II.

Lucifer Morningstar has seen this harrowing sight before.

Most often, in fact, among the demon corbies of the deepest circles of Hell, the giant black crows that peck the flesh of miscreants from their bones, over and over (that Prometheus chap also had an unpleasant experience, once upon a time). Strip and tear and devour, a fitting punishment for gluttons or corporate chief executives or any other sorts that spent their lives cannibalizing and eating up others. Merciless, those corbies. Always get the job done. No poor fool will ever escape their teeth and beaks. Rend him into bloody bits. Then into smaller, bloodier bits.

This, and he is not being melodramatic at all, is exactly like that. In fact, actually. Worse.

"Ladies, please." He twists this way and that, but cannot entirely escape their foul net. "You are all delightful, believe me, but you are slightly mistaken. I am not here for whatever Desperate Housewives-cum-playdate circle jerk you appear to be setting up. Surprising me as much as you, I assure you, but I'm not a free agent anymore. Please. Please."

The ten or twelve women – and oh bloody hell, there are at least half a dozen more on the way – pay him absolutely no attention. His peerless sexual charisma and dashingly handsome good looks are presently biting him directly in the Armani-clad arse, which is the literal hell of an irony for you. But all he was really intending to do was to dutifully take Trixie and Eve to the park as ordered, while Chloe ran back to the station to double-check something. Yet on the mere occasion of him sitting down on a bench with a baby carrier, every single red-blooded female in Los Angeles appears to have descended upon him in a positively Old Testament swarm. Ordinarily he would be delighting in such attention, but, well, there is a first time for everything, and he pathetically swipes at them, trying to dislodge one such admirer from her spot. "Really, ladies. Do think of the children. I'm supposed to be setting a good example this days."

This has no effect. Lucifer looks frantically at Trixie, who's playing on the slide – the fact of the Devil reduced to vainly hoping for salvation from a toddler (she's eight, that's a toddler, right?) just speaks to how far he has fallen, in an entirely different sense of the word. Eve stirs and makes a cross squawking sound that normally presages something disagreeable happening and him desperately rushing her to Chloe to deal with it, and he joggles her with a terrified grin. "Go to sleep, spawn. Yes, go to sleep. Daddy will buy you a scaly demon with horns, or however that little rhyme goes."

One or two of the women look taken aback at him calling a baby that, but the rest pay no attention. They're cooing at him about how it's so admirable that he's a single father, it's so hard, they'd love to help out. This gives him a prick of indignant disbelief that he would get praised for it, when single mothers get all the judgy side-eye the world has to offer, and even he is not soegoistical as to not be fully aware that if he ever was left on his own for twenty-four hours, the house would be a total disaster zone. He's trying, he really is, but it's so bloody bewildering, and besides –

"Lucifer!"

He looks up, then sags in abject relief at the sight of Chloe striding toward him, eyebrow cocked about as high it will go at all his adoring female company. She gives them a pointed look as they get it, turn absolutely crestfallen, and start to disperse with mumbles and grumbles, some taking longer to clear out than others and one practically in tears. Finally, that leaves Chloe crossing her arms and giving him a Look that Lucifer is well aware has never gone enjoyably for any man on the receiving end of it. "What was that about, exactly?"

"Detective, I swear it's not my fault. For once. I sat down and they materialized like Dad sending a plague of locusts on the Egyptians. They might have been locusts, actually, I'm not sure. Very hungry, if you know what I mean." Lucifer flaps a hand. "Really, I haven't a clue."

"Right." Chloe still looks leery, but she can't help but bite her cheek. "I see. You sat down on a bench looking gorgeous and holding a baby, and the Batsignal went out."

Lucifer brightens. "You called me gorgeous."

Chloe rolls her eyes, accepting Eve, who is making more disgruntled noises, as Lucifer hastily hands her up. "I thought you loved fawning female attention. You might accidentally shrivel up and disappear in a puff of brimstone if you didn't get enough of it, you know."

"Yes, well. . ." He coughs. "I am aware that things have changed. It's not quite as enjoyable anymore, I'm not sure why. Do you have any notion?"

Chloe's expression is now mostly amused. "Sure. You're becoming ever so slightly responsible."

Lucifer shudders. "No. That can't possibly be the answer."

"Uh-huh." Chloe boosts up Eve and waves at Trixie, who comes running over to join them. "All right, come on, you two. Let's make our escape before the Red Sea closes in again."

Lucifer opens his mouth, and she shoots a look reminding him that his commentary on how this event may or may not have actually happened, and his feelings on his father's tactics because of it (it can be very annoying to be in a relationship with a guy whose memory is literally as old as time, and whose sarcasm can't be far behind) is not at all necessary, and marches them to the car. One of Lucifer's fangirls clears out as they arrive, still looking sulky. This is not the first time this has happened. It will assuredly not be the last.

Thus far, it has been. . . well, not that bad, actually. Especially compared to the total calamity that Chloe was expecting coming in.

Eve is eight months old, and if nothing else, it's clear that Lucifer is totally smitten with her. Sure, he still calls her "my little hellspawn," but in a doting way, and the expression on his face when he looks at her would definitely make the Grinch's heart grow three sizes. He loves to show her off, to play piano to her (Eve clearly likes this too) and otherwise investigate new potential heights of blood pressure when there's the slightest hint of a threat to her (which is usually just some poor schmuck looking for a moment too long). So far, so good.

The fact remains, however, that countless millennia of raging against one's father, of nursing a bitter and burning grudge while running the final destination for the worst of humanity (including, to hear Lucifer tell it, all sorts of terrible parents), dealing with his mother, his topsy-turvy relationship with Amenadiel, and, oh, being the Devil aren't things that go away overnight. Lucifer is trying, he really is, certainly more than he has at anything during the time he's lived in Los Angeles, but he still likes it best when it's easy. If Eve is screaming, or fussy, or needs to be fed or changed or anything more complicated than sticking a bottle or a pacifier into her mouth to shut her up, he hands her over to Chloe like a hot potato. It's not that he's a deadbeat dad, it's just that he doesn't know how to deal with it. He has acquired the minimum of necessary skills, so Chloe doesn't have to do everything all the time, but for a guy whose signature trait is his (usually) literally bulletproof overconfidence, he's still awfully uncertain about it. He knows that he doesn't know, and that freaks him out, and that makes it harder for him to focus long enough to really get it down and feel comfortable with it. He has the attention span of a five-year-old on Adderall in a toy store with flashing lights. Studying for the exam isn't exactly what he does.

Still, though. Considering that she was expecting him to be on the other side of the country by now, or actually swimming the Atlantic (why is it, she wonders, that the Devil manifested as a handsome and charming British man? Has Lucifer even actually been to England? Is it the same reason that every historical drama, no matter when or where it's set, has everyone speaking in British accents? Is it some American predilection toward seeing Brits as classy and/or sexy and/or possibly nefarious? Is she overthinking this?) it's, you know. Not bad. Trixie is still besotted with the fact of having a little sister (even if her idea of it is mostly that she can give Eve all her old toys and then they'll have to buy her new ones). Which is interesting in regards to the fact that it's now November, and the holiday season is fast approaching. It wasn't much last year, what with everything, and besides, Chloe is pretty sure that the Devil does not do Christmas. Lucifer has said before that it's like celebrating the birthday of a sibling whom your parents like better, another of the strange dysfunctional-family shitshows that all the established Judeo-Christian holidays turn into when you are literally dating the villain of them. This is – to say the least – going to be interesting.

The other notable thing, which they haven't really discussed, is the fact that Lucifer has his wings back. Obviously, Chloe had something to do with this, and seeing as the other option was him dying, she's quite at peace with her decision. But she hasn't been able to repress the niggling curiosity of wanting to see him with them. She did, briefly, when she was putting them back, but that's not the same, and she can't get it to go away. She knows it's the side effect both he and Amenadiel have warned about, when a human gets a glimpse of something divine and can't shake it. She lives with Lucifer every day, and she's immune to him in most other ways, but sometimes when they're together, she thinks she can feel them under her fingers, something velvet-soft and strong as iron, not quite on this plane, but no longer gone. Yet there are costs to an angel assuming their form. It changes them. Not something you do just so your girlfriend can get a picture, and Lucifer is likewise not in any hurry for it. He knows she had no choice to save his life. Doesn't mean he's forgotten why he had them cut off.

In the meantime, however, there is the dread specter of Thanksgiving, which is unpleasant enough even when half your family isn't immortal beings from a higher (and hotter) plane of existence. It's awkward to invite Dan, but they also can't not invite him, as well as Penelope, even aware that this will probably go horribly wrong sometime before the pumpkin pie is served. Dan, for his part, immediately vanishes out back to toss the Nerf football around with Trixie, while Penelope dotes on Eve (who is a beautiful baby – well, all parents think so, but she is). Chloe and Lucifer are cooking, while Maze ridicules the Macy's parade and Amenadiel keeps trying to get her to switch over to the football game, which Maze is archly dismissive of. "What's the point of watching them slowly destroy their own brains? It's not even artful. It's like watching a bull run into a wall over and over."

"I thought you liked seeing humans torment themselves in stupid ways for no apparent reason," Amenadiel grunts, struggling for the remote, which Maze is dangling just out of his reach. "Anyway, it's more interesting than you complaining about their balloons."

"I like complaining about the balloons." Maze squirms around and manages to get him between her legs. "And I also know what's more interesting."

"Um, you two," Chloe says loudly. "Family setting."

Amenadiel gives her a wounded I-had-nothing-to-do-with-this look. Maze raises an eyebrow. "So?"

"So no traumatizing all of us on Thanksgiving." Chloe stirs the stuffing. She's not the world's greatest cook, but she does want this to go better than Morningstar-Decker-Espinoza family dinners have had a habit of going in the past. "Especially my kids."

Maze scoffs. "They live with Lucifer every day, how much more traumatized can they be?"

"Ouch," Lucifer says. "I think that faint burning sensation I just felt was you plunging that turkey carving knife into my back, Mazikeen."

