Lucifer drives at breakneck speed for his house in the hills. Lux is still a crime scene, and a public rendezvous had been deemed unacceptable in his brief conversation with Maze, so they careen up Mulholland Canyon in a frenzied rush, taking the turns two at a time and sending Chloe reeling for the nonexistent safety handle. He had dragged her by the hand out of the station — far be it from her to point out the irony of his binding her to the precinct only a few short minutes before — and had practically thrown her into his parked car, muttering frenetically under his breath as they had torn from the lot and sped into the black night.

She had overheard some of his terse call: his silence on the line after the news of his sister — no doubt thinking hopefully of Remiel, Chloe realizes with a pang — lost forever and deep in the dark earth. She had heard an unfamiliar voice on the other end greet him with silky purr, interrupting Maze and bringing a furrow to Lucifer's brow. That was all she had to work with, at the moment — he had snatched his phone closer to his ear at the sound of the voice and stalked away from her, pacing with twitching irritation in the long shadows of the evidence room. When he had reappeared, dark and looming and tall — so tall — in the cluttered space, there had been no time to ask. Now, she can only sit in clamorous silence in the passenger seat of his corvette, the lights of the city a blur as they dance from left to right and back again with each dizzying turn.

He does appear to be looking at her, peeking over with a hurried glance every few moments and averting his gaze before she can react. He seems to be in a state of zealous agitation, his fingers tapping nervously against the thin steering wheel with each skittish stare. Finally she breaks the silence as the corvette screeches to a halt behind a muted green prius.

"Okay, spill."

"Hm?" He looks everywhere that isn't her, avoiding her pointed stare and drumming a halfhearted rock tune against the side of the car.

"Lucifer. You haven't said a word to me since…" She trails off. Since you just handcuffed me to the wall of a police station, she wants to say. "Since Maze called."

He swallows. Blinks in response to the flashing turn signal of the green prius.

"It's kind of freaking me out. You never shut up."

He looks at her again, briefly, as the light turns green. The prius shoots ahead, but he stalls at the light, inhaling deeply as he fixes her with a stern gaze.

"I'm taking you back to the penthouse," he says, as he finds his voice. Chloe stares at him.

"What? No. I'm going with you. I want to go with you, I mean, if it's your sister, I should meet her, right? Not — I don't want to be presumptuous — if you're not ready or something that's totally cool, I just thought—"

"It's not that." His voice is flat, devoid of its usual silken charm.

"Then what is it? It's good news if it's your sister, right? An angel? Maybe we were wrong about the figure at Lux— maybe she wasn't trying to hurt Amenadiel, maybe she was trying to find the staff, too, or whoever killed Jimmy Barnes, and now that she's here she can help us — I mean, what are her powers? Her…angel superpower? That could come in handy, right?"

Lucifer offers an empty chuckle in response. "Detective, I'm afraid not all of my siblings are so amenable." He glances away, a shadow crossing his face. "As you well know."

She shakes her head as he rolls through the intersection and takes a left; away from the house in the hills and down, towards Lux. There's a cold fear seeping into his chest, freezing the doubt that she had thawed so readily in the evidence room.

"My sister is…unpredictable, Detective. If she has the staff, it's not for the reasons you've just theorized. She's dangerous. It's dangerous." He's staring straight ahead, eyes glued to the yellow median in the middle of the road as his hand tightens around the clutch.

"Lucifer, stop." Her hand on his knee is enough for him to ease off the gas. "Stop."

He stops. They pull into the gravel mouth of an overlook and she shifts in her seat, pulling her fingers from his knee and draping them across his hand instead.

"I'm not going back. You can't keep doing this, Lucifer, keep deciding where and when I'm safe and when I'm not." She continues at his wounded look, "I chose to fight with you. I chose to be there. And you…you did keep me safe. Remember, what Linda said? You saved my li—"

"YOU DIED!" His hand is wrenching away from hers, flying to tangle in his hair as his voice breaks on a roar and shatters across the skyline. "I didn't save anything. I watched you die, Chloe, I heldyou, I—" He's crying now, and the sky seems to mourn in response as a light drizzle glazes the hood of the car and dampens the leather seats. She's never seen him cry. Not like this. She's seen his eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears: at the hospital, the night Dan died; on the balcony, the night he left her, the night he returned to Hell — and faintly, fuzzily — she remembers the feeling of his hand, hot and rough and desperate against her cheek and his gasping, ragged breaths beneath her fingers as she had closed her eyes that day at the Coliseum. The sight stops her in her tracks; steals the refutation from her lips and commands her into silence.

