Author's Notes: Double header today! Merry Christmas :)

Chapter title credit goes to Poets of the Fall.

To anyone wondering about my future plans, I'm definitely going to take a break, for now, but I already have an overflowing mental pot of story ideas, including a big idea for another novel. So, I'm near certain I'll be back to entertain you guys again at some point in the nearish future :) In the meantime, you can always say hi to me on Twitter or Tumblr, where I also go by ariaadagio. Cheers!

Castaway - Children of the Sun

The chatter of dozens of voices and the crack of pool balls fill the air at what has become their ladies' night hangout. A little nook of a sports bar in Sunset Strip, appropriately named the Devil's Water. Chloe, Ella, and Linda all sit in a ring around a narrow high-top as multiple televisions flash and darts fly.

"I.C.E. took the Möbius case today," Ella grumbles as the server arrives with their drinks. "I can't believe they took it!"

"I can," Chloe says with a shrug. The server — an older woman with her silvering hair pulled into a short ponytail, nametag: Betsy — sets their glasses down with a clink. "Thank you." Betsy smiles and nods before stepping away. Chloe continues, "It was way beyond the L.A.P.D.'s jurisdiction. I mean … it was essentially an international smuggling and black-market-sales ring."

"Of body parts. Ugh." Ella cringes, visibly shivering. "So creepy." She takes a sip from her lager, leaving a strip of foam across her top lip like she's the star of a Got Milk? commercial. "You're really not bothered that the feds took your investigation from you?"

"Nope. Not as long as the victims get some justice."

"What about justice for you, though?" Ella says. She licks the foam away. "You're a victim, too. And Lucifer."

"I'm … okay," Chloe says. "I'm—" Running only makes it better for me, dear. Her words choke to a halt as her throat threatens to close. She swirls her daiquiri straw, eyes watering. "I'm okay. Really. Just …."

"Chloe," Linda says gently, leaning to put her hand on Chloe's shoulder. "You can talk to us." She makes a vague gesture at the table. "This is a safe space."

"Totally safe," Ella chimes in.

Chloe leans back in her chair to rub her eyes. The image of Lucifer's broken feathers dangling by a chain from Asmodeus's neck like trophies makes her stomach roil. And then she can't stop seeing Lucifer, weak, dying, trying to overpower the demon, trying to break his neck and save her, only to collapse in the mud. Then the Asmodeus in her mind's eye points the gun at Lucifer, and Chloe can't do anything to stop him.

Not a thing.

Suddenly, her daiquiri doesn't seem all that appetizing. Nothing does. She pushes the glass away. "He almost died. In my arms. He …."

"But he didn't," Linda says softly.

"Obviously, he didn't," Chloe replies. "He's fine." She swallows. "He's fine." The lump in her throat only seems to get bigger. A chorus of cheers at the nearest pool table explodes like confetti from a canon, oblivious to her turmoil, and her brain starts to feel like it's separating from her body. From reality. Drifting … somewhere behind. "Just …."

Ella nods solemnly. "Sounds like a great excuse to carpe diem to me."

"Oh, we … um." Chloe clears her throat roughly. "We um." Heat flames across her face and down her throat as Ella brightens with anticipation. "We carpe-ed. Already. More than once."

"BAM!" Ella exults, happily slapping the table with her palm. "Now, that's what I'm talkin' about! Nothing like a near death experience to—" Chloe squeezes her eyes shut, trying to stop seeing it. Seeing Lucifer. In the mud. The gun pointed at him. "—what?"

"I'm just …." Chloe sniffs, trying to rub the tears out of her eyes before they start. "It almost doesn't feel … real?"

Linda nods. "Chloe, that's a perfectly natural reaction."

Chloe sucks in a breath. "It is?"

Linda scoots her chair closer. "You experienced something that was deeply upsetting to you," she says in a soothing tone. "It might take some time to come down off the ledge from that, so to speak. To convince yourself things are safe again."

"He just … always seemed so … bulletproof before." Which is stupid, since Chloe has seen copious evidence over three years to support the idea he's not bulletproof. Or knife proof. Or anything proof, really, when he's around her. Evidence to include him actually dying, not just threatening to die, thanks to Malcolm. "But …."