"Also more interesting than football. But still not as interesting as. . ." Maze gives Amenadiel another sultry look, clearly delighting in seeing how many chains she can possibly yank at once. "Come over here and beat me, big guy, and you can change the channel. If you want to."

Chloe clears her throat. "Start anything on that couch, and neither of you get any food."

"Exactly," Lucifer pitches in helpfully. "We have executive nookie privilege, as masters of the house." With that, he reaches over, puts a hand on Chloe's ass, and nuzzles her with a big grin.

Maze makes an indignant noise, and Chloe smacks Lucifer's hand off. "You are such a child. I swear."

"What? I'm giving thanks! Isn't what this whole thing is about? And I am very grateful for your rear end, and your marvelous bazongas, and your mouth, and other bits of you, such as – "

Just as Chloe is about to smack him again, and/or ask who actually, seriously uses the word "bazongas," they both look up and see Dan and Trixie standing by the back door, having just come in from outside, and Lucifer screeches to a halt. "Your. . . um. . . fingers."

Dan silently facepalms.

"What about Mommy's fingers?" Trust Trixie to not let the awkward moment go without an even more awkward question.

"They're very, uh. . ." Lucifer visibly flails. "Very dexterous."

"What does that mean?"

"Very talented. I don't suppose you knew that your mother was so – OW! Detective, that hurt!"

"Speaking of carving knives in your back." Chloe gives him a searing look. "I have a kitchen full of sharp implements and you are mortal right now, buddy."

"Oh? I didn't know you were into BDSM, Detective. Though given your proclivity for cuffing me, I can't say I'm surprised – is that what you want for Christmas, a – "

Penelope and Dan are both staring at them by this point, Amenadiel and Maze have totally forgotten about their remote scuffle, and Chloe feels her cheeks turning the color of the cranberry sauce. "Wow. So not only can I not take you anywhere, I can't take anywhere to you."

"This is what she puts up with every day, and thinks it's an improvement," Dan mutters, just quietly enough to be clearly heard. "Really."

"I'm sorry, Sir Douche?" Lucifer shouts. "Had something to chat about, did you?"

Chloe gives them one more you-ruin-dinner-at-your-peril look, twirls the carving knife threateningly, and manages to keep them in line, or at least quiet, until it's time to serve up. This does get everyone to focus on the food, though small talk is rather strained. Chloe finds herself stuck exchanging baby stories with her mom, as that at least keeps them off inventive torture techniques when they're trying to eat (Maze) passive-aggressive commentary on her choice of boyfriend (Dan) or the walking black-and-white Parental Advisory label (Lucifer). Amenadiel gamely helps her out, and they're on the verge of having to talk about the weather (it's California, there isn't much weather to talk about except for the fact that they need rain) to get through it. But nobody stabs anyone else, the food might not win Master Chef but is still pretty good, and they get to coffee and dessert while being (mostly) civil. Then Dan puts down his napkin, thanks them, and hauls ass out of there.

"You do remember what you said at the park a few weeks ago, don't you?" Chloe says later, when everything is washed up, the kids are down, and she and Lucifer are upstairs in their room (she thought about making him sleep on the couch, but if she banished him every time he said something outrageous, he wouldn't sleep in their bed at all, and as ludicrous as he is, she never likes it when he's too far from her side). "About setting a good example?"

"What?" Lucifer looks genuinely confused. "Didn't I do just that? Hosted a lovely family dinner, cooked and cleaned up, didn't knee Dan in the dangly bits – I thought it was a rousing success, actually."

"I realize it's something you wouldn't have been caught dead doing a few years ago, but. . ." Chloe is aware that trying to get Lucifer to develop a brain-to-mouth filter is simply never going to happen, that he's like a cat with a laser pointer – just can't stop himself from trying to catch it, even if it's a totally fruitless errand. "You can't torment Dan forever, you know."

"Can, absolutely can, and will. Devil's prerogative, darling. Especially if he torments me forever first."

Chloe sighs. Of course he's going to be five years old about this. "Like it or not, you two are Trixie's dad and de facto stepdad. She likes you both right now, but what about when she gets older? I've talked to Dan about this too, believe me. It's not like I'm unfairly picking on you. Dan is the father of my daughter, he will always be in my life in some way, and now with Eve, you'll be too. There's no escaping that. What about if it was Trixie's wedding? Do you think she'd still find it funny that you and Dan couldn't put aside your male egos long enough to be there for her instead? Do you?"

Lucifer opens and shuts his mouth, looking – for once – uncertain. "Detective," he says. "Chloe. I – I don't mean any harm by it. I just, well." He stops. "I don't know."

"I know," Chloe says gently. "And I know you think it's funny, because making things funny is how you avoid having to deal with them. But being able to out-quip Dan isn't what is going to make you a success at this. Blended families are hard, but is Dan any worse for you to deal with than me having Maze practically asking everyone else to be a voyeur? And I even like Maze. But this isn't hell, where you're in charge and you can do whatever you want and you don't care who you piss off. It's Earth. You chose to stay here. Maybe you get what that means."

Lucifer absorbs this pensively. It's always hard to tell if she's getting through to him – he can hear all the good advice in the world, and then go straight in the wrong direction with it. Finally he says, "So, no ragging on Dan, that's what you're getting at?"

"Yes."

"What if Dan really deserves it?"

"Self control." Chloe raises an eyebrow at him. "Give it a try."

"Sounds dreadful." Lucifer sighs. "Very well, Detective, I see your point. Because I, Lucifer Morningstar, do nothing if not think of the children, I will not rag on Dan. Aloud."

Chloe raises the other eyebrow. Sensing that's about all she's going to get, she says. "Fine."

Lucifer pauses, then brightens. "Can I still make faces, though?"

And just when they've gotten that out of the way, it's time to deal with Christmas.

Chloe isn't huge on the whole tradition thing, not least because she has a lot of childhood memories involving her mom popping up around Christmas and trying to play the happy family angle for all it was worth (she still has no idea how her parents, an L.A. beat cop and an aspiring B-movie actress, got together, but there you have it – Eve is probably going to wonder how her parents, also an L.A. beat cop and the literal Devil, got together too). But there's something about having two young daughters that makes you want to be a bit corny and nostalgic, try to enjoy it, do something fun. And whether or not Lucifer cooperates, Chloe intends to do so.

They get through the tree-trimming more or less without incident, even if Lucifer's ideas of proper ornaments are. . . questionable, at best. The trouble starts, however, when Trixie begs and pleads to go see Santa Claus at the mall, and Lucifer is absolutely mortified. "What? Go sit on some strange elderly fat man's lap and tell him all your deepest desires? This sounds like the start to the sort of film that even I would not enjoy watching!"

Chloe glares at him. "Really? For your father's sake."

"Yes, I suppose this is all his fault, isn't it? With a nice side of horrid commercialism."

"Lucifer, you are literally the most material person I know."

"Well." He looks miffed. "This is still absurd. Not to mention that if the fat man tried to get down that excuse for a chimney, he would get stuck, and die. Slowly."

Trixie looks aghast. "Mommy? Is Santa going to die?"

"No," Chloe says. "The Devil might, though."

"There you go again with the death threats, Detective. It's very unbecoming for a lady, not to mention the mother of my hellspawn." Lucifer scoops up Eve, who gives him a big grin with all two of her teeth. "Mummy's very cranky today, isn't she, darling? Don't worry, though. I've saved you from the fat man."

"Lucifer."

"Yes, Detective Decker?"

"Do you remember what I said about making Trixie happy and working as part of a team?"

"I. . ." Lucifer deflates, shoulders sagging. "Oh, bloody hell. It's the fat man for me, isn't it?"

"Damn straight." Chloe gives him a malicious little smile and tosses him the car keys, as they have had to purchase a more suitable vehicle than a cop car and a two-seater black convertible (not a minivan, as Lucifer would die on the spot, but a sedate four-door sedan). "Ho ho ho."

Which is how they find themselves in a loud, crowded mall humming with Christmas shoppers, waiting in a long line to see Santa, as Lucifer's eye is twitching and the looks of other mothers nearby are clearly making him jumpy about a potential repeat of the park incident. When they are finally almost to the front, he says loudly, "I should just have a quick go at the chap and see what he really wants to be doing. Surely it can't be sitting here having people handing him their snotty brats and pretending to care what to buy them? We've been subjected to this rubbish since bloody September, shouldn't they have all made their minds up by now? How long can this take, really? Poor bloke probably just wants to be home having a beer and a wank."

"Lucifer."Chloe seizes his arm as mall security eyes them curiously. "Shut up."

"It wouldn't take long! People think I sit on a throne of lies, well, I've got nothing on him!" Lucifer waves at the rather perplexed mid-sixties white-bearded fellow who is charitably using his weekend to serve as the embodiment of the children of Los Angeles' holiday wishes and dreams. "Am I really just supposed to plop the spawn on this poltroon's lap without even vetting him first? Isn't that what fathers are supposed to do?"

The mothers who were ogling Lucifer earlier are now instead clearly wondering if whatever he has is contagious. Several of them tug their offspring closer.

"Sir." The mall security man has apparently decided it is time to take action. "Sir, if your children are here to see Santa, they can go ahead. You, however, need to remember that this is a family environment, and if you can't keep it down – "

"I'm so sorry," Chloe says. "We'll just take our picture and go. Won't we, honey?"

Pinioned by her glare up at him, as well as that of the entire line, Lucifer shrugs huffily, rolls his eyes, and permits himself to be marched up to the Chair of Holiday Doom, as Trixie squeals and runs to clamber onto Santa's lap. It takes Chloe a few tugs, but she loosens Eve from Lucifer's arms and hands her over to Santa as well. "I'm sorry," she says again, under her breath. "Please just ignore him."

Santa winks at her as he proceeds to patiently listen to Trixie's requests, as Eve is mostly interested in playing with the little bells on his suit. Seeing them distracted, Chloe lowers her voice and whispers, "For your information, they make sexy Santa costumes. As in, for adult playtime. If you don't absolutely ruin this, I'll buy one and we can. . . experiment."