"I held you," he says again, and tears are streaming down his face, coating the broken words in slick sorrow.

"And I thought I made it right," he sniffs, nodding on a sob as if convincing himself. "I brought you back. But then why…why every time I close my eyes, why do I see it over it all again? Why can't I stop the bleeding, if I brought you back, if you're safe? Why won't it stop?"

He's asking her like a lost child might beg for his mother, the words fragmented and coiled about his heart like a vice. Her own heated breaths have shuddered to a halt and now pass through her lips as an afterthought, as tears spring to her own eyes and blaze a burning path down her cheeks.

"Detective," he murmurs, and his hand is on her cheek, brushing away the wetness there with that same tender touch that pricks through hazy memories of the Coliseum.

There's nothing she can say to quiet his mind, not now that the words are finally free and floating above the hum of the engine, and so she doesn't say anything at all. She places a tentative hand on his wrist; on the wrist that's tilted and grabbing at his hair to steady his head against his low whimper. It folds limply into her grasp, and the rest of him follows as he crumples sidelong, leaning across the center console and burying himself in her arms. She kisses the mess of tousled hair that's pressed against her mouth as his head falls onto her breast and his panting sobs slow, finally; until the beating rain that soaks through her shirt wets his lips on her chest and wicks away salt tears.

When he lifts his head she presses her forehead to his, reaching for his jaw with light fingers and imploring him to meet her gaze.

"Lucifer, I know…I know that you would do anything for me. To protect me. To keep me safe."

If only she did know. If only she did know that Heaven was only the tip of the iceberg; that he would have done anything for her so many years before that, so many times over. That he already had. That he would do it all again.

"I know that," she repeats. "So promise me."

"Detective," he starts, warding off the logical, detective promise she's sure to invoke, asking him to swear to back off, to simply accept what life throws, to cherish the time they have together instead of worrying about the futu—

"Promise me that you'll keep me safe."

Not what he expected.

"You can't lie, right? So promise me, right now."

"It's not that simple." He's shaking his head, wicking the droplets from his face as he faces her in calculated confusion. "I'm trying to, I'll always try to, Detective, but—"

"No buts." She interrupts him, fixes him with that piercing stare that demands answers. "Yes or no."

"Yes," he says, simply, the confusion melting from his face as the answer settles and clarifies the silence. It's the easiest, most impossible one he's ever made. "I promise."

"I believe you."

The words are plain, transparent, uncomplicated, but they're new. Everything is new. He's been God for three days and the Devil for millennia and he's been hers for so, so much longer. She's his first believer, his first convert, his first disciple. His first love.

There's a peculiar lucidity surrounding the promise that's just been uttered; a sort of realization that washes over him with curious warmth. For the first time since he's held the flaming sword aloft, the oath he speaks feels remarkably like an act of God, clear and firm and reverberating with sincere promise. She's right; he won't lie — he can't bring himself to, and so if he said it…it must be true. He'll keep her safe. Clever Detective.

"Okay, well, that's settled. Shall we?" She cocks her head back to the road with a vague gesture towards the hills. "Lucifer, I was always coming with you. Promise or no promise. We're partners. You can't get rid of me that easily."

"I've no intention of doing so, Detective," he says, softly, brushing aside the strand of hair that lies wet and slick against her forehead and tucking it gently behind her ear. He shakes his head, ridding it of the remnants of the nightmare that still linger on his mind and of the water that's seeped through his hair and soaked his collar.

"I'm not sure what I'm paying the Doctor for," he says, finally, tearing his eyes from her unwavering stare and swallowing softly. His hand reaches for the clutch, and the low hum of the engine snarls back to life. "When you can just climb in my head and do her job for free. It seems you've found your own mojo, Detective."

Chloe laughs; a real laugh, breaking the potent tension that had settled on and crushed their shoulders. He returns the chuckle warmly, throwing a hand across the back of her seat as he reverses out of the overlook and back onto the road he had refused to take.

