Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lucifer’s fingers flutter over the piano keys leisurely as he lets his head lull back, lost in the slow tunes. It’s rather quiet in LUX, a bit early in the evening for any of the real fun. There’re people milling around, still, as there always is as soon as the bar doors open, but he knows it’ll be a while before the dancers show up and the real party starts.

It’s by no means slow, it’s just not the regular hype quite yet.

Like most other bars, LUX opens its doors around six PM, but the club, with the flashy lights, exotic dancers and loud music doesn’t start up until nine PM.

The LUX patrons divide like clockwork, those here towards the beginning of the evening when they open won’t stay much longer than an hour or two—those with families to get home to, or other obligations that’ll lure them away in due time. And if they don’t happen to be gone by the time the flood of the nightlife and all its glory, none usually stay past the music bumping up from slow piano tunes, or occasionally silence if Lucifer himself is busy, to upbeat dancing music.

A few tend to stay, of course, but LUX generally goes by a ‘first come, first serve’ moral, so Lucifer doesn’t mind. There’s no problem so long as they don’t go past the building capacity with patrons. Besides, either way; a few chaps sticking around through the flood of partiers is a few more bodies in the line waiting to come in when the real fun starts.

Long lines waiting for entrance always looks good for night establishments such as LUX, and he’s proud to say that LUX’s line always curls around the block. It’s never a quiet night for the bouncers and security guards he has employed.

That said, and as much as the devil thoroughly enjoys the rave portion of owning one of the highest rated clubs in LA, he does like when LUX first opens.

That calm before the storm—or, the moment of clarity before it’s swept away by a killer party.

Lucifer rather enjoys sitting at the piano, having a drag of a cigarette between pauses and sipping at a glass of aged liquor. The clientele at this time in the evening is usually that of overworked businessmen, those getting off work who just want a few drinks before heading home and the likes.

Ordinary people just looking to drown their sorrows in expensive liquor.

And who would he be to deny them of that?

He takes another swig of his drink before he lets his fingers continue to dance along the keys in a slow melody. He’s not in the mood for singing, but he’s always happy to play.

His cigarette burns away in the ashtray, but he’s more interested in the keys than it.

Across the club he can see Maze serving up drinks to the patrons, most of the bar stools are filled with lone guests, as well as the booths with two or three people, as well as what Lucifer suspects are a couple awkward after work parties that no one really wants to be in attendance for but still tag along for appearance. Pity.

For now, it’s just Lucifer, Maze, one bouncer to ID anyone who looks questionably young and a small group of security detail manning the building.

The rest of the bar staff will arrive along with the dancers, valet personnel, additional bouncers for the usually quite rowdy line outside and other staff member just before the night scene starts.

There’s no point in having someone else working the bar too when Maze is more than capable of handling these patrons alone. It’s when the room’s crowded and dozens of people flock the bar that they’ll need more hands.

His demon looks bored behind the bar, tipping a bottle of one of the cheaper vodkas they have in stock into a couple shot glasses for a gloomy looking man at the bar. He’s holding his head up by his elbow, no doubt trying to spill his life story to Maze, who Lucifer knows has no interest in him whatsoever. Poor bastard.

He ducks his head to hide his smile as he swiftly transitions into the next melody.

He lets himself get lost in the music, ignoring those around him and playing as his heart desires. It’s only when his glass is empty and his cigarette nothing but ash that he stands with a sigh.

He makes his way behind the bar with Maze, reaching for the aged whiskey he’d been drinking all evening and pouring himself another glass.

It’s then that a member of their security team stumbles towards them from outside, expression pressed into something of uncertainty.

“Mr. Morningstar?” he calls as he pauses across from them on the other side of the bar.

Maze eyes the man with cat-like posture, sizing him up as Lucifer finishes serving himself, indifferent to the man.

“Hn?” Lucifer hums in acknowledgment, raising a finger in a ‘just a second’ gesture. He sips at the amber liquid he’d just finished pouring as he finally turns to the man, grinning coyly, “right, what is it you need?”

“We have a bit of a problem outside,” the man informs with a frown. He shifts uneasily as Lucifer blows out a breath through his nose in annoyance.

“Bloody hell,” Lucifer groans, downing his drink on one go and planting his hands on the bar on either side of the emptied glass, “already? What’s the problem then? Out with it.”

“It’s, well,” he pauses, searching for the right words, “an underage problem?”

