They don't stir until it's night; until the lights of the city outside, glittering against the naked window, dance in front of their eyes and pull them awake. She's snoring softly, her bare back pressed against his chest and the two of them still slick with sweat beneath the tangled sheets.

He opens his eyes first, sinking into the pillows with a purr of satisfaction as her weight shifts against him and settles against his waist. A loose smile pulls across his lips as the snoring fades and she continues to move innocently against him, sighing contentedly as though deep in a peaceful sleep. She's never been much of a liar, though, and he lets her persist in her charade for a moment longer, until the feeling of her sliding against him and the soft, low, hum in her throat is too thick to ignore and he grabs her by the arm.

"Good evening, Detective," he drawls, wrapping his hand about her wrist and calling her bluff with dark, hungry eyes. The confused innocence drops from her gaze and she grins; that teasing, playful smile that makes his heart ache and his body reach for hers.

"I think we missed dinner," she says, as he yanks the hand wrapped around her wrist and she falls gently onto her back, facing him finally and fixing him with shining eyes. A sliver of moonlight is peeking through the windows and bathing her face in silky light, and he bends to kiss her, to catch the starlight balanced on her lips.

"I'm not hungry," he replies, and his mouth is trawling along her neck, nipping at her ear, dragging his teeth and tongue against the base of her jaw. He draws back with a peevish grin — he's called her bluff, turned the tables, and she needs him again, already, right now, aching with the weight of him against her and twisting against the thin layer of satin bedding that clings to her and crinkles under his touch.

"On second thought—" his eyes glimmer and he dives back down, giving her what she wants, tearing away the sheet that envelops her — "I could eat."

The murmur of a contented laugh escapes her and he's guiding himself down, down, — until her back is arching and her hands are grasping at his hair and he's folding her legs about his shoulders. The warmth of his panting breaths against her fills her and she digs her nails into his hair, and a whine is already seeping through her parted lips by the time his tongue curves around her.

"Lucifer," she gasps, and she can feel that same, devilish smile press against her.

He's utterly concentrated on the task at hand — or mouth, as it were — and so focused is she on his tongue against her and his hand squeezing her waist and the low growl that compels her not to squirm — so focused is she on the fire burning inside her and starting to spill over the edge that neither of them hear the all-too-familiar ding of the elevator doors.

Neither of them hear the confused murmur and the subsequent crunching of feet across broken glass, and neither of them see Amenadiel as he comes to stand directly facing the steps to the bedroom, a question poised on his lips.

That is, until Chloe's eyes fly open in a shuddering cry and meet Amenadiel's gaze, just as his own eyes adjust to the darkness of the penthouse and the shapes on the bed suddenly come into all-too-clear focus.

"Oh," he says, his mouth a perfect illustration of the word.

Despite being the only human in the room, Chloe is possessed by a preternatural speed at the sight of Amenadiel which surpasses even the celestial. The cry on her lips is strangled by a gasp of abject mortification as she pulls the sheets up with lightning reflexes, drawing her knees to her chest and staring at Amenadiel through parted lips.

Lucifer is slower to emerge. When Chloe's legs snap away he lifts his head, almost begrudgingly, still splayed across the bed and preparing to fix her with a confused pout when his eyes travel past her cowering form and land upon his brother. He jerks up with a violent start, shoving a pillow across his lap and staring through the low light at his brother with bewilderment.

"Ah, brother," he sputters, "How kind of you to knock."

Amenadiel is still looking slack-jawed, his gaze averted firmly to the floor, and Chloe is certain as her heart rate relaxes that whatever lasting trauma this interruption will impart upon her, Amenadiel will suffer far worse than she. The thought comforts her slightly.

He turns away from them, standing rigid with his back to the bed as he speaks with rushed insistence. "I need to talk to you, Luci. Now."

Chloe throws her head back against the pillows as Amenadiel faces away from them, her cheeks flushed red and burning. "God," she mutters, her eyes on the ceiling.

"Believe me, Detective, I'm as thrilled as you are."

Lucifer is sitting up now, brushing back his hair with a hurried hand and breathing the words in fixed irritation. But the steely urgency in Amenadiel's voice, discernible even through the thick cloud of discomfiture that now wafts through the penthouse, is enough to make Lucifer take pause. The shadow of familial annoyance that had crossed his face dissipates and his brows knit together — he stands quickly from the bed and shrugs on the discarded robe that lies strewn across the floor while Amenadiel waits, facing away with stoic muster. Chloe does the same, gathering the crumpled dress shirt from its resting place at the foot of the bed and doing the buttons haphazardly.

"Right, then. Out with it." Lucifer strides across the penthouse and settles himself on the couch with a presumptuous stare — this had better be good — as Chloe takes up her tentative perch on the opposite pole of the sofa. Amenadiel turns to face them once more, his expression dark and impenetrable and his hand rubbing incessantly against his knuckle. The embarrassment plastered across his face had died almost as quickly as it had come, and Lucifer realizes — he's scared. The great Amenadiel, the favorite son, the loyal soldier — afraid to stand where he had interrupted only moments before and deliver his message.

"The staff, Luci," he says, and Chloe searches both of their faces for a morsel of a clue as to the nature of this latest celestial drama. "The Tree of Life. It's gone."

The ragged scar on Chloe's stomach flares with heat and licks white-hot against her navel, flooding her with searing warmth and burning into the silence.