache of a phantom limb, the way he would assume the form and have his wings burst from him, become the full and terrible Lord of Hell and not this muted, mutilated, powerless, practically mortal version he's let himself devolve into, in pursuit of this ultimate lie. All this time. Dad knew he'd ask for Chloe's life. Promise him anything in return. Has probably been laughing his arse off at how gullible Lucifer really is, no matter how shrewd and cynical he likes to think himself. Been dangling them both on puppet strings.

And Lucifer just sent Chloe there. To heaven. Thinking there was finally a chance that he would trust his bloody family to save the one thing in this or any world that means the most to him. What did they do with her? Toss her in the junk drawer with the rest of the tools that had done their job? If they – if they –

What you had was never real.

Does Chloe even like him?

Did she ever have a choice, or is she still in that place she was when they first met, proclaiming him repulsive on a chemical level, but frog-marched and forced along to this, just to make the biggest impression when he lost her? He, after all, has prided himself on free will, on thinking he was living his own life at last, his own man, that Dad could never have foreseen or approve of him running away to Los Angeles, that Chloe was the first good thing he had made for himself. Of course he was wrong. Dad was just waiting with the giant flyswatter, grinning.

"Honey?" Charlotte takes hold of his arms. "Lucifer? Sweetie, talk to me. As I said, I know this couldn't be easy, but at least now you know who she is, and why I did this. So you see? We have to get back to heaven. We have to make your father answer for what he did to you, and to Chloe. Once your brother gets here with the blade, we'll have our chance."

Somewhere in Lucifer's numb brain, there is still enough space to be wearily unsurprised that of course his mother knew exactly what he was talking about when he ordered Malcolm to have Amenadiel fetch their sister's "lost item." There can't be too many other relics of Azrael floating happily about the mortal world, after all, and Charlotte was already keen to see its destructive power put to work. So she's known everything, the whole time. Knows he sent Malcolm to get Azrael's blade and Amenadiel, so she will have both her fallen sons, her daughter's weapon, and a freshly revealed incentive for the lot of them to go great gangbusters against heaven. Even worse, Lucifer isn't sure he's going to refuse her one more time. He is burning alive.

"Why don't you sit down?" Charlotte says, steering him into a sidewalk café (again, built of people) and getting them a seat at a table. She conjures up a shot, and Lucifer grabs it by reflex, slamming it down, as she follows it with another and he knocks that one back too. They of course are the only customers here, as the rest of hell's residents have been turned into the fabric of hell itself. The light outside is getting darker blue all the time, ash swirling out of the sky, the entire place straining and splitting at the edges in response to Lucifer's meltdown. He hasn't felt this way in ages. Almost since his first little tumble down here, the stake of his father's betrayal driven through his heart. What does it matter now? There's no point in trying to get back to Los Angeles. It's not home. Nowhere is. His home was never real.

Lucifer does a third shot helpfully provided by his mother, wondering if there is any chance of getting as blackout drunk as he sorely longs to be, but as he pushes the glass back toward her, beckoning her to refill it, she says, "Honey, that's enough for now. We need to think about what we're going to do. That soul you sent back was very drab, but even he has to have reached Amenadiel by now. If he doesn't appear before much longer, we can probably assume that that awful demon of yours has managed to distract him. Honestly, I'm not sure what either of you saw in her, apart from the obvious. But well, we all make mistakes." She pats his hand. "Still, we can't have Mazikeen be the one to gum up the works. There has to be someone else we can send as a backup. Also, about your wings. They wouldn't be quite the same as the real ones, but I could try making you a replacement set. Do you want me to?"

Lucifer grunts, as his concern is with focusing long enough to produce a fourth shot on his own. "Fine, Mum. Whatever makes you happy. I don't bloody care."