"This time wasn't blink-and-you-missed-it," Linda says. "You had long enough for the idea of losing him to sink in and become real. You had time to be afraid."

"Yeah," Chloe says, sniffling. "Yeah. That's it exactly." She sighs. "So, how can I convince myself things are safe again, in light of that?" Her throat aches like someone sliced it open. "I want to be convinced." Like … yesterday. "I need to be convinced."

A warm smile spreads across Linda's face. "I suggest spending some quality time with your friends, who love and support you—"

"That's us!" says Ella.

"Yes," continues Linda slowly, "and I also suggest spending some quality time with Lucifer."

"Definitely more carpe-ing," Ella interjects with a serious nod. "Carpe all of the diem. All of it."

Linda clears her throat. "Well, that's … not exactly how I would put it. But, yes. That. Intimacy, both physical and emotional, is a great cure-all."

"That's your professional advice?" Chloe replies with a blink. "That's … it? Spend time with people?"

Linda shrugs. "Sometimes the solutions to problems that seem insurmountable are actually very simple."

"Okay," Chloe says, nodding. "Okay. Thanks. I'll … I'll try."

"Great!" Ella replies. A mischievous grin stretches across her face, crinkling the skin around her eyes. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Chloe snorts. "Do I want to?"

"It's time for the Scoobies to ride again!" Ella gestures to the chalkboard by the bar where Betsy is just setting down the chalk and wiping her hands off on the dirty towel hanging from her belt. Sure enough, "9 PM TRIVIA" is written out in all caps on the board. Ella hops down from her stool, grinning like a fiend. "I'm gonna go sign us up."

Chloe rolls her eyes. "You guys planned this, didn't you?"

"Consider it doctor's orders," Linda says with a wink, taking a sip from her mojito.

Chloe laughs, shaking her head, and she reaches for her daiquiri.

Maybe, after tonight, the Scoobies will be 2 for 2.

Trivia night helps a little.

Whether the relief came from the alcohol, or from the reassuring advice, she doesn't know. But one moment, she's drunkenly dropping her phone onto her nightstand in the dark, having somehow stumbled from her Uber all the way to her bed. The next moment, her head is pounding with alcohol-induced dehydration, the birds are singing, traffic is a renewed-but-distant roar, and sunshine is hitting her face like a brick.

With a stubborn groan, she rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head. She still has a few days before she needs to be back at work, and with Trixie staying at Dan's that day, there's no reason to get up, yet.

No reason.

Except ….

Squinting, she lifts the pillow to look at the clock. 7:16 a.m. He … might be up. Counterintuitively, given his typical nightlife, he's an early riser.

Can I come over? she texts, hoping she doesn't seem too clingy. It hasn't even been 24 hours since she last saw—

Always, he replies in a matter of seconds. Still three eggs in your omelette?

A burgeoning smile tugs at her lips as she sits up to greet the day.

The main floor of Lux is empty and quiet, save for a lone busboy vacuuming in the far corner, and a guy standing on a ladder, changing out one of the lightbulbs in the elaborate ceiling display. When the doors to Lucifer's private elevator trundle open, Chloe barrels forward, not even bothering to look first, only to smack into a solid wall of leather and metal and—

"Maze!" Chloe exclaims as she backs up a step.

"Decker," the demon says with a curt nod.

"What are you doing here?"

"Dropping something off."

"Oh." Chloe licks her lips. Oh. The cuffs. "You just got back? We missed you for drinks last night."

Maze frowns. "I stopped off to get the rest of them."

"Get …."

"The humans who hurt you. They're—"

"Dead?" Chloe blurts, unable to help herself.

Maze sighs, looking stung, as the elevator doors trundle shut behind her. "I was gonna say in human custody. As of yesterday afternoon. I dumped 'em all with the Mounties. You'll probably hear about it soon."

"Right," Chloe says, shaking her head. "Right, I'm … sorry."

Maze shrugs. "It's not like I don't deserve the stereotyping, I guess."

"No, Maze," Chloe says, thinking of Asmodeus. Asmodeus, who Lucifer called tame, of all things. Tame. "You really don't."

"Yeah, well …." Maze looks away. At a fixed, distant point on the far wall.

Chloe's heart constricts. "Come home."

"What?"

"I haven't touched your room, yet," Chloe says. "It's still how you left it. Just … come home. Okay?"