"Oh?" Lucifer looks at her appraisingly, running his tongue around his lips. "I am intrigued. Horrified that anything associated with that hirsute oaf is considered arousing, yes, but intrigued."

"Well, buddy. Be intrigued, and we can find out later. If you behave."

"I'm behaving, aren't I?" Lucifer folds his hands like a choirboy. "Perfectly behaved."

"Uh-huh." Chloe looks back at Santa. "How about a picture? You have those accessories, don't you, the hats and whatnot?"

Indeed they do, and after she dons a pair of reindeer horns, she pulls out the fugliest, bell-spangled, felt monstrosity of holiday headgear she can possibly find, smirks up at the love of her life and father of her younger child, and wedges it firmly over his ears. "There. Just your style."

"It is not my style, Detective. It is not anybody's style, and if I get head lice from this, I am blaming you, as well as litigating this entire place for a substantial fraction of its net worth." Lucifer cocks an eyebrow. "The one thing the Devil never lacks is lawyers, after all."

Chloe snorts, grabs him by the arm, spins him around, and marches him over for the family photo. Once they have finally gotten it, and are walking out of the mall without having been arrested, Trixie frolicking ahead, Lucifer heaves a sigh. "That is truly one of the most bizarre holiday customs you humans have invented yet, and I'm counting the one where the spawn dress up and extort unsuspecting suburbanites for candy."

"What?" Chloe says mischievously. "I thought you were a fan of Halloween. All those witches and goblins and ghosts, all that opportunity for tricks and treats."

"Oh, my version of Halloween is most enjoyable, yes." He gives her another one of those I'm-undressing-you-with-my-eyes looks, which she sighs at just for the sake of form. Lucifer has zero sense of social propriety, but if she's totally honest, that's one of the things she likes about him. She always has to toe the line, to follow the book, to play the game, even when she doesn't want to. Having someone like him, who just strolls in and tears the book to shreds and wins at the game by breaking all the rules, is, well, exhilarating. Like he's the half of her that wants to break out of the box, and she's the half of him that could stand to be stuffed headfirst into it. If nothing else, the fact that he blurts out every thought he ever has, no matter how risibly inappropriate, gives her a sense of security. She knows he's never hiding anything from her, never lies, never stops to think (for better or worse) if everyone needs to immediately know whatever he's been doing or how he's feeling. As well, he's gorgeous, worships (so to speak) the ground she walks on and thinks she's the best person in the world, fought the actual Angel of Death to protect her and Eve, is incredibly good in bed, provides lavishly for her and the kids, and, yes, says to Dan all the things she would sometimes like to, but restrains for the sake of familial diplomacy. She's not trading him in for anyone. That doesn't mean she doesn't get to push his buttons, especially after he spends so much time pushing everyone else's.

They get through the next two weeks without too much mayhem, although there are a few grisly cases at work (no wonder the holidays make people murderous, Lucifer remarks) that aren't exactly the thing for ginning up the festive spirit. They've continued to be partners, though arranging childcare can be a bit tricky. Trixie's at school for most of the day, but Eve needs a babysitter, and there are only so many times you can ask Maze to do it before you begin to sense that this may be a bad idea. After all, Lux still needs to be run, and they don't want to just drop Eve off at daycare and only ever see her for a few hours at night. So as much they can, they just put her in the back of the squad car and bring her along. They have definitely taken advantage of the harried/scatterbrained parents act to get into places or weasel information, although of course they don't bring Eve to anything that might end up being dangerous. Chloe is absolutely not interested in finding out the hard way if her infant daughter is immortal/invulnerable too.

Finally, it's Christmas Eve, they get off early because nobody has managed to be brutally axe-murdered in the last twenty-four hours, and go home to have cocoa and snacks and cookies with the kids. It's almost cool, a fog rolling in off the sea that varnishes everything in a silver haze (the closest you ever get around here to a white Christmas) and Trixie is, of course, bouncing off the walls. Once she has hung her stocking and finally convinced that if she doesn't get into bed, Santa will never come, Chloe tucks her in while Lucifer goes upstairs to put Eve down. Chloe ends up having to read The Night Before Christmas five times (Trixie wants her to do voices for the reindeer, which is difficult when they don't, you know, have any lines) and when she finally emerges, she shuts the door, sighs deeply, and looks at the glowing tree, feeling on a bit of holiday overload herself. Then to her surprise, she hears music from the alcove. Piano music. A slow, jazzy version of –

A grin spreads across her face as she turns the corner. Lucifer doesn't seem to notice that she's there, and then stops abruptly when he does see her. "What? Can't help it if the gingerbread fumes momentarily deranged me."

"Oh, stuff it." Chloe saunters over. "You can admit you like it, you know."

"I do have a reputation to keep up, Detective, which you already sorely damaged by inflicting that headgear atrocity on me. But." Lucifer hesitates, shrugs, and starts to play again, a bit faster. Then he looks up at her and breaks into song.

I don't want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true oh
All I want for Christmas is you.

"Oh, no." Chloe giggles and covers her face. She is only human, after all. She is not capable of resisting a personal Lucifer serenade, especially when he is singing in that deep, soulful croon and giving her heart eyes. "Stop."

Of course, she doesn't really want him to stop, and of course, he doesn't. When he finishes, she grins a moment longer, then leans down and kisses him on the nose. "You know," she says. "I may just have that sexy Santa costume upstairs. If you're interested."

On the very spot, Lucifer Morningstar decides that this holiday isn't so terrible after all. It's a true Christmas miracle.

They are woken up early the next morning, sexy Santa costume still on the floor, by a thoroughly overexcited Trixie, as Chloe yawns, pulls Lucifer's arm over her, and groans, "Trix, it's six AM, can we wait another hour?" She knows this is like trying to put the genie back in the bottle, but she is rather worn out from last night. This being her own fault, of course, but still.

Naturally, this does not work, and after a few more minutes, they get up, put on their pajamas and bathrobes, and plod downstairs, having stopped to collect Eve (she is a disgustingly early bird, which she doesn't get from her father). At the bottom, Chloe does a double take, as the pile of presents under the tree, which wasn't miserly in the first place, has at least doubled. Her jaw drops as she turns to Lucifer. "What – did you – "

"Don't look at me, darling, I had nothing to do with it. Apparently the fat man didn't asphyxiate on his way down the chimney after all. Cheery!"

Chloe grins at him, sensing that Santa was probably named Amenadiel and Lucifer recruited him to literally drop in during the dead of night with a sack full of gifts. Then she leans over and kisses him on the cheek. "Maybe next year you'll have all the whining out of your system, huh?"

Lucifer looks taken aback but very pleased at the idea of there being a next year, even as something else occurs to him, and he sighs. "Right, in just a few months once we're done with this ridiculousness, we're going to have to contend with Easter. As if the fat man isn't traumatizing enough, now we have a giant anthropomorphic rabbit with colored eggs something something my half-brother came back from the dead. Bloody marvelous."

Chloe grins, snuggling herself into his side. "One holiday to kick your ass at a time."

And then there is the other thing to wonder about, far more pressing than whether Lucifer can avoid making a scene at the mall, which they have both put aside for the moment but by no means forgotten about: whether Eve is a Nephilim.

After all, when the Angel of Death tries to kill you and your unborn child on the merest off-chance that it could end up as one, it tends to get your attention, and while Chloe is still a neophyte on the full details of the supernatural stuff, she isn't dismissing or laughing off the possibility. She doesn't believe in the least that anybody is "born bad" – if she's dating the literal Devil, she is clearly standing behind the idea that anyone can and will change, no matter how long or how hard it is, and no way is she going to buy that Eve is somehow intrinsically tainted as a result. If Azrael disagrees, he's welcome to try again, and Lucifer will likewise kick his feathered ass in round two (although of course Chloe would really rather prefer to avoid that). But it's true that Nephilim are not remembered fondly in any quarters, and Azrael isn't the only person who would have a sinister interest if Eve was one. As she's growing from a baby into a little girl, it's hard to tell – toddlers are terrifying enough even when they are 100% Homo sapiens. She's precocious and stubborn and independent and charming and adorable and a total spitfire, who is – unfortunately – rather too much like her father to ever look away from. As Chloe discovers to her mortification one day soon after Eve's second birthday, when she is distracted for two seconds at the drugstore and is rewarded with total chaos. "Lucifer, your daughter wrecked an entire sunglasses display in under a minute. And then a bit of the magazine aisle for good measure. I think we are banned from every Walgreens in this country."

"So?" Lucifer gazes upon her with bursting paternal fondness. "Must have been an ugly display."

"No, that's not the point. It's – if she is something, you need to, I don't know, help her get it under control." Chloe is aware that teaching a two-year-old manners is a dicey proposition no matter what, but still. Eve has just about everyone wrapped around her little finger (including Maze, no matter how much she tries to pretend otherwise). Amenadiel and Chloe are the only ones who lay down the law, as they are far too familiar with Lucifer's foibles, and Eve gets them all from her dad. "You don't reward your kids when they act out like this, you discipline them. I'll do that, but you have to have my back on this. We went through it with Trixie. I'm not going to be Mean Mom while you get to be Fun Dad. So – "

They are interrupted by a crash, then a shriek, as they panic and run into the kitchen, where Eve has managed to climb onto the counter, pull open the cupboards, avalanche out the dishes and food, and create a localized disaster zone on the floor. She's crying her head off, but doesn't look to be actually hurt. "You know," Lucifer says, striding over to pick her up. "I'm quite sure she gets this from your side of the family, Detective."

Chloe doesn't say anything. Just gives him a Really?! look.

"All right." Lucifer joggles Eve on his hip, as Chloe looks around despairingly at the shambles of the kitchen. "Maybe not."

