DISCLAIMER:  The basic underlying idea is not mine. The characters and initiating situation(s) are owned by Neil Gaiman, Warner Bros., Netflix and DC Comics, et al. I’m just digging holes in their sandbox while I can. If they like anything I’ve come up with, it’s theirs. I do not want or expect any kind of compensation or notice for it. Really. Contact me at [email protected] for clarification and direct contact information.


That said, this is not a grant to other fan fiction authors. Any new characters created by me for this fan fiction are mine (except in the case specifically noted above) and I do not grant permission for anyone else to use them.




The light of dawn was more than a blush on the horizon, the promise of a new day already warming the land and the tops of the buildings that inhabited the streets of Los Angeles. The vast majority of the city’s all-too-mortal creatures of the night had scurried off to their daytime lairs, leaving the newborn day to its daylight-loving minions.

Lux was mostly deserted, a lone bartender wiping the already shining ebony surface of the bar with a damp rag and the one remaining bouncer lingering in the doorway until the woman left and he could lock up. The house lights were up, as the place’s traditionally dark atmosphere was not helpful while in the course of cleaning up the chaos of the evening’s debauchery.

The cozy shadows that encouraged private encounters in the normally busy establishment had been chased away to reveal the minute imperfections that mar even the most carefully maintained fixtures. A bit of additional attention would deal with the worst of the scuffs created when heedless customers would curl their legs and still-shod feet under themselves as they reclined on the fine leather couches and chairs. There were others who would deal with that during the few daylight hours while the club was closed to the general public.

Neither of the humans noticed the large dark man who slipped inside, as he wanted to avoid attention. His footfalls were silken-soft as he transited the distance from the doorway to the private elevator. Only the sound of the elevator doors closing behind him gave any whisper of sound.

Accustomed to the ins and outs of Lux’s eccentric owner, the humans glanced at one another, shrugged, and continued about their business. They had long ago learned that if the whimsically-named Lucifer Morningstar wanted to converse, he would be the one to initiate conversation. It was not that he was ever cruel to his staff, it was simply that he left the day-to-day operations of the club to his longtime manager, a raven-haired beauty called Mazikeen Smith.


Amenadiel found Chloe as he entered Lucifer’s quarters. From behind, the small human woman looked as though she was sagging, barely held up by invisible strings. Her shoulders, normally strong and straight, drooped with defeat.                                                                                                                                                          

“You’re not answering your phone,” he told her. “I’ve been trying to reach you all night. I should have guessed you’d be here.”

She never even turned around. Not a sigh. Not even the barest twitch. It felt as though she was not aware the burly angel had stepped into the room.

Walking over and turning to face the grieving woman, he saw that she was half-asleep on her feet, staring up into the dawn-lit sky. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, her cheeks shiny from the salt of dried tears, her expression numb.

“Lucifer told me what happened, Chloe. I’m so sorry,” the angel said in his soft voice, his dark eyes full of their natural compassion. “If there had been any other way, he would have taken it. He left to save this planet, but especially to save you.”

He took Chloe’s hand and tried to pull her toward the couch, but she resisted. He tried again, a little more forcefully, and she fought him off. Perhaps she thought that if she waited for him long enough, Lucifer would reappear.

Amenadiel tried again with little success. He did not want to force the issue for fear of harming her, but he was seeing little to no alternative to doing so. Amenadiel found it amazing that such a slight woman could stand her ground so well.

Chloe made unhappy noises of negation and tried to make her way to the balcony despite the angel’s attempts to steer her further inside the vast apartment.

Finally, Amenadiel gathered her up into his arms, her body stiff and unyielding. The angel stood in place for a long time, waiting for the inevitable, however long that might take. As he waited, he radiated all the love and reassurance he was able.

An untold amount of time later, Chloe collapsed against his shoulder, wailing, her tears welling up once again and soaking into the shoulder of his hoodie. He took the few steps to the nearest couch and sank into it, not letting go of the bereft mortal woman.

Chloe cried.

She cried with a loss so great it tore at the angel’s vast heart. A loss that seemed to make Creation itself ache with her. A loss that brought the angel actual pain.

Amenadiel did everything he could to offer words of comfort and support, something he had done for humans throughout the millennia, but those words did not seem to offer solace to this human woman. His lack of success vexed him.

Perhaps she was immune to more than simply his celestial brother. Amenadiel was not sure how he felt about such a thing.

It was only when he felt his own tears begin to fall that he allowed himself to acknowledge the tragedy that had befallen his brother.

To have found love.

Real love.

And then to have lost it because of some terrible prophecy that might or might not have a basis in reality. Such was the nature of prophecies.

For the first time in all of Lucifer’s existence to decide that someone else’s health and well-being was more important than his own. Unthinkable. Extraordinary beyond all possible metrics.

But then, Lucifer had changed so very much in the time since he encountered the distraught woman Amenadiel now tried so hard to console for her loss. He thought about more than just himself. He had made a concerted effort to behave properly in so-called “civilized” society.

Well, as much as humans understood the term.

Amenadiel cried.

For Chloe’s loss. For Lucifer’s loss. For his own.




Amenadiel had lost track of time as he and Chloe both cried for their shared pain.

As he came back to himself, he recalled how hard he had fought to drag Lucifer back to Hell, before he saw how things really were. A part of him argued that he should feel a sense of accomplishment because his brother was back on his throne, overseeing the punishment of evildoers.

Then the part of him that knew how terrible both Lucifer and Chloe must be feeling about this made him feel shame. Neither deserved to be experiencing that. Love should never become a punishment.

Knowing that his Father had made him come to Earth to bless Chloe’s mother and father with the woman’s successful conception and birth, it made no sense to him that his Father would support the situation as it was now. It made no sense to him.

Why ensure a life when it led to a doomed love? Dear Old Dad had never been much of a Shakespearean, no matter what religious philosophers might suggest.