A smothering stillness follows Lucifer's words. Chloe's hand falls slack against his own, and her heart writhes against her chest. She can feel the heat pricking off him; that desperate, stinging anxiety that clings to the vow he'd sworn to her only nights ago.

Promise me you'll keep me safe.

I promise.

His oath is tugging at her chest; weighing her down like an anchor, and as Lucifer's words settle she can't help the niggling feeling that she's about to regret making him swear to her.

Don't tell me to go, she wills him silently, shaking her head with a near-imperceptible nudge of her neck. His gaze slides down to hers.

Don't.

The dam breaks. "What does that mean?" Chloe asks, standing on a shaky breath. "You're — what? You want to send me away?"

Lucifer falters. The resolve he'd affixed to her breaks with the tremor of her words. "No," he says, softly. "No, of course not, Detective, I'm merely thinking of the urchin—" he pauses, swallowing the knot in his throat, "of Trixie. And — I've been selfish, keeping you here with me, where Rory will try to come for me, for you—"

When he stumbles on the words Chloe prepares to mount her emphatic defense, audience be damned, but Linda spares them the inevitability of a barbed exchange.

"Danger?" She interjects, still hung up on Lucifer's prior revelation as she interrupts his silent stare-down with Chloe. "Like, danger danger? Now? Is she on her way? Should I leave? Do I need a weapon? I'm a therapist, Lucifer. I'm not equipped to fight a celestial being on a murderous bender."

Lucifer tears his gaze from Chloe and blinks at Linda.

"Much as she could use your services, Doctor, I doubt Rory will be seeking you out anytime soon. She's only after those she deems fit to be on the receiving end of her archaic justice. And anyone who would stand in the way of…" he trails off, and gestures vaguely to himself, "Me." When Linda hesitates, he waves a hand dismissively toward her, motioning toward the elevator. "Go home. Be with Charlie. I'm certainly not worth dying for, Doctor."

He smiles.

Linda's gaze flits unsurely between Lucifer and Amenadiel, finally relenting with a pursed sigh. She's halfway across the room, pausing with a word to Lucifer fresh on her lips, when a groan from the living room halts her departure.

"What is—Maze?"

She's been so caught up in overseeing an impromptu, celestial grief-counseling session that she's failed to notice her best friend, sound asleep and crumpled in a ball in the recesses of Lucifer's couch. She turns now, at the sound of Maze's discontented grunt, and the tight-lipped anxiety that had accompanied Lucifer's words vanishes in favor of wide-eyed concern.

"What the hell happened to her?" Linda shouts, rushing to Maze's side and wincing at the sight of her mangled face. She taps lightly at her bruised nose, pulling away with a shudder just as Maze's eyes fly open at the touch.

Even in the clutches of pain-induced sleep, Maze is lightning quick. When her eyes wrench open, blinking back flecks of blood from matted lashes, her fingers clamp down around the curved hilt of her blade and she sits up with a searing hiss.

"Linda," she gasps, relaxing her hold on the weapon. It drops to the cushions, and Lucifer scowls as the blade skits across caramel leather. She falls forward with the force of her violent awakening, her head pitching against Linda's shoulder. The doctor casts a sidelong glance to Lucifer as Maze lolls against her grasp, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

"Is she…okay?"

"She'll be fine," Lucifer drawls. "Just crawled her way out of Hell. She's had worse days, I'm sure. Haven't you, Mazikeen?"

"Mmm," she mumbles, her mouth flush with Linda's collar.

"You crawled out of Hell? What, like—" Linda looks to the gathered celestials — and Chloe — all of whom look slightly nonplussed in the wake of her frantic questioning.

"I had help," Maze grunts, "But yeah."

Her stare drops to Maze's hands, which are gripping the edges of the couch with a tenuous strength. Linda has long since learned to embrace the literality of what the present company says to her, but crawled out of Hell seems a stretch, even for them. One look at Maze's fingernails, though, torn to the bed and black with thick, congealed ash — and any latent thoughts of metaphors die on her lips.

"You crawled out of Hell," she repeats, dumbfounded. Maze nods sleepily.

"Where's Eve?" Maze asks. With some concerted effort she lifts her head from Linda's shoulder, leaving a muddled streak of black eyeliner and brownish blood on the sleeve of her shirt.

"I'll text her," Linda says, quietly, urging Maze back onto the cushions. She makes good on her word and types out a quick message as her friend lies back with a muttered whine.

Maze's awakening has put a pin in the mounting tension that crowds the walls. Though Chloe is stealing silent glances at Lucifer beside her — and he's doing his best to ignore the sidelong stare searing into him — neither speaks as they listen intently to the words that slip between Maze's ragged breaths.

"I thought about her, down there," Maze says in placid contentment. Her fingers find the cool edge of her blade, and she taps aimlessly against the steel. "I thought…I wanted to stay. Be…Queen of Hell."

Linda smiles sympathetically, eyes flicking to her phone as Eve's hurried responses pile onto her screen.

