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Lucifer is still not used to the sight that greets him as he skips down the few steps to his living room, towel wrapped around his waist.
For five years, he’s come down to a lover sprawled out on his sofa waiting for the tenth round, or passed out party guests scattered around empty glasses and sex toys. Sometimes, he’s come down to a feisty (and/or horny) demon, or the greatest mood killer in the universe, otherwise known as his brother. More often than not, he’s come down to no one, just his collection of hand-picked liquor and the most beautiful instrument money can buy.
But this morning—like most other mornings these past few weeks—the sight that greets him is Chloe Decker enjoying her morning coffee on one of his bar stools.
A lovely blush creeps up her cheeks when she sees him—or his bare chest, rather. She tries to hide it behind her mug, but he catches it, and smirks.
“Good morning, Detective,” he greets her, eyes lingering on her as he strides over to the bar to get a drink.
“Good morning, Lucifer.” Her voice is a little raspy with sleep, yet still soft somehow.
Lucifer reaches for a glass and a bottle, planning on pouring himself two fingers of whiskey when he spots something sitting on the bar out of the corner of his eye: A steaming mug of coffee.
He looks at it with a frown, then glances back at the Detective to confirm that, yes, she is already drinking coffee, then looks back at the mug again. It’s black coffee. The Detective takes hers with milk (and sugar, but it’s not her fault she has an uncultivated palate).
“Rough night?” he asks her, nodding to the mug as he pours whiskey into his glass.
She looks up from the newspaper she’s reading as he turns around to face her. “Hm? Oh, no, that’s for you.”
Lucifer stills. He looks at the steaming mug again, then back to the Detective. “You… You made me coffee?”
The Detective takes a sip of her own. “Yeah, I heard you were in the shower and thought I’d make a cup for you too.”
Lucifer blinks. She made him coffee.
“Something wrong?” she asks when he hasn’t moved for a few seconds, her brow furrowed in confusion.
He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say. No one has ever made him coffee before. People make him come, they don’t make him coffee. They don’t even make coffee for themselves; they pick up their clothes and make their exit—on wobbly legs and with a blissful smile—before anyone can say the word “breakfast”. And he doesn’t mind that; it suits him perfectly, in fact.
So what’s that strange, warm sensation doing in his chest now?
“Lucifer, if you don’t want coffee, it’s fine, I’ll just-”
“No!” he rushes to say, surprising both himself and the Detective. He clears his throat and goes to adjust his cuffs, but remembers he’s shirtless and lets his hands fall awkwardly to his side instead. “I mean, I would very much like coffee.”
“Oh-kay.” Her tone and the look in her eyes tell him she thinks he’s being weird, but for once, he doesn’t blame her. He is being weird. Why is he being weird?
He only realises he’s still standing frozen in place and staring at the Detective when she looks up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Right,” he mumbles, putting the untouched whiskey back down on the bar and reaching for the mug of coffee. It’s still hot, but not too hot, pleasantly warm against his hand. Its aroma wafts up under his nose, dark and caramelised and perfectly bitter—freshly brewed. It fills him with an odd, but not unpleasant sense of… something, the thought of her pulling two mugs out of his cupboard and using his French press.
He takes a sip and glances at her, careful not to stare. Her hair is a little messy, in a way he can’t help but find sort of adorable, falling loose and long over her washed out *NSYNC t-shirt. Her feet are bare, revealing (to his surprise) her red-painted toe nails, but her legs are tragically covered—in flannel trousers, no less.
“You’re staring,” she tells him, not even looking up from the paper, and though he tried not to, he probably is. But he can’t help it. Because people don’t make coffee for the Devil, and they don’t stay at his place for three weeks, or roll their eyes when he suggests they have sex. And when he asks them what they desire, they don’t answer, what kind of weird question is that?
But Chloe Decker does.
And Lucifer can’t help but wonder why.
Why is she different? Why does it… make him feel things ?
“Lucifer.”
He blinks and meets her gaze. “Apologies, Detective.” He gives her a small smirk and takes another sip of his coffee as he goes to stand in front of her. “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure.” She puts the paper to the side and rests her elbows on the table, cupping her mug in both hands, as he sits down in front of her.“I mean, it is your place, after all.”
Her smile is teasing, in such a lovely way it stirs something within him, something not exclusively carnal. Her eyes are shining, clear and pale blue, reminding him of the ocean the day he washed up on the beach and set himself free.
“I suppose it is,” he smiles, not knowing what else to say. She smiles back at him, and then her gaze slips down to his naked chest. He arches a brow and opens his mouth, but before he can make a comment, she tells him to shut up, her cheeks a delightful shade of pink.
He grins and mimes zipping his mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away the key. It makes the Detective roll her eyes, even as her lips tug up at the side, and, inexplicably, that makes Lucifer smile, again. He smiles a lot in her presence. It’s a little strange, actually. And yet, as they sit there across from each other, smiling and drinking their morning coffee, all he can think is, I could get used to this.
But, as he lifts said coffee, the coffee she made for him, to his lips, and his eyes fall on the paper next to her, when he sees it’s open on apartment listings—he has to remind himself not to get too used to it.