Just some rambling I dare to call Buck character (development) meta that I literally babbled into my voice recorder on the wya to work after I saw gifs of the ep with the kidnapping and now just transcribed and am posting bc it's my thoughts and they're half coherent
The Diaz boys are his saving grace. Everyone knows it, you might as well have it branded on his forehead. Everyone knows it, the kidnapper knew it, Taylor knows and overyone at the 118 knows it. It's not something that he can hide. He spends all his time at work, always, and the Diaz family, Christopher. And talking about love languages, spending quality time, is obviously Buck's.
Right, where were we. So the Diaz boys, are his saving grace. Everyone knew he lived for them, everyone knew they meant a lot to them. They meant his life, but they still didn't know how much they had saved Buck. And that's where we delved into Buck's past, including BPD again bc I want to, and how he never had anyone to give his life for - except his parents a long time ago, and well, Daniel, without even knowing - but those two are probably what made him feel like he had to give his life, his everything, in order to have a purpose in life. Exchange his life for anything
And then with the sex addiction, basically saying how he just needed to be used so he could feel worthy- not even worthy, just to be alive.
Be worth something because there was no point in anything for him personally, so he had to have some other purpose. For someone else. There was no love there. Ever. Maybe not ever but since he was a child, a teenager, there was no love for himself, no love from others. No love felt, what's it called, usable/computable. He'd been given the wrong fuel, the wrong air to breathe. No oxygen, just poison. Not poison necessarily. Just, unusable, which made him feel like the broken one.
And first, he found the 118, which gave him a purpose and allowed him to give his life, his time - with his time being everything in his life - his whole being, his body. To the job, to everyone else, giving himself worth.
That still wasn't on a personal level. It was only professional level worth, because it was just a job. And the sex was at a personal level with interpersonal relationships, where he also just needed to be worthy. And so, he needed to feel used. It wasn't that he felt love(d). He just couldn't have down time, couldn't be alone with himself because then he wasn't worthy. He needed to useful to someone else. He wasn't looking for love then. There was no there was no confusion about what love is, because he didn't believe in it, not the way others knew of it. But the 118 giving him a purpose gave him more than he had ever had in life.
But he wasn't used to that kind of life, he still had all his harmful way, the self destruction that he had many different areas of this life, but especially with the sex addiction. Letting himself be used by others, being useful, serving a purpose on an interpersonal level. And it was harmful to his performance with the 118, with a healthy life, which is why it qualifies as a sex addiction and not just an active sex life. So it was harmful to his purpose in life. Alone the interpersonal worth would never be enough because in Buck's life people were a very, very fleeting presence. There had to be something greater than those interpersonal connections, which is why he was scouring the world, literally two continents.
So he gave up that interpersonal self destruction so he could be a good firefighter, be useful to the 118 and the City of LA, and have a purpose. And he was managing, but he still hadn't healed yet. So he tried, he was trying to do better and have healthy relationships but he didn't quite know how and that's how he ended up always choosing someone who wanted to use him. That's all he knew. It was the only thing he knew how to respond to. He didn't know how to respond to other kinds of affection. It wasn't something he even knew how to feel the need for, consciously, because he wouldnt allow himself that need. He didn't believe it to be a possibility for him.
And then that's where the Diaz boys came in, where he saw a chance for him to be useful. And he made an impact, because it was something greater because it was what the 118 had been teaching him about friends and family. And family was a the thing he could never quite grasp because didn't understand it. He couldn't understand it because it was always out of reach. It was never something he had with his parents emotionally cut off and Maddie having run away. It was always something beautiful in his mind that he was fighting for but it was never in reach- until the Diaz boys. And Buck wouldn't let that opportunity slip, he just jumped straight in head first, without a second thought. Mindless, adrenaline-junky (aka brave) Buck.
And he was welcomed with open arms because that was exactly what Eddie needed, and exactly what his son needed. And even if Eddie hadn't know he needed it, he knew he had to hold onto it with both hands once he felt it. He could see that Buck kept slipping away because Buck didn't believe he was allowed to have that. He knew how to be useful but he'd never been part of a family like that before, even though he really wanted to. Having that constant, that responsibility, that's love. Maybe. He doesn't know. He's still learning.
So when did Buck know he wanted to become a Diaz. He never quite knew it but he felt that there was a place he could fold himself into. A place where he could be and stay, if he wanted to. A place that accepted him, just as he was.
There's no one instance when he knew he wanted to be a Diaz. He never dared to believe he could, that he was allowed. But he knows he would give eternity to them. And he knows it because he feels himself getting healthier, getting stronger. He starts to become more selfish, or more accurately, find self love, self preservation for his family. Just a little bit.
He wants it to be his family but he doesn't feel like he's allowed. And Eddie keeps telling him "you're allowed to" in many different ways, all kinds of words and forms, until Buck can finally slowly build up to that chapter of his being. Until he creates that new mechanism that will run smoothly.