And yet. Even as frustrating as all of this is, there's still one other thing which is greater, the one fear Chloe can't shake no matter what. And paradoxically, it gets stronger the longer that nothing goes wrong. Maybe it's just her innately pessimistic nature, but knowing that Lucifer actually is who he told her he was all along, when she just always thought he was overly imaginative and too dedicated to his persona, means that the possibility of something else cosmic and terrible – you know, like the Angel of Death – always remains on the table. The devil has now been out of hell for almost ten years. Settled down, built a nice life, left his old carousing and partying and womanizing ways behind, is almost respectable nowadays. Changed. Grown up (well, sort of). And that is what scares Chloe. He's the Devil. He isn't the kind of guy who gets to ride off into the sunset like a hero and live happily ever after. One day, possibly soon, he's going to have to pay the piper. He's going to have to go back to hell. And this time, never return.

She tries to talk herself out of it. She reminds herself what Amenadiel said, that the Big Man Upstairs wouldn't have sent Lucifer his wings if he was intending for him to go back. That he's had to change as the world does, at last. Frankly, since Chloe never bought into the fire-and-brimstone, do-as-I-say-or-you're-damned-for-eternity shtick, she can't help but think that putting hell permanently out of business might not be a bad idea. Of course, however, nobody is operating according to her opinion on this, and whatever temporary situation they've got going on for all the already-eternally-damned-folks is, well, temporary. And, well. . .

Between taking down bad guys by day and going home together when they're done, usually to Trixie and Eve but sometimes to Lux for the evening, they are almost never apart. Chloe had to go to Santa Barbara for a case a few months ago, stayed the night, and almost didn't know what to do with herself. They haven't become one of those couples whose names are always said in the same breath, ChloeandLucifer, who have no interests or relationships outside each other, but they just go together, and both of them are much happier when they are. They bicker, because they always do, because they still relish prodding at each other and challenging each other and keeping each other on their toes, never getting too complacent, never taking anything for granted. But she loves him, she loves him, she loves him, she loves him. The thought is always half-present in the back of her head, never something she forgets or disregards. Sometimes at night she rolls over and locks her arms around his neck and her legs around his thighs, and clings to him like a koala, so she can sleep knowing that he's there and he's solid and he's real. At times she almost wants to have another baby with him, before Eve does something like the kitchen catastrophe and nips the thought smartly in the bud, and besides, the last thing Chloe wants is a repeat of that saga. They have their two girls, and each other. That is all they need.

And so, Chloe grows increasingly certain that while Lucifer might have bargained with God for her life, fought demons and defied his brothers and faced down his mother, taken on the actual Angel of Death, and braved the mall at Christmastime to visit Santa (probably the most horrifying of all his sacrifices on her behalf, poor thing) then she is going to do the same. She doesn't care what it takes, she doesn't care if she's just some puny mortal who will inevitably be discounted and disregarded. Whatever is coming, whoever is coming, if they try to drag Lucifer into hell, they're going to have to go through her first.

Eve has recently turned three when Chloe comes home one day and hears a merry, jangling chaos emanating from the alcove. Thinking that Eve might be doing something unspeakable to Lucifer's precious piano, she rushes around and instead finds the two of them seated side by side, Eve's short legs dangling off the bench, as Lucifer patiently corrects the placement of her small hands on the keys and encourages her to try again. Eve does so, tongue between her teeth, and Chloe watches them with pride, not wanting to interrupt the moment, until they realize she's there. Eve waves. "Look, Mommy. I'm gonna play with Daddy."

"Yes, you are, honey. You're doing a great job." The change from two to three has made the world of difference, as Lucifer has decreed that no offspring of his will be an uncultured savage, and he has delighted in teaching Eve proper manners and deportment. He has also turned her into quite a little fashionista, as she is already getting critical of the clothes Chloe picks out at Gap Kids and Target (no, she is not buying designer labels for a three-year-old, end of story). Chloe has also had to stop her from critiquing other people's sartorial (or otherwise) shortcomings to their faces, informing her that they are playing a fun game called "Let's Not Act Like Daddy In Public." Which, you know, is a bit depressing when you are more able to count on your three-year-old not to make a scene than you are your boyfriend.

Eve beams, jumps off the bench, and runs toward the kitchen for a juice box, and Lucifer regards Chloe with considerable satisfaction. "Look at me, Detective. So fatherly of me, isn't it? Passing on my skills, imparting valuable advice to the younger generation. It's very attractive, I won't lie. If you wanted to jump my bones right here, I couldn't possibly blame you."

"Hush, you," Chloe says tolerantly. "Your bones get jumped plenty."

"Oh, they do." Lucifer eyes her with a lascivious grin. "Most well climbed, my general skeletal anatomy, and most other parts of me to boot. But, well." He hesitates, the smirk falling off his face, until he looks quieter, almost grim. "Chloe. I had a question for you."

Her heart lurches. He only calls her by her first name when it's serious. "What? Lucifer, what?"

"I just was wondering. . ." He glances up with those imploring dark eyes. "Do you think. . . it's time to show her Hot Tub High School?"

Yes, Chloe thinks. Oh yes, Decker, this is the man you're worried you might have to live without. The very one. "You jerk! I almost thought something was really wrong! And we are – " she shoots a glance over her shoulder – "we are not showing her that movie. Especially not when she is three."

"Why not? Trixie's seen it!"

"Also when she was too young for it, thank you!"

"Isn't that what families are supposed to do? Support each other's talents? Besides, I love that movie. I still watch it from time to time, especially if I'm feeling lonely."

"I did not need to know that," Chloe sighs. "Besides, the movies you enjoy and the movies that are appropriate for children are about three hundred miles apart on the Venn diagram. They're not even in the same zip code."

"Wrong. I do enjoy The Empire Strikes Back. You know, the one where the hero's father is evil and mutilates him and chucks him out of a city in the clouds and generally ruins his life." Lucifer waggles an eyebrow. "Always did go for that one."

"What – no, you are not Luke Skywalker, and Vader ended up being good in the end, and – " Chloe rubs her eyes. Arguing with your boyfriend, the Devil, about whether or not his dad, God, is like Darth Vader is definitely one for the "nobody taught me my adult life was going to be like this" ledger. "You're more like Han Solo."

"Handsome scoundrel with a heart of gold? Yes, I suppose that is me." Lucifer crosses his legs and leans back to look at her with a fetching grin. "Which makes you my feisty princess who never misses her shot, doesn't it?"

This is so adorable that Chloe momentarily forgets to be annoyed at him. Instead she leans down and kisses his nose. "Sounds like a good idea for Halloween this year. You be Han, I'll be Leia, Trix can be Rey, and Eve can be, I don't know, Chewie. Your devoted sidekick with a lot of hair who howls a lot."

"She doesn't howl nearly as much anymore," Lucifer points out. "Slap some ears on her, she can be a perfect little Yoda. We really could do an entire family event out of this, it's so precious it's making my teeth ache. Amenadiel can be Mace Windu, and Maze one of those strange-looking Jedi with several lightsabers. Oh, I know. Can we get Dan to dress as Jar Jar?"

"I thought you were over your Dan obsession," Chloe says, even while knowing that this probably will never be the case. Dan has finally accepted that she and Lucifer are together for the long run, that they make each other happy and they're good for each other, and that Eve isn't a bad kid; he has taken her as well as Trixie for a weekend here and there, and the girls always seem to enjoy it. He's dated a few other people, but hasn't settled into a serious relationship yet. Chloe suspects he might always carry something of a torch for her, but, well, that's Dan's problem. At least he and Lucifer can (mostly) be in the same room without attempting to devour each other alive, though they're still far from BFFs. Lucifer in general doesn't have many friends, but certainly more than he used to, and he's making progress, slowly but steadily, on the idea of listening to other people besides just her and caring about their opinion. Not always enough to do anything about it, no, but this is already more than she ever thought he'd manage. If you can be proud of a many-millennia-old (by calendar) and five-year-old (by temperament) celestial being for learning basic adult social skills, well, she's proud.

It's a few days later, when she's off from work and is out running errands with Eve, Lucifer busy at Lux, when – it, whatever that is – happens. They've just left the post office and are on their way back to the car, and Eve is frolicking ahead, having whatever adventure little kids are always having, as Chloe calls, "Hey, baby, wait for Mommy, okay?" She unlocks the door, turns around to lift Eve in, and. . .

She's not there.

Heart immediately picking up several notches, Chloe whirls around. "Eve? Evie? Honey, it's time to go, come on." What the – she did not have her eye off her for more than a split second, having learned well in Eve's toddler-terror days. She's a cop, she knows about all the dire warnings about how little time it takes for some pedophile to roll up in a big white van and whisk your child away, but it wasn't even that. Eve was right here. Right here.

Chloe starts to run, pulse hammering in her throat. She thinks she can hear Eve talking to someone ahead, and a jolt of relief spears her through the sternum – as long as it isn't like the incident of a few weeks ago where Eve proudly told some nice churchgoing old lady that her daddy is the Devil and used to run hell, but got bored, moved here, met Mommy, and decided to stay. They haven't yet attempted to sit down and actually explain to her what that means, but it's never as if she hasn't known; it is totally impossible for Lucifer to keep a secret and/or refrain from reminding everyone of his infernal origins for longer than two seconds, after all. Eve just thinks it's something else silly about Daddy, and everyone knows toddlers make things up and garble what they hear. It's still adorable whenever she says that, for now. But if it's to someone who is well aware that it's not a joke –

"Eve?" Chloe skids around the corner. "Baby, this really isn't – "

And then, it hits. She can't even say what, because nothing measurably changes – at least, to outward appearance. But everything goes strange and slow, then freezes. Like the world just isn't moving, or as if she isn't. She can't move or speak or do anything except stand there, watching and listening in crystal-clear high definition, as Eve wanders up to a man who looks like Amenadiel's much older brother – ten or fifteen years, maybe – with salt and pepper beard. Looks, in fact, a hell of a lot like Idris Elba. He probably isn't Idris Elba, as Idris Elba surely has far better things to do with his time than lounge around alleys next to post offices (though you never know, this is Hollywood, Chloe once ran into Reese Witherspoon at 7-Eleven) but there you have it. Eve doesn't appear all that scared to see him, just curious. "Hi. Who are you?"

Probably Not Idris Elba smiles. "What's your name?"

