Chapter Text
Lucifer Morningstar’s life is great.
Hell is far behind him and though Amenadiel is a constant pain in the arse trying to make his retirement as unpleasant and short lived as angelically possible, Los Angeles has become his new home.
Today has turned out to be particularly good.
A Neapolitan trio of Brittanies is sandwiching his body. A blonde to the right, a brunette to the left, a redhead down below. There’s a half smoked joint waiting on his bedside table, and an entire buffet of the finest Mexican cuisine ready to be devoured after the Brittanies.
When the last of his lovers is dragging herself out of his bed, leaving with a smile and one of his shirts turned dress, Lucifer sighs contentedly, stretching. A shower first, he decides, then the Mexican. Maybe he’ll invite Mazikeen up. Maybe not. Maybe he’ll go check on Lux first.
After washing off any remnants of Brittany fluids, Lucifer heads into his wardrobe, running his hand across the fabric, trying to find one that appeals. Prada, he thinks.
While buttoning up his shirt, Lucifer heads to the bar. His smooth humming echoes around the room, as he reaches for a glass—
Someone clears their throat. A strange noise. Foreign. Alien.
Lucifer turns around.
A human child stands in front of his elevator, barely tall enough to peek over his bar.
Shock washes over him, his mouth agape. “What is the meaning of this?”
The child smiles widely, showing off her teeth. Or rather, lack thereof. “Hi, I’m Trixie,” she grins, all pink gums. “And you’re my daddy.”
Lucifer blinks. Then laughs. Is Mazikeen trying her hand at humor again? Well, at least there’s no blood to clean up this time. “Very funny. Wherever did Maze pick you up, little stray? Are your parents nearby?”
She frowns. “That’s mean. I’m not a stray. And you’re nearby.”
He tilts his head, not sensing any dishonesty in her voice. Lucifer is many things, a father he is not. Can’t be. “I’m afraid you’re at the wrong address, Crotchling. There’s is one thing I will thank God for and that is the inability to procreate with humans.”
The child tilts her head the opposite way. “What does procreate mean?”
“Ask your mother.” Assuming there is one.
In any case — not his problem. Scoffing, he surveys his collection of whiskies. Desperate times call for desperate measures; perhaps it’s time to pop open the Bruichladdich.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the child creeping up on him, pigtails bobbing.
“I know you’re,” the child leans forward, continuing in a whisper, “the Devil.”
“Ah. Well. Congratulations. Or condolences. Whichever pleases you.” And gets rid of you.
The child giggles. “You’re funny.”
“And you’re not. Any child of mine would be, however. Meaning, you are not my brood.”
“Mommy says I’m funny.”
“She’s lying.”
“Mommy doesn’t lie.”
Lucifer scoffs once more. “A bold statement. I do not lie. Humans though? Lie all the time. I suggest you get used to it.” He pauses. There is no doubt he is not the spawn’s father. Not only is he simply not capable of such a thing biologically, but also, he would not abandon a child. Not even one as slow as this one. Has one of his past lovers gotten confused? “Who is your mother, child? Perhaps I do know her.”
She blinks up at him through dark lashes. A tragic attempt at puppy eyes. “I don’t wanna say.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’re going to call her.”
He sighs. “Is she a good mother?”
She nods aggressively. “She’s the best mommy. I made her a mug that says so. She even took it to work to show it to everyone.”
“Lovely story,” Lucifer snarks and from the way her smile deepens, the sarcasm goes entirely over her head. “I was simply asking because I'm certain she's currently very concerned about your whereabouts.”
A flash of guilt crosses her face, before she raises her chin. At least the little thing is aware of the mayhem she’s causing. “I’m a big girl,” the child argues. “If a bad person wants to take me, I kick them in the no-no-touch-touch square.”
“Dearie me,” he sighs, “you’re certainly not the pinnacle of eloquence.” Fierce, at least. Lucifer bends down a little, staring at the girl. How old could she be? Four? Five? “How old are you?”
She grins. “I’m seven.”
Seven? He did visit Earth approximately eight years ago before Amenadiel had booted him back. Analyzing her features, Lucifer tries to find similarities. It’s still, of course, completely irrelevant; he certainly is not the father, but perhaps he could at least identify the mother, so she can tend to her stray spawn.
Dimples dent the side of her cheeks and her dark eyes do look familiar, but the rest? He’s not certain. She’s barely out of the womb yet, her face is too underdeveloped.
“Right, well, I am truly sorry your father has abandoned you; believe me, I am more than acquainted with that concept. Unfortunately, I cannot help you. So, it’d be best if you just,” he waves, “go back to where you came from.”
Turning back to the bar, he reaches for the decanter, pouring himself a generous heaping. When Lucifer dares to peek behind him, the child is still there, rocking on her feet. He makes another shooing motion toward the elevator.
The child worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “There’s a thing.”
“A thing?” He looks her up and down, reluctantly sniffs the air. “Have you soiled yourself?”
“No, silly,” she giggles, but the brief spout of happiness is over before it can flourish. She shifts awkwardly. “On my back.”
“A thing? On your back?” Bloody hell, she’s clearly not the brightest. Has to come from the mother.
She nods. “Mommy hasn’t seen it yet. I think she’d be scared. That’s why I had to come look for you.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about and I don’t think this is of any interest to me.” The child scoffs, rolling her eyes. He raises a brow. “You’ve got quite the attitude, missy.”
“And you sound like mom.”
“Do not.”
“Do.”
Lucifer rolls his eyes, sighing. There’s no use in trying to communicate with the wretched little thing.
The Urchin squints, puffing her cheeks. She’s… pushing?
“You better not be in the process of soiling yourself either,” Lucifer manages to press out. Is she not even housebroken? Bloody hell.
