"Yes, well. Those can hurt you the worst," Lucifer said quietly.

Perhaps whatever implications laid in Duke's words had simply bounced off of his dense head. Or perhaps they'd gone where they did whenever Octavia was explicit about it, that tiny place deep inside of himself labeled unworthy where pretty declarations went to die.

Whichever it was, he didn't seem rattled. Just thoughtful.

"I'm not saying you should break up with her, to be clear," he said. "Just that I understand, I suppose. Why something like this makes you feel that way."

"In case you didn't realize from my prior monologue, I'm generally more on the Octavia end of these kinds of problems," Lucifer pointed out. "But... I do know she knows she did wrong, here. So you should at least talk to her, and..."

And what?

Could he think of anything else that might be helpful?

"And focus more on the things that make you happy that don't revolve around her, I suppose."

"You know what the really irritating thing is about years of therapy and personal growth?" Lucifer said. "That I would let you. Which is perverse, objectively speaking."

"Oystering, he says," Lucifer groaned. "Of course I saved us both from a week of hormonal torment on the island only to run straight into your genuine bizarre kinks."

(That was good, Lucifer registered in the back of his head. Laughing. And not the desperate kind Duke sometimes fell into.)

"Was this museum not enough for you to get your rocks off?" Lucifer asked him, fighting his mouth's desire to twitch into a smile.

He was unsuccesful.

"Well, you're not getting Jesus's sandy love mountain anywhere near my parsnip," Lucifer informed him.

"You're going to buy things, aren't you," Lucifer said, no question mark involved. "Go on, let's see what you're going to be torturing me with."

And with that, Duke got a playful shove towards next section.