"But I didn't want to stay," Maze continues. "Not when I have her…up here." Her eyes peel open again, and she gives Linda a long, cool stare.

"And you," she says, attempting a grin.

"We're glad you came back, Maze," Linda says softly. Behind her, Amenadiel nods in quiet agreement. "We want you to stay."

Chloe's heart wrings itself like a limp dishrag, and this time she can't help her gaze from lifting fully to Lucifer's. He's already looking at her; staring helplessly.

I want you to stay, he wants to say; wants to scoop her into his arms and reassure her. But the promise he made — the vow he swore to her — is pounding against his mind, and he holds out against her silent plea.

Promise me you'll keep me safe.

I promise.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, as he holds her imploring gaze.

I want you to stay, his mind repeats, drumming the words against locked other half of his brain — the logical side he had so often neglected with a pompous huff and a loose grin — is urging him to say the other words; the ones she's begging him not to say — the ones he doesn't want to admit to himself.

You're not safe with me.

They pass the moments like that, locked in a silent, pleading battle as Linda and Amenadiel offer Maze hushed words of comfort. When the elevator doors finally slide open, Eve is a welcome break in the thickening cloud of unease settling about the penthouse — as the novelty of Maze's awakening draws to a close and the reality of Rory's presence looms ever larger.

Eve hugs Chloe, then Lucifer, then Amenadiel — before she can even make her way to Maze. She's crying; sniffling and pawing at red-rimmed eyes and a running nose.

"Thank you," she says, pulling back from Amenadiel and facing the three of them with raw sincerity. "For—for taking care of her, for bringing her back to me—"

"I'm afraid we can't take credit for that," Lucifer says quietly. His eyes are dark, but there's a flash of something — pride? — as he corrects her. If she notices, she doesn't seem to care: she's too busy rushing to Maze's side, practically bowling Linda over as she kneels by Maze and pulls her into her arms.

Maze sputters good-naturedly, letting her limp arms warm to Eve's embrace as her head nestles in the crook of her shoulder.

Chloe looks away as they exchange hushed words and burning, frantic kisses. There are tears pricking at her eyes, threatening to flood the gap between herself and Lucifer that seems to be creaking apart with every passing moment. She can feel his eyes on her, searching her lost and hapless.

"I'll take her to get cleaned up," Eve murmurs, tearing her attention from Maze to address the gathered group. When there's silence she repeats herself, this time inciting an absent nod from Lucifer.

She helps Maze to stand, offering a tilted shoulder for support. As Maze stumbles past them she pauses, leaning against Eve and pointing her curved dagger toward Lucifer. He blinks, starting from his reverie, and frowns at the tip of the blade.

"She's fast," Maze says, her voice low. She wiggles the dagger, as if to emphasize her point. "Faster than me, faster than Michael." She hesitates at the mention, testing the waters before carrying on. "But she's sloppy. She's too young. You can't let her…surprise you. Or…or confuse you."

"Confuse me?" Lucifer asks, arching a brow at Maze's labored advice.

"Remember that thing she did, back at the house?" She sucks in a breath. "The…face thing," she clarifies, mildly irritated.

Eve pales slightly at the recollection, and there's a low hum at Chloe's navel, searing along the jagged edges of her scar.

"It rings a bell," Lucifer says, cooly. His stare is rigid.

"She did it again, down there. In Hell. It's how she…" Maze trails off, gesturing to her mangled face with a snarl. "You have to be quicker," she implores, relenting against Eve's grip as she drags her toward the bathroom. She's not looking at Lucifer when she says the words — her stare is glued to Chloe, scorching her with the same insistent fire that roils at her stomach.

When Eve and Maze have passed out of sight, Linda turns with a questioning look.

"What just happened? What is she talking about? What face thing?"

"Rory's power," Amenadiel says, his voice level. "Like Lucifer's desire, and my stopping time. Her's is…" he trails off with a slight shrug of his shoulders, passing the question off to his younger brother. Lucifer puffs in a show of passive annoyance.

"I have no idea," he says sourly. "Doesn't seem to be a power so much as a monumental nuisance."

Chloe takes pity on Linda and elaborates on their vague analysis. "I saw her do it. A few nights ago, when we tried to confront her with the staff. It must have been right before I passed out. It was a blur, just like Eve said she saw that night at Lux. I don't know. One minute she was…her, and the next she was just…nothing." She peters out, joining Lucifer and Amenadiel in uneasy silence. It's proving harder to describe than she had portended; in fact, attempting to remember it now is dredging up little more than a warped, blurred recollection.

"Huh." Linda tilts her gaze to the ceiling, tapping a hand against the bar. "Interesting."

"Hardly," Lucifer drones. "We have bigger issues than our dear sister's perplexing set of non-powers."

Linda is quiet while the gears turn — Chloe seems to notice, and she turns to the Doctor with renewed interest.