Before he can rush to the bathroom to organize towels to contain any potential mess, a sudden burst of white fills his vision.
Two gleaming white wings droop from the child’s back, far too large for her body. Tangled primaries brush his marble floor on one side. The other she can barely hold up. The light of Creation shines between her feathers.
“See,” she says, chin raised in defiance, “I told you you’re my daddy.”
Lucifer bears many titles; Lord of Hell, Satan, Beelzebub, Old Scratch. ‘Dad’ is not, can not be among those.
The winged Urchin in front of him might challenge that fact.
“They hurt and itch,” the child mumbles. “And I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t wanna scare Mommy.”
Lucifer downs his whiskey. This is a blatant manipulation from his Father. What’s the end goal here? Make him see how difficult it is to be a decent parent? Make him abandon a child like he was abandoned? It’s all too bloody much. The only reason he's not erupting in bitter laughter or screaming at the sky is the alcohol in his mouth.
“You look like you’re going to be sick.”
He swallows thickly. He feels like he’s going to be sick. The world spins. His head is both filled to the brim and as empty as the Urchin’s.
“Maybe you should sit down,” she continues, then plops down on her butt too, right in the middle of his living room. The wings. They’re too heavy.
And they look like his.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
Muscles twitch on his back, but for him, there’s nothing to unfurl anymore. Unwillingly, images force their way into his mind. The Urchin, trying to cut off her own wings. The blood, the pain. He clutches the bar counter.
“Well,” Lucifer manages to say eventually, “I am sorry. No doubt this is some sort of play, some sort of manipulation, but for what it’s worth, I truly regret your involvement in it.”
The child shrugs. “I like them, when they don't hurt. Sometimes. I just don’t want to get into trouble.”
Trouble. Lucifer scoffs. He’s not her father. He’s not. There has to be a different explanation.
“Well, if they hurt, why the bloody hell did you get them out in the first place?”
She tries to shrug, wincing when the burden is too heavy. “You didn’t believe me, so I had to show you. Besides, they still hurt a little if they’re, like—” She pauses, mouth scrunched to the side in deep thought, “inside? Gone? Where do they go?”
“A different dimension.”
“What’s a dimension?”
“Ask your mo— Actually, don’t do that,” he corrects. Lucifer sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Does.”
“Does not. Not right now, at least.”
The child grumbles.
“Did your mother have to raise you to be so argumentative?”
“What does that mean?”
“When someone is called argumentative, it means they like to argue a lot, even if it's not necessary.”
“Mom always says I didn’t get that from her.” The child narrows her eyes, a realization dawning. “So I suppose, that’s your fault.”
“Splendid.”
“Can I have a juice box?”
A sound escapes him; half scoff, half laughter. Juice boxes? In his penthouse? He fishes a bottle of ginger ale out of the fridge underneath the bar. As horrid as this situation is, Lucifer won’t be responsible for her premature demise.
She catches the bottle, inspects it thoroughly. Her brows furrow when she tries to read the label.
Lucifer pours himself another drink. Downs it. The whiskey burns, but something else in his stomach burns even brighter. Should he call for Mazikeen? The Doctor?
"I’m scared," the Urchin whispers, fingers digging into the bottle. Her lower lip quivers pathetically.
Bollocks. That’s what Linda is for. What is he supposed to do? Truth be told, Lucifer isn’t feeling particularly peachy either.
“First things first; you’re to put those away.” He gestures at her back. When her mother arrives, the conversation will be difficult enough without any divine variables.
“I don’t know how,” she admits.
“What do you bloody mean? You got them out! Now put them back in.”
The child exhales, then swallows. Her forehead scrunches, her whole body vibrating with tremors. The wings trash and flutter.
It’s not bloody working.
Lucifer orders her to stand up, then moves to her back, lifting the wings. Perhaps they’re simply too heavy. He wishes he had gloves. Suddenly, the child dissolves in a fit of giggles.
“Tickles!”
A wing hits his face. He stumbles backward. Feathers stick to his mouth.
How did a wonderful day turn this terrible this quickly? He wipes a hand over his face. Fluffy down tangles in his fingers. He's going to visit the Doctor as soon as this issue is taken care of — nay, first he's going to inhale every drug in his vicinity.
The child stares at him, her eyes lit up, and then she breaks out in yet another burst of hysteric laughter.
Perhaps this is not a manipulation. Perhaps this is a punishment. Whatever heinous crime Lucifer has committed to deserve this, he’s not certain.
It takes precisely 8 minutes to get the Urchin to furl her wings back in. It takes her mother 8.5 minutes to arrive.
When the elevator doors spring open, a blonde woman stumbles out of it, hand on the gun strapped to her thigh, next to a badge. LAPD. On any other day, in any other situation, this would be a fantasy come true.
For a brief second, their eyes lock.
Chloe Decker.
Lead actress of Hot Tub High School, star of his dreams.
The woman he'd slept with on a fateful night eight Earth years ago, he'd liked to recall during those lonely days in Hell. She's barely changed; golden hair now tied into a sensible ponytail, a few more happy lines at the corners of her blue eyes.
The moment passes, and then she doesn’t grace his presence with any more attention. Chloe falls to her knees in front of the child, her arms tightly holding her, hand on the back of her head.
“Oh my god,” Miss Decker all but sobs, her face filled with relief and love, “I was so worried, baby.”
The child returns the embrace, but shoots him a look over her mother’s shoulder; a silent deal. A promise, maybe. She’ll keep mum on the whole wing issue of it all until further notice.
Lucifer stands there, frozen, watching the reunion like the outsider he is. When Chloe turns to him, he feels his heart skip a beat. Seeing them side by side, the resemblance to the child is clear.
"Thank you," Chloe murmurs. "For taking care of her."