"Breakups are always difficult. With your father, it was – " Charlotte stops, as if she was going to say something that she fancied to be comforting, but was caught short by an unexpected pang of real emotion. After all, she and her husband once loved each other enough to literally give birth to all of existence, and the loss of that, its fall and its poisoning and its turning to loathing, is something beyond any and all comparison, a glimpse of just why she is so devoted to this crusade of hers, to avenge it or annihilate it. Quietly, she finishes, "It was, as I said, very hard. I know your feelings for Chloe were real. It will take time to heal."

"Heal?" Lucifer's lip curls. "I'm done healing, Mother. Everyone was right. I've been pretending to be someone I'm not. Killing Uriel wasn't a mistake or an aberration, it was who I am. Even I can't bloody run away from that any more, can I?"

Charlotte's eyes sparkle with unshed tears. "Honey, you've never been good about processing or facing your emotions. But you have to understand that this isn't your fault. You didn't do anything other than what you couldn't help. It's your father's fault for weaponizing it in such a cruel way. You can't beat yourself up over it. Please."

Lucifer doesn't answer, having managed to fill the shot glass and drain it a few more times. He feels a bit of that hazy, delirious buzz he managed to achieve briefly after Uriel's death, but it's already slipping out of his grasp. Other than that, he has no idea. He wants sorely to stop thinking about anything. It would be easier if he was consumed by volcanic rage, burning to take up arms and kick heaven's door down. Easier than this. At least he knows how to deal with rage. Instead he is, in a way even he has never been before, completely and utterly heartbroken.

He stops paying attention to his mother, lets her words wash inconsequentially over him, conjures up a cigarette or five and smokes his way through them. Finally, he can't stand an instant more of anyone's company, especially her and the frozen people staring at him from the walls. Gets to his feet and blunders out, going nowhere down the endless black road. He wonders if he can find the exact spot he fell out of heaven before. He wants to lie down there, and die.

Step by step. Going nowhere. Just as he always has. Deeper and deeper into hell. Back toward the heart of it, the twisted Tree of Knowledge, and the headwaters of the rivers. One of them has to ease his pain. Lethe, the river Lethe, that one sounds good. The one you drink from, and forget everything.

He gets there at last, falls to his knees in the mud, unable to give a single damn about his suit this time. Crawls to the edge of the bank, remembering that first sight of his burns in the water, and how he refused to believe it could possibly be him. He won't have that problem this time. The effect is not likely to be permanent, since he isn't human, but it should keep him in a state of blissful ignorance for a while. When he wakes up, he can always drink more. Maybe eventually, when he does, he won't remember.

Lucifer cups his hands, and dips them in the river of oblivion. Brings the sparkling black water to his lips, and drinks.

Amenadiel, Maze, Dan, and Ella are presently on the world's worst double date: sitting in the squad car in an alley outside a seedy strip joint in east L.A., where they have tracked the Entity Previously Known as Malcolm. They're afraid he has already managed to change bodies, abandoning Earl Horton for something a bit more sturdy – that, or the world's dirtiest grandpa is currently in there feeling up the exotic dancers. They have to be very careful about how they do this. Ambushing him in the club itself would go tits up in any number of ways, especially if he's gotten powerful enough to jump from host to host without his first vessel having to be killed first. If they go after him in there, he'll have an unlimited choice of bodies to attack, and they have to get him out here, alone, and for the love of all that is holy, not miss their shot.

Amenadiel shifts uncomfortably, as this feels comparable to sitting and awaiting his own execution. The shot in question has to be taken by him, because Dan and Ella, as humans, would go crazy if they held Azrael's blade (Dan already having learned this the hard way) and because he's not at all sure he wants to hand Maze such a dangerous weapon when she is transparently still so livid at him. He thought she might be even slightly mollified by him agreeing to come along and help them out, but if hell hath no fury etc etc., it is several orders of magnitude worse when the woman in question is an actual demon. His sister's blade feels red-hot in his jacket pocket, waiting for the moment when Earl-Malcolm emerges, the other three jump him and subdue him (that is, Amenadiel thinks, a very optimistic notion) and Amenadiel himself uses it to smite the miserable prick out of existence for good. That will solve one of their current problems, at least, before it makes their other one unavoidable. Does he take it to hell, or. . . not?