Lucifer arches an eyebrow, “so tell the underage nuisance to leave. There are some laws even I wouldn’t break, and underage anything falls in that category.”

“We tried,” the man insists, suddenly looking more nervous, “she, uh, she refuses. Said she wasn’t going to move until someone came to get you, and we don’t really want to handle someone underage forcefully... Told us you’d let her in.”

“My,” Lucifer hums, unsure whether to be impressed, or thoroughly annoyed that something as mundane as an underaged person trying to use him as leverage is actually making its way to him instead of being shut down immediately. A grin still curls onto his face as he moves to join the security guard on the opposite side of the bar, “well, let’s go see what the little hooligan has to say for herself then, shall we?”

Maze furrows her eyebrows in a glare, obviously eavesdropping in on the conversation, but Lucifer waves her off as he finally steps away, making his way outside while the guard follows a step or so behind him.

Lucifer’s not quite sure what he was expecting to find outside his club—a young woman just shy of twenty-one looking for a good time and a bit a leeway, or perhaps a teenager who’d heard whispers of his name somewhere and wanted to try their luck with a fake ID.

It wouldn’t be the first either scenario had happened after all.

What he’s not expecting, however, is to walk out of LUX to see his bouncer crouched beside a literal child.

And not just any child, the Detective’s child.

Beatrice Espinoza is standing outside his club at eight PM on a Friday night. In pajamas. The child looks like she’d just rolled out of bed, arms crossed across her chest and clear annoyance on her face as she glares at his bouncer. The man looks out of his element faced against the Detective’s nine-year-old offspring, and Lucifer can’t blame him.

He too is lost for a moment, unsure of how to go about this. What in Dad’s name is the little creature doing here? And so late at that. Why is she alone this late in the evening? Where was the Detective, or even Detective Douche?

“Lucifer!”

He barely has a moment to react as the child barrels into him, arms encircling his waist as she pushes her face into his stomach. She squeezes around him as his hands hover over her, a grimace wrinkling his features before he finally settles a light hand on the top of her halfheartedly brushed bedhead.

“Spawn,” he replies tightly, “what on earth are you doing here?”

“I came to find you,” she mumbles into his shirt, chin digging into his stomach as she looks up at him. Lucifer frowns, at both her words and the proximity. “I tried to come in and find you, but that guy wouldn’t let me in, and kept telling me I needed to leave, but I didn’t want to, and I wanted to see you, so I told them to get you because you know me.”

“That is his job, Spawn,” Lucifer huffs out, hands lowering lightly onto the child’s shoulders so he can pry her off. She releases easily enough, stepping back with his light guidance. “You’re not supposed to be here, Beatrice. It’s late—where's your mother?”

“At home,” the girl wrinkles her nose as she frowns. She steps back and her arms find their way back to her chest, crossing in a much more deflated way than they had been when squaring up with his bouncer. “Dad’s at the house too.”

“Right,” Lucifer drawls slowly, not understanding the dilemma, “and you’re not there with them because...?”

The child stubbornly bites her lip, looking away from him. She scuffs the toe of her sneaker against the concrete and sighs. “Can we go inside?” her voice is small, “I’m cold.”

And it’s then he notices she’s without a jacket. He frowns thoughtfully before nodding, “yes, of course. Come along then, Urchin.”

Her small hand snakes into his larger one before he can do or say anything else. He resists the urge to pull away, letting her hold onto him with a death grip. He gives both the bouncer and the security detail a nod over his shoulder which loosely translate to ‘we'll talk later’, to which they each nod before Lucifer disappears into LUX with the Detective's offspring.

He leads her in, skirting past the patrons who raise curious eyebrows, or frown in their direction. A bar is no place for a child after all.

Lucifer pays them no mind, while Beatrice presses against his side nervously and tightens her grip on his hand.

Maze watches intently from behind the bar, gaze travelling the length of Beatrice before catching Lucifer’s eye where she questions him via eye contact. He shakes his head as an answer before leading the child into the elevator and up to the penthouse.

She releases his hand as soon as the elevator doors open, at which point she makes a beeline into the lounge and plops herself down on the couch. He lingers for a moment before following behind her.

“I’m going to assume the Detective has no idea where you are,” he mutters as he stands by the couch, observing the child. She looks towards him innocently, but shakes her head nonetheless.

At least she’s wise enough not to lie to the devil.

“So, care to tell me why you’re here instead of home with your parents?”

