Trixie is asleep when Chloe returns home. She had left on the heels of Linda and Charlie; Lucifer had been reluctant to let her go, and she to leave him, but Amenadiel had insisted on hearing his off-the-cuff brother's celestial scheme in painstaking detail and Chloe was tired and the thought of Trixie was enough to propel her from the penthouse and leave them to their plotting.
Trixie.
It's only been two days, but it feels like an eternity since she's curled up with Trixie in bed, Harry Potter book in hand and raucous laughter crackling alongside the fireplace. Chloe's heart aches as she turns the key in the lock and steps into the darkened apartment: it looks so small now, after the vast, provincial paradise of Heaven and the magnitude of the celestial craziness falling about her shoulders. The sight of her kitchen island strewn with junk mail and Trixie, curled on the couch and sound asleep with Dan's flimsy homemade chakra bracelet hanging loose around her wrist is nearly enough to incite a choked sob.
Trixie stirs when Chloe sinks down beside her. "You're here," she smiles, in a voice thick with sleep and rasping with the exhaustion of the week past. Chloe strokes her hair; pulls Trixie's head into her lap and leans her own against the pillows. Here, now, with Trixie's breaths evening into contented sleep in her mother's arms and the gentle roar of the fire flickering in the darkness beside them, Chloe is more tired than she's ever been.
She sleeps, and lets the dreamless dark take her.
Chloe makes egg sandwiches for breakfast, and for a moment things seem almost normal. Maze hovers over her, flicking at the bread in the toaster with reluctant curiosity, and Trixie sits at the kitchen island with grinning expectancy. It's just like old times, Chloe thinks with a twinge of contented sorrow — when she hadn't known Maze to be anything other than a roommate and friend of questionable legality, when she hadn't just eaten these same sandwiches forty-eight hours prior in Heaven with her deceased father, and when Trixie — Trixie — had still had hers.
Chloe's heart rips at the thought of Dan; at the sight of Trixie munching away across the counter with a faraway look of placated sadness. She wants to reach out to her, to fold her in her arms and to make it go away, to make the pain stop — but she lets her be. She remembers her own pain; that very same one — fresh and hot as the scar across her heart opens all over again and pours liquid fire down her chest. There's nothing to do but to be there; to let the hurt scab and come undone and then scar again, and so she only grasps for Trixie's hand with her own, squeezing with reassuring firmness and a smile that says — I know.
The small hand that wraps around her mother's is steady, and radiating with its own reaffirming warmth. She's strong; stronger than even Chloe had been.
One day, it'll be okay.
Chloe is cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing the stove with determined abandon, when Lucifer texts. It's already late in the morning — Trixie is watching Maze sharpen her knives against the wooden coffee table while Disney channel blares in the background. She snatches at her phone and stares down at the message through narrowed eyes. A bee emoji, followed by a bright green checkmark.
"What—" She shakes her head and types back a quick response — I have no idea what that means.
She can almost hear Lucifer's exasperated sigh through the screen as the three bubbles appear and then disappear again. After a heated moment of deliberation on his end, her phone buzzes.
The STING is READY.
A beat, and then the three bubbles appear again. She calls him before he can text.
It seems as though he's started speaking before he even picks up. "Seriously, they put the emojis there so that you don't have to type out the words. It's a bee, with a stinger — I mean, honestly, you are a detective—"
"Can we just focus on the sting, please? And not your awful, cryptic texting habits?"
"Cryptic? I beg your pardon? I am never cryptic, Detective, that's my Father's wheelhouse. I am the opposite of cryptic—"
"Okay, yes, sure. Not cryptic. Whatever. Can we just focus up, please?"
A pause, and he huffs into the receiver. "Fine." She can hear the click of his shoes as he paces across the floor — he must have finally gotten dressed — and there's a twang of disappointment at the thought. She shakes her head with some irritation, like a dog fresh from the water, surprised at the straying of her own thoughts.