The atmosphere in the car is tense and strained. Ella tries cracking a few jokes to lighten the mood, but yeah, no. They're all craning forward, watching all the johns emerging from the club in case one of them has an extra-evil aura, but no, they're the usual sad people who go to a skeezy strip club on a weeknight. At last, however, a strip of dim glow falls on the parking lot, and an extremely boozed-up Earl Horton teeters out, looking as if he's probably had more fun in one night than the actual old geezer did in his entire eighty-odd years of life. Apparently Malcolm was too busy whooping it up to go to the hassle of switching bodies just yet.

Amenadiel looks at his companions, nods sharply, and as one, they move. Throw the car doors open and converge on him, as Ella yells, "Hey, buttmunch!" and hurls a garbage can lid at him with considerable accuracy and force for a five-foot-two forensic pathologist, momentarily knocking him off balance. This allows Maze to take a running start and jump on his back, twisting her legs around him and taking him down with a perfectly executed judo throw. Dan punches him before he can recover, grabbing him in a headlock and pinning him, as Maze kicks him hard in the ass, probably just because she can. "Hey!" Dan yells, having thus momentarily apprehended the demonic perp. "Do your stabbing thing!"

Amenadiel fumbles for the blade, as Earl-Malcolm – dazed, but not yet licked – writhes in a vigorous attempt to break free. And then, as Amenadiel's hand closes around Azrael's blade and he pulls it out of his jacket (he really hopes Dan will not report this incident at the station, protocol or otherwise), a foul black smoke starts to pour out of the old man's mouth, engulfing Dan's head in what is unmistakably Eau de Malcolm. Strangled yells can be heard from inside this cloud of doom, Dan's legs jerk, and they overbalance and hit the pavement, as Maze rushes forward and tries to drag them apart – but too late. Earl Horton's body slumps limply, empty, as Dan's eyes glow red. "Hey, pal," he hisses at Amenadiel. "Go on. Kill us both. I'm sure nobody's gonna miss Dan, now are they?"

Amenadiel freezes, as he realizes in horror that a) Malcolm has jumped from Earl's body to Dan's, and b) that if anyone has had a terrible, horrible, no-good experience with the supernatural, it is Daniel Espinoza, who appears to have some kind of cosmic kick-me sign taped to his back. He is thrashing and jerking, clearly trying to fight Malcolm's possession out of him with all his might, but he can't overcome a demon of his old partner's strength. He grins up at Amenadiel. "Come on. Ain't like Lucifer's gonna mind. Detective Douche and ol' Malcolm vaporized at once, it's like a birthday present. The whole two birds, one stone thing."

Amenadiel remains motionless, Azrael's blade in hand, as Ella and Maze look aghast. "No," Ella blurts out. "No, you can't –"

"Kill me!" That's Dan's voice, not Malcolm's, as he must have briefly managed to get back to the controls of his own head. "God dammit, kill me! If that's what you have to do to destroy this son of a bitch, then do it! Just – just tell Trixie that I love her, I didn't choose to leave her – "

"Touching," Malcolm interrupts, as Dan's face jerks back into a sneer. "Real touching. He's ready to make a heroic sacrifice to take me down, just like before. But you're not gonna do it, huh, Amenadiel? You don't have the guts. Never did. Got me to do your dirty work. Now you're too chickenshit to actually kill us. Figures."

Amenadiel stares wildly at Maze, expecting her to rip the blade out of his hand and take care of Dan-Malcolm herself (and then probably him, for good measure) but even Maze seems at a loss, lips white. Dan's back arches as he continues to fight the demonic invasion, groaning and hissing and spitting, and Ella looks at him, looks back at Amenadiel and Maze, and then seems to make up her mind. She pulls off the silver cross necklace she always wears, darts in, and claps it to Dan's forehead, clearly attempting an amateur exorcism. "Oh no you don't, you jerk," she breathes savagely. "Oh no you don't."

