Stars Like Angels Fall

Ultraviolet

Chapter Note

So, I have good news and bad news and then more good news!

Good: You might have noticed the chapter count has jumped to 10. This is because I've written a 1k word epilogue. So ... more! Yay!

Bad: I'm going on vacation next week and won't be back until June 2, so there will be a "break in service" until the normally scheduled June 4 post. Sorry, guys :(

Back to good: I think/hope you'll at least be pleased with where I temporarily leave you :) Happy holidays, everybody!

Thanks again, as always, to those of you who take the time to leave me feedback, be that in the form of kudos or comments. All of you are the best! Chapter title credit goes to Freya Ridings. Enjoy!

●◊●◊●

His penthouse is still, but not quiet. The sliding doors hang open, letting in the distant sounds of life floating up from the street. Car honks and chatter. A distant radio. The bass, chest-rattling thump, thump, thump of a subwoofer. Late afternoon sunshine spills through the vast wall of glass windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The curtains billow in the soft breeze, which smells faintly of salt and exhaust. And not a single sheet covers any of his furniture.

"... Hello?" she calls into the room as she steps off the elevator. "Lucifer? I'm here ...."

He doesn't answer.

"... Lucifer?"

The elevator doors trundle shut behind her. She inches past his piano, brushing her fingers along the smooth, lacquered wood. The piano's lid is pulled over the keys, and the glossy hood is down, concealing the strings and felt-tipped hammers within.

She jars to a halt at the top of his bedroom steps, and her right palm flies to her mouth, covering her lips.

"Oh," she says, a hurting gasp.

His bed is yanked away from the back wall and resituated with the edge pushed against his westward-facing window. Lucifer lies curled up under his sheets and blankets, bare inches from the glass, his body facing away from her but toward the sunset. Meanwhile, his reading chair, nightstands, floor lamps, dresser .... He's avulsed all of them from their normal positions, smashing them into a helter skelter, broken pile along the wall where his bed used to be. On the closest nightstand glints a dusty sheen of white powder, an unfurled-but-curling $100 bill, and a crystal tumbler faintly ringed with amber-colored liquid at the bottom.

"Did you snort something?" she finds herself blurting.

"Rowl?" says the cat, looking up with sleepy green eyes. She's curled up in the blankets near the nape of Lucifer's neck, almost lost in the luxurious sprawl of his heather-gray comforter.

In the ominous, silent stillness, her heart drops out through her stomach.

"Lucifer!"

She darts across the floor, stepping over his sleek, expensive suit, which is crumpled in a forgotten heap on the floor like so much trash, and she jams her knee against the edge of the bed, stretching across empty space. Reaching for him.

His long, dragging inhalation makes her own breath catch.

"Oh," she manages, collapsing onto her butt. She wraps her trembling arms around her midsection. "Oh, God."

"S'only Tic-Tacs, Detective," he mumbles, not turning to face her. "No need to bring Dad into it."

She blinks. "Only Tic-Tacs? Only? Lucifer, that's—"