When he realizes he wants to be a Diaz, he already knows he could be. He knows it to be true in a way that feels like he knew it forever. Because it has been a truth, he just had to grow first. He had to find solid ground first, so that a seed could settle in safely and take root, so he could grow.
So it's not that the Diaz boys give him just a family. They save him from himself.
The thing everyone kinda knows about Buck is that he's his own greatest enemy. But they don't know what that's like. Not really. Being your own greatest enemy in every shape and form, in many different ways that make up his being.
But they see him grow and they know that that never could have happened without Eddie in his life in that moment, right then and there. See it didn't matter that at the time that Eddie needed to grow too. They were so intertwined that they needed each other and grow together to grow individually.
And Eddie wouldn't be a fraction of this Eddie without Christopher, so...
Of course Buck has to be a Diaz.
Thank you for coming to an episode of the all new Buck Talks and keep an eye out for more character discussions and pls excuse my dumbass self
How Chloe Decker Ruined The Greatest Slut of The Universe
Part: 1 / 1
Setting: Post s5, maybe post s6?
Word count: 2.2K
Rating: T
Summary: Lucifer’s thoughts on monogamy have changed over time. Or, how Chloe Decker ruined the Greatest Slut of the Universe.
Author’s note: Thanks for the help on this one! If I’m still a little off canon in some places, I apologise. I tried my best. If it bugs you too much that it doesn’t 100% match what’s implied on the show, you can always consider it an AU.
Lucifer had never seen the point of monogamy. Why limit yourself to one sexual partner when you could have a thousand?
It wasn’t a matter of quantity over quality—Dad no. It was simply a matter of diversity. Variety. No matter how delectable the taste, you wouldn’t stick to one meal for the rest of your life. No matter how sweet the melody, you wouldn’t listen to one song and one song only. Even the most magnificently scored piece of music would eventually tire your ears if it were all you ever heard. So why on Earth would you tie yourself to one person?
He might have understood it if humans were designed to mate for life, like beavers and seahorses, but they weren’t. They were polygamous creatures. And yet so many of them spent every living second obsessing over finding the one. It was untrue to their nature—deviant, really. The saddest part was that once they thought they’d encountered this ‘other half’, they’d chain themselves to the person, restrain themselves. Suppress their innate desires.
Why, oh, why?
The question had struck his mind so many times, most often amid a particularly sinful orgy. Why would you ever abstain from the abundance of pleasure several lovers could give you in return for sporadic and ever-worsening missionary sex with the same person until your dying day?
It had made absolutely no sense to him.
But then he’d met her.
Not that he’d turned monogamist by the mere sight of her (he wasn’t that weak). But it was her acquaintance, all the light and the dark that ensued, which ultimately had made him abandon his philandering. He’d wish he could say it was a conscious choice. It wasn’t. After she’d kissed him that first time (and probably even before that) he just simply hadn’t had the desire to engage in casual sex with strangers. Not that he hadn’t felt desire in any form—had practically been set ablaze with it the moment their lips had touched—but he’d burned for her, and no one else.
And then, before he could even act on this newfound, completely overshadowing, giddying want, the all-destructive revelation had been thrust in his face. That she was nothing but another pawn in his Father’s vexatious game. That she hadn’t kissed him of her own free will. That they weren’t real.
It had felt as if he’d crashed against the sulphurous ground of Hell once again. And his carnal desires had been pushed even further back. If he couldn’t have her—and he couldn’t, because she deserved a choice—he didn’t want anyone. Not even when he’d fled from reality to Sin City had he been tempted to pick up a bed mate or two. Nor had he felt the need to seduce Candy as he’d pretend-married her. No, that little arrangement had primarily, almost solely been to protect Chloe. To give her a choice.
And he’d done just that, as they’d gone back to being friends. Just friends. (For some reason, it had not relieved the ache in his chest, but he’d tried not to dwell on that). And yet, despite their now defined platonic relationship, he still hadn’t resumed his libertine habits. Mainly because he’d been busy sending his mother into another universe, being abducted, cursing his reattached wings, and learning that the new lieutenant was Cain(!). It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to get back to his carefree debauchery. The feathery traitors on his back had just kept getting in the way and ruined the mood.
That, and he hadn’t had quite the same appetite as before. Or perhaps his sexscapades had just become less filling. Either way, the hunger roused by their kiss had still burned inside him—a hunger that couldn’t be sated by one-night stands and sex parties. Because, as reluctant as he’d been to admit it back then, all he’d wanted, all he’d desired, was her.
But she had been forbidden fruit, and for once, he’d refused to bite. For once, something—someone had mattered more to him than his own wants and needs. And so, after a couple of (by his standards) unsatisfying shags, and for the first time in history, he’d had sex with no one but himself. Only accompanied by the ever-fading memory of her mouth on his, and bittersweet fantasies of what could have been.