Dan-Malcolm howls, eyes going the same red as Lucifer's in his devil form, as black smoke starts to gust from his nose and mouth. Ella hangs on as tenaciously as a barnacle, reciting the Lord's Prayer loudly, then adding "Expelliarmus!" at the end when she can't think of anything else appropriately demon-driving-out-y. Then there is a final jerk and spasm, the black cloud gushes out of Dan's mouth as Amenadiel takes a desperate swing at it with Azrael's blade but has, of course, no body to stab, and it shoots off down the alley like an evil comet, vanishing with a shriek. Dan sways on the spot, then topples forward with a crash, and doesn't move.

"Hey," Ella says, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Hey. Hey, you okay?"

Amenadiel and Maze look at each other, torn between running after Malcolm's escaped entity that is about to take over another body, or likewise going to see if Dan has survived his latest unpleasant brush with the powers of hell. Judging by the groan that he utters, sitting up slowly with blood pouring from his nose, he has, even though he does not look to have enjoyed the experience. "Next time," he says thickly, wiping his face on his sleeve, "just stab him, okay?"

"I – wasn't going to kill you." Amenadiel shoots a glance back down the alley, briefly wondering if he should in fact have done so. If it's true what Malcolm said, and he's too much of a coward to ever face up to the grim reality of doing what it takes. Then he shakes his head, furious with himself. "No matter what he said, I think people would miss you. Even Lucifer."

"Yeah, I don't know about that." Dan wipes his nose again, then looks at Ella. "Hey, thanks for getting that dick out of me." He pauses, considers, then grimaces. "Wow. That was really not what I was trying to say, was it?"

They can't help it, they all snort with unsteady laughter, as Ella pats him bracingly on the shoulder. "I got you covered, man. No problem, okay?"

"No," Dan says. "Thanks. I mean it."

Ella pauses, then nods solemnly, and takes his elbow to help him to his feet. They stand there in the middle of the strip-club parking lot, aware that they were making a lot of noise and somebody is probably going to come investigate. They still need to go after Malcolm post-haste – he's no less dangerous without a body, and possibly even more, if he just conducts those same sort of dive-bombing raids on the nearest humans – and they take a step toward the police cruiser. Just one step. Because at that moment, Amenadiel feels a familiar bone-deep chill, the way the world goes still and somnolent, in the way that can only mean the arrival of –

"Hey, big brother."

Oh, shit.

The Angel of Death is leaning casually against the squad car, wearing a black leather jacket and a bored expression, messy braid flung over her shoulder and tendrils blowing in her ancient golden eyes, as she looks from Maze, to Dan, to Ella, and finally to Amenadiel, who still has her knife clutched in his hand. "You know," she says. "I don't remember telling you that you could play with my toys."

"Azrael. Hi." Amenadiel darts a hounded glance over his shoulder, trying to judge if the other three can see her. He can't be sure. "I – look, this is important, we really need to – "

"Catch the escaped demon." Azrael pushes off the car and saunters closer, beautiful and dangerous as a jaguar in the jungle. "I know."

"You do?"

"You're really out of the loop, aren't you?"

"Yes, actually! I am!" Amenadiel wants to scream in frustration that even his sister knows more about this than he does, that everyone has gotten the full briefing while he only gets cryptic and useless snippets. He knows damn well that he's out of favor, but do they have to rub it in his face like this? "I'm an idiot! Happy?"

Azrael regards him keenly for a long moment, before her gaze moves past him, to Maze, Dan, and Ella. All of them stare blankly through her, motionless. "Short on help, too?"