"Eve Morningstar." Eve grins proudly, as if she isn't currently violating Rule Number One on every single parenting checklist ever: don't let your kids talk to random strangers in shady places. Chloe tries to move, but she still can't. Her voice is locked in her throat.

"Eve Morningstar? That's very pretty. Here, Eve." He holds something out. "I want you to try something for me. Can you make this float?"

Chloe tries again to yell, and can't. Rule Number Two, after all, is don't take candy from strangers. This, however, isn't candy. It's a dun silver coin that looks vaguely familiar, which she seems to recall Lucifer having at one point – but not for several years. Something about hell. Getting out of it. Or in?

In any case, Eve plucks it out of Probably Not Idris Elba's hand and looks at it. Then she throws it in the air, as most young children would do with a sudden shiny thing handed to them – but it doesn't fall. It ends up spinning over her small hand, over and over, without quite touching it. She gives PNIE a smug look, as if to say that any idiot could have floated it, and makes it soar upward, do a loop-the-loop, and flitter back down. "It's pretty. What is it?"

"It's known as a Pentecostal coin. It's special. Not everyone can do what you did. Have you ever seen one of these before?"

Eve scrunches up her face. "No."

"And your father. . . what's his name, exactly?"

Eve grins. She likes this subject. "His name's Lucifer. He's the Devil."

Chloe redoubles her efforts to take a step, and PNIE – God, she needs a less cumbersome name for him – looks directly at her, as if he's perfectly well aware that she's there and he would just appreciate it if she waited until he was done. He then glances back at Eve. "He's the Devil."

"Yeah."

"And what does he do? Are you ever. . . afraid of him?"

Eve looks as if he's just asked if she's scared of her favorite stuffed rabbit. "No. That's dumb."

PNIE considers this. It's impossible to say if this was the answer he wanted or not. Then he nods to the coin. "You keep that, Eve. As a. . . present. I'll see you soon."

With that, he steps around the corner, there's a distant rushing sound, and Chloe's legs finally unlock. She runs forward, knowing that if she tries to find him, he'll already be gone, and besides, she's more concerned with Eve. She kneels in front of her daughter, unable to stop herself from grasping her shoulders, checking for injuries, even though she didn't see anything that might have caused them. "Eve Sophia Morningstar, what have I told you about running away? You can't do that, remember? What did he give you?"

Eve blinks at her with long dark lashes, confused. "What, Mommy? What man?"

"The man you were just talking to, he looked like Uncle Amenadiel, but a little older. He told you to keep the – " To Chloe's consternation, she's not entirely sure what she's trying to say. Her memory isn't helping either. She just saw it a few seconds ago, how can she already have forgotten? "He handed you something. What – what was it?"

"I didn't talk to any man, Mommy." Eve looks at her archly. "You're not supposed to."

"No, you're not." Chloe gets to her feet, gripping Eve's hand firmly and leading her back to the car. "Do not run away again, young lady. Understand?"

She's still shaken and distracted by the time they get home. Trixie is about to finish sixth grade in a few more weeks, meaning she's starting middle school in the fall (oh God) and she's been asking if she can have a graduation party, which always seems like a silly request whenever other people's kids do it but is harder to turn down when your own kid asks for it. The school is doing a ceremony with little mortarboards and everything, so Chloe has agreed they can get a cake and maybe a few friends over. Lucifer has predictably sarcastic opinions on this, but he has at least refrained from offering them up to Trixie's face. Besides, Trixie has recently decided that "Trixie" is a little girl's name, and she wants to be called "Beatrice" now, which everyone is struggling to adapt to. She also says there is a boy who likes her, which gives them hives. Though any preteen junior varsity kid bold enough to so much as hold her hand, when her father and mother are both tough LAPD homicide detectives and her stepfather is the literal Devil, deserves some kind of bravery award.

Chloe starts to throw together dinner, half-thinking she just had some kind of vivid waking dream – Eve clearly doesn't remember it at all. Chloe is well aware of the shit that went down the last time a mysterious man with an interest in the Devil's offspring crossed her path, and that is enough to make her break out in a cold sweat. Is this another of Lucifer's brothers, some angel or other? Scouting out relief pitchers if the ace doesn't feel like returning to the team in time to close down the game? Assessing Eve's suitability to run hell in his place?

None of this does anything to calm her frazzled nerves as Trixie gets home from school and Lucifer doesn't turn up until much later; it's usually just Chloe and the girls for dinner on Fridays, as he devotes it to playing piano and schmoozing and hosting whatever theme night at Lux. She knows it's the routine, but she is still short with him when he arrives close to midnight. "Well. Glad to see someone's been having a good time and living the old bachelor life."

Lucifer blinks, taken aback by this unexpected thorniness. "Good evening to you too, Detective. Did someone mix up your Midol and your placebos?"

"Yeah, make a PMS joke. Classy." Chloe sucks in an unsteady breath, reminding herself that it's not going to do any good to snap at him. "I – look, I'm sorry, let's start over. I just – earlier today, I – well, it's going to sound completely crazy, although admittedly not any crazier than what usually happens with us, and – "

"You're gibbering, my dear. Like a hedge fund manager on a hit of nitrous oxide." Lucifer cocks his head. "Come sit down, then talk sensibly, eh?"

He leads her over to the couch, where Chloe tries again to fill him in, but can't get much further than insisting that she met a man and he was a little weird – which, frankly, describes ninety-eight percent of all human interactions in Los Angeles. It's clear that Lucifer can't tell if she's trying to make him feel guilty for being late, or if it's something else, but she doesn't play games like this. "Detective. . . Chloe. . . you're still not making any sense. Are you – " He looks alarmed. "Oh bloody hell, you're not pregnant again, are you?"

"No. As far as I know." Chloe manages a strained chuckle. "I just – like I said, I met him and he asked. . . he looked like. . ." She stops. "Was I talking about a man?"

"Yes, you were." Lucifer looks at her narrowly, but his concern is evident. "Quite poorly, really. So, all's well that ends well. Are you coming to bed?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." Chloe gets up slowly and follows him up the dark stairs, where they head into their room, undress, and crawl into bed. She grabs hold of him, pulling him onto and into her, and he follows her lead, as he always does. When they're done, she nestles still closer to him, tucking herself against his chest, tracing her fingers on his arm. Moves her hand up to the curve of his shoulder, then down his back. The scars aren't there any more, but she thinks again that she can feel some flutter of the invisible wings, a faint lingering warmth that's more than just sex and sleep, a deep glow. Wonders if this is what it might take, one way or another, to deal with whatever's going on, if anything actually is. The fallen angel, after so long, rising.

Or maybe it's still not as much as she thinks. She's not even certain anything happened today. It'll be fine. Just needs to carry on. Nothing's wrong.

Maybe.

The next several weeks are extremely busy, and not in a good way. Apparently it's spring cleaning season, so everyone is killing those pesky people they no longer want around the house – enough of a spike, even for the LAPD, that Chloe wonders if Mercury is in retrograde or there is some other atmospheric motivating factor, like that sound only dogs can hear which drives them crazy. She and Lucifer are practically run off their feet, to the point where she has no time to worry about someone she may or may not have met and who doesn't seem that important anyway. She's been in this line of work a long time, and she's seen almost everything, but sometimes you still get jaded at how incredibly, needlessly awful humanity can be to each other for no apparent reason. Have to maintain the balance between empathy and skepticism, kindness and taking no shit, and for the first time, Chloe wonders if she really wants to keep doing this for the rest of her life. She certainly isn't going back into acting, or some mindless cubicle-farm desk job; she needs meaning, she needs to make a difference, and she isn't just going to sit back and live on Lucifer's money. But this is wearing on her more than it used to, and she doesn't know what to do with that.

It's when they're down near Chavez Ravine, collecting statements on the murder of a well-known groupie who was apparently sleeping with half the Dodgers roster (oh god, this is going to be fun to sort out) that Chloe steps outside for a second to phone the station and – it happens again. That strange lacuna, lapse of reality, turning into something crystalline and frozen, stretched out, like a slide underneath a microscope. She knows about the slow-mo effect Amenadiel supposedly can produce, though as a human she can't experience it herself, but this is different. And indeed, she looks up, and there he is. Probably Not Idris Elba, looking just as handsome-older-action-hero as ever. Leaning against the wall of the house, as if he's been waiting all along, but she would definitely have noticed him as they drove up. Seeing her, he straightens up and says, "Hello, Chloe."

"You – " Oh, apparently she's allowed to talk this time, instead of being totally paralyzed. Memory comes rushing back in a freezing wave. How could she – what is – no. "What the hell do you want?"

He smiles. "Always a little uncanny when all the metaphors become literal, isn't it?"

"This is an active crime scene. Did you know a Gina Elise Vasquez? Because if so, I'm going to need to ask you a few questions."

He waves that aside. "You know that's not what I'm here for."

"Do I? I want a name, or some ID. Maybe there's some database you're in, something interesting that will flag up, like, say, the sex offenders registry – "

"I'm not in any database." He still looks amused. "I'm sorry I scared you. My name's Mike. Mike Andrews."

"Oh?" Chloe doesn't let down her guard. "And what exactly do you want, Mr. Andrews? You were talking to my daughter – what are you, some kind of Professor X? She's three. Three. Whatever cause you're recruiting for, we're not interested."

"I'm not recruiting for anything. I'm just doing my job." He looks at her levelly. "Everything that's going on right now, Chloe, it's only going to get worse. These deaths, they're going to spread. The cosmos aren't balanced. The center cannot hold. The machine is breaking down. And I think you know what needs to happen to stop it."

It takes her a moment, but it clicks. The strange reality-altering powers, the meddling with her memories, the interest in Eve, the sense that he's stronger than anyone she's ever met, and she's met quite a few. . . "Mike," she repeats. "Short for Michael? Archangel Michael, the commander of God's forces during the war in heaven against Satan. That's who you are, isn't it?"

He looks impressed. "You've been doing some reading, little unbeliever."

"Yeah. Well. I've been with – him for a while." She doesn't want to say Lucifer's name aloud, not to him. "I've had time to catch up."

