Archive of Our Own ^beta

Snow falls all around her as Chloe approaches her latest crime scene, covering the ground as it crunches beneath her feet. Glancing around at the structures with snow-topped roofs, she has to admit, the effect is realistic. And festive, since they’re only a week out from Christmas.

The really ironic part is it’s one of the warmest December days on record for Los Angeles and she’s already covered in a sheen of sweat at nine in the morning.

When she got the text this morning detailing the murder location, she had to blink the sleep out of her eyes a few times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. Either the holiday stress is getting to LA’s murderers or someone has a hell of a sense of humor. Both, maybe.

Stepping past the group of employees dressed as elves, she joins Dan and Ella at the base of a riser where a red velvet chair painted gold on the edges sits. And on the floor of the riser—

“You gotta be kidding me,” Chloe says dryly.

Dan smirks at her. “I know, right?”

Crouching next to the body, Ella looks up at them looking torn between amusement of her own and her usual empathy with victims. “I can’t believe it,” she says somberly, shaking her head. “Santa Claus is dead, you guys. Christmas is canceled!”

Covering her mouth to hide an inappropriate smile, Chloe takes in the body. Red velvet suit hiding a deflated fake belly, fluffy white beard, gold wire glasses askew on his face—Santa Claus is their latest murder victim. She scans the floor and clenches her jaw against a laugh when she finds what she assumes is the murder weapon.

With her free hand, she points a few feet away from the body. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

Beside her, Dan is shaking with silent laughter. “I’m sorry, this is just... This is too much.”

“Well, someone wasn’t feeling very holly jolly.”

Chloe drops her head between her shoulders. “Lucifer...”

“No, no, I have more. Shame we didn’t get here in the St. Nick of time.”

Chloe bites her lip, shaking her head.

“Santa isn’t coming to town this year, is he?”

She sighs, massaging the skin between her eyebrows.

“Looks like someone really stuck it to Santa. Literally.”

Nearby, Ella is pressing her lips together against laughter so hard her lips are white, while Dan is doubled over, one gloved hand resting on the arm of Santa’s ornate chair.

“Okay!” Chloe says, mostly to avoid laughing along with them. “Lucifer, can we not?” She turns to face her grinning partner, looking incredibly proud of himself. “This is so inappropriate.”

Lucifer holds out one of the paper to-go cups in his hands. “For you, Detective. Sugar-free peppermint mocha; I know how you like your seasonal beverages and it felt appropriate. More so than I thought at the time.” His eyes travel to the giant PVC candy cane broken off at the end like a stake and covered in blood.

Taking the drink, she can’t suppress the twitch of her lips into a grateful smile. “Thank you, Lucifer. Now, can we focus on the homicide we’re here to investigate?”

“By all means, Detective, let’s find out who decked his halls.”

Dan snorts another laugh and Chloe shoots him a glare. Her ex holds up his hands in surrender. “Right, yeah, sorry, Chlo.”

Shaking her head, she looks to Ella who quickly gets her grin under control. “Sorry. Yeah, so our Santa’s name is...wait for it—Chris Frost.”

“You’re joking,” Chloe says flatly.

“Nope.” Ella reaches for an evidence bag containing the victim’s wallet, his driver’s license on display. “Chris Frost, 64-years old. He’s played Santa here every year for the last seven.”

“I do hope he’s licensed to fly a reindeer-powered sleigh,” Lucifer says, glancing over Chloe’s shoulder at the wallet.

She sighs. “Are you going to do this all day? Because we can solve this without you,” she says.

Lucifer just grins at her, knowing it’s an empty threat. “Going to put me on the naughty list, Detective?”

“Too late for that,” Chloe mutters under her breath. His grin widens. “What else do we know, Ella?”

“We know that Chris has been dead between eight and ten hours,” Ella reports. “And given the lack of other wounds, he was stabbed in the abdomen with a broken candy cane prop.” She reaches for said prop. “It’s made of PVC; my guess is the killer broke it in half and put it through Santa’s very obviously fake belly.”