"Right. If Amenadiel gets it in his angelic head to tell you it was all his idea, I expect I'll be forced to smite him. I've learned from the best, Detective, as you're well aware—" he pauses, and she can feel the smile on his face, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "I've sent evitesto every Instagram influencer within a twenty five mile radius. Even the homely ones. There's an open bar tonight at Lux, and—" she can hear him snap his fingers, as if delivering the greatest punchline of all time, "A costume theme. Heavenly Hosts. Get it, Detective? Heavenly Hosts? I mean, the irony being that I am, in fact, now the Heavenly Ho—"
"I get it." She deadpans. She's tonguing her cheek to keep from smiling. Stupid. "So, a costume party and free drinks. What about, I don't know, finding our guy?"
"Clearly, you've never experienced the allure of costumed intrigue." He sighs, vexed, "There are two options, Detective. Either our guy is an opportunistic thief with a penchant for partying, or he's a monstrous being with knowledge of the celestial and murderous intent. If it's the first, this will draw him out of the woodwork like a fat, idiotic, thieving cow to the slaughter. I'm giving away a prize —" she can practically see his eyes light up — "free drinks for life to the best costume. And — drumroll, please — there will be a real angel there to judge the lineup."
When she's silent, he continues in a hurried rush. "You see? It's ingenious. Two birds, one feathered, winged, costumey stone. If our thief falls into category one, he's just landed upon the greatest angel-cosplay his addled little mind can drum up. Free drinks for life, just for waving around the stick he's nicked off a sleeping man? He'll return to the scene of the crime, Detective, believe me."
She's following. Barely. "And if he doesn't?"
"He will. Listen, Detective, only drunken idiots with a vast capacity for determination can get into Lux in the first place. I pride myself on our exclusivity. If he got in once, he'll be itching to get back in again. The promise of VIP status will be too much to resist if he's that colossal an idiot to have pilfered a celestial weapon of mass destruction."
She purses her lips. It's insane, convoluted, an absolute long-shot — in a nutshell, its Lucifer — but…it could work. She presses on. "And the alternative? The one with the celestial terrorist? You think a costume party is going to entice them to a nightclub, with the staff in hand? I'm finding that hard to believe."
"Did you not hear my selling point? A real life angel, there to judge our thieving patrons' costumes? I've put Amenadiel's name on the evite. I've put Maze and Eve on the case, too; that pamphlet will be plastered inside every dive bar and on every street corner before tonight. If our suspect is your average Joe, that name will mean nothing to him. It took you three years to believe I'm the Devil, so Amenadiel's not likely to convert the masses. But—"
She gets it now. "If it's someone who knows everything already…knows about the staff, they'll recognize the name. They'll…what, you think they'd come for him? If they see his name, wouldn't they know you'd be there, too? You're not exactly subtle."
"Thank you," he says, in genuine, distracted earnest. "Look, if someone does have that staff, someone…sinister, they'll be needing to use it, and quickly. They must know its disappearance hasn't gone unnoticed. They won't come for me; not yet, anyway. If its malicious intent they're after, God will have to be the grand finale. They'd start with his most loyal soldier, charge up the staff, work their way up the celestial ladder. If they know Amenadiel's there tonight, at a costume party where one might slip in sight unseen…what better opportunity to strike while the iron is hot?"
"And what makes you think they wouldn't try to take you both down? Come and find you, too?" There's worry laced between the words, and he takes slight pause. "Lucifer, you don't have any—"
"Any Godly powers? Yes, I'm aware, Detective. None that we can tell, at least." He mutters the last part, in vague annoyance. "But he doesn't know that, does he? Our mysterious staff thief. No one does, save for you and Amenadiel. And he'll be the bait."
There's silence on Chloe's end, and on his, save for the incessant rapping of his fingers as he waits for her response. She has a million objections; a million questions and a million reasons why this could go terrifically, horrifically, wrong. But she doesn't have another option, and she can hear the pained insistence in his voice beneath the frenetic, adolescent excitement and her gaze drifts again to Trixie in the living room and to the thought of Dan, lost forever — everyone, lost forever if they don't at least try. She doesn't have a better idea. She nods, swallowing the questions on her tongue and looking to the ceiling as she says the words: "Alright. Let's give it a try."
"Excellent," he purrs. "I'll see you tonight, then, Detective. And don't forget the costume. It's still a party, after all."