"Glad we can dispense with the run-around, then." Michael shrugs briskly. The world seems to tremble like a coin flicked with a thumb, as if the warp and weft of it is sucked and distorted around him. "I understand you had a run-in with Azrael a few years ago, so I suppose you're somewhat used to us. . . higher beings."

"I've met a few angels, yeah. You don't need to flatter yourself that you're the first."

"Angels." Michael seems to find that funny. "You mean the fallen, debased mockery of everything our father gave him, the long-absentee Lord of Hell who is now, yet again, destroying the world with his selfishness? Or Amenadiel, who's chosen to stay in the human world, throw his lot in with him, bed with a demon, and likewise pretend he's no more than what he is, forsaking his place in the divine pantheon? You don't know a thing about angels."

"If all of them are this self-righteous, I don't think I want to." Chloe stands her ground, though her knees are wobbling slightly. This is so far above her pay grade, so very far, but she doesn't care. "That's the thing about you. Everything is completely black and white, no room for questioning, no room for change or nuance. No wonder there was such a family tiff, when Lucifer started asking about free will." If Michael won't say his name either, then she will, just to make a point. "Amenadiel started out that way too. And you know what? He changed. Now he's a good man. My kids love their uncle. He and Lucifer don't have to pretend they hate each other when they spend time together. He's been there for me plenty of times too. So if that's your definition of falling, of failing, then I don't buy it."

Michael continues to look amused, which is almost more galling than if he was angry. Her tiny, insignificant, fleck-of-dust mortal opinion isn't even worth getting worked up one iota about, and so he's not going to bother. "Be that as it may, I didn't make the rules. Nor can I change them. Lucifer goes back to hell, or Eve takes over in his place. Otherwise, it ends. It all ends. You seem like a smart girl, Chloe. Caring. The kind who would never be so cruel as to condemn the rest of the world to apocalypse just because she wanted a few more years with her boyfriend. There's a choice. The entire future is riding on it. Make the right one."

Chloe opens her mouth, tries to answer, and can't. Finally, she says, "Just so you know, I'm not a girl. Must be hard to tell us lowly humans apart. Then again, you don't have any female angels, do you? No wonder you've totally made a mess of it, if it's all run by men who think they're always one hundred percent right. Bit of a problem down here, too."

That actually catches Michael, ever so briefly, on the hop. Then he shrugs again. "I don't want to do this the hard way," he says. "One war against him was damaging enough. I don't dare imagine what a second would do. But he goes, or Eve does. You decide. I'll see you soon."

And with that, there's a rushing noise, Chloe staggers, and the next, she's blinking at empty air, the world has returned to its usual speed and texture, and she has to put out a hand to steady herself. Her heart is beating almost out of her chest, and looking down at her phone, she sees that not even a minute has passed, as if he just took her out of time and space for a quick chat and then popped her back in. As if demonstrating that if need be, he doesn't have to bring her back next time, or for that matter, Eve. He probably can't just snatch Lucifer this way, a full-grown angel who's too powerful to just be yanked sideways out of his current plane of existence, otherwise they would have solved the playing-hooky-from-Hell problem long ago. A call. She's supposed to make a call. To the station. About the case. About the girl who's dead. Gina Vasquez. She's dead because more people are going to die, because this won't stop. Unless.

Fingers shaking, Chloe manages to get through it, then heads back inside. At the sight of her face, which really must be spectacular, Lucifer makes a beeline for her. "Detective? Chloe? Darling, what's wrong?"

"I – I'm. . . I'm fine. I guess this just, you know. Rattled me." Chloe manages a smile. "Just stepped out to get some air and phone back to the precinct."

Lucifer frowns worriedly at her, as they are both well aware that a hardened homicide detective does not get rattled like a rookie at a fairly standard murder scene. "Oh no," he says. "You are pregnant. I knew it."

"No, I'm not. I told you, okay?" Chloe tries to retrieve her notepad, but drops it. "Let's just finish up here and get back to the station. Come on."

They manage to conclude their preliminary investigation, compile a depressingly long suspect list (practically anyone associated with the world of L.A. pro sports, at this rate) and turn in their work. As they're getting in the car to pick up Eve, who has spent the day with Maze, Lucifer says abruptly, "Chloe, what aren't you telling me?"

"I'm. . . I just have a lot of things on my mind, with everything going on. If I think of anything in particular, I'll let you know. It's just stuff."

"Stuff." He doesn't look convinced, but doesn't push. "Very well. Lead the way, then."

They retrieve Eve, who is delighted to tell them that today, Auntie Maze showed her how to pull a man's spleen out through his spine (they have to instantly forbid her from attempting any practical demonstrations) and head home. Trixie's graduation party is on Saturday, the day after tomorrow, and Chloe has almost forgotten to order the cake (duly making sure it says "Congratulations Beatrice") so she has to run out and do that, as well as catch up on a few other things she hasn't had time for because of the ridiculous caseload. When she gets home, the house is quiet, the kids are in their rooms, and piano music drifts from the alcove. Something modern, country-pop. It takes her a minute, but they've been listening to enough radio driving back and forth that she gets it. "I Just Can't Live a Lie" by Carrie Underwood. Ouch.

She winces, braces herself, and ventures around the corner, waiting until Lucifer pointedly deigns to acknowledge her. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say that if she wants to dispute the accuracy of his song choice, he's all ears. "Out doing mysterious things for as long as you please, no explanation needed? But I'm the one who gets yelled at when I come home a bit late, eh?"

Chloe winces again, and sits down on the piano bench next to him. "Lucifer. . . I'm sorry, all right? I got so used so early to you telling me absolutely everything, and I. . . I always act like it drives me crazy, but it doesn't. Sometimes I'm not sure anyone needed to know it, yes, but I take it for granted, and I shouldn't. And there's still just this part of me that says I should keep things to myself. It's not an excuse, but after Dan, after Palmetto, after all the time he let me think I was crazy, I just assume that I won't be believed or that I'll be gaslit or I should just figure it out myself. . . but that's not you. That's not us. I'm sorry."

Lucifer's forbidding expression softens, and he puts an arm around her, tucking her into her usual spot on his shoulder. "All old married couples have their squabbles, don't they? Though we're neither old nor married, but you take my point. What's wrong?"

Chloe hesitates one more time, then spills. What she was trying to say a few weeks ago, what happened today, what Michael told her. Lucifer's arm turns more and more tense as she speaks, until she finally concludes into an awful silence. "Well?" she whispers at last. "Do you have any ideas?"

"I. . ." He looks uncertain, wary, almost afraid. If it was just a matter of kicking Michael's ass like he did with Azrael, she has no doubt he would already be rushing out to challenge him to a heavenly bar brawl, but that is the exact opposite of anything remotely helpful in this situation. "Well, honestly, darling, no. Not at the moment. But I'll come up with something."

"No. We will, okay?" Chloe lifts her head to look at him. "Let's not do this alone. No matter how much both of us instinctively think we should. But not for this. Not like this."

"Agreed." He kisses her hair, and her fingers tighten convulsively on a fistful of his black silk shirt. "All of those nauseating motivational posters about the value of teamwork have to have some sort of point, or at least one must surely hope. But we solve everything else together, Detective. We'll find a way."

She hopes.

Oh God (no thanks to him) she hopes.

They get through Friday in a blur, then have to drag themselves together on Saturday for Trixie's party. They drive to the school, sit in the hot gymnasium, watch her get that prized elementary-school diploma, take a few pictures, exchange the obligatory courtesies with Dan, and are frankly relieved when it's over. They're just walking back to the car, Trixie skipping in front with visions of celebratory chocolate cake dancing in her head, when Chloe feels it happening. That shift, that unbalancing, that unmaking. The ground turns beneath her feet, and she grabs at Lucifer. "Oh no. No. Oh no."

"What?" He turns toward her, catching her arm, even as he starts to feel it as well, and snatches with his other hand for Eve. A shadow is falling over them, on a perfectly sunny late-spring L.A. day, and the temperature has dropped twenty, thirty degrees in an instant. "Oh, bloody hell!"

"Mom?" Trixie stops, turns around. Forgets to be grownup. She looks scared. "Mommy, what's going on?"

"Come here, baby, just – come here." Chloe struggles to raise her arm, which feels as if it weighs a thousand tons. Nobody else gives them a second look, walking past on all sides – nothing's happened to them, they haven't noticed, they're still back in the real world, not this distorted, freezing echo chamber, a halfway-between. "Now, okay?"

Trixie runs to her, and Chloe pulls her against her side, Lucifer on the other, Eve wrapped around his leg. The parking lot fades out of sight, until there's nothing but billowing grey mist on every side, the kind that makes you forget anything good has ever happened, or can ever happen again. Draining and cold and enervating, endless. Until it parts in a swirl, and they see a tall winged figure striding out of it. Carrying a burning sword.

Trixie buries her face in Chloe's chest, as she herself feels too terrified to move or speak. She knows who it is, and she doesn't know what to do – foolishly thought that they'd have more time. Leisure to come up with a plan. But they don't, and they won't, and it's just this, Michael in full angelic form, the warrior, the demon-slayer, the supreme general of the heavenly host and the most magnificent and merciless of all the seraphim. His footfalls echo like thunder, and lightning crackles between the feathers of his golden wings, as he comes to a halt in front of them and lets the sword fall. "Time to choose, Lucifer."

Trixie and Eve's mouths are both wide open, but no sound is coming out. Chloe wonders vaguely if she's having a heart attack.

For a moment more, Lucifer remains motionless. Then he comes back to life, steps away from Chloe and the girls, and faces his elder brother. His form shifts and blurs briefly, and then there's a blaze of burning white light, and his own wings unfurl to either side of him like an army raising its banner, defiant to the last. "Oh," he breathes. "You really want to do this again, do you?"

"It's not my choice." All the stars of all the heavens look back at them from Michael's depthless eyes. "It was my job before to see that you were defeated, that the rebellion was put down, and you went where Father decreed you should go. It still is now. You go, or Eve does."

"Mommy?" Eve looks up at Chloe with huge eyes. "Mommy, I don't wanna go with him."