“Well, looks as if he had enough milk and cookies to feed a small army. You’d think that would give him a bit of extra padding.”

Chloe is going to strangle her partner before this case is over. She just knows it. “Lucifer. A man is dead. A little respect, please.”

Judging from the way his eyes are sparkling and dancing mischievously, even if he stops now, he’ll start up again later. “Right you are, Detective,” he says solemnly, folding his hands in front of him.

Glaring at him suspiciously, Chloe turns back to Dan and Ella, who are just as bad as Lucifer. “What is wrong with you guys today? Can we please investigate this homicide like professionals?” At least she can keep her amusement over Lucifer’s jokes internal. After a round of apologies and promises to lock it up, Chloe asks who found the body and is directed towards the group of elves waiting outside. “Come on, Lucifer.”

Before they can make it outside, Chloe is tugged to a halt and turns to glare at her partner—again. “What? Got some more disrespectful Christmas puns to share?”

It isn’t often that Lucifer looks contrite, so she’s still suspicious when he looks at her with an apology in his eyes. “Detective, it wasn’t my intention to upset or anger you,” he says quietly, earnestly. “Quite the opposite, actually. I was attempting to bring some levity to the morning.”

“There’s a big difference between levity and inappropriate, Lucifer. And you toe the line on a good day. Look, I get the circumstances are—”

“Hilarious?”

“Ironic,” she says dryly. “But someone was murdered. Regardless of his day job, our job is to find out who killed him. Not perform standup comedy.”

“So you admit my puns were comedic?” he asks with a charming grin.

“Lucifer, I’m serious. Get it under control, or take it back to Lux.” It’s one thing for him to crack jokes over a dead body, but something else entirely when Chloe knows there are people here who know the victim and likely grieving him.

To her surprise, Lucifer wipes the grin from his face and actually looks like he might take this seriously. She doesn’t buy it. “Very well, Detective. Shall we question Santa’s little helpers?”

Biting her lip to avoid laughing or screaming, she isn’t sure which, Chloe leads the way to the possible witnesses. “Who found the body?” she asks a nearby uni. They’re pointed towards one of the elves who couldn’t look less like a Christmas elf if he tried.

The man looks like ‘grumpy’ is his default setting—and waits for a joke from her partner about Snow White and the Seven Dwarves—and maybe like he’s seen some things in his life. One bulging arm is covered in a sleeve of what appear to be prison tattoos peeking beneath the green elf costume he’s wearing. A few are even Christmas-themed: snowflakes over skulls, mistletoe wound around barbed wire, and a woman using a candy cane as a stripper pole.

But she tries not to judge.

“I didn’t get your name, sorry,” Chloe says, approaching the man who found the body.

“Max Sparkles,” the gruff-sounding elf says.

Chloe braces herself. And sure enough... “Max Sparkles? Sounds more like something you’d hear at a strip club than Santa’s Village,” Lucifer says. Though at least he has the good sense to keep his voice low enough that only Chloe can hear him. She hopes.

For good measure, she elbows Lucifer, anyway, and is satisfied by his soft grunt. “And you found the body?”

“Yep. He was just laying there with the candy cane shoved in his gut,” Max reports. “Shame. They shoulda shoved it up his ass. If you’ll pardon my French, ma’am,” he adds to Chloe. The leering scan of her body ruins the politeness.

Lucifer snorts a laugh, but doesn’t comment.

Chloe raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem all that upset about your co-worker’s death,” she says evenly.

“I’m not. That guy was a—”

“Bad Santa?” Lucifer quips, like he can’t help himself at this point.

Max nods. “Definitely. We all work the same hours, deal with the same screaming brats—every season it’s the same. But Chris? Acted like he really was Santa Claus and we were at his beck and call.” He gestures behind him towards the other workers who are nodding along. “Called us all sorts of derogatory names, too. I won’t repeat them in front of ladies.”

“So he had a lot of enemies?” Chloe surmises.