It’d been rather depressing.
At some point, she had, for some inexplicable reason, started dating Lieutenant Pierce, aka. the world’s first murderer. Consequently, Lucifer had put all his energy into proving to her just how much better than the Murderous Man Ham he was. In addition to providing her with her favourite snacks, buying her a car, and other small acts of kindness, he’d continued to stay abstinent, solo sessions aside. Sleeping around with half of LA didn’t exactly say ‘loyal and devoted’—not to Chloe, at least—and he hadn’t wanted to lose her over meaningless sex. Eventually, he had (with a little help from a friend) realised that it would take more than expensive gifts, decadent dinners, and celibacy to win her over. That he’d have to tell her how he felt about her, instead of telling her how to feel about Pierce. With hope dangerously blooming in his chest, he had gone to finally confess the feelings he’d tried to suppress for so long—only to have an inadequate diamond ring and a quite unexpected ‘yes’ get in the way.
In the throes of jealousy and heartbreak and so many other painful emotions he couldn’t name, he’d started bringing people into his bed again. He’d thought it would help him get over Chloe, or at least keep his mind off her and bring him in a better mood—none of which had been the case, of course. Because all he could think of, as he would lie there, thrusting with as much passion he could muster into his amour d’un jour, was that it wasn’t her. That she’d chosen Pierce—chosen Cain. That he’d had and would have her in ways Lucifer could only dream of.
(And oh, did he dream. To a pathetic degree.)
In spite of the sulky thoughts that had invaded his mind every time he’d been entertaining someone for the night, he had, as always, managed to make all participating parties, himself included, reach their climax—often more than twice. But while they had left his place smiling and satisfied like never before, he’d lied motionless in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling as empty and as starved as he had pre-sex. If not more.
He probably should have realised then that his days as a serial lover were over. Should probably have realised it long before that, actually—say, when an innocent kiss had changed something fundamental inside him. But he hadn’t realised anything. Not then. Not when rekindling his relationship Eve had made him feel oddly guilty. Not when their weekend-long orgies had done nothing to fill the void inside him. Not when he’d found himself alone in the shower, getting off to sappy daydreams rather than the luscious woman waiting in his bed. Not when he’d finally broken up with said woman, and his excessive need for polyphonic stimulation had vanished altogether.
Nor had he realised it any of the times he’d looked at Chloe—when the stars in her eyes and the purity of her soul had taken his breath away. Not when she so openly and without fright had accepted him in his true form. Not when she’d made him see that it wasn’t his true form after all. Not during any of their most tender moments—moments he could only have shared with her. Not when she had felt like home, more than Heaven, Hell or Earth ever had.
Maybe he had started realising it when she between sobs and pleas had declared her love for him. (It was, after all, in that moment he’d realised he loved her in return, and more than he could even begin to understand). But it wasn’t then, and it wasn’t there, it had finally dawned upon him—that Detective Chloe Decker had ruined the First and Greatest Slut of the Universe.
No, the ultimate epiphany had come to him far, far away from her soft lips and her warm heart. Had first come to him when he’d let himself fall and sat in the throne he’d never wanted. Tortured by her absence for millennia on end. For it was there, amongst ashes and demons and scum, in the blackness of the abyss, deprived of her light, that he’d felt it. An all-encompassing desire, a scorching, excruciating longing to be with her. And only her.
It had been the single saddest case of Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
And fonder it had grown. For each day he spent in Hell without her, each year, each century, it only became all the more clear—crystalline, eventually, glowing brightly in the black smog: He loved her. Exclusively, absolutely, and unconditionally.
Still does.
And even more so now. Now that he knows the feeling of her skin against his, and that she always vacuum-cleans to Spice Girls. Knows just how loud she snores, and what her naked body looks like in the sunlight. Now that he knows she kisses (far) better than she cooks, but that she’s no stranger to fixing a leaking pipe. Knows that it takes four tequila shots to get her horny and two glasses of red wine to have her falling asleep on the couch. Knows how she’ll toss and turn in bed when there’s a killer on the loose, and the peace on her face when they’ve put one behind bars. Now that he knows what makes her gasp in pleasure and what makes her cry with laughter. What makes her roll her eyes, and what makes her stomp out of the room. Knows the sound of her ‘good morning, baby’, and her ‘sleep well, honey’. The sound of her ‘I love you’ murmured against his lips.
Now that he knows her—truly knows her—he can do nothing but love her more with each passing hour.
And the best part is, she seems to feel the same way about him.
What a lucky bastard that makes him.
Because it was luck that brought them together. Not Dad’s will. He knows that now. Yes, she would never have existed had it not been for his Father’s divine intervention, but He didn’t create her from his ribs or code her to love him. As opposed to what Lucifer had thought for so long, they’re not made for each other, not like that. The fact that she met Lucifer? Definitely Dad’s plan. But that she let him into her life? Into her heart? Now, that she can only blame herself for.