"Why are you here?" Amenadiel has a brief and terrible thought that Dan didn't actually survive the possession, and she's here to swoop him up and carry him off. That's the usual reason Azrael visits the mortal realm, after all. "Look, you can have the knife back, I swear, I wasn't the one who borrowed it, we just need it to – "

"Again. I said. I know." Azrael continues to regard him with that same penetrating look. Amenadiel is older than she is, though not by much, but he often doesn't feel like it. "And I wasn't even sent here for it."

"Oh?"

"No." She hesitates, ever so briefly. "I'm here trying to stop the apocalypse."

Chloe was not intending to use her power again on this go-round in hell. She really wasn't. She knows how tempting it was, and how close she came to giving in. Best to just avoid the problem, and quit cold turkey. Such, at least, was the well-intentioned plan.

That, however, was before they got here, this – whatever it is – is going on, there's no sight or sound of anybody or anything anywhere, and the air itself feels thick and raw and wrong. This being hell, it's beside the point to ask why anything is creepy or weird or generally a bad omen, but Chloe stands tensely still, trying to think what to do next. Did Lucifer not make it back from Purgatory? Did he make it back, and then get chucked into Mum's old cage, by Mum, the Morrigan, or someone else (has there been a breakout on the tyrant wing?) Did Malcolm come back with Azrael's blade, and stab him when he wasn't looking? Or –

Chloe sternly informs herself to get a grip. Whatever is going on, running through various panicky scenarios is not going to help. She inhales a deep breath, tasting a whiff of sulfur in the back of her throat, and turns to her dad. "Okay," she says. "I'm going to try something. I'm not exactly sure how it's going to turn out, but I have the basic idea. Sort of."

"You're familiar with how. . . all this works, then?" John waves a hand at their dank, dismal, foreboding surroundings. "Chloe, honey, you're still planning to go home, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?"

John makes an indeterminate noise in his throat, but decides not to waste time with further parental admonishment. "Gotcha, then. Tell me what I need to do."

"You don't need to do anything. Just hold onto my arm, and I'm going to try to move us. It's the way Lucifer travels around here, he doesn't actually walk from place to place. I have the general idea, but I don't want to, I don't know, Splinch us or something."

"Right," John says. "Lucifer does it. So it's clearly a good plan."

Chloe glances up at him with a frown, reminded of the fact that while she is talking about the master of this place as a man, a familiar friend and lover that she trusts and can't wait to get back to, all her father hears is that his only begotten daughter has literally fallen in with the Devil, is comfortable using the dread powers of hell for herself, and just seems awfully comfortable here. He trusts her judgment and he loves her more than anything, hence why he insisted on accompanying her down here from heaven, but she hopes that if (when) they cross paths with Lucifer again, he isn't being too, well, Lucifer. He knows what her dad means to her and he's all right with it, but he can't be expecting to see Disapproving Father John Decker in the flesh (or whatever he is). What with the trouble they're already having with his mom, the last thing they need is to set off his other clusterfuck of parental Issues.

Chloe pushes that thought away as well, as her dad grips her arm. "On three," she says. "One, two. . . three."

It feels like pushing through a tidal wave of molasses with a detour through an M.C. Escher painting, trying to shift from one place to another while all the accustomed dimensions and proportions and spatial relations completely crap out on them. Chloe's brain has been too flattened to accommodate much of a coherent thought, but she does realize that this must take centuries of practice, as well as probably an angelic pedigree, to pull off quickly and effortlessly. It's the furthest thing from graceful as she and her dad struggle like bugs stuck to flypaper, the squeezing sensation is briefly unbearable, and then they shoot out and land on something wet and squashy. It appears to be, as Chloe registers when her vision finally comes back online, a riverbank. A huge, gnarled black tree towers overhead, with roots like great snakes, and she can hear running water. This place seems familiar, very familiar, but she can't put her finger on why.

That question, however, is disregarded in the next instant, as she catches sight of a body sprawled facedown in the mud – a very familiar one, long and lanky and dark-haired and wearing its usual dapper black suit, now rumpled and filthy. Heart in her throat, Chloe bolts to her feet and runs to him. "Lucifer? Lucifer!"