“I’d say so. Nobody liked him. Frankly, I’m surprised the Village keeps employing him with all the complaints filed against him.”

“What complaints?”

“Sexual harassment for one.” Max leans closer, lowering his voice with an apologetic grimace. “He liked to touch the female elves without permission, if you get my snowdrift.”

She does. “What else?”

“Never been proven conclusively, but there’s a rumor going around that there was an incident with a little kid a couple years back,” Max whispers. “I don’t know the details of that one—don’t wanna know, to be honest—but if you ask around, someone can probably tell you.”

Beside her Lucifer stiffens. When she glances at him, the amusement has drained from his voice and he looks incensed. One thing she’ll say about her partner, he does not approve of anybody being touched without consent. Anything that impugns on a person’s free will, and Lucifer is all over it.

“When did you find the victim, Max?”

“About 8:30 when I came in for the day,” he says. “The Village opens at ten, but a few of us come in early to make sure everything is ready.”

“And did you see anything suspicious?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “Aside from Santa with a candy cane stake in his gut? No. Far’s I know, I was the first one here today. Besides Chris, I mean.”

Lucifer elbows his way forward, a shark-like grin on his lips. Max stares up at him, looking disgruntled. “Oh, come now, Tiny Tim, spill the eggnog,” he purrs, his grin widening. “Perhaps you’re the one with the grudge with Old Saint Nick. Tell me, are you sure you didn’t crack under the peppermint pressure and kill him?”

“What? No!” Max says gruffly. “Look, I hated the guy, and I ain’t shedding tears that he’s gone. But I sure as hell didn’t kill him.”

Rolling her eyes, Chloe steps up and hands Max her card. “Thank you for your help. Call if you remember anything else, please.”

The scowl on Max’s face shifts instantly as he turns back to her. “Sure thing.” He grins at her. “Can I jingle your bells for...other reasons, Detective?”

Lucifer steps closer, glowering down at the man. “Leave it in the workshop, Sparkles,” he growls.

“All right, all right...geez. Just being friendly. Someone’s a grinch.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid, my vertically-challenged friend, that I don’t play well with elves.”

“Lucifer,” Chloe warns.

“What? He started it. Flirting with a detective during questioning—utterly elfish behavior.”

Sighing, she drags him away, pretending not to hear Max’s final comment. “She can interrogate me anytime.”

Rolling her eyes, Chloe turns to Lucifer. “So, looks like we have our work cut out for us. A lot of people were angry with the vic.”

“Perhaps Santa put them all on the naughty list, too? Coal in their stocking? Ate their cookies? And not in the fun way.”

Sighing, Chloe shakes her head and walks away, sipping the latte he brought her. It’s going to be a long day.

Their next stop is the Nutcracker Duo—two muscle-bound men in identical red soldier uniforms, standing at parade rest in the shade of a plastic candy cane archway. Even off duty, they move in stiff synchronized gestures that make Chloe’s neck ache just watching them.

“Oh, wonderful. Nutcrackers.” Lucifer doesn’t seem to know whether to be pleased or not. “Finally, performers with real crunch to their act.”

Though she wants to roll her eyes, at this rate, she’ll have a migraine by lunchtime. So she ignores him, addressing the nutcrackers instead. “Gentlemen, my name is Detective Decker, and this is my partner. We have a few questions for you. Can I get your names, please?”

The men snap to attention in unison. “Julian Marcher, ma’am,” the first one says.

“Marcher! How appropriate,” Lucifer says, stepping closer. “Tell me, do you come with your own drumline?”

The soldiers ignore him, and the second one answers, “Theo Nutley, at your service.”

“Oh, this gets better and better.” Lucifer's eyes actually light up.

Chloe sighs. Again. “And where were you both at approximately midnight last night?”

“In performance,” Julian says.

“Cracking nuts,” Theo adds.

Meanwhile, Lucifer is circling the men, tilting his head as he examines their costumes. “I’ve a question,” he purrs, a devilish grin on his face. “Which one of you handles the nut work and which takes care of the...polishing?”