“Why did the man at the door not let me in?” Beatrice questions instead of answering. She tilts her head towards him, legs kicking lightly where she’s perched on the edge of the cushion. The heel of her sneakers bump against the seating support of the couch, and it irks Lucifer the slightest amount. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Sadly,” he huffs moving towards her after the fourth bump of heel against leather, “you’re still quite a few years off from being legal, which you must be to enter a bar. LUX is no different, Urchin, no matter who you know. Friendship won’t quell the laws of underage persons, not even a friendship with me.”

He pauses before her, hands hovering uselessly before he scoffs lightly and scoops her up under the arms. He lightly pushes her back against the couch so she no longer hangs off the side and can’t kick her legs anymore, “cease the kicking, this is Italian leather, Child. Scuffs would be absolutely dreadful.”

“Sorry,” Beatrice huffs, lips pressing into a frown. She scooches around a bit before angling herself so she can reach down, her hands moving swiftly to tug off her sneakers now that her feet are on the couch too. They drop with thuds to the floor in front of the couch, “does that mean we'll get in trouble cause I’m here?”

“That,” Lucifer clicks his tongue, “entirely depends on how your mother reacts when she realizes you're here instead of tucked away in your bedroom. Which, if you've just popped off without a word, will not end well for either of us, I’m afraid.”

“Not with mommy,” Beatrice rolls her eyes expectantly, like the Detective isn’t more terrifying than any other authority figure earth has to offer, in which case, Lucifer begs to differ, “with the police, because I’m only nine, and I’m in your bar.”

“No,” Lucifer sighs, running a hand through his hair, “we won’t get into any trouble with the police because you're not in the bar now, you're in the penthouse. You were merely escorted through the bar to get to the penthouse. Completely in favor of the laws, don’t worry.”

Beatrice is quiet for a moment, chin tucked against the top of her chest as she glares down at her bare feet, which isn’t much better than her sneakers Lucifer decides, “I don’t want to get you in trouble...”

A retort sits on the tip of his tongue—if she didn’t want that to happen, she wouldn’t have come here at all. Not only could her insistence to be let in have gotten him into legal trouble for having a minor seeking him out for entrance into the bar but he’s also sure the Detective won’t be none too happy that her nine-year-old daughter was there with him instead of home in bed. Not that he has anything to do with that, really, he just doesn’t think it’ll end well when the Detective realizes.

Instead, though, he blows out a dejected breath.

“Why are you here so late, Beatrice?”

The child plays with her fingers in her lap, refusing to look up. “They were fighting. Mommy and Daddy.”

“Oh?” Lucifer raises an eyebrow, a cunning grin spreading across his lips at the thought that the Detective and Daniel were fighting. He always did love a good spat between ex’s and the Detective putting Detective Douche in his place was always a sight to see. The devil moved swiftly towards the child, perching on the armrest of the couch to Beatrice’s left, “about? Do tell.”

“Me.”

Lucifer breathes out something that resembles an ‘oh’, grin waning as his shoulders slump. “Oh. Right,” he blows out, as he leans back in contemplation, “I see. Troublesome indeed.”

Beatrice curls in on herself slightly, knees pulling up to her chest and arms hugging around them. She settles her chin on the gap between them, and digs her toes into the leather of the couch, but Lucifer no longer feels the need to reprimand her over it.

He’s silent at her side, well, until she sniffles.

Oh. Tears. Oh no. The child was crying.

“There, there, Child,” Lucifer winces at how unnatural the words come out. He’s at a loss. Children repulse him, and sure, the Detective’s mini human wasn’t as awful as other children he’d avoided contact with at all cost, but she was still a child. She was still sticky handed, emotionally unstable—a wild card at its finest.

Still, his heart drops into his stomach as he watches her wipe at her eyes with the sleeve of her pajama shirt. He’s never quite felt like this before. So... empathetic towards another being—especially a child.

He’s quick to tug the pocket square out of his suit jacket pocket and hand it to her to use instead of her own clothing, “please don’t cry, Beatrice...”

His words don’t help in the slightest. When she looks at him, her eyes are glazed with tears, and her cheeks already tear stained. The devil refuses to admit his heart breaks a little at the sight.

He’s moving before he really knows what he’s doing; sitting himself beside her on the couch. He sits far closer than he ever imagined himself doing so- they’re almost touching- and then the child is turning to him unprompted and burying her face in his side. She unfurls herself, only to tuck impossibly tight against his side.

