Chloe's phone is blowing up.

She's learned her lesson by now, and put the silent feature to good use — any excuse to spend another minute tangled in Lucifer's heavy arms after years as a slave to the marimba chime.

Even so, with the ringer silenced and the screen face-down on his nightstand, it moves across the glass of its own volition with the force and frequency of the vibrating messages.

She groans.

She had let him carry her to the elevator, lips pressed to his neck and heels bumping against the backs of his knees. She'd stopped trembling against the aftershocks of his ice-fueled escapade by the time the doors had admitted them to the penthouse, and had urged him away from the bedroom and toward the couch at the center of the room.

Normally, he would have complained about the strain on his patent Italian leather — but the warmth that had blossomed in his core at her gentle insistence had eradicated any thoughts that didn't begin and end with her.

She had put his claims of devilish stamina to the test, though he'd managed to retain his title — and his dignity — after she'd practically collapsed into his arms following his spirited exploration of her up against an ancient Assyrian wall.

Now, as she wakes with a grumble at the muffled insistence of her cell phone, she's not even entirely sure what time it is. Lucifer had scooped her from the wall and deposited her beneath his silk sheets, sliding in beside her with a rumbled declaration of love on his lips and the soft scratch of stubble rasping against her ear.

It looks to be morning — early morning, since Lucifer had neglected to close the doors to the balcony and there's no distant whine of LA traffic coursing through the penthouse. She blinks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and stifling a yawn as Lucifer shifts slightly beside her. His nose is pressed to the nape of her neck, and she can feel the puff of each soft exhale against her back. One arm is wrapped beneath her head, cradling it in the crook of his elbow, and the other is draped with languid possessiveness across her chest. She's usually the one to separate herself after the initial novelty of cuddling eeks to a close — frankly, she wouldn't have minded if she and Dan had spent their nights in adjacent twin beds, if it meant she could preserve her independence and her precious sleep. But Lucifer won't let her slip away — not even to the other side of the bed; not without him — and she doesn't want to. She doesn't want to roll away from the unwieldy weight of his arm that anchors her to him, or the tickle of his breaths as they trickle from the base of her neck to her spine.

She's careful not to wake him as she reaches for the nightstand and fumbles for her buzzing phone. She waits for the fog to clear from her gaze as the words dance in front of the screen.

Ella.

Chloe sighs again, this time loud enough to incite a whine from Lucifer. If anyone is immune to the charms of neglect, it's Ella Lopez: ignoring her phone will do no good in staunching the flow of one-sided conversation.

She squints as she scrolls through the wall of texts.

DECKER!

Are you up?

I know you're up. You're always working.

Well, I guess not anymore

But still. Old habits die hard, right?

I need to tell you something!

Chlooooooeeeeeeeee

I have tickets to the next Star Trek Convention

Do you want to go?

You have to say yes. I went with a LITERAL serial killer to the last one.

Big WOM

That's Klingon for bummer

Anyway

That's not what I wanted to tell you LOL

Keep this on the DL…but I just got a bunch of lab work back and you are gonna want to see this

Trust me girl

Decker

Should I text Lucifer? Are you guys together rn ? OMG

Her latest message flutters across the screen just as Chloe's eyes adjust fully to the blue light. Almost immediately, Lucifer's phone, resting beside Chloe's, jolts to life with a zealous chime. He, unlike her, had neglected to flip it to silent, and the sound rattles him from the final clutches of sleep.

"What—"

His voice is rough; muffled by the waves of Chloe's hair that mask his mouth. The hand that cradles her head twitches, and she rolls reluctantly away to allow him to reclaim his limb. The arm that lays across her waist remains firmly in place.

"It's Ella," Chloe says, reaching a lazy hand across the nightstand and pressing Lucifer's phone into his hands. Sure enough, the notification streaked across his screen is from the same forensic scientist blowing up Chloe's phone.

Are you with Chloe? Tell her to pick up her phone!

Wait. Are you, like, WITH with her? OMG. I didn't even realize how early it was.

YOU GUYSSS are so cute. I can't.

Just text me when you're … done

Chloe's phone buzzes.

Get it, Decker.

She shakes her head, though the haze of sleep is quickly clearing from her mind with the more intriguing notes of Ella's correspondence. She turns to face Lucifer, rolling into the arm that's clutched against her waist.