"Just think of the money saved," he muses, his usual chirping intonation returning despite the danger that looms in the hills above. "Therapy in Los Angeles is bleeding me dry, ever since she stopped accepting me as payme—" He stops. She doesn't have to curtail him with an eye roll, or a glare, or a tug on the sleeve — he stops because she's only smiling at him, staring at him with her head tilted in her seat and her chin resting in her palm and smiling at him as the rain soaks them in promise.

The rain has picked up by the time they pull into the driveway. They've been driving so fast that the downpour doesn't register until Lucifer grinds to a searing halt in front of the limestone steps and the looming glass door; Chloe sputters in halfhearted protestation as her shirt clings to her like a wet napkin. She can't help but wonder if his outcry on the overlook sparked the current Old Testament weather conditions — a rain like this in Los Angeles, even in December, would thrill even the most grizzled meteorologist.

He seems more angry now than nervous; the anxiety that had seized him before their conversation seems to have morphed into decided irritation. He strides from the car and wraps a protective arm around her waist as they mount the steps.

She's been here once before, with Pierce, the day Lucifer had kidnapped the man masquerading as the Sinnerman. She hadn't had much time to admire the view, or the spectacularly decorated spread of white furniture and marbled countertops that had greeted her upon entrance — and this time is much the same as she follows Lucifer doggedly through the sleek rooms.

"How come you've never taken me here?" She blurts in a whisper, as she follows him through the darkened kitchen. It's certainly not the time, but she's soaking wet and hyper-aware of the ring on her finger and her brain is foggy from the handcuffs and the overlook and him, sobbing into her, and-

He's paused, briefly, turning to look at her in the dim light. "In the kitchen? Detective, far be it from me to turn down a good countertop, especially one of this quality, but I'm not sure this is exactly the time, I mean—" he looks furtively from her to the rest of the kitchen and drops his voice, "Is it?"

"What?" She stares at him, processing, before her eyes fade into a spirited roll and she whispers back at him through bared teeth. "No. No! You just told me your murderous sister is in this house waiting for us, you think I was talking about having sex with you, right now? I meant, like, why don't you take me here, as in, to this house, you know, like for a date — okay, never mind. Forget it. Forget I said anything. Let's just….yeah." She surges past him with an exaggerated sigh, but her hand lingers for a moment on the damp front of his shirt, eliciting an arched brow and a wagging, crooked smile as he follows her out of the kitchen with a twinge of reluctance.

—

His murderous sister is indeed waiting for them in the house, but she doesn't look very murderous. In fact, she looks…young. Younger than Amenadiel, younger than Lucifer, younger even than Remiel. If she hadn't been clued into celestial affairs, Chloe would have guessed her to be no older than nineteen or twenty, with close-cropped black hair and tarnished silver jewelry that carries a distinct liberal arts college chic appeal to it.

She's sitting in the living room, her legs draped across the arms of a white leather loveseat. She has the staff; she's fiddling with it between her legs, spinning the top like it's a toy dreidel and pressing the base into the thin carpet. Maze and Eve flank her on either side, a look of blanketed unease fueling their state of rapt attention. They look up when Chloe and Lucifer enter, and Maze's face darkens.

"No. No." She rises before they can even step fully into the room, waving them back with an insistent hand. "What is she doing here, Lucifer? I told you not to bring her, it hasn't even been a week since that fucking thing killed her once—" She nods curtly to Chloe. "Sorry."

Chloe purses her lips. Behind Maze, Eve is looking on with an unreadable expression, and as she meets Chloe's gaze she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. Beside her, Lucifer's sister perks up, and her legs swing down from the arm of the sofa and thud against the carpet.

"Sit down, Mazikeen." Lucifer's voice is low, commanding; he ignores her tirade and ushers Chloe forward while Maze fumbles back. He's looking past Maze, his eyes glued to his sister as she meets his guarded stare with wide, dark eyes.

"Luci?"

For a brief moment, Chloe considers asking aloud if they're sure they've dragged in the right murderous, staff-stealing sibling. This one appears to be in a state of utter elation at the sight of her brother as she practically leaps from the couch, leaving the staff to fall unceremoniously against the sofa as she envelops him in a tight embrace.