He tenses at the contact, even though he’d technically initiated it; elbows drawn up like he’s afraid to touch her, but when she doesn’t move away, he lets his arms settle down again. It’s somewhat nice to have her tucked under his arm, not at all like it is to have a woman curled into his side, but it’s almost nice in its own bizarrely strange type of way.

“Hush, dear Child,” Lucifer whispers, “it’s alright.”

His hand strokes up her back lightly, like he’s seen the Detective do to the child on multiple occasions. To his surprise, it helps settle her down. Her body no long shakes with silent sobs, and when she finally pulls her face away from his side, her eyes are no longer wet with tears.

He contorts his arm so he can thumb away the tear tracks on her cheeks before brushing a few strands of her hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear, “no need to fret, Beatrice, it’s not your fault. Parents argue over lots of things.”

“It is my fault,” she whimpers out, “I got in trouble at school again. That’s why they’re upset.”

“Whatever for?” Lucifer tilts his attention down to her as she gazes up at him with a somber expression.

“I kicked a boy in the privates,” she leans close like it’s a secret, “but only because he pulled my hair, and pushed my friend off the swings. I’m the only one who got in trouble! He went to the nurse, and I went to the principal’s office, and they called mommy and daddy, and I got sent home for the rest of the day!”

“Ah, impressive, Urchin,” Lucifer grins. He remembers back to when he’d first met Beatrice at her school, her parents called in to collect her after she’d kicked another bully in the, how’d she put it? No-No Touch-Touch Square? His lip quirks into a smile at the thought.

He forces himself back to the present, arching an eyebrow as he sniffs indifferently, “I don’t see the problem to be completely honest, the little hell-spawn deserved it. Pulling hair and pushing off swings? How unjust.”

“I know!” Beatrice scoffs, an angry pout on her face, “he was mean first, but I get in trouble. Mommy’s upset because I shouldn’t kick people in the privates, but I don’t think she’s very mad—but Daddy thinks you and Maze taught me to do it. He says you’re a bad influence, but you’re my friends...”

Lucifer furrows his brows, he won’t deny he’s not a great influence, but he’s in no way a bad one. “To be fair, you were an, ah, a privates kicker before you’d even met me,” Lucifer hums out.

“That’s what mommy said too,” Beatrice nods, turning slightly so she can slump back against Lucifer.

“And you heard all this?” Lucifer asks cautiously.

Beatrice bites her bottom lip as she nods, “I was supposed to be asleep, but I couldn’t fall asleep, so I went to find mom, but she and dad were in the kitchen arguing.”

“And you eavesdropped,” a prideful smile curls onto his lips, “you shrewd little Minx.”

“What does eavesdropped mean?” Beatrice’s nose wrinkles in confusion.

“That you listened to someone else’s conversation that you weren’t supposed to be listening to,” he explains easily.

“Oh,” the child huffs thoughtfully, “yeah, I did then. They were getting loud—how'm I supposed to sleep when they’re fighting like that?”

Lucifer snorts a laugh, “you weren’t even trying to sleep when you realized they were arguing, my Dear.” Beatrice turns to shoot him a light glare, to which he laughs again, hands raising in surrender, “sorry, sorry. Do continue.”

The child makes a ‘humph’ sort of noise before continuing, “I don’t like when they argue over me. It happened a lot before they got divorced, but it still happens sometimes. And this time they were fighting about you and Maze too, and I didn’t like it so...” she bit her lip again, eyes dropping to her wringing hands.

“So you left,” the devil supplies, tone dripping with momentary distaste. He doesn’t approve of the offspring just popping off without letting the Detective know she’s gone. Not this young, at least—he's all for a bit of rebellion, but nine is just a smidge too young. Besides, he’s seen that the world is not a very safe place, and he’d hate to see anything happen to the child. “You came here... why here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The girl is quiet for a second, “I don’t want to stop being yours, or Maze’s friend. You won’t stop being my friend if Daddy says you have too, will you?”

“What? Me listen to Detective Douche?” Lucifer tuts, “I think not. Talk about pure unadulterated torture. I’d rather return to hell than listen to your father, Beatrice.”

A light laugh comes from the child at his words, and it makes his heart swell fondly.

He really hadn’t thought he and Maze had made as much of an imprint on the Detective’s offspring as they had. The feeling is indeed mutual though. He’s not sure when the tiny human managed to wrap him around her small finger, but here he was.