He moves with impressive speed when she turns into him, considering he's still half-asleep and staring at her through slitted eyes. He tosses his phone to the floor, unaware and uncaring of where it lands.

"We should get back to her," Chloe says, her nose brushing his own. He's hard to resist like this, tangled in her, staring at her lips with tired, hungry eyes.

"Yes," he agrees, humming softly.

They don't get back to her. Not until the familiar sounds of traffic flood the open windows and the sun floats high in the sky. Chloe rationalizes the procrastination with muttered excuses against Lucifer's lips, to which he concurs with a feline purr and a wicked grin. She's nearly positive he's not listening to a word she says.

When Chloe does finally message Ella, the forensic scientist responds right away.

Hey, Ella. Sorry. I was asleep. Long night.

What did you want to show me?

She can practically feel Ella's smile light up the screen as the bubbles appear with marked enthusiasm.

Long night, huh?

Even LUCIFER didn't text me back. He ALWAYS responds.

What were you doing to him, Decker? Damn

Chloe can't help the smile that creeps across her face, and the blush that peeks over her cheeks as Lucifer props himself up and peers at her phone over her shoulder. She tilts it away from him with a chortled laugh.

"I'll tell her if you don't," he hums, lips curving into a devilish smile beneath her ear. She bats him away with a playful palm.

Are you at Lucifer's? I can show you there.

Lucifer grumbles as Chloe responds in the affirmative and Ella's on my way! text shivers across the screen. He flops onto his back, crossing his arms across his chest with all the petulance of a child.

"You can't keep me here forever," Chloe teases, pressing a light kiss to his lips as she hops from bed.

"Why not?" He yawns. "You're no longer a detective, if memory serves me correctly. Actually, I believe you work for me now. Something about a celestial consultant? I suppose that makes me your boss, Detective. So, technically—" He sits up with lightning speed, catching her by the wrist and dragging her back down to the bed. She presses up at his chest as he flips her onto her back and hovers over her, but she doesn't protest. "I can do whatever I want."

It takes every iota of self-control she has left to resist the mouth that drags lightly up her neck and across her jaw.

"Hardly," she scoffs, but the words come out an octave higher than intended as she strains against the desire building within her.

He smirks, but if he notices — which he certainly does — he doesn't say anything.

"Shower," she mutters, wriggling out from under him as his grasp on her relents. She says the word like a daily affirmation, willing herself away from the bed — away from him. She groans against her last remnants of self-control as he tosses the sheets away from himself and pads after her, clearly intent on joining.

"Ella will be here any minute," she says, determinedly looking anywherebut him as she slides his dress shirt off of her shoulders. It smells like him — she smells like him — like his shirt and his sheets and his shampoo.

He doesn't respond, slinking past her as his boxers join the pile of clothes on the floor. The shower roars to life, and steam floods the mirrors and fogs the steel faucets. He steps inside and smudges the hazy glass with a palm, pressing his nose against it and staring at her through long, pointed lashes.

"Coming?"

He grins as she shifts her weight from side to side, weighing her time and options.

"Ella will be here any minute," he says innocently, tossing her own words back at her with a peevish smile.

Bastard.

She huffs, wrenching the door open and pushing him aside with a light shove as she stands under the scalding stream. She's putting forth a valiant effort to ignore him, closing her eyes and tilting her head to capture the heat. She hopes the steady splash of water against limestone drowns out the stifled whimper that escapes her lips at the thought of him standing so close, watching her with wolfish desire.

Longing wins out, and she ventures a peek. He's looking exactly as she envisioned, standing mere inches from her in the shadow of the spray with a bottle of shampoo hanging limp and forgotten in his hand. He's staring at her — she knew he would be — but it's not with that insatiable lust that he so often affixed to her. It's something else, something reverential — something that floods her with a warmth far beyond the scorching heat of the shower.

"May I?" He says, almost shyly. He gestures toward her with the shampoo, seeking her approval. Devil, God, her boss, whatever — he won't touch her without her permission; won't come closer without her beckoning him near.

She nods, tipping her head into his hands as he runs gentle fingers across her scalp. It's nothing like the tangled grip he had held on her hair only hours ago, when she'd straddled him against the couch and wrapped her arms around broad shoulders. His touch is ghostly soft, wicking the soap from her forehead and running tentative fingers through soaking hair.