"Maybe so," Linda chimes, "But you angels self-actualize your own powers. So understanding why Rory has the power she does might give us — might give you — some insight on how to handle her. On how to, you know, stop her from erasing the entire universe." She glares at Lucifer beneath black-rimmed glasses, lips pursed.

Lucifer blinks back a fresh wave of annoyance. He's prepared to dismiss her words as he had so many times before; with a short quip and a passive flick of his hand — but she's right. Five years of overseeing celestial therapy seems to have imbued her with more insight into his own siblings than he's garnered over the course of millennia. He frowns slightly at the thought.

"Go on," he ventures, eyes narrowed.

"Okay. Well, Rory is God's youngest angel, right? So, she hasn't been around for nearly as long as you and Amenadiel have. And you don't just pop out with your powers. You self-actualize them. It takes time; they're formed out of whatever personalities you come to shape. Right?"

Lucifer and Amenadiel nod in unison.

Linda plows on, her pace more rapid and her tone heightening with each passing sentence as she careens toward a point. "So. If you really think about it, you guys are all grown up." She pauses, chuckling slightly as she motions to Lucifer, "Well. More or less." Lucifer scrunches his nose, brows furrowing in feigned hurt. "But Rory isn't. She's just like a…celestial teenager."

"Each of your powers has to do with who you are. How you see yourselves. And there hasn't been a teenager since the dawn of time that's known the answer to that. Why should she be any different? I mean, sure, she's an immortal celestial being — but we've already proven that you aren't any different from the rest of us. If anything, you're worse."

When she's met with only silence, she continues with an exasperated sigh. Only Chloe seems to be catching on — her thoughts float to Trixie, on the cusp of adolescence, and Linda's point clicks into place.

"This…blurred face. The confusion. Maybe it's her own identity crisis, self-actualized and projected onto others. She doesn't know who she is yet. What she wants. It's why she's lashing out, why she's…" Linda shrugs. Going on a murderous rampage seems to be the logical next phrase. She lets it lie in silent implication instead. "Teenagers act out. They're confused; testing boundaries. Your sister is the same as every belligerent fifteen year old wreaking havoc on Earth. She's just lashing out on a… frighteningly large scale. She doesn't have anyone to tell her 'no'. No parents, no siblings she can relate to. And the one brother she did look up to turned out to be the opposite of who she'd envisioned. She's lost."

"Linda's right," Chloe nods. "She's just a kid. Trixie does the same thing — lashes out when she doesn't get her way, does impulsive things, tries on different personalities. She locked a boy to a lunch table and tried to catch a train to New Mexico. Turns out she just needed someone to be there for her. It's part of growing up. Your sister is…confused. And alone."

"And psychotic," Lucifer chimes, with a forced smile. He relents at Linda's piercing gaze.

"Fine," he sighs, "So, what? You want me to send her to her room? Ground her?"

"Lucifer," Linda reprimands, exchanging an exasperated glance with Amenadiel, "I want you to understand her. Because I don't want the universe to implode before I get the chance to teach Charlie to ride a bicycle. This isn't just about you, or your sister. This is about all of us—" she sweeps a hand across the room, "All of us that you are now responsible for. So, yeah. I want you to try and understand your sister. So that you can save your own life. And mine. And Amenadiel's. And Eve's. And Maze's. And—" She pauses in her spirited reprimanding, and the tone of professional animation she's adopted over the course of her assertion fades away.

His face falls.

"And Chloe's," she says, gently.

"How?" Chloe asks, her voice halting. "How do we stop her?"

Lucifer lifts his broken gaze. Linda's words have resonated, if only for one, piercing reason — who stands mere inches from him with arms folded across her chest.

That same mantra floods his chest and thrums against his heart at the sight of her.

You're not safe with me.

"Haven't got a clue," he says, shoving the thought down. He swallows, shaking his head as if to clear water from his ears in an effort to disentangle himself from his own mind.

When he doesn't elaborate, Amenadiel steps in. He fills in the cloying silence that Lucifer's bland response has incited.

"Remember what the book said, Luci? If we can use the staff to right a wrong; to bless a life unjustly taken….maybe it can be stopped from its current purpose. Reversed."

"That's a lovely idea," Lucifer says disparagingly, "With just one tiny problem, brother. In case you'd forgotten, the staff is currently in Rory's possession. In order to get near it you'd have to get near her. And at the given moment she seems about as amenable to us as I am to Sunday school."

Chloe's eyes flicker down to her stomach. The scar across her belly has roared to life with each mounting mention of the staff, sending shivering embers tumbling down its jagged path. It's tugging at her core with a familiar heat: that molten warmth that had flooded her throat and licked at her extremities just moments before she'd gone supernova.

"Lucifer," she says, quietly. It's not that same fire that had exploded within her and plunged her mind into blackness. It's a steady, golden heat: roaring to life within her and spreading with warm insistence.