Neither responds.

Chloe closes her eyes. “Lucifer...”

“I’m investigating, Detective,” he insists. “It’s a legitimate line of inquiry. Perhaps the holiday season caused a crack in your composure?”

Julian blinks. “We don’t break character.”

Theo adds, deadpan, “Even when Santa’s dead.”

Lucifer smirks. “Truly impressive commitment. Have either of you considered theater? Or is your passion limited to seasonal shell-themed pantomime.”

The glare Chloe shoots him is so sharp it could crack him.

He smiles back, utterly unrepentant. “Come now, Detective, they said it themselves—they’ve been trained for cracking. I’m merely giving them something to practice on. Speaking of,” he grins at the men, “I can think of far more enjoyable things to crack between those jaws.”

Someone behind them covers a snort. Chloe glances back to find Ella pretending to photograph the scene, though it’s clear she just followed Lucifer's one-man pun tour.

Shaking her head, she turns back to the soldiers. “You were both visible on stage during the time of death? Like, in front of an actual, living, non-toy audience?”

“Affirmative,” they reply in eerie unison. Theo adds, “Late-night performances are common this time of year and it was a full house.”

“Okay, well, don’t leave town,” she says, writing down a note to check their alibis.

Naturally, Lucifer can’t resist a parting shot. “Or if you do, might I suggest chestnuts roasting on an open road?”

“Lucifer!”

He grins. “What? It was low-hanging fruit.”

So much for being on his best behavior.

Their final suspect for the time being is Evan Payton, the Village Manager. The man is so perfectly corporate he actually looks allergic to fun. Slicked back hair, sunglasses indoors, a Santa tie so aggressively red Chloe has to squint to see him.

He doesn’t bother sitting down, instead looming near the desk in his trailer-slash-office with his arms crossed. “Listen, I don’t care who killed him. I just need the Village reopened by Saturday. Christmas weekend’s our biggest moneymaker. Kids go crazy for this crap. We lose a day, we lose a fortune. And now we gotta find a new Santa.”

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. “So that’s your concern? Father Christmas is dead and you’re worried about foot traffic? Charming.”

“Can we please not?” Chloe says, not turning towards him.

“Why ever not?” Lucifer gestures to Payton. “He’s the first honest one here. It’s refreshing, really. At least he admits the holiday is just one long fiscal quarter wrapped in tinsel. By the way,” he adds to Payton, “Hell’s always hiring, and your résumé practically writes itself.”

Payton frowns. “Who is this guy?”

“I’m a man in charge of a place far warmer than this silent nightmare,” Lucifer purrs.

Chloe cuts in, stepping in front of Lucifer, not that it does much good, since he’s six inches taller than she is. “I understand Mr. Frost wasn’t well-liked among his colleagues?”

“Wasn’t well-liked?” Payton scoffs. “The guy was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Drunk during shifts, rude to customers, constantly trying to ‘modernize’ the Santa act with snow machines and TikTok dances. He actually said he was rebranding the ‘Spirit of Winter’.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow of her own. “We’ve spoken to people claiming he sexually harassed several employees and that there was an incident involving a child a couple years back?”

For the first time, the man actually seems uncomfortable. “None of that stuff was substantiated,” he says quickly. “Rumors around the workplace, you know how it is. And the female elves will say anything for attention.”

“Really?” Lucifer says coldly. “You’re suggesting it’s the women and children who were the problem? Honestly, I’ve met demons with more decency.”

“Lucifer,” Chloe says quietly, though for once, she doesn’t want to rein him in.

He subsides, but the look on his face makes Payton gulp.

“I just mean when we looked into the rumors, we didn’t find any proof,” Payton says, tripping over his words now. “Chris was difficult, and yeah, not a lot of people actually liked him, but he took the Santa thing seriously. Too seriously sometimes.”

“Where were you last night between eleven and one in the morning?” she asks evenly.