Lucifer blames her too—has questioned her judgement many times over the years, but always with an impossible amount of gratitude. Despite… everything, she chose him. They chose each other.
He still doesn’t understand the whole soulmate-thing humans are so keen on (why praise your free will only to romanticise the idea of a predetermined partner?), but he can’t deny that he sees it now, the point of monogamy. It’s not that you can’t live without the person, or that you feel obliged to be with them until death do you part. It’s not about containing desires.
No, it’s about not wanting to live without this someone.
And, much to his surprise, sex has very little to do with it. If he ever had to choose between having the best sex of his life every day or always being in Chloe’s company but never getting laid, his balls would be bluer than all smurfs combined. And he’d still be the happiest Devil alive.
Fortunately, he gets both her company and the best sex of his life. But it’s not the incredible orgasms that keep him higher than any party drug ever did. It’s merely being near her. The closeness. The trust. The love.
He wouldn’t trade that— wouldn’t trade her for anything. (Not even a ménage à trois with Aphrodite and Marilyn.)
Once he realised that, it had only taken him two years to act on it. First, he’d sat down and had a short but heartfelt conversation with Beatrice. When that went well, he’d visited his old sparkly friends in the sky, for the first time since he formed them, and carefully picked the tiniest bit off the Brightest of them all.
And now, he’s finally making his way up the coast to the beach—the beach—as a fragment of his dearest star twinkles brighter than ever inside the gold ring nestled against his fluttering heart.
For years, his innermost desire has been to spend every day with her and do his absolute best to make her happy. He not only knows but feels that there is no one else for him. That they are, in the most beautiful and incredible way possible, stuck with each other; they might as well make it official.
If she says yes, that is.
Edit: I have come to realise that I probably should have given @thewollfgang some credit for the idea about the ring. I am truly in love with their ‘Ring’-fic, and I’m not sure I would have gotten the idea of Lucifer putting a star in Chloe’s ring if I hadn’t read their fic. And now that I just read it again, I realise that the ring being in Lucifer’s breast pocket also is heavily inspired by the same fic. So, lots of credit to the absolutely amazing @thewollfgang on this one.
OK may it's cheesy because Disney but looking for songs for Buddie post 5a (am making playlist) and, um, Descendants 2 Space between.
One has to go, one has to say and it's hurting like hell but neither will ask the other to sacrifice for them. They'll always be a part of each other. It's meant to be a best friend's story but I always felt it was shippy
Planning a Hell of a Wedding | ✓ choosing a mode of transportation
Drabble 07 / ?
Setting: Sometime after s5
Word count: 530
Rating: M
Summary of the series: The Devil and the Detective make their way through the wedding planning checklist. One is more passionate about it than the other. (Works as a sequel to this fic.)
Author’s note: I believe we're still at a T-rating for this one, but if I'm wrong, please let me know! I'm finding it hard to find the line between T and M. Edit: It has been brought to my attention that we’re closer to an M-rating than a T.
Read it on Ao3
‘So, I was thinking, rows of six on either side of the aisle, piano to the right, a little in front of the arch, and then, when the whole ‘until death do us part’-spectacle is over, we’ll ride off to the venue in my white Alfa. Or would you prefer the red Aston?’ Lucifer comes out of their bathroom as he talks, drying his damp hair with a towel—and naked as the day he was formed. Droplets still cling to his bare skin, which is distracting enough in itself, but it’s something else that makes Chloe’s breath hitch and her mind go blank.
‘My eyes are up here, Detective.’
He sounds almost offended, but—even as the sight of him has entranced her—Chloe can tell he’s feigning it; he’s more than delighted seeing her react like this.
‘This’ meaning her staring at… at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.
‘Detective.’
Chloe reluctantly looks up at his face, too shocked (and too aroused) to be embarrassed. He looks back at her, half-peeved and half-amused. She clears her throat.
‘I’m sorry, you’re just, uh, making it… well, hard, to concentrate,’ she tells him, and if her eyes flicker down to the distraction she’s referring to, it’s not on purpose.
Looking down at himself, Lucifer raises an eyebrow as if he’d been oblivious to the state of his own body until this point.
‘Oh, I see,’ he murmurs with a smirk, but doesn’t wrap the towel around his waist or pick up a pair of boxers. Instead, he throws the towel in the hamper and just… stands there. But naked and fully-
‘Care to hold that thought, darling?’ he asks her, catching her (no doubt, hungry) gaze. There’s a glint in his eye, that tells her he thoroughly enjoys it, getting her all one-track-minded. But then his expression turns serious. ‘Now tell me, white Alfa or red Aston?’ He pads over to their (ridiculously large) bed and lies down on his side beside her, casually striking a pose—hand on his hip and one knee slightly bent. ‘Which would you like for our first ride together as newlyweds?’ His brown eyes twinkle and he looks so innocent the contrast to her dirty thoughts is almost comical.