He doesn't hear her. He's too worked up — too busy snapping at Amenadiel as they bicker over the nuances of pulling off an Ocean's Eleven-style heist to swipe the staff from their infinitely clever, fleet-footed, eagle-eyed celestial sister. She catches the tail-end of their muddled planning and wonders, for a brief moment, just how long the universe would survive should he be left to his own devices.

She wagers a few hours, tops.

The feverish pull of her scar yanks her from her brief diversion. "Lucifer," she repeats, louder this time. She reaches a hand out, grasping for the edge of the piano to steady herself against the wave of liquid fire curling against her navel.

Linda is the first to notice her, brows knitting in tight concern as Chloe gasps and scrabbles for a hold on the piano lid.

"Chloe," Linda says, voice sharp. "What's wrong?"

Lucifer turns at the mention of her name, wheeling on his heel like a bloodhound on a scent. The loose annoyance scrawled across his face — a lingering remnant of a remarkably unproductive brainstorming session with Amenadiel — vanishes at the sight of her, bent and panting over his piano.

"Detective," he breathes.

"I'm fine," Chloe says, catching her breath as her hand relaxes against the lid. Heat erupts at the small of her back and trickles down her spine as Lucifer touches a tentative palm to her— a markedly different heat than the golden warmth that roils and laps against her. It's the first time he's touched her since they've stood apart in tense, uneasy silence — since they'd let their unspoken pleas widen the miles between them.

He bridges the gap now, laying a hand on her back and nuzzling his nose to the shell of her ear.

"Chloe," he urges, his voice low.

His breath is hot against her ear; more fevered in its insistence than the heat that courses through her.

"I'm fine," she repeats, straightening with an uneasy step and leaning back, into his palm. Amenadiel watches with a narrowed gaze, his fist flexing in nervous quietude at his thigh. "It's not like that night," she says, as his fingers curl under the hem of her shirt and brush against her hip, just beside her scar. He pulls away with a small murmur.

"You're hot," he says. His voice is like a child's. He looks to Amenadiel and Linda, holding his fingertip to them as if they can see the heat he's wicked from her flesh.

"It's different," she insists, blue eyes blazing as her body acclimates to the searing pull of her scar. "I'm okay. I feel…good." She hesitates, blinking against the newfound sensation. "Strong."

Lucifer blinks at her, bewildered. When he turns to raise a questioning gaze to his brother once more, he finds Amenadiel and Chloe already exchanging a look of blossoming understanding.

"This is gonna sound crazy," Chloe says, her voice level. She flicks her eyes away from Amenadiel, whose own look of curious preponderance intones he's cultivating a similar thought to the Detective. "But I think…" she falters, spurred on by Lucifer's imploring stare.

Screw it, she thinks, can't be crazier than anything else we've seen.

"Something happened that day in the hills. Before I blacked out, when Rory pointed the staff at me, it was like I…like I caught fire, from the inside out. And I could feel—" she hesitates as years of logical, rational reasoning combat the impossible. "I could feel it drawn to me. I know it doesn't make any sense. I sound insane. But I'm telling you, right before I passed out, it was like if I had just reached my hand out…the staff would've come to me. Like we were…connected, somehow."

She blinks as embarrassment colors her cheeks. "I know," she says, hurriedly. "I know how it sounds, that's why I didn't say anything before, but just now, when you guys were talking about getting the staff back it happened again, and— I mean, it can't be a coincidence, right? Something has to be happening — you said it burned her hand, right? Rory's? Maybe that was — was when it was trying to get to me?"

She trails off once more. The words sound ridiculous even to her, flying forth from her lips before she has a chance to stop them. She hangs her head slightly in the waiting silence. She's about to backtrack; to retrace her steps in a frantic attempt to rewrite the words, but Amenadiel breaks her frenetic train of thought.

"You don't sound insane," he says, slowly. He's quiet for a moment, as the last pieces of the puzzle slide and mesh together. His gaze shifts to Lucifer. "What if Chloe is right, brother? What if she's the key?"

Lucifer has been listening intently to Chloe for the entirety of her rambled, half-strung speech: if he does indeed find her insane, he's certainly doing an expert job hiding it— though his reaction would seem to insinuate he thinks her the opposite. His breaths have taken on a heightened tone, falling in rapid puffs as he watches her through darkening eyes.

He rips his gaze from her at Amenadiel's question, and Chloe's breath hitches at the ripple of red that dances across his stare.

"The key?" He repeats, incredulous. His voice is little more than a growl. "She's not a key to anything."

He's been standing a few feet from her, having removed his hand and stepped back to allow her space to breathe her stumbled declaration. He surges past her now at his brother's words, bristling with electric rage. His back is to her as he faces Amenadiel, but there's a crimson glint in the jet-black reflection of the piano — his eyes, seething in red-hot fury.

"She is not a thing to be fought over," he says, his voice wavering as it rises in pitch. Linda shrinks back slightly, stealing a glance at Chloe. She's watching Lucifer, eyes wide. "I'm sick of her being used by you people, of her being treated like a — like a pawn — by Dad, by Uriel, by Michael, by Rory, now — she's not the key, brother, she's her, she's —"

He nearly says it. He's thinking it.