The hope in Maze's eyes is unmistakable. "Really?"

"Really." Chloe nods as she steps forward, pulling Maze into a hug. "I mean it. I'm sorry I doubted you."

"It's not like I can blame you," Maze replies, relaxing. "This was just …." She shakes her head.

"A shit sandwich of a year?"

Maze snorts. "I woulda said a dumpster fire. But close enough." Her arms snake around Chloe's waist. "Thanks, Decker."

"What are friends for?"

Lucifer's living room is empty. The cover is pulled over the piano keys. Not a single empty tumbler has been left out on a coaster. A soft breeze makes the curtains by the sliding door float like gossamer wings, but the balcony, too, is vacant. Her nostrils flare. The tantalizing smell of bacon pulls her forward. Deeper inside the penthouse. Down the hallway toward the kitchen.

"Good morning, Detective," Lucifer exclaims cheerfully without turning as she rounds the corner. The drawing Trixie promised him before they were kidnapped — what appears to be a somewhat impressionist depiction of stick Lucifer and stick Chloe pulling a Superman-and-Lois-Lane, flying out over scribbled blue water — hangs on his fridge door.

"Hey," Chloe replies with a sniff of amusement at the sight.

A steaming cheese omelette and three strips of perfectly crisped bacon are already waiting on the island counter for her, a sterling silver fork set neatly against the plate. How he timed her breakfast so well, she's not certain. Perhaps he heard her talking to Maze below. Now, he's mixing batter for … crepes or something. An open jar of Nutella rests on the counter by his elbow.

He's wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers that ride sinfully low on his slim hips. His shoulder blades ripple underneath his skin as he moves about, reaching, and stirring, and pouring, and …. Her tongue slides along her lower lip as she stares, unabashed. And then, spatula in hand, he turns to face her.

Her breath catches in her throat.

His eyes have a glint again. A brightness. A spark. A fire. Something she hasn't seen since before Asmodeus kidnapped them. The dark circles that hugged his eyes for days are gone. His cheeks have a bit of color back, too. Just a soft bit of blush that removes all former hints of cadaverousness from his appearance.

"You look so much better," she gushes.

"Amazing what a day and a night in one's own bed will do for you," he replies with a wink.

"You slept the whole day after you got home?"

"And night. I'd only been up for half an hour when you texted." He shrugs. "I'm not usually one for sloth, but …." A timer beeps, and he turns back to the stove to nudge his crepe with the spatula.

"I don't think it counts as sloth if you actually need the rest," she says, sliding onto the stool nearest her plate. He doesn't reply, intent on his crepe. She takes a sip of orange juice and then picks up the fork he left out for her. "Thank you for breakfast."

"You're quite welcome, darling."

She takes a bite. Her omelette is fluffy and perfect, and the taste of melted cheddar is sharp against her tongue. She closes her eyes, letting everything sit in her mouth a moment, savoring, before she resumes chewing. She will never take food for granted again. Never. And Lucifer makes food that's too delicious for words.

Swallowing, she clears her throat. "So … I have it on good authority that I should spend quality time with you."

He glances over his shoulder with an unreadable expression. "Oh, do you?" The words have a strange, razor edge to them.

"Yeah," she says, frowning. "I was … talking to Linda last night."

"Dr. Linda." He stills as though turned to stone for a moment before reanimating in a rush, shaking his head as if to clear it. He pokes at his crepe with the spatula. "About our … interlude in Québec?"

"Yeah," she says, pushing a piece of egg around on her plate. She looks up through her eyelashes at him. "And, as you know, I have today off."

He offers no response to that, which is … weird.

She barrels onward. "And Dan has Trixie for today. So that I can recuperate."

Lucifer scoops his crepe onto a plate and folds it, turning off the burner with his free hand. "And what sort of … recuperation … did you have in mind?" he says, sounding more strained than lascivious.

"How about our date?"

"Our date?"

She smiles as he sits beside her with his plate and the Nutella jar. "I believe," she says, reaching across the small gap between them to squeeze his bare shoulder, "that I was promised a 'bad-movie' marathon. Eight — no, nine — nine Star Wars films. Twenty plus hours of footage. Complete with snarky devilish commentary. Do you have … any thoughts about that?"

