Castaway

One Thing Leads to Another

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much as always for all the lovely feedback, and to everyone on Twitter and Tumblr who assisted me in coming up with potential trivia night team names :) You guys who post comments make sharing this story so fun for me!

Chapter title credit goes to the Raign.

●◊●◊●

The warehouse in the Arts District where Anton made his money exchange looks far different during the day. The shadows that at night gave it such a menacing stature are gone, and the multicolor graffiti scarring its walls only serves to make it look ramshackle. Chloe and Lucifer sit in her cruiser across the street, under the shade of a eucalyptus tree, watching.

A young, black-haired man wearing a suit approaches the small door next to the loading dock around 10 a.m. The man is carrying a steaming cup of coffee and a leather briefcase with one hand, and a frosted donut wrapped in a napkin with the other. His shiny wingtip shoes flash in the morning light.

"Well, that ensemble's off the rack," Lucifer comments, upper lip curling in disgust as the man sticks his donut between his teeth, freeing his right hand to fish his keys out of his pocket. "Nothing like our Dior-wearing mobsters who attended the duffel-bag exchange."

"If you say so," Chloe replies, frowning as she snaps a few photos. She can't tell the difference between off-the-rack and designer at this distance, no matter how hard she squints. It looks like a suit to her. Just... a suit.

"Look at the fit, Detective," Lucifer says, as if he thinks that will help her grow archangel-strength eyes. "It's bloody awful. Too loose in the shoulders, courtesy of that horrible tailoring, and too tight in the waist, courtesy of that horrible donut. The suit is wearing him. He is not wearing the suit."

"I can't see anything but a charcoal blob at this distance." 

"Really?" Lucifer says. "You're truly that blind?"

She points out the window. "That's like two-hundred feet, Lucifer." 

"So?"

"So, humans can't see fine details more than halfway down an entire football field."

"What terrible desi— oh, oh, no," Lucifer says, grimacing as he shakes his head, "and, now, the dolt is getting chocolate on the lapel. This is a bloody travesty. You should arrest him for murder."

"... Murder?"

"Yes, Detective," Lucifer replies snippily. "My respect for him is dead."

She laughs. She can't help it.

He glowers at her. "Think this is funny, do you?" 

"No," she says, smiling.

"Right," he replies, tone suspicious. 

"Just enjoying the company, Lucifer."

He blinks, all hints of hostility draining out of his features like his pores are a sieve. "... Oh," he says in a soft, bewildered tone. The seat squeaks as he shifts to pull out his extra-large flask from his breast pocket and take another swig. They've been sitting in the car all of three hours — since 7 a.m. — and he seems to take a swig every ten minutes or so.

"So, I wonder when Mr. Möbius will show," she says as the badly dressed office assistant disappears inside the dirty building.

"He might not show at all, if he's like some of the C.E.O.s I know," Lucifer says.