“A Christmas party. With about three hundred other people. I can give you names.”

“We’ll send an officer to collect your alibi. Come on, Lucifer.”

Neither of them sticks around to see what Lucifer might do next.

They reconvene outside, under a sagging garland archway where plastic bells clink sadly in the breeze. The sun is rising higher, turning an already warm day sweltering. So far, there isn’t a whole lot to go on, except that a lot of people wanted Santa dead.

Ella joins them scrolling through her phone. “So preliminary results on the candy cane stake shows blood and peppermint oil, which I assume they use to make them more authentic?” she says with a shrug. “And time of death is narrowed to midnight.”

Chloe nods. “Everyone we’ve talked to has an alibi that puts them somewhere performing or partying during that window.”

Apparently, Lucifer's pun-tastic mood has returned. He tilts his head, twisting his cufflink. “Expect, of course, for the murderer, who by now is probably sipping cocoa and congratulating themselves on finally silencing Frosty the Filthy Man.”

“Lucifer.”

He ignores her. Because of course he does. “Honestly, the man seems universally despised. We could save time and arrest the entire village. They can spend Christmas behind bars singing Jail to the World.”

Ella chokes on a laugh, nearly dropping her phone. “Okay, that was a good one.”

The sigh Chloe lets out is so deep it might be capable of shifting tectonic plates. “Please, please stop.”

He leans closer, a mock-earnest expression on his face. “I’m just trying to keep the spirit alive, Detective. It would be criminal to let this case go unwrapped.”

“Okay, that’s it,” she mutters. “I’m starting a swear jar. Every pun, a dollar.”

“Marvelous!” Lucifer brightens immediately. “I shall fund our next holiday party within the hour.”

“Lucifer.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, sighing. “I’ll be good. For now, anyway. But if you think I’m going to sleigh my sense of humor...”

Not for the first time, Chloe wonders what she did in a past life to be saddled with Lucifer Morningstar as her partner in this one. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to deck your halls.”

He gives her an impressed look. “Oh, very good, Detective. The elusive double pun. See, because your last name is Decker. Deck the halls. Well done!”

“This is gonna be the best Christmas case ever,” Ella says, leaning towards Dan as he joins them.

Rubbing his face, Dan groans. “I need eggnog. Very strong eggnog.”

Lucifer looks thoroughly pleased with himself. “Ah, see there, Detective? Even your ex-douche feels the holiday spirit. Truly a miracle.”

Chloe shoots her partner a flat look. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He flashes her one of those ridiculously charming, disarming grins that does absolutely nothing for her (really, they...they don’t). “After all, nothing says Christmas like a corpse under a candy cane.”

Returning to the precinct should feel like a reprieve. At least it’s air conditioned and not surrounded by a walking Christmas nightmare. It’s clear the moment they step out of the elevators, that will not be the case. At some point between when Chloe left last night and this morning, the place has gone full tinsel apocalypse. Every desk has sprouted a miniature decorated tree, paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling like celestial dandruff, and someone—probably (definitely) Ella—sprayed canned snow along the glass partitions. Lucifer stands in the middle of it all like a man forced to attend his own ironic punishment.

“Oh, marvelous,” he drawls, gesturing at the bullpen. “An entire homicide department covered in artificial frost. Nothing says ‘goodwill toward men’ like slowly suffocating beneath toxic aerosol cheer.”

Chloe brushes fake snow off her coffee lid and doesn’t look up. “It’s festive.”

“It’s a biohazard. And an eyesore. Quite frankly, I’m not sure which is worse.” Lucifer points accusingly at a garland-tangled bulletin board. “Who decorates with crime scene tape? That’s not whimsy, Detective, that’s a cry for help.”

“Pretty sure that was Ella’s idea,” she says dryly, leading him towards her desk.

He groans as they pass a plastic nativity scene on the break room counter. “And there we have it—the annual performance of Humans Pretend They Know What Angels Look Like. Terribly inaccurate. I never once wore sandals.”