"I can't believe it's you," she's saying, in a poor attempt to mask the excitement that bubbles up through a raspy, darkened voice. It's that same voice Chloe had heard on the phone, back at the precinct; the silky quality is unmistakable, but in the dim light of the living room, with her arms wrapped around Lucifer's rigid back, she seems…harmless. She's not even attempting to guard the staff, instead gazing up at Lucifer with a hungry, eager stare.

"I was gonna come down, you know? For the vote. I heard it was a disaster. I only stayed cause I am so sick of Michael. He's been trying to get me to join his stupid campaign since day one, so, I just…" She moves, then, shifting ever so slightly, and her whole body seems to blur with the act, muddying her features and distorting the image of her that had moments ago burned so clearly in Chloe's mind. It's only when she reappears, solid and unwavering before them, that Chloe can remember the face she had seen only seconds before. She gets it, now — the blur that Eve had seen at Lux, a few nights past — why she couldn't describe who she saw even though she had watched her all night long. This must be her thing. Her…angel superpower. Whatever this is.

She seems to sense Chloe's rapid-fire stream of thought and ceases her excited babble. "You must be Lucifer's girlfriend. He didn't tell me about you, cause he's been gone for like, well — forever. But, word gets around. You've got mixed reviews with the crowd up in Heaven, Miss Decker. Especially with Michael. He did not—"

"Yes, we're aware," Lucifer says, tersely, refreshing his grip around Chloe's waist with renewed intensity.

"Oh. Sore subject, still. With the whole…" she mimics thrusting an imaginary spear and offers a sympathetic pout. "I get that. My bad. I keep forgetting you're a human, you know, you get run through by my brother, you just…die."

"Not dead," Chloe chimes. She wonders for the umpteenth time that evening if anyone actually realizes that she's standing right there; that she has ears.

"No," Lucifer's allegedly-dangerous-but-thus-far-seemingly-harmless sister murmurs, overcome with a wave of fascination as she treads across the carpet towards Chloe, "You're not."

Lucifer steps between her and his sister and removes the hand that wraps around Chloe's waist, barring it across her stomach — across her scar — instead. Maze has also leapt to attention, but there's a wary pull to her growl as she rises once more from her seat. She's scared, Chloe registers with a stab of icy uncertainty.

"That's enough meet and greet, I think," Lucifer says, his usual sing-song tone a touch higher and a touch more firm as he blocks his sister's path. "Out with it. What is it you want, Rory?"

Rory.

Chloe's mind flits back to her days spent in Rome, after she had learned the truth about Lucifer — days spent poring over the Bible, over Dante's Inferno, over countless works within the Catholic canon naming an endless list of angels. But Rory — Roriel? — is ringing no bells. Not one.

"Sorry, Rory?"

All eyes turn to stare at her as she shrugs halfheartedly, the blurted question hanging heavy over the room.

"Yeah?" She seems to have the attitude to match her edgy countenance, fixing Chloe with a single arched brow and a scrunched nose.

"No, I just…I've never, uh…I mean, I've never heard of you." Chloe swallows. Lucifer's head turns, slowly, his body still centered in front of her and his arm still draped defensively across her torso. He looks at her and blinks once; a slow, single, deliberate blink that connotes the usual bewilderment she reserves for him.

"In the books," she falters.

Lucifer sighs. "Well, you wouldn't have. She's as new as they come, I'm afraid. God's youngest angel. Or, former God's youngest angel, I should say. Barely a thought by the time your books were published, Detective."

Rory smirks.

"Really? The youngest angel? Wow. That's…" The potential gravity of the situation seems not quite to have landed on Chloe's shoulders, yet, and she leans forward with an inquisitive stare. "I didn't know He was making new ones. I thought you guys just popped out at the beginning of time and that was that. I mean, were you, like, spoiled? As the youngest? Did God have favorites? I mean—" she waves an impassive hand to Lucifer's back. "I guess I know he did, but, the youngest angel! Wow. So I am literally the only human ever who knows you exist. Huh."

Rory's blasé attitude seems to be preventing her from responding to Chloe's impassioned line of questioning with a genuine smile, but she does manage another, larger, smirk.