Beatrice is silent against his side again, her face drawn back uncertainly. He tilts his head towards her, as she angles hers up towards him, curling just littlest bit closer, “do you promise, Lucifer?”

For a moment, his throat feels tight.

He swallows in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort, but it hardly works. He clears his throat instead, but his voice still comes out misty in an unfamiliar way, “of course, my dear sweet child.”

His arm falls over her shoulders lightly, tucking her small frame against his own, “my word is my bond, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Beatrice’s voice is small, cheek tucked against the side of his chest and wide eyes staring up at him, “the devil doesn’t lie.”

“Quite right,” Lucifer hums out, sparing a smile down at the child. It’s his turn to be quiet for a second as plots out his next move. “We should probably get into contact with the Detective, she must be worried about you.”

Beatrice’s face scrunches up like she doesn’t like the idea, but nods anyways.

Lucifer opens his mouth to insist, despite the child’s frown, when his phone goes off in the pocket of his slacks. He slips a hand into his pocket to slip out his phone, glancing briefly at the caller ID before grinning and flashing the screen to the child.

“Well, speak of the me,” he laughs before accepting the call and answering with a cheery, “Detective!”

They’re not on the phone long—just long enough for Lucifer to talk the frantic mother on the other end down enough for a civil conversation, and to assure the child’s safety, even if Beatrice ducks away when he tries to hand the cellphone to her.

He explains briefly that the child showed up on her own, and that he was courteous enough to invite her in. The Detective snorts at that bit, but Lucifer just grins. He doesn’t, however, tell the Detective why the child left home in the first place. That’s better left sorted by mother and child alone, he shouldn’t intrude on that.

Finally, when the Detective sounds a bit less worried over her daughter’s wellbeing, Lucifer’s tone takes a teasing edge. “I was about to call you,” he tells her honestly, “devil’s honor.”

“Yeah, alright,” the Detective doesn’t sound entirely convinced, “I’m on my way there now. She’s really safe?”

“Of course,” Lucifer’s voice drops in the calm way it only ever does for Chloe—and Beatrice now too, as an extension of the former. “No safer place than by the devil’s side, Detective.”

“That could be argued,” the Detective teases. “You’re lucky I trust you.”

“That I am,” Lucifer replies, grinning into the call. “We’ll see you when you arrive, Detective. We know an enforcer of the law, such as yourself, wouldn’t drive whilst on the phone, now would she?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Detective laughs, “see you in a few, Lucifer.”

The call ends just as fast as it had started really. He could tell the Detective was anxious to get to Beatrice. The man settles his phone on the arm rest before glancing down at the child, who’s biting her lip thoughtfully.

“What is it, Urchin?”

“She’s mad, isn’t she?”

“She most certainly will be,” Lucifer doesn’t bother even trying to deny it, “she’s a tad more worried than angry right now, I’m sure when you’re safe in her arms she’ll remember to be angry. I imagine it’s quite a scare to not know where your offspring is in the night. You should probably apologize to your mother.”

“Yeah,” Beatrice sighs, rubbing at her eyes as she leans back against him, “probably.”

They settle into a comfortable silence neither feels the need to break.

And it’s only as he listens to the elevator hum with the Detective’s arrival that he realizes that Beatrice had fallen asleep against him. She’d fallen asleep tucked under his arm. There’s a child sleeping under the Devil’s arm, and he’s not sure how to comprehend it.

A fuzzy feeling, he couldn’t explain if he tried, fills his chest as the elevator doors open. The man looks over his shoulder, a soft smile on his lips, “hello, Detective.”

It’s not long after that evening that the elevator doors to the penthouse open to reveal the Detective’s offspring but not the Detective herself. Lucifer raises an eyebrow at the sight. It's only an hour or so after the Urchin gets out of school, so instead of pajamas, she's wearing the clothes she'd been wearing when he'd seen her that morning.

“Hi, Lucifer,” Beatrice greets, walking into the penthouse and joining him at the penthouse bar counter. He assumes Maze let her up, considering it was still early enough that the bar wasn’t even open yet, though the whole of the staff is too keep an eye out for the child and alert either Lucifer himself or Maze should she show up at any time.

“Spawn,” he ducks his head in a greeting, sipping at his drink, “where’s your mother?”

The guilty look on her face is more than enough answer, he shoulders raising in a shrug, “I left a note this time?”

He’s never liked children, ungodly little creatures they are. But this child... this child he likes. He can make an exception for this one.