The Nutella jar rests beside his plate, a knife stuck into the spread within, but otherwise untouched. He stares into space beyond his plate. His crepe steams in the silence. His shoulder feels like unyielding steel underneath her palm. He takes a breath.

"I think that sounds … idyllic."

Except he sounds … almost choked up. She withdraws her hand, smile fading. "Lucifer?"

"You should finish your omelette before it gets cold," he says, nodding at her plate as he pushes his stool back from the island. "I'll … I'll fire up the telly, yes?"

And then he's gone in a whisper of movement she can hardly interpret with her human eyes. His steaming Nutella crepe remains untouched on his plate. What just …?

Was it something she said?

She replays the conversation in her head.

She walked in. He greeted her warmly. She talked about how good he looked. And then ….

Oh.

Well, shit.

With a sigh, she sets down her fork and chases after him.

The fireplace in the den is already alive and crackling when she finds him, fretting over the Tupperware container where he keeps his too-big stack of remotes. She pads across his oriental rug, closing the gap between them. He doesn't pull away when she wraps her arms around his waist.

"I'm … deeply sorry that I frightened you," he mutters as he yanks out the remote for his speakers, the remote for his television, and finally the remote for his blu-ray player. "I promise you; I'm feeling much better."

She kisses him between the shoulder blades. "It wasn't your fault that I got scared, Lucifer."

"It was, by definition, 'my fault,' Detective," he replies tightly, putting the words "my fault" into air quotes. "Unless Azrael is somehow mistaken."

With a sigh, he tosses the remotes onto the couch in a pile and pulls away from her, rubbing his wrists. The weeping wounds and blackened bruises wrought by Raguel's cuffs are gone, leaving behind only pale skin, and the sharp knob of bone that marks where his arm ends, and his wrist begins.

A lump forms in her throat. One would never guess that, mere days ago, he almost ceased to be.

He almost ….

Without speaking, she reaches for him, wrapping her palms around his wrists. He gives her an upset look at being constricted, but he doesn't move. Doesn't pull away from her. With her thumbs, she strokes the skin over his tendons. He's warm again. And perfect, even in all of his beautiful flaws. She skates her palms along his arms, up his neck, to his face, covering both temples and cheeks.

"Lucifer," she says softly, looking up at him, "I'm not just here because I'm scared about you dying, or because Linda said I should be here to meet some … some bullet point on a list of therapy criteria. I'm here because I want to spend time with you. Spending time with you is enjoyable to me because I love you. Okay? That's not gonna go away." She pauses, letting that sink in for him, and then continues, "I'm not going away."

He swallows and looks away. "I … thought …."

"You thought," she says, stroking his cheek, "now that we're out of the woods, and you're not dying, and we're not stuck together, that I'd change my mind about what we're doing?"

He gives her a stressed, furtive glance. "What are we bloody doing?"

"I don't have a bloody clue," she replies with a shrug.

He looses a soft snort of amusement, daring a longer look in her direction. The desired effect of borrowing his vernacular. His eyes crinkle around the edges as he regards her.

"Whatever we're doing, I like it," she continues. "And I don't want to stop." She pushes her fingers through his hair. "I want to be with you, whatever that entails. Okay? We'll figure out the rest as we go. It'll be—" Terrifying. "—exciting."

"Since when are you one for spontaneity?" he says, giving her a wry look.

"Since … I met the Devil?" She smiles, biting her lip. "I mean, I'm willing to give it a shot, at least."

"Oh, you are, are you?" he says, raising his eyebrows.

She nods. "Yep. I'm compromising. It's a thing couples do."

"Compromising, hmm?" he says. And then he pauses. Blinks. "C—" He clears his throat. "Couples? Did you say couples?"

"Well, that's what we are, aren't we?"

"Well, I …." Another blink. "Well." His eyes widen slightly. The smile that follows is a gentle sunrise on his features. "I would … like that."

"It's what you desire?" she prods.

His words are soft when he admits, "Very much."

"Okay, then." She nods again. "That wasn't too hard, was it?"

He laughs, pulling her into an embrace. His body smells of sandalwood and vanilla, and she can't help but take a deep breath. "We are quite the unlikely pair, aren't we?" Her eyelids dip, and she hums more than speaks a response. He presses the pad of his thumb to her lip, tracing the edges. "Thank you for saving my life," he says. "For …." He takes a breath and blows it out. "I'm … not used to owing anyone, but …."