"Anyhow," Chloe is suddenly very aware of the looming silence her interruption has generated, and flips the switch to achieve a semblance of professional correction as she clears her throat: "Do you maybe wanna tell us why you were at Lux the other night, at the costume party? Eve saw you there, following Amenadiel."

Rory looks somewhat dumfounded, and behind her, Eve blanches. Lucifer's hand drops from her stomach and he smiles in feigned politeness at his sister. "One moment," he says.

He drags Chloe by the hand to the corner of the room, while Rory watches them with calculated curiosity. Maze shakes her head in her hands, her sole knife hanging limply from her fingers as Eve looks nervously on.

"Detective, what are you doing?" Lucifer hisses the words as he stands inches from her, blocking her from larger view.

"I'm doing what I do. I'm working the case."

"This isn't a normal suspect. You can't question her like one."

"Why not?" Chloe shrugs. "Your siblings are just as dysfunctional as the rest of us. And stopping those people? Kinda my thing. Or, at least, it used to be." When Lucifer looks at her, dumbfounded, she presses on, "Lucifer, maybe we should just listen to what she has to say. Maybe there's a…perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this."

"I somehow doubt that," Lucifer scoffs, but it's an empty challenge to her words. He hasn't come away from five years as a police consultant with nothing to show for himself; if anything, he understands how to work the case. He knows she's right — though that, too, is certainly nothing new. He relents with a sigh and turns to allow her passage back into the center of the room, following with fingers twitching at the cuffs of his sleeves.

When they turn back to face the others, Rory is sitting again. Her hands are folded in her lap and her gaze has returned with a curious glimmer to the staff leaning against the arm of the loveseat.

Lucifer folds his arms across his chest. They'll do it the Detective way, for now. "Right, now's your chance to come clean. What are you doing here, Rory? On Earth? With Zadkiel's staff?"

She tears her eyes from the staff and fixed him with a look of semi-pointed annoyance. "He wasn't using it. He never used it. And, I figured, now that you're in charge, we can finally start doling out some actual justice. You know, what it's supposed to be used for. Right and wrong, all that stuff."

"Justice?" Lucifer sputters. "You think what you did was just? Killing a human?" He's pacing, now, growing more agitated with each sidelong glance at her over his shoulder. "You know what that staff is. You know how dangerous it can be. We all swore to Dad on that staff, swore to uphold its purpose. And now you, what, you kill a man with it? For justice? What justice?"

"Lucifer," Chloe warns. The newly-minted God gearing up to take shots at his angelic sister is not an event she'd normally volunteer to referee, but she can feel him bristling; see him stealing calculated looks at the staff in the corner. She knows what he's thinking.

Rory is only staring at him, blank confusion flashing on her face like a neon sign. "How can you lecture me?" She whispers, suddenly, and the voice that speaks is devoid of its rasping charm. It's dark and faraway and everywhere at once; floating between his ears and across the piano keys and rippling the edges of the illuminated water in the pool beyond. "How can you lecture me about swearing to Dad?" She laughs, incredulous, and Lucifer's scowl falters slightly.

"I can't believe you," Rory scoffs. "I thought you'd be happier."

Lucifer practically guffaws at her remark, barking out an empty laugh at the words. "Happier? Happier now that you've killed a human? You've only broken the golden rule of the Silver City, or had you forgotten? Maybe a few millennia wasn't enough for it to sink in properly. What am I supposed to dowith that, exactly? I'm God now, I'm meant to prevent exactly this, and you couldn't wait, oh, two days before breaking into a prison and murdering a mentally incapacitated man? Please, dear sister, enlighten me, because I am racking my brain to come up with the favor you think you've done me."

"It was you, then?" Chloe interjects, coming off the smoke of Lucifer's explosive tirade before Rory can respond. "You left the You're Welcome note? You did kill Jimmy Barnes?"

Rory doesn't take her eyes off Lucifer when she responds. They have the same eyes; dark and endless, but where his spark with a searing warmth hers are practically black and fixing him with a polar stare. "Yeah," she says, softly. "I killed him."

Chloe's voice is the only sound in the hushed room. "With the staff?"

Rory nods.

