When your heart is a stranger
[A/N: Lucifer. Missing moments during 2x13. Deckerstar because of course. Title taken from the song of the same name by Friends in Paris aka the last song in the episode.]
She’s visibly shaking as she takes off her sweater.
“What on earth are you doing?” He asks, alarmed as he reaches out a hand to stop her.
“Lucifer, no one’s going to look twice at me if I’m wearing a blood soaked shirt.”
He looks down at her, standing in front of him clad only in black jeans and a plain black bra. It must say something about the progression of their relationship that she doesn’t even shy away from his gaze. It must say something more about how utterly rattled he is by the poison coursing through her veins that he doesn’t even think to stare.
Instead, he simply looks her in the eye and raises a brow. That it’s neither lecherous nor teasing comes as a surprise to them both.
“Well, they’re certain to look at least three times at you if that’s what you’re planning on wearing.”
She tilts her head up at him, somehow manages to give the impression of rolling her eyes even as the corners of her mouth turn up.
“Though I’d say anyone would look at least twice at you even if you were wearing a paper bag,” he says, mostly to distract himself from the way the small upturn of lips tugs at the corners of his heart. He shrugs and tries for a teasing smile. “More so, I wager, depending on the size of the bag.”
She grins at him, though the movement is wan and lopsided.
“Have any of those lying around for me?”
He can tell she says it mostly for his benefit, which means he must be much worse at hiding his panic than he thought. He tries to school his face into something approaching nonchalant as he watches her shake out her jacket and sling it around her shoulders. The effect is immediately, absurdly attractive.
Except that his entire focus is stuck on how sallow her skin looks in the moonlight, how he can feel the heat emanating off of her despite the fact that she’s shivering. So instead of giving voice to the half dozen overtly affectionate phrases he can feel in back of his throat, he shrugs out of his jacket and moves behind her to help her into it.
“Lucifer - .”
“Detective,” he says, the word dangerously close to a plea, “as radiant as you are and as cool as your jacket looks, it seems to do very little in terms of warmth. No one is going to approach you if you continue to shiver like that.”
Truthfully, he assumes at least a half dozen men would approach her in any state of dress - or undress, as it were - shivering or no. Which she must know, too, the way that she’s looking at him. After a long moment, she sighs and removes the dark leather jacket from around her shoulders, thrusting it towards him and threading her arms into the sleeves of his jacket instead. Once she’s completely wrapped in it, she turns around and flings her arms out wide.
“How do I look?”
A shiver lances through her before he can reply.
He frowns and steps forward to button up the jacket, trying not to think about how close she is, how much he simply wants to wrap her in his arms.
For - what reason? No other he can discern other than the pleasure of being close to her.
The thought brings a furrow between his brows. Closeness for it’s own sake is a new desire for him. It’s disconcerting, having spent so long carefully cataloging every type of desire, to suddenly be confronted with a new one.
He finishes the last button and steps back, glancing at the full length of her. The sleeves fall past her hands, a testament to his long frame in comparison to her small one. She glares at the sleeves as though they’ve done something to personally offend her. The movement of her brows and crinkling of her nose filling him with an absurd sort of longing. He gives a slight shake of his head as he steps in closer to her once again, the elegant taper of his fingers folding up the ends of the sleeves, careful to touch her without really touching her.
He smooths down the sleeves and looks back up at her.
“Well?” She asks, arching a brow at him.
He forces himself to step away from her, his traitorous hands wanting to linger at the ends of his jacket sleeves.
If he were not so preoccupied with the glazed look that keeps creeping towards the irises of her eyes, if he were not so desperately trying to push down the feelings of panic and anger and betrayal, he might make some offhand joke about how good she looks in his clothes. The look on her face tells him that she certainly expects it.
But then a shadow passes over her face and he watches her swallow back her own fear and panic. Suddenly he is just too tired and defeated and utterly destroyed to be anything but honest.
So instead he smiles, the movement soft, its edges brittle.