It's the simplicity of his touch that does her in. There's no urgency to it, no frenzied lust; just a lazy sort of piety. She whips around to face him when she's sure there can't be a trace of shampoo left in her hair; when she's sure he's now only using it as an excuse to keep his hands on her.

"This is better than the last time we showered together," she smiles. The tiles underfoot are heated — of course they are — and the water crashing down around them is tinging her skin pink. It's a far cry from the glacial stream that had jolted her back to life at his house in the hills.

He pauses slightly in his ministrations, his fingers light against her temple as she stares up at him.

She's regretting the joke, as he's suddenly looking very pale despite the broiling heat of the water — but he shakes free of the memory's insidious tendrils and blinks down at her.

"I remember ruining a particularly good suit that day," he quips. "You've put quite the dent in my wardrobe budget, Detective. Seems every time I'm with you the Armani winds up in the line of fire. Or freezing water, as it was."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll buy you a new one."

"That won't be necessary," he purrs, one hand slipping from her temple to wrap around the back of her neck. He tugs at the roots of her hair, and her head tilts against his waiting palm. His other hand hovers over her cheek as his thumb traces an easy pattern to her jaw.

She shivers when his lips brush against her throat, despite the cloaked warmth of the shower and the heat pooling between her legs. She's doing the world's slowest mental math as her grasp on her own mind grows hazier with each languid pass of his mouth, trying to calculate the distance between the police station and Lux and factoring in Ella's penchant for driving like a lunatic as she surmises her ETA.

She figures they have about ten minutes before a very bubbly forensic scientist interrupts whatever is going on in here with a wagging grin.

Nothing, Chloe barks at her own wayward thoughts. Nothing is going on in here.

Nothing is going to go on in here.

He nips at her collarbone and breaks away, loosening his grip in her hair.

"What could you possibly be thinking so loudly?" There's a rumble of amusement as he stares at her through drawn eyes.

She swallows.

The last flecks of discipline rip free of her grasp and rise with the heated steam. Her hands coil in his hair and she pushes him to his knees.

He lets her drag him down, gazing up at her in muted deference as his hands find a gentle hold on her thighs.

"Nothing," she mumbles, nudging his head between her legs. Her head tips to the ceiling, catching the roar of the shower with parted lips as the minutes slip past.

As it turns out, Chloe's math skills — even under significant mental strain — are pretty sound. Ella arrives in exactly twelve minutes: about thirty seconds after Chloe had torn from the bathroom and thrown on her long-abandoned sweater with furious speed.

She saunters out of the bedroom with feigned coolness just as the elevator doors slide open. Ella greets her with a mischievous grin.

"How was the shower?" She asks, looking pointedly to Chloe's soaking hair.

"Oh. Um, fine. Good. H—hot."

Ella blinks, the grin widening.

Chloe's throat goes vaguely dry. Where the hell is Lucifer?

"Riiiight. And how were the…shower activities?"

"What?" Chloe's gaze snaps back to Ella, her face flushing a deep shade of red. "No activities. What activities?"

"Your shirt is on inside-out," Ella deadpans, nodding as Chloe fingers the seam of her sweater and the shade of crimson blushing her cheeks grows darker.

"Oh, God." She mumbles incoherently as she turns the hem right-side-up, suddenly entranced by the fabric in the hopes that Ella will stop staring at her with her mouth hanging open and a laugh bubbling up on her lips.

"Ah, Miss Lopez, just in time."

Chloe turns, her heart sinking in her chest as Lucifer trots down the steps and comes to stand directly next to her, draping a still-dripping arm about her shoulders. He's wearing nothing except a black towel around his waist, which seems to be slipping with each passing moment and is clinging to his hips by sheer force of will.

Ella's mouth drops open even further.

Lucifer grins.

"I would have gotten dressed, but the Detective was keeping me busy," he apologizes. Chloe hangs her head, breathing out a defeated sigh. "I've given her a long list of… activities now that she's my—now that she's working for the family business. She's made strides so far, but…she still needs my help to finish. The activities, I mean."

"Jesus," Chloe groans. Lucifer tightens his grip around her shoulders as Ella's gaze narrows, and a thin smile creeps across her lips. The innuendo has certainly not gone over her head; though Chloe wagers even Amenadiel could have picked up on that one.

"So funny," Ella says, eyes flicking to Chloe, "Chloe was just telling me about some of her…activities!"