"Why?" Lucifer asks, his voice low. The dust is still settling from his charged rant, and the quiet words grate across steely silence.

"I did it for you," she hisses, and now Chloe can see — can see why Maze —Maze — shrinks in the corner at the sound of Rory's tilted sneer, can see why Eve is pale and small against the back of her chair. The youthful glee that had lightened her face at the sight of Lucifer has morphed completely, and she looks nearly unrecognizable — though this time she doesn't have to summon her power to achieve the effect. There's something abruptly chilling about her presence; more sinister than the predatory scowl that so often curves Maze's lips, and icier than the flaming eyes Lucifer has flashed on so many an occasion. She remembers Amenadiel's words, back at the penthouse — the staff grows to its partner, molds to it — and she wonders if the glacial ire now melting into the room is the fault of the staff, or its owner.

"For me? What would make you think that's what I want? The man was in prison, rotting away until he can spend the rest of his days in Hell, I didn't want him dead! It's a sentence avoided, can't you see that?"

Rory laughs, the sound rife with potent incredulity. "I admired you," she said. "I wanted you to be God. I thought, finally, someone other than Dadrunning the show, maybe things will be different. Lucifer. The light-bringer. You started a rebellion, in case you forgot. You threw away everything Dad stood for. That's why I wanted you. That's why I did this. For you." She scoffs. "But I was wrong. You're exactly like him. Scared. Scared to make things better. Scared of change."

"Scared?" Lucifer repeats, an empty smile on his tongue. He draws himself up to his full height, his still-damp mauve shirt rippling with the act like blood in water.

"Luci, we can make a real change, now. Do things differently. Eliminate evil, here, on Earth. Why wait until they die to punish the truly bad? And even then! What's to stop the really evil ones from absolving themselves of guilt and rising right on up to Heaven? It's a flawed system, Lu, come on, if anyone knows that I thought that it would be you. You saw through this bullshit before I even came along. You know it's all a sham, you know there's a better way. I killed that guy for you, for her!" She nods forcefully to Chloe, "He shot her! We shouldn't have to wait around until he maybe gets his justice."

"That's not how it works," Lucifer growls, his voice dim and ghostlike against her impassioned plea.

"But it could be. You're God now! Look, that's why I even have this stupid thing. I thought we could use it, together. You know, do everything you wanted to do, back then. End the suffering. I'm with you, brother, all the way. Let me help you. We can clean this place up, fix all the messes Dad left these people with. Eliminate real suffering, enact real justice, not this…" she wags her head at Chloe, again, with a vaguely sympathetic look, "Whatever it is you're doing here. Or trying to do. And after we've cleaned this place up, restored Paradise, we can get started on Hell. Press reset on the entire thing. Tabula rasa, brother, you know?"

"Tabula rasa? Get rid of Hell?" He laughs, "And Heaven too, then, I suppose? Can't have one without the other, it's a bit of a yin-yang situation, I'm afraid, another one of Dad's clever mechanics—" he pauses, trails off at the insistent look of wounded sincerity on Rory's face. "You can't be serious. That is…completely inane. God's youngest angel indeed, I mean, what, has the frontal cortex not fully developed? Gone through puberty yet? You can't press reset on the entire celestial sphere, it's—"

He's going to say impossible. It's impossible. But his eyes find the staff, tilted and resting still against the sofa, and the words dry up in his throat. It's not impossible. Not with that staff in her hands. Not with the universe's largest red button leaning casually against a loveseat in a bachelor pad in the hills, in the hands of an angel who is quickly revealing herself to be the celestial equivalent of someone's pipe-dream-fueled six-year-old sister.

"I'm disappointed," she says, finally, a sneer knotting her features. "You're not the Lucifer I remember. The Lucifer I remember wouldn't have wanted anything to do with this Earth. With this Heaven, or this Hell. Not when he could make his own. A better version."

"You're right," Chloe says, and Rory's eyes fly to her. "He's changed. He's not the man you remember. He's…better. He's good. What you're saying, it's…it's naive. It's an escape, it's not a solution."

"Shut up," Rory snaps, as the mask of laid-back, disenchanted demeanor dissolves fully. It's the youngest she's looked since Chloe had first laid eyes on her in the yellow light.