"Lucifer, I promise. You don't owe me a thing."

"It's … quite the contrary, really." He shrugs. "I owe you … everything."

"No," she replies, shaking her head. "No, you don't. I didn't help you for some quid pro quo thing. That's never been my motivation."

"I know that," he says without hesitation. "I know it. I know you. And I know your heart." He kisses her, and she rests her fingertips against his hips. "Still, I …. It wouldn't be right if I didn't express my gratitude. I'm …. What you did for me. What you said. It … meant a lot. More than anything, really. So … thank you."

She smiles. "You're welcome."

The burning wood pops in the fireplace. His breath is warm against her body as he presses closer, nuzzling her. "So, I've an idea for our first adventure in spontaneity," he murmurs against her ear.

Her lower body tightens with desire. "Hmm?"

He kisses her, tastes her. "Let's postpone Star Wars for now, shall we?"

"And do what?"

"Why … me … of course."

She laughs. She can't help it.

He gives her a scandalized look. "You mean … you don't want to shag me?"

"Oh, my God—"

"Now, now, no need to bring him into this," Lucifer says, clucking his tongue.

"Oh, my God," she says again, rolling her eyes despite her grin. "Shut up."

"As you wish," he purrs, backing her into his leather couch with a soft thump. "Compromising, after all."

Her Westley.

She dips an index finger behind his waistband, pulling down his boxers, and him on top of her.

They spend all day together, whittling away the hours and minutes in reverent, mutual worship. She memorizes him, now, in the aftermath, when he's alive, and safe, and hot like a bonfire against her skin. When he can laugh with her as she nips him. When he can reciprocate with a hungering growl as she drags her teeth along his jawline and down his chest. When, even if it's not a feeling he can put to words, yet, he can love her until she's seeing all of his shimmering stars painted in her mind's eye. Until he pulls her into blissful languor like a ship gliding out to sea.

She wakes to an empty bedroom, and the ethereal sight of all of his curtains drifting in the breeze. The smell of salt floats faintly on the air. She squints, peering into the darkness as she brushes sleep-mussed hair out of her eyes. But he isn't there. Not sitting in his reading chair, watching her sleep. Not anywhere. Unabashed, she scoots off the bed, grabbing his robe in the process, and pads into the living room.

The sliding doors onto his balcony are open, and the distant sounds of traffic filter into the quiet living room. He's standing by the railing, naked, peering upward, his body framed with a dark halo by the open doorway. The brightest stars — the ones so bright they can't be cowed by L.A. light pollution - glitter overhead in the purple sky. In particular, Sirius — the Dog Star — is a brilliant beacon heralding the late summer pre-dawn.

"Hello, darling," Lucifer says as she sidles next to him in the quiet. The breeze ruffles his hair.

She drapes her arm across his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. "Hey," she says, pressing her lips to him. "Missed you when I woke up. Are you okay?"

He kisses the top of her head, pulling her close with a sigh. "Only … thinking."

"Yeah?"

"The things I've done …."

"It does get better, Lucifer. I promise you, it does. Just give it a little time."

He looks down at her with dark, warm eyes. "It already is better, a bit. But I more meant …."

She squeezes his arm. "Yeah?"

"Only that … after this … ordeal—" She resists the urge to snort, prompting him to add with a fleeting smile, "—an understatement, I'm aware—" He shakes his head. "—but I can't help but puzzle again over why … he put you here."

"He as in God."

"Dad, yes," Lucifer confirms with a small nod.

Whoa. "And?"

He stares at the horizon, looking lost. "And … perhaps," he says slowly before pausing. He regards her for a moment, silent, and then he takes a shallow, steeling breath. "Perhaps … your presence is the closest thing to an apology I'll ever receive."

"Wait," she says with a blink. "Wait, you think … I'm … I mean, I might be … an apology?"

"Perhaps." He looks away, shoulders wilting. "Dad was—" His fingers tighten around the railing, making the metal creak and moan in the quiet. "—prepared to let me destroy myself if that's what I desired." He swallows. His palms twist like he's wringing out a dish towel. Back and forth and back and forth. "But he also … made you."