"Oh, was she now?"

"Yeah, she was just telling me how lucky she was to be getting some real hands-on experience before you guys move—"

"Okay. Okay." Chloe slips from Lucifer's damp hold and stands between them, arms raised. "Yes. We were in the shower. Together. Doing—" She waves her hand with an awkward flourish, "Activities. We're all adults here. So, can we just—" She motions toward Ella, who puts her out of her current misery as she dons her slightly more professional cap.

"Yes. Of course. Sure." Her smile flickers at Lucifer as she tosses him a brief wink. "Okay, so. I've been in the lab all night. We had four bodies drop in the last twelve hours. Crazy, right?"

Chloe's gaze hardens. She can feel Lucifer stiffen slightly, his interest piqued as the languid grin slides from his face.

"All connected?" Chloe ventures.

Ella shakes her head. "Mm. No. That's the crazy part. I mean, four bodies in twelve hours would be nuts, even by serial killer standards. Dude's gotta take a break eventually, right? But these aren't connected. At least, no one at the precinct seems to think so. Different races, genders, jobs, hobbies, dump sites, cause of death. Two blunt force traumas, two strangulations. The only thing that's similar is a criminal record. Not for the same crimes, but…they all had some kind of rap sheet."

"But you think they're connected," Chloe interjects. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

She falters, slightly. "I…the Lieutenant didn't want to hear it. She said I was reaching, and I'm just a forensic scientist who dated a serial killer, so what do I know? But something in my gut was telling me to dig deeper, so I've been at the lab all night, and…I didn't know who else to call. I don't think anyone back there would take me seriously."

"Let's see," Chloe says, brows furrowed as Ella clicks open her phone with trembling hands. She sifts through her camera roll, tapping on a photo of a page riddled with data and zooming in to one particular line of text.

"…Explain?" Chloe asks, as Lucifer peers at the phone with similar confusion.

Ella's voice is rising, the way it had so many times before in the forensics lab when she'd unearthed a particularly juicy sliver of evidence. "Splinters," she says, waving the phone emphatically toward Chloe. "And not just any splinters. Unidentified splinters. All the victims have them. They're so microscopic any autopsy would overlook them, or just figure they got them working out in the yard or something, but…these are the same splinters we found on your guys' corpse, back at Lux."

Lucifer draws in a heated breath beside her. His entire body has gone rigid, and this time it's Chloe who raises an instinctive hand to his shoulder.

"Look, I know I'm not supposed to be sharing this with you, but…it's gotta be connected, right? I mean, what are the odds of that?"

"What indeed," Lucifer huffs, his shoulder flexing against Chloe's light touch.

Chloe shifts against the pit widening in her stomach. "Do you think we could take a look at those pictures? Of the victims? Maybe we could…call in a few favors, do some digging on the side for you?"

"You'd do that?" Ella stares at them both, her eyes like saucers. "Awesome. I knew you guys would come through. I'll send 'em right now. And — again. On the DL." She draws a line across her lip and turns her fingers, the eternal playground symbol that begs a secret to be kept.

"I just…after Pete, I don't want anyone getting away with this kinda stuff again. I wanna stop it, if I can. You know?"

The pit widens.

"I know," Chloe says, sympathetically. She looks up, almost as an afterthought, as Ella glances to her watch and bounds toward the elevator.

"Lunch break," she explains, "I gotta get back. But, lemme know if you make any headway. And, Decker—" she pauses, letting a wide smile scrawl across her face, "Thank you."

She leaves them in deafening silence.

Lucifer disappears just as Ella does, re-emerging from the bedroom a few moments later having donned a fresh pair of pants and a half-buttoned dress shirt.

"This is bad," he says, flatly. His eyes are glued to the screen of his phone, staring down at the photos Ella had sent to the both of them. Two men, two women — along with their records.

They're not petty crimes. Sexual assault, murder in the second degree, armed robbery — the victims before them aren't exactly the cream of Los Angeles' crop.

"Justice," Lucifer spits, shaking his head as he sets the phone face-down. "She can't just decide. Not like this. It's not how it works, it's not how it's supposed to work—"

"Lucifer," Chloe says. There's a faraway tint to her voice. "Ella said twelve hours, right? Four victims in twelve hours?"

Lucifer nods absently.