‘Lucifer,’ she breathes, her eyes gliding down his body—his perfect, hard, naked body—and back up to his face, ‘I think you know what I’d like to ride.’
It’s so predictable and so blunt and so not something she’d normally say—but it’s been over a week(!) and he’s being unusually and frustratingly blind to her desires.
He looks confused for a second, his dark brows furrowing, and his cluelessness is so adorably out-of-character for him she wants to kiss him. But she doesn’t. Not yet, at least.
With a light push, she makes him lie flat on his back, and even as she hoists up her oversized t-shirt and straddles him, he looks up at her like he has no idea what’s going on—but he’s definitely not one to stop her. Then she sinks down over him, and realisation erupts from his parted lips in a pleased and throaty ‘oh’.
Planning a Hell of a Wedding | ✓ finding an officiant
Drabble 06 / ?
Setting: Sometime after s5
Word count: 420
Rating: G
Summary of the series: The Devil and the Detective make their way through the wedding planning checklist. One is more passionate about it than the other. (Works as a sequel to this fic.)
Author’s note: The Deckerstar fluff is a little more indirect in this one, but you do get to see how completely smitten™ Lucifer is.
‘And you’re okay with this?’ Amenadiel asks, puzzled by his brother’s request.
‘What? Yes, of course, I am.’ Lucifer looks over at him with furrowed brows. ‘I wouldn’t be asking you if I wasn’t, now would I?’ He scoffs as he puts the tumbler to his lips and takes a swig.
‘I guess not.’
They both lean against the railing again, involuntarily mirroring each other. Below them, golden city lights brighten the dark sky and hide away the stars. Amenadiel regards his brother’s side profile for a brief second, sips his own drink, and gazes out at the night again, a smile on his face. ‘I just never saw it coming that my rebellious little brother would want God’s favourite son officiating his wedding.’
He senses Lucifer’s annoyed stare boring into his side. In contrast to his request, it’s comically predictable. As are the unholy words that follow, spat in (deliberately) poorly pronounced Enochian. ‘And don’t flatter yourself,’ Lucifer adds as an afterthought to his name-calling. ‘You’re simply the least intolerable option; anyone calling himself “Father” is an absolute no-go.’ He studies the liquor in his hand for a second before melancholically remarking, ‘Well, maybe except for Father Frank, if he’d still been around.’ He sighs, smiles wistfully, and continues in a lighter tone, ‘But he’s not. And I don’t want some rando pronouncing us devil and wife.’
‘You want someone who knows you,’ Amenadiel concludes.
Lucifer glances at him and nods, reluctantly.
‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ Amenadiel finally says, like it’s no big deal and not at all a truly great honour to be the one uniting Chloe and Lucifer (Chloe and Lucifer!) in the bonds of holy matrimony. ‘But only because I deeply admire your choice of wife.’
‘Well, who else would I choose?’ Lucifer half-jokes back, his eyes twinkling. He downs the rest of his drink, stares out over the city, and releases an unmistakably happy sigh. When he speaks again, his voice is more serious, emotional—warm and smooth with love. ‘You know, there truly is no one I’d rather spend my life with.’
Amenadiel can't help but chuckle at that. ‘Oh, I know, Lucy. We all know.’ He takes a couple of steps closer to his brother, along the railing. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure you were the last person in the universe to find that out.’
Lucifer looks at him, snorts, and utters that same profane term as he did before. Except this time, the tone it’s spoken in makes it sound almost endearing.
The elevator dings as Lucifer reaches the penthouse. ‘And the Devil’s back! I found your breakfast burritos and now a guy owes me a favour, so all in all, a successful trip,’ he tells her as he takes off his jacket and places it on the bar. With Chloe’s breakfast in hand, he turns towards his sofa to grin at her, only to discover she isn’t lying there, closer to ‘naked’ than ‘dressed’, like she was when he left to fetch her some food.
‘Detective?’ he calls out, walking up the steps to his bedroom. The bed is empty apart from the crumbled black silk sheets and her bra. His heart starts drumming a little faster against his ribcage.
‘Detective, where are you?’ His voice is rough and squeaky, the words almost resonating off the walls in the silent penthouse. Much too silent.
He starts searching the entire place, looking for signs of struggle and clues that’ll show him which one of his wretched siblings has kidnapped her this time. After investigating the living room and balcony thoroughly, turning every piece of furniture, looking behind every curtain, he goes back to his bedroom to check if she’s miraculously popped up. When she (still) isn’t under the bed, he’s inflamed, his annoyance and anxiety building into infernal heat, spreading through his body like a wildfire. ‘Detective, I swear to you, I will punish whoever-’
‘Lucifer, calm down,’ he suddenly hears her say, her voice muffled. The sound has relief washing over him, calming down his blazing body. ‘I’m in here.’