"Ah—" Maze's knife is pointed at the tip of Rory's throat before Chloe can speak, her nervous edge dulling as her anger at the words wins out. "I wouldn't."

She casts a look to Lucifer, awaiting further instruction, but his eyes are blazing and his fingers flex in agitated silence at his sides.

"The Detective is right," he seethes. "I am different. I'm God, now. And since you think us so alike, what do you think Dad would have done with you? How do you think he would have liked this…particularly incendiary take?"

Rory falters, ever so slightly.

"Please, don't bother — I can answer for you. I tried it, once. Spent millennia ruling over a kingdom of ash. If we're really so alike, I suppose I could send you there. It would be a nice touch of irony, my first official act being to banish my sister down to Hell. Poetic justice abound in the realm of the celestial, you know, it does seem fitting — we do get quite a rap for that." He flinches at the touch of Chloe's hand against his forearm; turns his head to look briefly into sharp blue eyes. She shakes her head, once, gripping him with a single, reassuring squeeze. An agonizing second passes and a slow breath leaves his lips as he turns away from her and returns his gaze to Rory.

"I'm not Him," he says, quietly, ushered forth by the lingering feeling of her fingers against his skin. "I'll spare you the cryptic symbolism and a trip to Hell. I'll just tell you what an idiot you are, instead. Do you even hear yourself? I mean, really — really, hear yourself — you want to punish people here, on Earth, and then take away Hell? The last great equalizer, the ultimate punishment? What's the point? Why punish them at all, if there's nowhere for them to go? You can't eliminate suffering, sister, not for those in Hell and not for those on Earth. You can't have your cake and eat it, too. Can't have it both ways. Or even one, I'm afraid. It's impossible. You'd be taking away pleasure, happiness, as well. There's no Heaven without Hell. There's just…nothing. There's nothing."

Dan. Gone without a trace. Without a chance.

"And what would you do instead? The system is broken, Luci. Murderers walk this Earth unseen, their whole lives, causing pain, inflicting torture. Never any justice for those people they hurt. Not real justice. And when they do die, if they do go to Hell…just more suffering. Endless suffering. Endless torture. But it doesn't change what they've done, who they've hurt. It's pointless. We need to eliminate it here, on Earth, before they strike again. Save those who would suffer."

"You're quite the traditionalist," he muses, "It's rather jarring, considering you look like you've knocked off a Hot Topic. You've never struck me as the eye-for-an-eye type. But then; I suppose I've missed those critical years."

"Justice needs to be swift. Not…dragging on for millennia. It needs to be here, on Earth. Immediate. Not divvied up in the afterlife after they've lived out a long and healthy life. Hell has no place anymore. And the Silver City won't be far behind. How long until the constant suffering inflicted here, inflicted in Hell, creeps into the gates? What then?"

Lucifer scoffs. "Listen to yourself," he snarls.

"You're the biggest hypocrite of all," Rory replies. "Standing here on your high horse, scolding me for taking a human life — a waste of a human life — reprimanding me for enacting justice that should have been done five years ago, when you killed your own brother? For what? For justice? For love? What is it exactly that absolves you of killing an angel, of killing your own family, but that lets you stand here, now, and chastise me for taking the life of a murderer? For ending the suffering of everyone he hurt?"

"I tried to warn him," Lucifer whispers, and for a moment it looks as if he might falter; might break on the words, but he stands steady against the blow. His eyes are glittering. "You don't know what you're saying," he says, quietly, "And you don't care. You don't care why I did it. It won't change a thing."

For a moment, the sounds of their heated conversation seem to fade into a blackened blur as the words hit Chloe and send her mind slamming against a brick wall.

Your own brother.

What brother?

She tries to reach for him; to get his attention, to tug on his sleeve, to ask him what the hell she's talking about — but her hand is heavy at her side and her mind is flying over a thousand different scenarios and a million different questions and is stopping her lips from moving.

When her eyes refocus on the scene before her, bitter animosity is scrawled across Rory's face and is throwing long shadows across the room. She's reaching for the staff that has thus far been abandoned against the sofa, and her eyes blacken as she grips the knotted wood — with purpose, this time.