"Maze and Michael haven't even been gone a full day. And Rory's suddenly back up here, on Earth, on a killing spree with the staff?"

Lucifer's voice goes cold. "Something's wrong," he mutters.

He doesn't have time to elaborate on the thought, because the doors to the elevator are singing open once more.

He takes a reflexive step back, guarding Chloe against the entrance as a hooked knife clatters through the parted doors and skits across the floor of the penthouse. It lands inches from Lucifer's foot, and he taps at it gingerly with a red sole. His gaze rises from the knife in tandem with Chloe as its owner stumbles through after it, grasping for a hold on the bar as glasses fly and clatter to the ground.

Chloe peers around his back.

"Maze?"

It takes the combined effort of Chloe and Lucifer to catch Maze as she staggers forward and falls, her foot catching on the piano bench and pitching her into their tangled grasp.

"Maze," Lucifer says, taut urgency lacing his voice. "Mazikeen."

"Mm," she mumbles, "I'm fine."

"Clearly," he frowns. Chloe straightens once Lucifer looks to have her fully in his arms, rushing into the bathroom to retrieve whatever supplies look adequate to staunch the immense flow of blood rushing from a gash in her forehead.

When Chloe reappears, she's shocked to find Maze strangely acquiescent as she pats a peroxide-soaked cotton ball to her head.

"Ow," she grumbles.

She won't look Lucifer in the eye; not even after the congealed blood has been cleared from her brow and rubbed from dust-stained lids. She's staring down, eyes fixed on Chloe's hands as they pat nervously at what appears to be a very broken nose.

"What happened?" Lucifer asks roughly. The words are tinged with fiery impatience, and Chloe shoots him a look just as Maze sucks in a wince.

"Maze," Chloe says, gently. This time Maze's eyes lift to her own, dark and swimming with tears.

"I always…lose everyone," she whispers, tugging suddenly at Chloe's sweater and staining the white fabric with streaks of rusted blood. "I couldn't save him. He saved me. Asshole."

Chloe shakes her head, hands folding softly over the fingers Maze has bunched in her sweater. When Lucifer speaks again they're the same words he'd spoken moments before, stripped now of all their hurried insistence. He asks as if he's begging her not to tell him the answer.

"What happened?"

She looks at him, finally. There are tears blazing a path through the blackened ash on her cheek.

"He got his wings back," she nods, "Like, the full set. And he…he beat the shit out of her." She laughs, dragging a hand across her lips as it chokes into a sniffle. "But she…" When she looks back up she's crying again, though whether the tears are for the fallen angel or the friend before her or merely for the trauma of her suffocating crawl to the surface — or whether it's all the same, really — is unclear.

"She killed him," Maze hisses. "Michael is gone."

Lucifer doesn't cry. He doesn't shout, or knock whatever glasses Maze had still left standing off of the bar. He doesn't do anything Chloe has grown to associate with his state of usual distress.

He just…sits there.

She's not sure if she should touch him: if she should break the silence that follows Maze's words, and so she merely sits beside him, forming an awkward triangle with a still-bleeding Maze and a mute Lucifer on the floor.

"Did you find Lilith?" He asks, his voice dull.

Maze blinks. "Yeah. She's…I set her straight."

He nods, once.

"And the demons?"

"They'll listen to their mother before some rookie angel. She might have some supporters left over, but…she doesn't have an army. We made sure of it."

He nods again.

"Tell me," he says, plainly. His hand finds Chloe's on the floor beside him, and he threads his fingers between her own. "Tell me how it happened."

Maze tells him.

Despite her lingering resentment for Michael — she had forgiven, not forgotten — Chloe chokes back the beginnings of a sob as Maze's tale reaches a close. They aren't tears for Michael so much as for the angel beside her: for the piece of Lucifer that plunged into darkness along with his twin. They'd been intimately, identically connected since the dawn of time — for better or for worse — and sitting here, now, it doesn't take a lifetime of acquired detective skills to deduce that a part of him bound in a shared identity has been shattered.

She's not sure what to do; how to begin to heal a loss so profoundly and yet so mildly felt. He's staring into the space behind Maze, dark eyes glazed as his fingers fold into the warmth of Chloe's palm and curl against her ring.