As he realises she’s in the bathroom, he hurriedly strides down the hall, presses his body to the door, and yanks down the handle. It’s locked. Panic still hot in his throat, he clenches his hand around the gold, ready to break in when she snaps at him from behind the door. ‘Jesus, Lucifer, what have I told you about privacy?!’
He wants to comment on her choice of exclamation, but something in her voice stops him. ‘Right. Sorry, Detective.’ He puts a hand on the door, tenderly. ‘I just- Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she assures him, still a little peeved. ‘Could you just do something for me, please?’
‘Anything your heart desires,’ he says with a grin, the last embers of fear now put out by the sound of her slightly annoyed (and thus natural) voice.
‘Well, I really desire that you find my purse and bring it to me. I think I put it on the bar.’
He frowns, thinking. ‘Uhm, no. You didn’t. In fact, it’s not anywhere in the penthouse, I’m afraid.’
‘Wha- You already looked?’ she asks, surprised.
‘Well, technically, yes.’
He hears her mutter something along the lines of ‘what does that even mean?’ before she, quite sceptically, asks, ‘Are you sure? Lucifer, I’m not in the mood for pranks right now.’
When are you ever? he thinks, still disappointed she didn’t appreciate his creativity last time he tried to lighten the mood. But he’s not looking to rouse her now, so he tells her the truth, hoping it will allay her annoyance, inexplicable as he finds it. ‘If you really must know, I spent five full minutes searching the entire place for signs that you’d been hurt by one of my pathetic relatives, so yes, Detective, I am pretty damn sure your little too big and quite mum-ish bag isn’t here,’ he tells her. He hears her grunt a profanity he’s only ever heard her moan ecstatically in the throes of passion; now it’s laced with frustration and despair. Something is going on with her, and he needs to figure out what it is before she ruins more of his favourite words.
‘Why on Earth do you need your rucksack in my bathroom anyway?’
‘It’s not a rucksack,’ she tells him.
‘Ah, nice try! But I will not let you deflect my truly relevant question. What is it you need, Detective?’ He tries again, more inquisitively this time.
No answer.
His brow creases with worry and the slightest hint of an ache settles in his chest. ‘What’s going on?’
Several heart beats pass. He tries to remain patient but after seven seconds, his hands are banging on the door and yanking down the antique French handle aggressively. ‘Detective, let me in please! Did you use the razor Maze made you? I told you not to do that! Are you hurt? Did you trip? Do you have a nosebleed? Dearie me, did you get yourself poisoned again? I- Just please tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is, I want to help,’ he says, his voice going softer towards the end. With anyone else, he’s not easily alarmed, but the Devil’s girlfriend does tend to get herself into danger a little more often than the average person.
He hears her sigh, short and sharply. ‘If you want to help me, you need to calm down,’ she tells him in the same slow and placid voice she uses on people who are bold enough to point a gun at her. ‘I’m fine.’
He takes a deep, shaky breath, her words easing his nerves a little.
‘Then why are you acting so… strange? And why in Dad’s name are you hiding in my bathroom? I mean, bloody hell, Detective, I was mere seconds from filing an MPR!’
She snorts, murmuring something about a drama queen. Then silence. A deep breath.
‘Well,’ she finally says, still an annoyed edge to her tone. ‘‘Bloody hell’ is not that far off, actually.’
He knits his brow. ‘Excuse me?’
She sighs deeply behind the door. ‘It’s just, uhm, you know… lady stuff.’
He blinks, dumbfounded.
‘Oh,’ is what he replies.
He would tease her about the euphemism, pretend he doesn’t understand, but he understands. He understands everything. Thinking back to the night before, he remembers her acting a little oddly then as well - giggly and gleeful one moment, fractious and bitter the next. He’d blamed it on her tipsiness, but now that he thinks about it, and does the math, she did take him hostage on a similar emotional rollercoaster ride, one, two, three, circa four weeks ago. And, yes, four weeks before that, too. The first time, he’d thought it was the stress from having her mother stay over for the urchin’s birthday. The second time, he’d indicted the particularly troubling case they’d been working. But it hadn’t (solely) been Penelope Decker nor a frustrating and possibly record-breaking number of dead ends that had made the Detective chaotically jump around the emotional spectrum to the point he’d worried she was suffering from a light personality disorder. No, apparently, it was the tiny rascals known to humans as ‘hormones’ who’d been wreaking havoc in her brain, manipulating her emotions – then and now.
He hasn’t uttered anything apart from the one (cleverly phrased) syllable since the revelation, and she must interpret his silence as lack of comprehension, because she begins to explain the bloody thing: ‘You know, when a woman-’
‘Yes, thank you, Detective, I am familiar with the concept of menstruation. Quite popular method of torture in Hell, actually,’ he informs her, cutting her biology lesson short.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, surprisingly, it’s mostly-’
‘That was a rhetorical- Never mind.’