"You're not going anywhere, baby." Chloe scoops her up and clutches her tightly, daring Michael to rip her out of her arms – he probably could, with no more than a flick of a finger, but the collateral damage would be insane. Even Michael is stuck working around that old loophole, the one Lucifer set into motion with Eve's namesake all those countless millennia ago: free will. Having to choose. He can't just flat-out throw Lucifer into hell again. But he can assuredly force his hand until resisting might cause just as much destruction. Or worse.

Lucifer pauses, then leans down and picks up the flaming sword, as Michael draws another one from somewhere unseen, shaping it into form with a spark and hiss. The two of them circle each other slowly, causing distant reverberations like earthquakes (this is – was – California, they might be earthquakes). "Oh, I remember this," he says. "Tell me, of all our brothers, did it really have to be Amenadiel you put at the gates of Eden, stopping me, stopping the humans, from ever coming back in? Making sure we could never come home? And when you sent him as the first attempt to drag me back down, you must have known his heart wasn't entirely in it, didn't you? So now it's you, at last. Just like old times. But, you know. I'm wondering something."

"I didn't come to hear you talk, Samael."

"Of course you came to hear me talk." Lucifer grins dangerously. "I think I'm putting a few things together. Want to hear? You know, I actually do believe that Azrael was just following orders, when he dropped in a few years back. He's a total clod, that one. Absolutely no hobbies at all. Only one interest. But you see, I thought – of course – that he was following Dad's orders. That he was still determined to punish me and destroy any hope I had of staying in the human realm and making a new life for myself. But you know? I'm starting to think it wasn't."

Michael brings his sword up, as Lucifer follows the motion, two burning slashes in the mist, brilliant and devouring. The world shivers where they threaten to touch. "Be quiet, little brother. This doesn't have to end like this."

"Oh no. I'm not done. Not done by a long shot." Lucifer bares his teeth. "Because you see these? My wings? How I have them again? Amenadiel was on with his usual twaddle about how it was a miracle from Dad, about how he didn't actually want me to go back to hell anymore. And if that's true, how is it that now the world is balanced on the brink because I'm not there? Who still has a grudge against me, who's my most personal enemy, who wouldn't be able to stand it that I didn't have the good sense to stay down? Name on the tip of my tongue. Starts with M."

Michael slashes at him, and Lucifer blocks. The swords hiss and spit and snarl, flames tangling up one blade to the other. "Really tricky," Lucifer goes on. "Because everything you've ever done, everything you ever stood for, hung in the balance if you didn't win that little family argument for good. Who's the one really threatening to destroy the world with his selfishness, brother? Who has opened the door to all the beasts that live just outside, wanting hungrily to come in, and won't call them off unless I take my defeat one more time, and don't presume to ever try this again? Eh?"

Michael swings again, drawing Lucifer overhead to parry, as they whirl off and spin closer again, jousting and taunting, lunging at each other headfirst and exchanging a flurry of blows too fast to see. "I'm right, aren't I?" Lucifer pants. "This has all been you. Not Dad. You. So much for just following orders, for things you can't change! How very human of you, Mikey! You sent Azrael after us. You're the one causing this. Because you wouldn't be Saint Michael, Defender from Demons, if you lost your greatest and most fundamental victory over the worst demon of them all! And you know what? Watch this!"

With that, he throws his head back and yells, "Dad! Hey, Dad! Yeah, you! Guess what? I forgive you! Bet you never saw that coming, you supposedly omniscient big fat git! A wise therapist once told me it's not something you do for other people, it's something you do for yourself, so this is for me! I forgive you! I'm done trying to fight you, of thinking you're my enemy at every turn, when you're not! Hope that's not too much of a disappointment, but you sent me my bloody wings back, and you know what, I finally believe you! Too bad you left your keys lying out, and Mike got hold of them, eh? Hope somebody's getting grounded for the next millennium!"

"What are you – " Michael slashes at him, hard enough that Lucifer's sword sputters, and he's driven a few staggering steps backward. "You're wrong. You're wrong! You're the Devil! You're the one who fell! You're the one whose pride and greed and selfishness nearly destroyed us all! Of course I wanted you back in hell! Of course I wanted to make sure your fecklessness and lust didn't spawn a Nephilim! So whatever I have to do now, I will!"

He points his free hand, makes a motion as if he's tearing thin air, and the ground bursts open, sulfurous red light belching out like the explosion of a volcano. Lucifer, Trixie, Eve, and Chloe are all ripped off balance and thrown toward it, as she can feel her fingernails scraping as she tries desperately to hold on. Lucifer manages to halt their slide just in time, but the edge of the abyss is gaping – it is the literal mouth of hell – and he's lost hold of his sword in the tumble. Trixie and Eve are both crying in terror as he tries to shield them with his wings, but if he goes over, so do they. Chloe is standing in the middle, with her family and hell behind her and the greatest warrior of all the archangels in front of her. Bare-handed. Useless.

The sword is still burning, but feebly. She looks at it. Has half a mad plan. All this time, she's made Lucifer mortal, human. Vulnerable. But maybe, but just maybe, he has in return made her into something, just that bit, just perhaps, angelic.

Michael's eyes dart to the sword, then to her, an instant too late, as Chloe dives for it. Closes her hand around the hilt, feels it scorch and shudder her to the very core. She's almost fainting with the effort to pick it up, to control it, to not let it consume her, as it flares to life again. It's clear from Michael's face that he did not see that coming – any ordinary human should just be a pile of smoking ash. But she's not, and she brandishes it, still burning and coruscating and shaking down her arm. "Hey, buddy," she says in a gasp, forcing out the words, managing a grin of her own. "Back away from my family."

"This is very unwise, little mortal." Michael takes a step, and it's all Chloe can do to keep her balance. "You can't fight me."

"Maybe not." She brings the sword up, cutting an arc of fire through the air. Wants to look back at Lucifer and the girls, but doesn't dare take her eyes off her opponent. "But that doesn't mean I won't try. If you did this, you can stop it. Please. Stop it."

Michael's eyes remain on her for an endless moment. "I can't," he says at last. "The rules were made long ago, what the consequences would be if the door was opened. It was. How, why – it doesn't matter. There is no way to stop it unless Lucifer accepts his destiny."

"Him or my daughter? That's the sick little Sophie's Choice you're trying to force on me?" Chloe can feel the heat of hell beating on her back, lashing through her hair. "You opened that door. You did this. So ultimately, it's not Lucifer's fault if the world is destroyed. It's yours."

"Wrong. You're wrong." For just an instant, Michael sounds less than absolutely certain. "He's the Devil. He can't – "

"No." Chloe almost laughs. "No. You're wrong. He can. He has. And he will."

Michael looks at her as if weighing how to answer, as if he has genuinely never met anyone in his eons of existence who has challenged him, who hasn't fallen to their knees in terror and promised to do whatever he says. Humans aren't supposed to do this, to stand up, to question, and for the briefest instant, Chloe can see him struggling with the absolutely foreign possibility of whether he may be wrong, if in a war where the sides of Good and Evil seem so utterly and indisputably clear cut, there is in fact a nuance, a grey. But it doesn't matter. At that moment, the out-of-control hellmouth sparks, snarls, and rips further open, taking the ground out from beneath Lucifer, Trixie, and Eve. They're there, and then in the next instant, they are not.

Chloe screams, drops the sword, whirls around, and runs to the very edge, beside herself, staring madly into the abyss. Lucifer is about twenty feet below, wings beating furiously against the inferno, holding onto Trixie with one arm and Eve with the other, a loop of fire catching around his ankle and trying to pull them all down. It's clearly taking every bit of his strength to fight it, as he kicks, thrashes, manages to loosen it, and flies up toward her, hoisting Trixie toward Chloe's grasping hands. "Grab me," Chloe sobs, straining toward her daughter. "Come on, honey, Beatrice, grab onto me."

Trixie's sweat-stained, shaking fingers miss hers the first time, then hook on, and Chloe heaves her up onto safer ground. The fire cuff has locked around Lucifer's ankle again, and he's having trouble getting it off for a second time. His eyes meet hers as he uses both hands to lift Eve overhead, wings still flapping as hard as they can, fighting for every inch. Something terrible shudders through her, even as she gets her hands under Eve's arms and lifts her out as well, passing her toward Trixie. Then it's just Chloe and Lucifer, as she sees his wings starting to char with the heat and exertion, searing black around the edges, each labored stroke no longer lifting him as high. Smoke stings her eyes and chokes her throat. "No," she gasps. This is all her nightmares come to life at once, and no way to stop them. "No. Lucifer. Grab my hand. Take my hand."

He doesn't. He just looks at her, at the roiling madness, at Trixie holding Eve, at them, safe. Then at her again, and he smiles. "Detective Chloe Decker," he says. "I love you."

And with that, he stops. Spreads his wings wide, and his arms. Doesn't struggle. Closes his eyes with a grin, and without a word, perfectly by his own choice, his own sacrifice – not being thrown anywhere, not being forced, nothing but him, his decision to save them and all of humanity, closing the door, ultimately and at last, completely at peace –

He falls.

Later, all Chloe really remembers is clawing at the pavement of the parking lot, tearing her fingers until they bleed, trying to get the ground to open up again, but it won't, it won't. Trixie and Eve are crouched behind her, crying, as the world slams back into place and goes on and there's no Michael and there's no mist and there's no flaming sword and there's no burning mouth of hell and there's no Lucifer, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone. People are starting to stare. She doesn't care. Keeps swearing, sees blood on her hands, doesn't care about that either. This isn't right. This can't be happening. This is just a dream.

She has a vague impression of Dan appearing through the crowd, kneeling next to her, asking what's wrong. He says something about calling an ambulance, and she pushes him off, wild-eyed. No. No ambulance. No. Did he see that? Did he see any of that?

"No," Dan says. It's clear that he thinks she might be suffering some long-awaited psychotic break. "Chloe, what. . . what are you talking about? Where's Lucifer?"

She lets out an awful sound, somewhere between a laugh and a howl. Staggers away. "Trix. . . Trixie. . . Eve. . . you, are you. . ."