She's mine.

"Chloe," he says instead, as he turns to meet her gaze. Her name tumbles from his lips like an offering at the altar, sheathed in soft atonement.

When her hand brushes against his own she nearly flinches. He's wound like a live wire, electrified with bristling tension and sparking at Amenadiel's words, at the conflict tearing apart his own mind, at the sight of her standing before him.

The feeling of her grounds him as it's done so many times before, flattening the peaking anger that builds within his chest.

"Luci," Amenadiel says, gently, watching with flitting eyes as Chloe's finger skits along Lucifer's knuckle. He relaxes at the touch, ever so slightly — the fire in his eyes fades to a darkened smolder, and his reflection settles against the lid of the piano. "Listen to me. I didn't mean it like that. Chloe is—" he smiles, shifting his gaze to Chloe. "You are so much more than any of those things."

Lucifer doesn't respond, but the tip of Chloe's finger nudging against his own is enough to lull him into reticent silence.

"When Michael stabbed you, Chloe, you became the first victim of the staff's…warped purpose. Father never designed the Tree of Life to kill anyone. It was never meant to kill you, Chloe. Michael corrupted it. Maybe…"

Lucifer is catching on now, perking up at his brother's theorizing as the anger molts from his shoulders. Amenadiel continues off a deep breath. "What if all the purity it once held — all that purity Father poured into it in the Garden — what if that died with you, Chloe? Died…in you?" He pauses. "Literally."

Chloe is tracking. Barely. But his words are beginning to make sense; to fill in the blanks that her own conclusion couldn't surmise.

Linda is similarly pensive, listening with a mildly unprofessional level of fascination. She ventures the tentative beginnings of a guess.

"So, that would mean…"

"I brought you back," Lucifer says, quietly. "If that light died with you…died in you, Detective…perhaps it was brought back with you, as well. Your scar…" his gaze travels down, hovering at her midsection. "Maybe it's more than just a reminder."

Her mind flicks to that night, when he had turned his back to her and guided her hands along the scarred rivulets of his back.

Now these are…just memories, he had smiled.

She wonders if memories ever writhe with golden light; if they ever surge with a molten heat that thrums against her chest and bubbles in her throat.

More than a reminder.

"What, then?" She probes.

"A remnant, maybe. A part of the staff that died at Michael's hand and rose again with you."

They both turn at the sound of laughter, deep and resonant and searing the coiled tension that ensnares the room. Amenadiel is beaming; white teeth flashing in gladdened amusement as he tilts his head to the ceiling.

Lucifer blinks at him, nonplussed.

"Luci," Amenadiel laughs, delighting in this newfound revelation, "Father never passed his capabilities onto you. Your trip to Heaven didn't send you back to us with any new powers. But it looks like Chloe's might have."

"They are connected. Chloe, the staff. She's carrying the last bit of Father's light in her. It's why the staff is drawn to her; why it wants to rip free from Rory's grasp around her."

Amenadiel shakes his head.

"She's not a pawn, Luci," he continues, smiling warmly as he shifts his attention to Chloe. "You're not the key. The opposite. You have the key. Chloe, you have the power."

The constant talk of the staff has filled Chloe with a steady, molten warmth that creeps from her scar and flushes her cheeks. It's not an unpleasant feeling, now that she's gotten acclimated to its presence — nothing like the volcanic crash of searing heat that had shattered her that night in the hills. This is…warm, and steady, and strangely calming; though with each mention of Rory there's a slight, seething twinge along the frayed edges of her wound.

She runs an absent hand along the fabric of her sweater, tracing the outline of the scar's path. When she looks up, everyone is looking at her — though none so intently as Lucifer, whose lips are curved halfway into the shadow of a stupefied smile.

The last embers of blackened anger slip from his gaze as Amenadiel's theory sets into place; as he stares at Chloe wrapped in golden heat before him — and his smile widens into something familiar. Something reserved only for her.

"Mrs. G indeed," he muses.

Lucifer is still processing.

Chloe lets an inadvertent giggle slip out, mingling in the echoes of Amenadiel's laughter. She reddens when three sets of eyes snap to her.

"Sorry," she blurts, "I know this is serious. It's just, like…does this mean I have a superpower now?" She stares at Amenadiel, wide-eyed like a child on Christmas. Despite all of her superior powers of deduction, she seems to have blown straight past the more nuanced revelations that have been bestowed upon her, grinning in spite of herself at the prospect of angelic capabilities.

The cloud of childlike wonder disperses at a dully chorused no from Amenadiel and Lucifer.

Amenadiel looks at her sympathetically, somewhat reluctant to burst her bubble. "It's not quite like that," he says, gently. "Our powers mold to us." He motions to himself and Lucifer. "We shape each other. We're in control of them."

"For the most part," Lucifer amends.