The second her hands grip the staff, several things occur in very rapid, nearly imperceptible succession.

First: the scar on Chloe's stomach roars to life in a flash of searing, blinding heat, sending her doubling forward with a grunt of surprise.

Second: Lucifer, who has since moved from his spot directly in front of Chloe and is panting in a coiled, addled fury, whips around at the sound of her groan and catches her before she can crumple to the ground.

Third: Maze and Eve lurch forward and each grab one of Rory's arms, yanking her back and wrestling with the staff in her hands.

Fourth: Rory flings them back with a twitch of the staff and an impassioned yell, sending Eve flying and Maze tumbling headlong into the nearest wall.

The result is a flurry of chaos that, when settled, leaves each person splayed across the ground and gasping for breath. Rory is the only one still standing: she's looming over Eve, twirling the staff in her hands with lazy apathy.

"The original sinner," she says, wiping a hand across her mouth to clear the sweat from her lip. "And still roaming around after all this time. You even went to Heaven," she laughs, "Where's the justice in that?"

Eve shrinks under her gaze; under the pointed stare of the staff that hovers over her. She's opening her mouth to raise a hurried, bargaining plea when Rory sputters and stumbles forward, losing her balance and her firm grip on the staff as Maze recovers from her slam to the wall and kicks her, hard, in the back of the knee.

"I don't think so," Maze growls, catching the base of the staff in the hook of her blade as Rory swings it around in a flurry of frustrated fury. There's a dull clang as Heavenly wood meets Hell-forged steel, and a shower of golden sparks scatters across the white carpet.

"I already beat you once, demon," she says, her voice petulant as she writhes to free her staff. "I only came here as a formality. I thought—" she wrenches the staff free and swings at Eve, who rolls out of the way with a startled yelp, "I would be better received."

"ENOUGH!"

Lucifer's bellow stops Rory's staff and Maze's knife in midair. Both fall limply to their respective owners' sides as they turn to face him in the sudden, heavy silence — his voice wavers on the edge of the word as he sits on sunken knees, holding Chloe up by the arms and cradling her head against his chest. "Enough," he says, again, quietly this time as his eyes remain fixed on her.

She's hot in his arms. Burning hot; as if she's bursting with fire from the inside out. Quickly, instinctively, he puts the back of his hand to her forehead, covering her closed eyes with a broad palm and removing it with panicked, marked confusion. There's no fever, no…nothing. But the limp frame that rests on his knees and on his chest is scorching, searing through his own breast and sending licking flames roiling against his heart.

"What's wrong with her?"

He's terrified. The voice that asks is stripped of the commanding ire that had muted the room. For the second time that night, it's the voice of a lost child that whimpers to the space that had moments before rattled with frenzied chaos.

They're all staring at Chloe, now: the base of the staff is wedged into the carpet as Rory leans against it in nervous perplexity. Maze and Eve both climb to their feet and walk to where Lucifer rocks against his heels, smoothing Chloe's hair behind her ears with anxious insistence.

"I don't…I don't know what's wrong with her, I can't—" his breath is catching on the shattered words as his fingers trace the same wayward strand of hair over and over again and his other hand tightens its grip across her chest, pulling her up further against his knees.

Eve makes it to him first, kneeling and laying a gentle finger on Chloe's wrist. She frowns at the touch, pulling her hand away as if she'd brushed against an open flame. "Please," Lucifer begs, and there are fresh tears stinging his eyes and pricking his words as they threaten to fall. "Please, I promised her. I promised."

His hands are all over her, cupping her chin and tracing frantic lines across the cheek that's pressed to his palm. He's murmuring into the top of her head, whispering prayers that begin and end with him, and he trembles with the listless weight of her body against his own.

In the corner of the room, Rory recoils with a sharp wince as the staff burns with a roaring heat against her hand. She loosens her palm, now red and raw, and it falls from her grasp with a heavy thud. Perhaps if they had looked, they would have seen it — but Rory is seething in pain, grabbing at the hand that had gripped the staff, and Lucifer is bent at the waist, his own head masking Chloe's as he begs her to wake. If they had looked up, they might have seen it: the staff, glowing a bright, fevered yellow as it crashes to the carpet and settles where Chloe lies crumpled and red-hot.