Castaway

It Takes Two

Chapter Notes

It occurred to me the other day that I never officially said anything in the notes for this story, soo: I'm on Twitter and Tumblr, also as ariaadagio. Feel free to come say hi :)

Anyway, thank you so much for the feedback! Chapter title credit goes to Katy Perry.

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Lucifer won't answer any of the texts she sends, though that's not unusual at night — they're his prime party and entertaining hours. Whenever she calls Lux, she gets dumped straight to a voicemail greeting that gives hours, directions, and valet prices. No one picks up the landline when she calls her apartment, either. Lucifer could still be in her apartment, sleeping off his not-an- overdose. But she'd rather head to Lux and find out he was home, after all, than head to her apartment and find out she missed a genuine emergency.

Two black-and-whites are parked in the alley beside Lux, their lights flashing, engines rumbling, when she arrives, and the churning pit in her stomach widens to a chasm. She screeches to a halt beside the neighboring building, parking next to a curb painted red and a sign that clearly says: NO PARKING. She yanks her law enforcement placard from the glove compartment and throws it haphazardly onto the dash before getting out of the car.

Three uniformed officers mill by the cars, chatting. In the back of one of the cars sits a scraggly, sobbing man who's already cuffed. "I'm sorry!" he wails at her through the window as tears and snot stream down his rubicund face. He thumps his fists on the glass. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! He made me do it. He made me. I'll never do it again!" And then he starts wailing, and she can't understand a word coming out of his mouth.

"What happened?" she says to the closest officer, flashing her badge at them.

Thankfully, these guys aren't from her precinct, so they're not predisposed toward hating her guts. One of them glances at her without judgment and says, "A stabbing."

"A guest got stabbed?" Chloe says.

"No," says the second one. "That crazy club owner." 

"Lucifer got stabbed?"

"Yeah," says the third one. He raises his hands to produce air quotes, adding with a smirk, "The Devil," and all three uniforms snigger.

"Is he okay?" she says.

"Certainly not in the head," the first one says, which prompts another chorus of laughs, and she wants to scream at them for their insensitivity. But they don't know her. And they don't know Lucifer. All they know is that she's a fellow cop. It's not like they'd say this shit to a loved one. Or directly to a victim. She hopes.

With an irritated, stressed sigh, she turns to go.

The pit in her stomach churns, and churns, and churns.

The line of patrons waiting to get inside the club wraps all the way around the block. The bouncer

— a burly, forty-something man named Damian — takes one look at Chloe, recognition flooding his gaze, and steps aside, much to the irritation of the many waiting revelers. She grabs her badge off her belt loops and flashes it at them all. They stop complaining in heartbeats.

"Thanks," Damian says with a grateful look. 

She smiles tightly. "No problem."

With that, she darts inside.