Amenadiel nods in concession. "This part of the staff…your connection to it, the piece of Father's light that's inside you, it's not so much a power as it is a part of you."

Linda's moved behind the bar over the course of their conversation, having discreetly poured herself a drink and downed it in a single swig. She leans against the counter now, perched on her elbows as she fixes them with a calculated gaze.

"That doesn't mean anything. Your powers are a part of you," she refutes, rushing to Chloe's defense with a biting word. She offers Chloe an affirming nod, her glasses sliding partway down her nose. "In fact, it sounds like she's the only one who could offer anything remotely useful to the current predicament. I'd say that makes her more powerful than the both of you combined."

Chloe's cheeks redden at the ringing endorsement. The tinge of a smile paints Lucifer's lips; where he had been so reticent to share his penchant for desire only months before, he now stifles a satisfied grin at Chloe's newfound distinction.

"Although—" Linda's picked back up again, this time motioning toward them with her empty glass. "I have to say. Little jealous. I have been dealing with literal tons of celestial baggage for five years. That was not in my job description. My infant child is God's grandson. I feel like — I don't know. I could've gotten something cool. Telepathy. Telekinesis. Pyrokinesis. I don't know what I'd do with that. Light candles, maybe—"

"Right, I'm not a vending machine. I didn't give the Detective anything; Michael stabbed her in all his dickish ignorance and seems to have inadvertently tethered her to Dad's beloved Tree." Lucifer lingers on the snipped mention of his twin. The name slides forth with an instinctive hiss, but his voice softens on the edge of the word. He blinks back a muffled haze from his dark eyes and keeps on.

"Nobody's given the Detective anything. Not intentionally, at least. Believe me, Doctor, if I could imbue you with the power to be less confusing in our sessions together, perhaps you wouldn't be bleeding my pocketbook dry—"

"Confusing? Seriously? Oh, well, maybe if you could self-actualize the power to actually listen to my advice, you could—"

"Luci." Amenadiel scolds. "Linda."

The bickering ceases with Amenadiel's firm tone, and Linda huffs against pursed lips. There's a flicker of reluctant attachment even as she rolls her eyes — Chloe figures if Trixie ever had a sibling, the interactions she'd be compelled to referee wouldn't be far off from the one Amenadiel has just interrupted.

The shade of familial annoyance fades from Linda's gaze. "Lucifer," she says pensively. "You say you didn't give Chloe anything, and maybe that's true, but — you thought going to Heaven would be your final sacrifice. You expected to die. You've been self-actualizing your love for her for years, Lucifer — don't pretend it's not true, we've all just been waiting for you to admit it to yourself —" She qualifies the statement quickly, before he can interject. To her surprise, he makes no move toward a haughty comment — he merely settles into his stance and listens in quiet attention.

"Your vulnerability, then your invincibility — everything you've self-actualized since you've been in Los Angeles has been for her. Because of her. Your power is reliant upon Chloe because you choose to let it be. Lucifer, maybe you did change when you realized you were worthy. But maybe you channeled whatever changed in you — whatever power you self-actualized — into saving Chloe. Into bringing her back. Maybe that's why this…piece of the staff, this piece of God — maybe that's why it came back with her. I think you did give her something. I think you gave up your power so that she could have hers."

Amenadiel's brows summit the brink of his forehead. Chloe turns nervously to Lucifer, bracing herself for the same reaction that had greeted her upon inadvertently swiping his mojo. But he's only looking at her in quiet contentment; allowing the tinge of a smile that had been playing on his lips to settle into a smug grin.

"What did you expect, Doctor?" He asks softly, eyes fixed on Chloe. "We are partners, after all."

Chloe is smiling when Eve and Maze stumble from the bathroom and join them in the center of the penthouse. There's a nagging question still tugging at the threads of her mind, pulling at the recessed tension in the room. She wonders if Lucifer is still thinking it as well: if he's still railing against the conflicted voices in his mind that beg her to stay and tell her to go. Their latest revelation seems to have deflated the heavy cloud between them, but she dreads the moment they're left alone — the moment he decides she's no longer safe at his side.

Still, she summons a smile to her lips as Eve guides Maze to the arm of the couch, depositing her with a slight grunt. She looks significantly better — whatever blood Chloe had failed to swipe away with her measly cotton ball has been washed thoroughly away by Lucifer's supremely well-attuned water pressure. Her nose is still crooked, and black bruises still mar the circles beneath her eyes, but the ash beneath her nail beds has been scrubbed clean — her last reminder of Hell — and the cracks in her palms where she had battled against the greying pillars have been smoothed over. She holds up her hands, wrapped in bandages to coat the scabs across her knuckles.

"Went a little overboard," Maze intones, shooting a sidelong glance at Eve. There's a chink in her veiled nonchalance as Eve returns her gaze, smiling with wide, doe eyes. Maze clears her throat. "But I have a good nurse."