He hears more than just annoyance in her voice now; she’s in pain. His chest aches again. ‘Is something wrong? I mean, I have met a lot of women whose deepest desires were to be knocked out cold during Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but at least we know for certain there isn’t a mini-Satan inside you, ravaging your uterus,’ he points out in an attempt to cheer her up. It’s mostly a joke, because it shouldn’t be possible—isn’t possible—and yet a part of him is still exceedingly relieved that she, after three weeks of thoroughly unprotected (and sinfully delectable) sex with him, isn’t carrying, well, the Devil’s spawn.
‘Kinda feels like someone’s ravaging my uterus,’ she says with a groan. His heart starts pounding, hard and deafening. Dark spots appear before his eyes as blood leaves his head.
‘I- that’s not- what?’
‘No, Lucifer. Relax. I’m not pregnant.’ She tries to sound mild and calm, but he can tell she’s aggravated, and horribly pained. ‘It’s just cramps.’
‘Oh, right,’ he mumbles, a full-blown panic attack officially averted. Still, something in her voice makes his teeth grit and his eyes flare red. He wants to punish whatever in her body is putting her through such… torture, wants to torture it back. Or, since he can’t really do that, just have a quick chat with his father and whoever assisted him in designing the inhumanly excruciating menstrual cramps. (And humans think the Devil is the one who’s truly evil.) But he realises a family discussion might not actually help his suffering Detective right now, so instead he wills his voice to sound calm and asks her, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
As he waits, quite impatiently, for her answer, he pulls out his phone and googles ‘what to do when your girlfriend’s surfing the crimson wave.’ He’s about to tap on the top hit when she replies, ‘Uhm, well, yes, there is, actually.’ Her words both surprise and delight him. He loves to feel needed.
‘Lovely! Whatever you need, I’m here to fix it as your very own PA.’ He puts his phone back, letting his hand stay in his pocket, and clarifies, ‘Period Assistant.’ As usual, she rudely ignores his clever play on words.
‘Okay, I just need to know if you have any… stuff? Like, maybe Eve had a stash somewhere?’
‘Stuff?’ he asks, beyond clueless as to what she’s hinting at.
‘Yeah, you know-’ she starts explaining when he interrupts her, suddenly remembering. ‘Well, come to think of it, Eve did indeed have a stash!’
‘She did?’ She sounds relieved, and it makes his heart flutter a little. ‘Do you know where? ‘Cause I searched all your cabinets, but I couldn’t find anything.’
‘Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s in my bookshelf,’ he says, already turning to go find it. ‘Would you prefer marijuana or molly?’
‘For God’s sake, Lucifer!’ she screams behind him, the door between them doing very little to lower the sound. ‘I don’t need freaking party drugs! This,’ she says, breathing angrily. A couple of seconds pass. ‘This is what I need.’
A tissue slides out under the door. With a raised eyebrow, he bends down to pick it up and sees that she’s scribbled some words on it with what appears to be an eyeliner. He doesn’t know what any of them mean. Well, ‘ibuprofen’ and ‘don’t be an ass’ he understands, but the rest are foreign to him.
‘Right, are these strippers’ names, or…? I think I’ve made a deal with an Always once, actual-’
‘They’re feminine hygiene products, Lucifer! I need feminine hygiene products! I want you to go buy me a whole lot I can leave in here, so I’ll never need to have this conversation ever again!’ she shouts, fuming all of a sudden. ‘So go out, and get me some tampons and pads—and that’s pads with wings! ‘Cause I swear to God, Lucifer, if you come back with pads that do not have wings, I might actually cut off your d-’
‘Yes, we get the picture, Detective!’ he cuts her off, chuckling nervously. It’s not that he hasn’t experienced his partner pissed before (he calls it Tuesday as a matter of fact), but she’s never threatened to mutilate him. ‘Whatever you need,’ he appeases her, his voice sweet and velvety. ‘Anything else?’ He reads the list she has given him, carefully paying attention to every request this time. ‘Right, ibuprofen for the- yes, your cramps. I’m afraid I’ve run out, but I’m sure I can get some wherever I’ll find,’—he squints his eyes to focus on the words — ‘Always ultra thin super long pads with flexie-wings and… Tampax pearl compak super. I mean, who the Hell names these things? Not that it matters, of course. If that’s what you need, that’s what you’ll get,’ he assures her.
As he studies her order closely one more time, his stomach growls and he realises that neither of them has eaten anything yet. He immediately offers to bring her breakfast to her; surely, her body needs alle the strength it can get to overcome whatever unpleasant side-effects other than dysmenorrhea his oh, so benevolent father has so generously granted the female population of the Earth.
‘Yes, please,’ she croaks meekly behind the door in response to his offer. ‘That would be nice.’