"That's him?" Clearly John was not expecting the Devil to be passed out – he's breathing, he can't be dead, he can't be – in a wrinkled suit on a muddy riverbank, and Chloe likewise was hoping that this first meeting would go better. When she pictured it, Lucifer was conscious, for a start, and upright. Did Charlotte do something to him after all, or – this is Lucifer, master of self-sabotage – did he do it himself? But why? She didn't leave that long ago, unless this is another of hell's tricks and he just –

"Lucifer. Hey." Chloe crouches down, rolling him onto his back. His eyes are closed, face pale as ice. "Lucifer, wake up, damn it. Hey. Hey!"

It takes a few more moments, but at last his eyelashes flutter. She grips his shoulders, waiting tensely, until they finally open all the way. He stares at her with no apparent recognition, then breaks into a leering grin. "H'lo there, darling," he slurs. "You're quite pretty, aren't you? Did it hurt when you fell out of heaven?"

"Wh – " Chloe is about to ask how he knows that she and John actually did fall out of heaven, before she realizes that this is once more overlooking the larger concern. "Lucifer, what are you talking about? It's me. Chloe."

"Chloe?" He eyeballs her up and down. "Definitely a ten, you'll be happy to know. Great cheekbones. Really spectacular tits, too."

"Wow," John says. "He's a real winner."

"And who are you?" Lucifer's head rolls in his direction. "You're a bit too square-jawed and self-righteous for my taste, but we can make do. Devil's threesome, is it?" He reaches for the buttons of his grubby shirt. "Not feeling quite myself, but if you give me a moment, I'm sure – "

Chloe smacks his hand down, mortified. "Lucifer! That is my father!"

"Your father?" He stares again, then sighs deeply and shakes his head. "Well, that's just the way to spoil all my fun, isn't it?"

"Yeah," John says coldly. "I think I've seen enough."

"No, seriously. There's something wrong with him."

"I'd say there is."

"I mean this isn't like him. It used to be, when we met, but. . ." Chloe looks around for something that could have possibly wrought such an alarming change in Lucifer, a reversion to the point that he doesn't even recognize her and thinks she's some random hell floozy, or whatever is going on in his tiny little mind. Her eye falls on the river, its alluring black waters that whisper and sparkle, promising ease and comfort and oblivion. "Lucifer, did you drink from that?"

He peers at it blurrily. "Must've."

"What is it?"

"River Lethe, darling. Makes you forget all your troubles. Poof." He waves an airy hand. "Really good, want a shot? Only you're human, it would definitely erase everything for good."

"Why would you drink from the river of forgetfulness?" She practically shakes him.

"Can't remember. That's the point." He giggles. "Give me a kiss, it might help."

"I am absolutely not kissing you," Chloe says coldly. "Smacking you upside the head, maybe."

"Ooh, like to play rough, do you?" He does that old lascivious thing with his tongue. "Go on, hit me. Really put some extra mustard into it."

Chloe considers him, then does as ordered. It feels good.

"Ow." Lucifer touches his slapped cheek gingerly. "That hurt."

"Yeah, buddy. It does. You know why? No, of course you don't, because you drank from that stupid river and blottoed yourself out and are now acting like a complete dick in front of me and my dad, who's actually here to help us and not to listen to you embarrass yourself. Because I've always been able to hurt you, and we've never even known exactly why." Chloe's voice is rough, but she's afraid it's going to break, and she refuses to let that happen. "So either you wake the literal hell up and get your shit together, or we keep up with the smacking and see what that does. I'm willing to commit for as many as it takes."

Lucifer stares at her with that same fuddled expression, but something about this seems to pierce the fog. He keeps on staring, dark brows drawn, until slowly, a look of mingled shock and horror crosses his face. "Ch. . ." he says, tongue fuzzy. "Chloe?"

"Yes. Who did you think it was?"