When he finally speaks, she's almost positive he's going to make some sort of statement on the matter — but he only rises to his feet and brushes his hands against his pants. "Rory is here, on Earth. Claiming more flawed souls in her quest for justice. Four bodies in twelve hours, according to Miss Lopez. My guess is that you and Mi—" he pauses in strange reflection, "My guess is that you thwarted any plans of amassing a demon army and storming the Pearly Gates. Amen to that, at least, very well done, Maze."

He paces, rapt in overt focus. Chloe blinks at him, exchanging a puzzled glance with Maze as he surges forward without a mention of his twin.

"She's got no friends in Hell or the Silver City. She'll go at it alone; she's too far gone. It's why she's come back to Earth, why she's picked up the pace with such…alarming frequency. She's getting the staff ready to use, bringing it to its full power. She'll come for me, directly. I'm her Hail Mary."

He rolls his shoulders when Maze and Chloe are silent. "Well, think about it. She's got no army, no strategy. She has one chance to get this right, to get her foot in the door. If she kills God, well— there's no denying her strength. She can do whatever she likes. That staff will be all-powerful. Yet another one of her tremendously ill-conceived ideas. Can't assassinate Franz Ferdinand without the First World War following suit. Although — I met the man in Hell, and he did quite deserve it." He points to himself, as if his allusion wasn't blatantly obvious already. "I'm Franz, in this metaphor. Assassinating me sounds like a marvelous idea, though the reality will surely be slightly more disastrous. Not least of all for me."

His voice has risen as the words come tumbling out; not in fear, or scrabbling anxiety — but in a persistent attempt to drown out the swirling thoughts that are crowding the corners of his mind. He drops to the piano bench, and Chloe and Maze both rise unsteadily when his agitated ramble stumbles to an end.

Maze draws in a shaky breath, smarting at the sting of the inhale against her warped nose.

"Lucifer, I—"

"I need a moment," he says, abruptly, sending the bench groaning across the floor as he rises swiftly. He disappears beyond the bedroom, leaving Chloe and Maze blinking in his wake.

"Well, go…do something," Maze mutters, shoving Chloe with an elbow. "He clearly needs you."

Chloe shakes her head. Her hand is already dipping into her pocket, reaching for her cell phone. "He doesn't need me." She says, typing out a quick message, "He needs my help."

Chloe does the only thing she can think to do, and summons both his elder brother and his therapist — now conveniently reachable at the same address — to Lux.

She guides Maze to the couch while she waits, again surprised to find only a halfhearted protestation on her friend's lips as she sinks into the cushions. She's asleep in a matter of seconds, bruised hands slipping from her chest and hanging listlessly off the edge of the sofa.

Chloe considers following after Lucifer; going to check on him in whatever corner of the penthouse he's vanished to, but she thinks better of the idea. They've been nearly inseparable since this entire fiasco started, save for her few precious nights with Trixie — but now, here, she gets the distinct impression that the moment he requested was one to be taken alone. She pours herself a drink, instead, nursing it as more of a welcome diversion than a necessary escape.

"Chloe."

She flicks her head up at Amenadiel's gentle tone. She hadn't even heard him arrive, she'd been so absorbed in the single cube of ice floating around the bottom of her glass. It's only when she glances up at him that she becomes acutely aware of the distinct ache in her chest — in her heart — that gnaws at her with every passing moment of Lucifer's heavy absence.

He's looking at her with soft, wistful eyes, staring at her like it's her loss to bear. Behind him, Linda is standing in solemn silence, rubbing a thumb along the line of her palm.

"Where is he?" Amenadiel asks. Chloe had broken the news in a text message — perhaps not the best way to alert one angel that his fellow archangel brother has been wiped from existence, but as she'd typed out the words with a thrumming heart she had only been thinking of Lucifer.

She shrugs, and gestures vaguely toward the bedroom.

"I didn't know how to help," she blurts, staring up at Amenadiel. Linda's gaze softens. "How to…fix it."

"You are helping him," Amenadiel murmurs. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she relaxes instantly at the sheer warmth of the contact. When he relinquishes his grip, she's breathing a little easier. "More than you know."

They don't need to hunt for Lucifer. He appears at the top of the bedroom steps at the sound of his brother's voice. He doesn't offer the usual snide comment that flows forth at the sight of Amenadiel; nor does he raise a question as to why Dr. Martin and his sibling are currently standing in the center of his penthouse, staring at him with searching faces. He seems to know already, from one stolen glance at Chloe, and accepts his fate as he wanders toward them.