Eve nods. The collar of the white shirt she wears is stained with browning blood, and the dirt that's been scraped from Maze's nails seems to have migrated beneath her own. She smiles broadly. "Thank you," she says again, looking sincerely to her friends.

When Chloe steals a glance at Lucifer he has that look; that expression of feigned affability that barely shrouds blossoming annoyance. One look is all it takes to affirm her prior thoughts: the fog of unresolved tension that had floated between them is still hanging heavy above his head, and he seems to have grown tired of dancing beneath it in the presence of the gathered company.

Eve seems to notice it, too — regardless of her otherwise questionable perceptive abilities, their fleeting relationship has left her particularly sensitive to his more agitated states. She urges Maze forward with a slight push.

"We should get going," Eve says, glancing to Chloe. "Linda, maybe you could…" She nods to Maze's nose, smashed and crooked. "I mean, you're a doctor, right?"

"I'm not—" she seems to think better of the protestation, and relents at Eve's plaintive stare. "Sure. I can look at it. Can't be harder than resuscitating the Devil, right?" She laughs hollowly, tossing her hands into the air. Maze manages a shaky grin.

"Lucifer," Maze says, stopping Eve on their path to the elevator. She pauses for a moment, seeking the words that come next. "I'm…sorry. For the way this went down, for — I tried."

That same muddled haze that had followed Michael's name on his lips fills his gaze and threatens to spill into the dry silence. He deflects, swallowing against a forced smile.

"You made it back," he says, the ghost of his cavalier cheer playing on his lips. "You should be celebrating. Go home. Open a bottle. Though—" he motions to her bandaged fingers, "It's a shame those are out of commission. I'm sure Eve was looking forward to the afterparty."

"Lucifer," Chloe hisses.

To everyone's surprise — including Maze, who reddens with a flustered huff — Eve grins and wags her fingers as she guides Maze past.

"Still have mine," she counters.

Chloe arches an eyebrow.

"Touché," Lucifer drawls. "Right, enjoy your evening." He's practically ushering them from his home, holding the elevator button as they shuffle past and nodding to Amenadiel. "I'll be sure to let you know if our dear sister shows up to murder me. If you don't hear from me, it either means I've forgotten to text you, or I've been wiped from the plane of existence. Either way, do not enter this penthouse unannounced before nine in the morning again."

They pile into the elevator, mismatched and ragtag and panting in a muddled cocktail of relief and newly minted anxiety. Amenadiel's hand falls gently onto the small of Linda's back as he escorts her in, and Chloe — forever the Detective— makes a mental note to ask Lucifer about the subtle motion. Or not, her wiser side amends: she can picture the never-ending fraternal mockery now; can practically hear him chittering in glee at the nearest opportunity to make his brother squirm.

She'd do anything to have that be the sole concern occupying her mind — to replace their current issues with familial squabbles and barbed, teasing jabs. But when the elevator slides shut and they're finally alone, standing in the sudden emptiness of the penthouse, it's impossible to drown the thoughts that fracture in the silence between them.

"Detective."

He shatters the aching stillness between them before she can; before she can even lift her head to face him. His eyes are clear, rid of their usual wry, flickering darkness as he eases gingerly onto the piano bench and fixes her with a raw gaze.

"No," she says, brandishing her index finger at him. "I know you promised me I'd be safe, and I know you don't think I am with you anymore, but you can't just tell me to go — you can't force us apart again, Lucifer, I—"

Her voice is rising with the heated insistence of her words, but she won't beg. Not in the crashing wake of their latest revelation, and not when he lets her interject with a splintered, crumbling gaze.

"I'm staying," she whispers instead, her breath hitched. A declaration. She ventures a tentative smile. "With you. I don't care if Rory comes tonight, tomorrow, a year from now." A laugh, short and soft, punctuates the thought. "Especially now that this staff and I are best friends. I don't…I don't know how this all works. What this connection means. But it sounds like you'd be lost without me, anyhow."

The tinge of nervous teasing dies on her lips as he cuts the space between them, studying her with careful calculation before reaching swiftly for her wrist and pulling her onto his lap. She blinks in surprise, pressing a palm to his chest to steady herself as she settles against him.

For a moment she thinks he might kiss her — he's staring at her with a look she can't quite read, and she wonders if maybe it's a distraction: if he wants to leave the tension nipping at their shared words and forget, instead. He's always been a deflector, even on the best of days — and she considers stopping him; putting a hand to his lips and forcing him to talk to her, but he doesn't kiss her. He doesn't move any closer. He only looks at her with that same unwavering, impenetrable gaze, holding her to him on the bench with an arm looped around her back and his nose inches from the base of her neck.

"I love you," he says, and the words are so soft that for a fleeting second she wonders if she's imagined the sound. But the skin beside her throat is burning with the imprint of the rumbled words, and she wriggles from his lap to face him fully.

There's a strange look in his eyes. Different from the one he'd affixed to her so many times before; the one that so often accompanied the sacred words — and yet achingly, searingly familiar all the same.