Her eyes widen. "As in I'm God's counterargument to you hitting the self-destruct button?"

Lucifer shrugs. "I know from your perspective that it may seem a bit draconian."

Holy understatement, Batman. Has no one in Heaven heard of a heartfelt letter?

But the tips of Lucifer's ears and the ridges of his cheekbones are so flushed that not even the nighttime will hide his mood. The railing is almost shrieking in protest when he mumbles to his twisting fingers, "Perhaps, I'm being maudlin."

Jeez Louise, when is he gonna learn that trying to read Dad's mind is worse than herding cats? Nothing good ever comes from attempting it!

"What?" Chloe blurts.

He clears his throat, fixating on the roof of the building across the street, low and to the right.

Oops. Um ….

Chloe grits her teeth. Azrael.

Hunger delusions?

Azrael!

Fine. Fine, I'll change the channel.

AZRAEL!

But the replies stop, returning Chloe to the balcony where a mortified Lucifer is practically cringing away from her. She takes a breath, re-centering as she presses her palms over his, and his worrying hands still. "Sorry," she says. "I wasn't talking to you."

His frown forms deep crags on his face. "You weren't talking to—"

"It's not maudlin to want your family to want you, Lucifer."

"Yes, well." He sighs. "I suppose I'll never know for certain."

"Maybe, your dad will surprise you."

Lucifer shrugs.

"Hey," she says, gently bumping his hip with hers, before ducking under his arms and slipping into the space between him and the railing, "I want you."

He laughs, and his eyes come to bear on her again. He lifts a hand from the railing to cup her cheek. "Darling, that part's not in question." He kisses her, all of his awkwardness melting away. "And the feeling is mutual, I assure you."

A lump forms in her throat. "So, you believe me, now?"

"Well, you've made it rather impossible not to." Another kiss. "Now, shall I fix you some brekkie?"

"Can we just stay here for a bit?"

His eyes crinkle around the edges as he regards her. The Dog Star flickers near the horizon line. "All right," he says. With a reverent nod, he returns to his stargazing. She shifts to face the night, pressing her back to his radiating front. His arms close around her. Another one of those Venus-flytrap embraces that she adores.

A distant siren breaks the comfortable quiet and then wanes into the distance. She cranes her neck, looking up. Up at everything Lucifer built. It's kind of a head trip to think about. That she's wrapped in the arms of the man who cinched the belt on Orion. Dipped the Dippers. Wound Draco through the night.

"Did you make the constellations on purpose?" she wonders.

A soft breath of laughter falls from his lips. "I'm afraid I can't take credit for that," he says, staring into the purple-black. "The constellations are a result of humanity's talent for apophenia. Nothing more. Nothing less."

"Do you have a favorite?" she says.

"Constellation?"

She shakes her head. "A star."

"I did," he admits. "A long time ago. It's gone, now. But it was … beautiful."

The wistfulness in his tone is unmistakable. "I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't be," he says with a graceful shrug. "It was beautiful, but …." He peels his gaze from the sky to look at her for a moment. And then he smiles. And then he winks. "I've far brighter things, now, with which to occupy my mornings, yes?"

Her heart constricts as she looks up at him. "Yeah," she says, smiling. "Yeah, I think so."

They wait together for the dawn.

The Sinnerman-Pierce connection is still under review with I.A., stuck in some dank basement somewhere, and Chloe remains persona non grata at work. Even after being kidnapped. Even after wandering into an investigation so big it got bumped up to the feds. Nobody stops by her desk to say hello despite her imperiled, unplanned absence. With Dan and Ella both off-shift, only Chloe's struggling baby succulent is there to greet her. The poor thing hasn't rebounded since Lucifer fed it 90-proof booze, but it's still alive, at least. Still hanging on. Much like her career.

With a sigh, she flicks on her computer and checks her interoffice e-mail. Her inbox is full of retirement announcements, transfer announcements, duty rosters, spam …. She opens her browser and checks the news.

"EXPLOSION OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN OVER PACIFIC OCEAN," reads the first glaring WaPo headline in all caps. The article is dated only minutes ago. After skimming the text, though, she discovers that the headline contains the extent of the actual news. There was an explosion. In the sky. Over the Pacific ocean.