"But you – " He sits bolt upright, clearly regrets it, and groans. "You're – you're not supposed to be here! This is just another trick, isn't it? After what the bloody tree did to me earlier? You're not here, just like you weren't last time. You're in Purgatory or Heaven or Earth or literally any-bloody-where but here. You can't be."

Chloe is about to ask if he had some kind of vision of her earlier, if hell actually did affect him, but stops. "Well, it's not a trick. I came back for you."

"You. . ." Clearly this is not even in the realm of computing for him. "No! I sent you on so you could leave, Detective! To go back to Earth, to your family! What the blazes could possibly make you want to – "

"Lucifer, I just said it. I'm not leaving you behind here. I – I met your sisters. If I can get their attention again, I think they'll get all of us out. We just have to – "

"No." He looks aghast. "No, that's just what Mum wanted in the first place! Have someone come along to pluck you out of here, and she can tag along! And you – "

He stops. He looks sickened.

"What?" Chloe puts a hand on his shoulder, gives him a little shake. "What?"

"You. . ." He rubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Detective. I would have warned you if I'd known. I'm sorry that you. . . I'm sorry that my bloody father did what he. . . well, there's no help for it, no point dragging it out. Just go. It's easier that way. It's probably what you actually want to do, isn't it? Pop off with Daddy here, and. . ."

He stops again. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I wouldn't have done any of it to you, if I'd known."

Chloe begins to wonder if he's not actually back to himself, but she's slapped him into a different personality instead. "Lucifer, what are you talking – "

"That you. . ." He can't seem to bring himself to say it, then tries again, furious with himself. "I know you don't really like me, Detective. You've said so, after all. Many times. If I was smart, I'd have worked it out before, but we all know I'm not. Or maybe I never bloody asked because I was too afraid that this would be the answer. You're just one of Dad's toys. His blackmail for me." He turns his head. "I don't want you to have that life. You need to get away from me."

Chloe's stomach does an unpleasant flip as she recalls how Gabriel and Azrael seemed oddly willing to help her and her dad, how she thought it couldn't be the same for just any mortal who wandered in there, even one who has visited both heaven and hell while still living, and who loves the Devil. She almost preferred blissful, babbling Lucifer to this version. "Tell me what you're talking about, right now."

"You. . ." He fumbles for the words. "You only ever kept me around because you were forced to. Of course you couldn't actually care for someone like me."

"What? No. That's not true. I chose it. Lucifer, just shut up and listen to me. Nobody forced me to do anything. I chose you. I chose what happened, the same way you chose to follow me down here, and I chose to come back. I don't believe in fate, remember? Any of that. I – Lucifer, your mother asked me to betray you at the trial, and in return, she would make Perry Smith plead guilty, and I – like I said, you are the best partner I have ever had. The best." She doesn't know if she's making sense, can only hear the way the words are spilling out of her, sharp and raw and jumbled. "I didn't do it. I wanted him to go to jail more than anything for killing my dad, but – "

"Whoa," John Decker says. "Chloe. What are you – back in heaven, I asked about Joe Fields – "

"Joe Fields didn't kill you. He made a deal from the prison warden, Perry Smith, to take the fall for your murder and get payments for his daughter." Chloe closes her eyes, vainly fighting tears. She can't believe she is saying this in front of them, in front of both of them. "He's dead. Smith is the one who did it – he was arrested, Lucifer and Maze and I – you don't know Maze, but we arrested him – but he got off. I – Dad, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have made sure Perry Smith went to jail, I had my chance, but I – I couldn't – "

"Hey." John puts a hand on her shoulder, gripping hard. "Chloe, sweetheart. Take a breath."