They're fine, Trixie clutching hold of her sister. They are staring at her with a mirror of the expression that must be on Chloe's face, clearly unable to process in the slightest bit what just happened. She kneels, gathering them into her, hugging them until none of them can breathe, silent tears falling into their hair. They're here, they're safe, the world is safe because –

He's coming back. He has to be coming back. She can't stand it otherwise.

But in her heart, she knows.

He is never coming back.

The world without Lucifer is a distant, ghostly, ghastly dream.

Chloe gets the girls home. Cleans them up. Calms them down. Goes through the motions, for that day and the day after that and the day after that. She floats through the world, barely touching it (the sudden upsurge of murders has stopped, they find the guy who killed Gina Vasquez – God, she doesn't even care). Dan calls, clearly concerned, but she doesn't answer. She can't talk to him. It already took all of her strength to go to Lux and find Maze and Amenadiel and explain, thought she was holding it together pretty well, and halfway through, she starts crying so hard that she throws up. She doesn't do that. Not her. But nothing is her anymore, and nothing matters. She can't even grieve, she can't do anything, she can't free herself from the vise around her heart. He's still there, somewhere, still alive, existing for all eternity, back to the job, as if that entire little vacation never happened, and she is never going to see him again. He's always told her that of course she'll be going to heaven. That's how she is. Who she is.

Chloe toys with the demented idea of developing, who knows, a carjacking habit or a drug-running ring or something else that might be bad enough to change her divine ledger, send her to hell instead. But she knows that even if she did succeed, that would be the absolute last thing he would want, to see her stuck down there as well. She doesn't want to gallivant across the elysian fields of heaven with all the people who are responsible for him being down there, doesn't see how it can possibly be heaven for her if that's the case. Maybe she'll end up in Purgatory, or Limbo, or whatever that place is called. Maybe at least that way she might catch a glimpse of him, sometimes. Through a glass darkly.

The nights are the worst. She rolls back and forth in their empty bed, trying to hold still long enough to imagine him there, but she can never do it enough for comfort. Can't even look at the piano for long, hasn't been able to go back to Lux since that first, terrible trip to break the news. She had a life before Lucifer, after all. She should be able to create even the crude simulation of one after him. But if that's going to happen, if it's even possible, it feels months and months and years and years away, like something that is never going to fully heal. She knew. She knew this was going to happen. And yet there's no way to make it better.

Chloe wonders if she should lash out at God, at Michael, at the entire universe, as if that would help. She knows that it won't, and likewise that Lucifer, at long last, after his choice to forgive and give himself up, wouldn't want her to. It's not going to get her anywhere. She can just try to struggle along with her head up, for as long as she possibly can, and then. . . who knows. Lying down sounds nice. Sleeping forever sounds even nicer. But she can't. She has the girls to look after. She has to do this for them.

One night she finds herself out late, driving downtown with nowhere to go, until she turns into Father Frank's old church, the one Lucifer took them to right after Eve was born. Parks, gets out, goes inside. There's a rack of candles burning, the ones people come here to light in memory of their lost loved ones, and after briefly wondering if it's sacrilegious to do so for the Devil and then deciding she doesn't give a literal damn if it is, Chloe takes one out and lights it. Stands there looking at the little flame until her eyes blur with tears, thinking of the Latin words she's only heard on TV, from actors playing priests, from characters, never in real life. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. The Father isn't much help right now. The Son, well, not there either. The Holy Spirit? Zero for three.

Still, though. It's something, strange and small and damaged as it is. After a moment she pauses, reaches down, and lights a second candle, placing it next to the first. In her mind's eye, she can see Lucifer and Father Frank sitting at some cosmic piano, even though they're not together. Frank is up, Lucifer is down. But maybe, here, for a moment, they can play.

She quits the LAPD. Hands in her badge, contemplates moving somewhere across the country for a fresh start, but she can't bring herself to cut that last thread entirely. She can't do this without her partner anymore, and between Lucifer and her mom, she has more than enough of a nest egg to live on for a while. She never finished her college degree, but maybe she could, start a new career. Everything and nothing seems possible, in this strange, disconnected way. There is no way to make the pain play fair. Illustrate the remnants of the life I used to live here in Eden.

It's been almost three years now. Trixie is fourteen, Eve is six. They seem more or less all right, kids are resilient, even if Eve won't accept that Daddy is never coming back. Chloe thinks dully about possibly enrolling them in therapy, but how do you talk to a child psychologist about how you're still dealing with residual trauma at seeing your dad/stepdad literally fall into hell to stop the apocalypse, post-duel with an archangel and. . . there is no how-to guide on any way to deal with this. Even more, Chloe wonders if Eve will even remember him as she gets older. It's as if you were in a bad car accident at the age of three – some fragmented impressions may linger, but you're still too young for it to make much of a permanent mark. What would she say? How do you explain Lucifer to a little girl who always just loved him as much as she did? Just tell her that Daddy died (but he didn't die) to save her? That and some ghost of piano lessons? Is that all that Eve gets to have left of him? It's not fair. It's not fair.

On the third anniversary, Chloe drops Trixie and Eve off at Dan's and goes down to the beach. It's obvious which one. Wanders along the sand, hands in her pockets, looking out to sea. Last time she was here alone, without him, when everything hung in the balance, she found his wings, brought them back and saved his life. There will be no repeat this time, and the knot in her chest won't loosen no matter how deeply she breathes. She misses him, she can't imagine that she will ever stop missing him, that it won't feel like her bones are bending and her blood is sluggish and every time she opens her eyes, there's that brief, impossibly sweet moment before she remembers. She doesn't want to read books about grief. She knows what grief is. She lives in it, like a soft grey blanket. She knows about the stages. She very much does not want to go to a widows' support group, thinks they'd probably chuck her out for not being a real one, but she desperately wants someone to talk to, to understand. Amenadiel does his best, but they still don't see each other very often. She thinks he feels too guilty. Or perhaps just –

Suddenly, she stops, looking out to sea. She felt something – not quite like it was when Michael turned the world on its ear, but similar enough to give her a juddering, nauseating flashback. If he's coming back – what the fuck, hasn't he taken enough from her? Archangel or no archangel, she will punch him in the face if he –

There's someone wading out of the water, stark naked, trailing something that looks like a torn bridal gown. Chloe's old police instincts take over, wondering if they're in trouble, if they need help. But as they get closer, her breath shrivels in her throat, she briefly thinks the ground is opening up beneath her again, and she can't –

She can't possibly –

Lucifer Morningstar reaches the shore and steps out, barefoot, onto the sand, wings dragging behind him, looking very wet and very bedraggled and very tired and very solid and very, very handsome. Chloe's outcry sticks in her throat, she remains frozen a moment longer, and then she is running faster than she has in her life, she hits him hard enough to knock both of them back into the water up to her calves, she wraps her arms around his neck and he's there, he's not a dream, he's not a vision, he's real, he's real, he's holding her back, and then she's grasping hold of his face and torn between kissing every inch of it she can reach and gasping, "What – h. . . how. . . how. . . I don't – I don't understand, I – "

"Well. Good morning to you too, Detective." He grins at her, wet arms still tight around her waist, her feet dangling just above the waves lapping around his legs. "But it really hasn't been that long, has it? Just a few days?"

"A few days? You idiot, it's been a few years!" Chloe heaves for breath, kisses him again, and is aware that they are starting to get stared at by a few other people down the beach (especially since Lucifer is, after all, still spectacularly nude) but she absolutely cannot bring herself to care. "Luci. . . Lucifer, I thought – how, how?"

He hoists her up and carries her out of the surf, up onto the beach, flashing a cheeky grin at everyone inclined to stare at the crazy hot naked man with enormous white wings. Probably not the weirdest thing they have ever seen in L.A., by a long shot. He sits down next to her on the sand, and she throws herself into his lap, leaning against his damp chest, as he rests his chin on her head. "Well," he says again, after a long moment. "There's this little rule that applies to my family, you see. If you die to save the world, by your own choice, when you're blameless in what's happening, and you have faith. . . it cancels it out, somehow. Death isn't the strongest thing out there, Detective, no matter what boring opinions Azrael might have on the subject. When it's love, the deepest love, when it's like that, it. . ." He stops. "It works differently."

"You got out of hell because of a loophole?" Chloe takes his face in her hands, laughing and gasping. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I didn't spend that long as an upright officer of the law for nothing, then, did I?" He grins crookedly at her. "But that was the basis of it. Oh, and it happens I know a chap. We. . . we talked. Actually talked. Face to face, for the first time since. . . well, you know."

"You. . ." Chloe takes a minute, but gets it. "You talked to your dad?"

"Surprising me as much as you, believe me." Lucifer strokes a lock of hair out of her eyes, still looking at her with that intent, tender, disbelieving delight. "It was a long conversation, and half of it probably wouldn't make any sense to you, but. . . yes. You can imagine we had a bloody lot to catch up on. And I certainly wasn't expecting it, but I discovered that I meant it. When I said that I forgave him. We'll be playing catch and having awkward male bonding sessions before you know it. Well. Maybe not. Sounds dreadful, really."

"You're such an idiot," Chloe murmurs, snuggling into her spot against his collarbone and linking her arms around his lean torso. He wraps his wings around them both, and she can feel the ever-present warmth coming off them. "So if your brother looks like Idris Elba, who does your dad look like?"

Lucifer considers, then grins mischievously. "Morgan Freeman."

Chloe laughs, feels tears pricking her eyes, and nuzzles closer. She doesn't care that he doesn't have on a stitch of clothing, she doesn't care about how on earth to possibly explain this to anyone, she doesn't care about what Dan's face is going to look like when she arrives to pick up Trixie and Eve with a naked and bewinged Lucifer in the passenger seat (although it will probably be amazing). Not when she's sitting here in the early-summer sun, and she's in his arms, and he's real, and he's home, and the world is repaired, and the future is possible, when she sees in colors and breathes in light. As she looks up at the sky, and whispers only –

Thank you.

Thank you.

THE END.