"I was just teasing you," Chloe frowns, buckling under the weight of his gaze and the unfamiliar softness of his tone. "I know you know what you're doing — or, you'll figure it out — I just figured I could help, now that…"

"I can go," she relents, finally. His silence is unnerving. "You don't have to send me away. I'll go, if — if that's what you want. If that's what you need to do this. I won't stand in your way. Lucifer, if you want me to go — I'll take Trixie, and we'll go somewhere, until this is over. I know I've been stubborn; I want to help, I want to be here, with you, but, Lucifer, if you really want me gone, I'll—"

She stops, because his gaze has finally — finally — slipped from her, and she follows him as his eyes sink to the ring on her finger. It's dancing atop her finger, incandescent in the soft, yellowed light of the bar. There's a hollow silence before he disentangles himself from the bench and gently — somewhat gracelessly — lowers himself to his knees before her. His wrists press against the edge of the bench, steadying himself as he comes to kneel before her as if in prayer.

She blinks at him in resolute confusion — and then, all at once, like a shot to the chest, she understands. It knocks the wind from her.

"Oh my god," she breathes, searching his gaze as he lifts his eyes to her. "I mean — Lucifer — what are you doing?"

"It would appear I'm getting on my knees for you for the second time today, Detective."

The flicker of a smile plays at his lips, crinkling the delicate, pleading stare he fastens to her. His hand reaches for hers, leaving its perch at the edge of the bench and folding over the ring already on her finger.

"I'm asking you to stay," he answers. The conflict that had raged in his own mind settles into dust in the wake of softspoken clarity. "I want — I need you."

"Chloe." Her name, like a prayer again. He laughs nervously, breathlessly. "I don't know how to do this," he says, and all the brazen confidence of his unhurried demeanor strips itself of him in the tentative wake of his words.

There are tears in his eyes — not like that night at the overlook, when they'd fallen freely off the edge of a ragged yell. These don't fall; they only hang in a wavering shroud over his gaze. The ones that refuse to fall from his own eyes spill from hers, tracing a shallow path along her cheeks and splashing onto the hand that holds her own.

He stares at her in reverential silence when she slips from his grasp and leans forward on the edge of the bench, cupping his face in his hands.

The words break free from his stuttered trance.

"I love you," he breathes, steadier this time. "Stay."

"Lucifer," she's crying freely now, laughing as she wipes a trembling hand across her cheek. "What are you asking me?"

His brow furrows. He really doesn't know how to do this; how to summon the words that seem to appear so easily to everyone but him.

He looks terrified. Like he's somehow — someway — still afraid she'll say no.

"I want you to choose me," he says, his voice paper thin. "Always. Forever."

He's still kneeling to her, down on both knees: it's incredible to her that after billions of years of existence he still lacks an understanding of some of the most fundamental human exchanges. Though — she supposes — he's never been the traditional sort. And it's more than that, too; more than a penchant for the rebellious. He's never had reason to get down on one knee — or both, as it were — never had reason to understand this particular semblance of humanity.

It was you, Chloe. It always has been.

I choose you, Chloe. I love you.

His first love. His first…everything.

And now, she realizes, as he draws a shaky breath against her palm, he's begging her to be his last.

"Lucifer," she murmurs, "I do choose you. Yes." She laughs, repeating the words with breathless insistence. "Yes. Of course I choose you. I will always — always choose you. I'm not going anywhere."

This time, he shares her tumbling laugh, puffing out a relieved exhale. He doesn't slide a ring on her finger — it's already there: but he takes her hand in hers and brushes his lips against the shining stone.

When he looks up at her he's regained some semblance of his usual composure. His clipped breaths have evened, and the hand that still holds hers is no longer trembling.

"I did have an elaborate plan, you know," he murmurs, still on his knees as her hand skates through his hair and trails a thumb against the shell of his ear.

"It was going to be quite romantic, Detective. Flowers, an entire string quartet — a rendition of bad nineties jams arranged to your exquisitely awful tastes — performed on the piano by me, naturally —"

He stops abruptly.

"Detective? Why are you crying? Would you rather I'd have done that? I can—" He looks markedly alarmed.

She doesn't know how to tell him; where she would even start. That despite the murderous sister coming to kill them both — despite the countless losses, despite the churning, ever-blossoming mystery of the scar across her stomach — it's perfect. He's perfect. Everything is perfect.

She tells him just that.

"It's perfect," she murmurs, as her palm drifts along the underside of his jaw and her fingers brush against his parted lips. She reserves the next words only for him, bending to preserve them against the echoing expanse of penthouse.

"I love you," she whispers.

He hums into the fingers tracing his lips and pulls her down, capturing her in a contented kiss as she pitches forward against the piano bench. "Say it again," he rumbles, grazing her lips as he chases his own words.

She smiles. Her elbow knocks against the piano as he tugs her down, further into him, and a single, chiming note floats along the edges of her words.

"I love you."