"I'm sorry," Chloe cries again, stumbling to her feet, as her dad reaches for her and hugs her hard, chin on her head. "Dad, I'm so sorry. I let you down, and if you're angry with me, I – "

"Shhh. Monkey, shh." He continues to hold her tightly, and she gasps a few strangled sobs into his shoulder, not even able to look yet to see how Lucifer is taking this. He seems to have become convinced for some inexplicable reason that she can't possibly have any genuine affection for him, that it's been all a crass and cynical manipulation, that there is no possible way she could actually have gone from finding him utterly obnoxious to burning her ticket home in order to take a chance to come back to hell and save him too. He's wrong, because Lucifer is always wrong about everything when it comes to emotions, but to blurt out in front of her dad that she loved the Devil more than justice for him – it sounds stupid, impetuous, shallow, like she's betrayed everything he wanted her to be, failed in his memory and in her attempts to ever be as good as him. She can't. She can't.

But she's Chloe Decker, and she can. She has to. And she does.

After a long moment, Chloe pulls herself together, with a raw, gulping breath. "Dad," she says again. "I don't – "

"Shh," he says again, eyes glittering. "Listen to me, baby. I'm dead, remember? I've been dead for almost twenty years now. You can't live a life beholden to what I should have done, what I might have done – it's not what's going to happen. I don't want that for you. I never have."

"But I. . ." Chloe sniffs. "Dad. . ."

"Look," John Decker says. "I don't get your relationship with. . . him." He raises an eyebrow coldly at Lucifer, who raises an eyebrow coldly right back. "Obviously, I can't. But I'm also not going to yell at you for growing up. My little girl. I – that's how I remember you, because you were only nineteen when I died. But you're not that. You're a grown woman. You have a life. You've changed. And you. . ." He swallows. "You have had to let me go."

Chloe doesn't know what to say. She feels completely gutted. "I don't want to," she says, half in a whisper. "I don't want to let you go, Dad."

"Baby, I don't want to either." His voice breaks in earnest. "Why do you think I volunteered to come with you? As I said, I want all the time in the world with you, all the time we never got to have. But we do have this. We have now. I'm not leaving you just yet. We still have to finish this. We still have to work out how. Hey. Decker Can-Do."

"Decker Can-Do." Chloe smiles, eyes watery. It's only then she dares to glance at Lucifer, who looks pole-axed. This might be the first time in his life that he has seen a father absolving and forgiving a child for not being enough, for not doing everything the father wanted for them (or at least, what the child thinks the father wanted from them). Right in the middle of whatever stupid spiel he was on, about how his father has only used her as a plaything and a puppet. Her father telling her to let go, to move on. That she has to live for her, and not for him, and that he loves her anyway.

"I. . ." Lucifer begins, opens and shuts his mouth. "Detective, I. . ."

"Shut up," Chloe says. Steps away, kneels in front of him, and – having found before that it is an excellent way to make him put a cork in whatever tangent he is on, not caring that her dad is right there, not caring – kisses the absolute daylights out of Lucifer. With extra mustard.

When they finally break apart, Lucifer looks utterly bedazzled, John Decker has cleared his throat loudly several times, and Chloe takes another deep breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says hoarsely, "and frankly, right now, I don't care. It's true. We still have to get out of here. Both of us. So come on."

Lucifer blinks several more times, looks at her face, her offered hand, and does not seem quite sure how to respond. It's clearly still his instinct to think that she's lying or being shoehorned into this, that there is a catch, that this is one of his own diabolical deals reflected back on him. Does he take her hand because he wants to, or does he not take her hand because he thinks it's what his dad wants him to do, and he refuses to do what he thinks his dad wants him to do, even at the cost of his own happiness? Even if it's her. Even if it's them. Even if she has always been the one thing in heaven or earth or hell that he cannot stand to lose.

Her dad told her that it wasn't about what he wanted, or what she thought she owed to him, but what she chose, how she wanted to live. It's impossible to say if that's having any effect on Lucifer at all.

"Lucifer," Chloe says quietly. "Please."

He hesitates a final moment, then nods. Starts to reach for her.

"Well," a familiar voice says, just out of sight, among the darkness of the twisted roots. "That took long enough. Now it is, at last, finally time to get on with it."