"I'm fine," he says, cooly. If she hadn't known better, Chloe might have believed him.

"Luci, we've all lost people these past few days. Dan, Remi…" Amenadiel's eyes slide to Chloe, and Lucifer's follow. He doesn't mention her name. "Michael. It's a lot to process—"

"I said I'm fine, brother!"

There it is.

Chloe can't help a puff of relief at Lucifer's heightened tone; at the hand that smacks the top of the bar. The detached coolness was worse — so much worse — than the misplaced anger he slams against the counter now.

"I'm fine," he repeats, panting slightly. "Everyone you've just mentioned, everyone I've lost—" There it is again; his eyes burning into Chloe's for a split second before he turns away — "Michael was responsible for. I'll be glad to be without him."

His words sear into the silence, and Chloe's heart breaks for him.

Linda steps forward, placing a ginger hand over the one that hangs limp at Lucifer's side.

"Michael took your sister from you," she ventures. "And your friend. And…Chloe," she says, finally breaking the mutually accepted vow of silence that's danced around her name. He tenses at the mention. "Three people you cared about more than anything in this world. And now the person responsible for each of those terrible things is gone."

Lucifer nods, curtly. "Exact—"

"But that man was also your brother," Linda persists, interjecting before Lucifer can posit a false agreement. "He was one of those things you cared about, whether you admit it to yourself or not. He was your family, Lucifer. More than that. He was your twin. And I think you know he was trying to make it right. I think it's why you're hurting, why you refuse to admit the truth to yourself—"

"I never lie," he puffs.

"You're not lying," Linda says softly. "You're protecting yourself. There's a difference."

"I don't miss him," Lucifer says, and this time the words are earnest — devoid of deflective anger or feigned composure. He relaxes, slightly, as the chinks in his armor widen with each loosening breath. "I'm not glad he's gone," he amends, "But I don't miss him. I don't know what I should feel. I don't feel anything. I just feel…empty."

He drops off at the last word, dragging his gaze to meet the Doctor's. A tear snakes down Chloe's cheek at the plainness of his words; at the pleading simplicity of his tone.

"You don't have to miss someone to feel their loss," Linda says. "There are different kinds of grief, Lucifer, different kinds of mourning. You showed him mercy when most people would have turned their back on him. You had faith in him, Lucifer, the way others had faith in you." She looks pointedly to Chloe, and Lucifer follows her gaze.

They lock eyes, and Lucifer's stare softens at the tear that traces its way down Chloe's cheek. His body turns reflexively toward hers, begging her near.

"When you pour your faith into someone, you give them a part of yourself," Linda continues. "Michael died trying to fulfill that bit of goodness you put in him. You need to grieve your brother, and the part of you that died with him."

When Lucifer is silent Amenadiel places a firm hand on his brother's arm, forcing his focus. "Michael finally stepped into the light; stepped out of your shadow, Luci. Don't let yourself drown in his."

Lucifer's eyes are still dry when he submits to their words and hangs his head. There won't be any tears shed for Michael — not when he'd already taken so much — but there's a peculiar sense of mourning that ripples through the air. When Chloe finally reaches for his hand, he grabs it like she's the last ember on a freezing night.

When the fog clears, they're left with the shards of Lucifer's rambling hypothesis. The combined efforts of Chloe, the Doctor, and Amenadiel have quieted the thundering thoughts that had forced the words out with such frenetic fervor, and now he broaches the subject again with a cooler head.

"Michael stopped Rory from amassing a virtually unstoppable army of demons," he says, acknowledging his twin's concerted effort for the first time. "He's saved the Silver City. For now. But it's only a matter of time until she comes for me. As long as she has the staff…" he shoots a sidelong glance to Amenadiel as his grip on Chloe's hand tightens. "She'll be virtually unstoppable. As long as I'm here, everyone around me — all of you — will be in danger."

His hand slips from Chloe's just as his gaze leaves Amenadiel's. Linda shifts as the weight of his words breaks against her.

He turns to face Chloe fully, staring at her with dark, impenetrable eyes. His breaths have taken on an unsteady rhythm as the truth of his own words seems to resonate with him for the first time. "You'll be in danger," he repeats, quietly, black eyes blinking into blue. "Every second you're with me. As long as you're by my side, Detective, she'll come for you, too."