Her mind drifts uncertainly to unhappy neighbors. Like North Korea or something. But … no. There'd be way more than a vague headline if this were really some sort of attack. Wouldn't there?

Weird.

There's a thunk with a liquid slosh beside her. She glances down to find a steaming cardboard coffee cup. And then up to find Lucifer. Hovering by her desk in a sharp black suit with a dark maroon handkerchief for a pop of color at his breast pocket. "One non-fat almond-milk latte with sugar-free caramel drizzle," he announces with a grin before pulling up a chair. "Good morning, Detective."

She smiles, clutching her coffee with a grateful look. "Hey," she says, taking a sip. "What are you doing here? I don't have a new case, yet."

He shrugs, a strange glint in his eye. "I thought you might enjoy some company, regardless."

A warm feeling burgeons in her chest. "Thanks," she says. "That was—"

She frowns as one of the support-staff members flips on the nearest television to C.N.N. A shaky cellphone video is playing. At first, there's nothing but calm seas, an orange, glowing dot on the horizon, and an azure sky, all obstructed by some sort of railing with chipping paint. A boat? Onlookers shout at each other in another language. Chinese, maybe, based on the singsong cadence. Then the dot explodes into a column of roaring, hungering fire as wide across as the video. As quick as the flames appear, though, they're gone, leaving only boiling, steaming ocean in their wake.

"Explosion of unknown origin," the ticker tape reads. "No known nuclear powers implicated."

"Holy shit," she says, eyes wide. "They really think someone tried to nuke us?"

Only for Lucifer to sigh beside her. "You humans," he says, shaking his head. "I tried to keep it discreet, but you're crawling all about the planet like bloody ants." He pauses, considering. "Though, I admit, being compared to a nuclear holocaust is new, even for me. How novel."

She blinks. "The orange dot. That was … you?"

He regards her, the corners of his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. "Why, yes, Detective. The cuffs are trans-Pacific slag."

"You destroyed—"

"Smote the bloody hell out of them, yes," he says, nodding. "They're not invincible when they're not locked."

"And you … flew?"

The grin that was threatening before stretches wide across his face. "Indeed. Just a hop away from civilization, really, but—"

"But you flew."

"Yes," he says, eyes gleaming.

Her eyes water. "Your wings are better?"

He nods, regarding her affectionately. "I'll show you later, if you like."

"Yeah," she says without hesitation. "Please." Her mouth hurts she's smiling so hard. "I'm so happy for you."

"As am I," he says with a modest nod. "I … do like to fly."

She puts a hand on his arm. "I remember," she says, stroking his sleeve with her thumb. "It's free, you said."

"It is." He peers down at her hand, silent, his gaze sharp and wanting. Her heart begins to pound at his dark intensity.

"Decker," barks a deep voice from across the bullpen.

Their bubble pops.

Both Chloe and Lucifer look toward the source of the voice. To the doorway of Pierce's old office, where Acting-Lieutenant McDowell is standing in gleaming full uniform. "Yes, sir?" Chloe says.

McDowell holds out a case folder for her. "Body."

She nods. "Yes, sir."

McDowell tosses the case folder onto his administrative assistant's desk — almost knocking over one of her porcelain-cat knick-knacks in the process — and heads back inside his office, closing the door behind him. One day, Chloe thinks. One day, he might remember that most sentences require verbs and things. But not, it seems, today. With a sigh, she pushes back her chair and rises to her feet, still clutching her coffee.

She glances at Lucifer. "I guess it's good you came early—"

"Detective, that never happens," he interjects, snickering. "A fact to which you can now confidently attest."

"Lucifer," she says with a snort of amusement, not quite managing the sibilant admonishment she was aiming for. "We're working, now."

"We are, aren't we?" he says, eyes twinkling.

They share a brief, warm look as he rises to his feet, graceful and sure.

"Well, then," he says, gesturing toward the administrative assistant's desk, "shall we see what's in store?"

"Yeah," she says, grinning. "Let's go."

~finis~

More author's notes: Thank you so much, everybody, for your support and kind words. And thank you for the kudos and favorites - I deeply appreciate everyone who's taken the time to leave me one or the other (or both). If you've been saving up, this is officially your last chance for this story. Until next time :)