He goes to retrieve the burritos from atop the piano where he’d dropped them in the haste of his search. Once he’s back with them, he—gently—knocks on the door. After a couple of seconds, he hears the key turn before she opens the door just enough to reach out her arm through the crack. He’s about to give her the branded paper bag, when he thinks twice of it and instead takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers. Softly, he strokes the back of her hand and pulls it lightly, prompting her to come out. When she opens the door a little more, the sight that greets him stings his heart. Exhaustion has coloured the skin beneath her eyes purple and her usually ocean blue eyes a matte grey. Her posture is oddly sunken, like she wants to curl into a ball, and her chest heaves as she breathes heavily. She looks truly miserable, and yet she’s still a sight for sore eyes, as she stands there, wearing one of his white Prada shirts and…
‘Are those… my boxers?’ he asks her with a raised eyebrow and a pleased smile. She looks down to where his eyes have just landed. ‘Well, yeah, I couldn’t- my own underwear…,’ she trails off. ‘I’ve lined them with paper towels, just so I don’t, you know. I hope it’s okay.’ She looks strangely sheepish. He leans over to place a kiss on her forehead. ‘Oh, it’s more than okay. It’s sexy,’ he tells her with a grin. ‘And quite cute, to be frank.’
She chuckles, replacing the ache in his chest with a pleasant, buzzing warmth. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word “cute” before,’ she points out, looking up at him through her long eyelashes as she leans her forehead against his. He notices the hint of a smile on her lips, and his own smile grows wider. ‘Well, you’ve never worn my underwear before,’ he reminds her, nuzzling her nose. ‘Mmm, that is true.’ Her voice is nothing but a whisper as she leans just an inch forward to get a kiss from him, which he happily he gives her.
‘Why don’t you draw yourself a nice, hot bath,’ he proposes, booping her nose. Then an image from Jaws invades his mind, and warily, but with a glint in his eyes, he adds, ‘Unless that would make a true bloodbath.’ She pulls away from him, slowly but purposefully. Untangling their hands, she crosses her arms across her chest (he tries not to notice how it makes her cleavage deliciously peek out behind his hardly buttoned shirt). She glares at him with a look which, historically, means they will be communicating exclusively in scoffs, snorts, death stares and well, I am truly sorry for whatever it is I’ve done but can we please forget about it and go back to being a dynamic duo’s the rest of the day. With a short yet undoubtedly disapproving shake of her head, she snatches the breakfast bag from his hand before slamming the door in his face. ‘Detective, I-’ he stammers as the gush of air hits his front, possibly making his yet to be tamed bed hair look even more scandalous.
He hears the rustling and crinkling of paper as she takes out her breakfast. ‘List,’ she demands sharply with her mouth full—and not in the way that had him gripping the sheets till his knuckles turned white last night. By the sound of her voice, he’ll need to do right by her if he wishes to ever experience that again.
‘Yes, darling, I’ll do nothing but my best,’ he promises her, casting a last glance at the list in question before folding it neatly into his pocket. He starts walking down the hall when the sound of his name makes him turn on his heels to face the door. He senses another reprimand and braces himself, softly offering a simple ‘Detective?’ in response.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice is sweet and apologetic, all aggravation suddenly gone.
‘What on-’ he mumbles under his breath, completely bewildered by her emotional U-turn. He’s wise enough not to comment on it, however, smiles instead, glad he can be of use, and playfully, yet still in a tone that assures her he means no harm, says, ‘Well, it’s the least I can do for my menstruating partner.’
‘Please stop saying “menstruating”,’ she tells him between bites, sounding a little brassed off again. He considers asking her why but decides against it, responding with a simple ‘Noted’ instead.
He hears the shower start running and decides to depart, wanting to be back before she’s done. ‘Alright then, off I go on my quest!’ he sings out, hoping it’s loud enough for her to hear over the shower spray, but the water stops and she calls out a ‘what?’. She has probably already stepped into the shower cabin, adorning his bathroom with all her wet and naked glory. Oh, to be a marble tile on the wall, getting an unobstructed view of her exquisite br-
‘Did you say something, honey?’ she calls again when he hasn’t replied. It’s not the first time she uses the term of endearment, but it still makes warmth pool low in his stomach. He’s so smitten—not a cell in his body can deny that anymore. Especially not the part of his body that’s currently straining his tailored slacks.
He clears his throat and shamelessly adjusts himself.
‘Hm? No, I was just announcing my exit. Try not to bleed to death while I’m gone, will you?’
‘I can’t- That’s not possi-’ she stammers behind him as he makes his way to the elevator, grabbing his jacket as he walks past the bar. Before she can finish whatever protest she’s trying to enounce, he’s already in the elevator, sending a text to Linda:
What in the ever-living Hell does ‘pads with wings’ mean?
okay okay but IS THAT LYDIA LYING THERE ON THE SLAB HEAD BLEEDING WITH THE POWER DRILL BY HER HAND???? i mean i know we know what’s gonna happen but this is somehow a little rude, no?