Taking a sip of coffee to hide her smile, Chloe drops into her desk chair. “You done?”

“Hardly. We haven’t discussed the musical atrocity blaring from the radio.” He tilts his head as a pop version of Jingle Bell Rock plays. “I swear to Dad, if I hear one more mortal proclaim Santa Claus is coming to town, I’ll file a restraining order on behalf of humanity.”

She sighs, exasperated but amused. Lucifer tends to have that effect on her. “Okay, focus. The victim—Chris Frost—had a history of harassment complaints from coworkers. He was overbearing and took the job too seriously. Everyone hated him. Any one of them could’ve done it.”

Lucifer leans against her desk, smirking. “Indeed. It seems he got his holly jollies from violating others’ free will.”

“You used ‘holly jolly’ already,” she notes absently, checking their victim for previous arrests.

“But not in this context, Detective.”

Chloe gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re more original than that, Lucifer. If you’re going to crack jokes, at least don’t recycle.”

He perks up at that, his eyes dancing in delight. “Are you giving me permission?”

“Definitely not. The pun jar is still open and will happily take your money. But it isn’t like you listen to me, anyway.”

A slight frown pulls at his eyebrows. “I always listen to you, Detective,” he says in a soft, earnest tone.

Pausing in what she’s doing, she studies him for a moment. There’s no smirk on his lips or teasing glint in his eyes. He’s serious.

“I may not always agree with or follow what you say, but that doesn’t mean I’m not listening,” he adds, giving her that small half-smile. The one she pretends doesn’t make her heart flip. “Now, what do you say we solve this ho-ho-homicide, Detective?”

Chloe can’t help it. She snorts a laugh. “Yeah, all right. Let’s go see what Ella has.”

As they walk into the lab, Lucifer greets everyone they pass with, “Season’s bleedings.”

Sighing, Chloe does her best to ignore him. “Hey, Ella, anything new?”

Popping up from behind a table, Ella is now wearing an elf costume, complete with fake, plastic ears and a red and green hat with a bell on the end. “Oh, hey, guys! Nothing pointing to an exact suspect in Santa’s death, but I can probably rule out several!” she announces, bouncing over to her desk—and jingling all the way.

Lucifer is staring at her as if she’s mortally offended him, but surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything. Chloe suspects he’s biding his time. “Honestly, we’ll take anything at this point,” she says, frustrated.

Ella the Elf sets out several crime scene photos, most of them focused on the angle of the candy cane stab wound. “So judging by the angle, I’d say the murderer is at least as tall as our Kris Kringle or maybe a few inches shorter. At the very least, it rules out any of the elf workers.”

“Or they could have been on stilts,” Lucifer suggests. “That Max Sparkle was incredibly shifty, Detective. I think it was him.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “I checked his alibi, Lucifer. He was home with his kids when the murder occurred. It wasn’t him.”

He grumbles under his breath. “You snow I’m right, Detective.”

She ignores him again. “We still need to talk to a few other people.” She takes her notepad from her pocket and flips to a page, grimacing at the reminder of the name she’s about to read. “Starting with...Mary Camas—” Lucifer snorts, and Ella presses her lips together, the bell on her head jingling as she vibrates with silent laughter. “Yeah, I know. She plays Mrs. Claus at the Village.”

“Honestly, do the people who run this ridiculous setup hire employees based on their names? Quite the Claus for concern if you ask me.”

“Well, nobody did, but we—”

“Oh, how did I miss that?” Ella cuts in, examining the candy cane stake through the evidence bag. Her sleeves jingle as she holds it out for Chloe to look at. “That’s glitter, guys. I’d guess costume glitter. Not even red or green. Kinda disappointing.”

Chloe ignores that. “Okay, so glitter. A lot of the actors were wearing it at the Village.”

“I still say it was that Sparkle character,” Lucifer puts in. “Glitter, sparkle, it’s all right there in the name, Detective.”

Before she can remind him, again, that the elf in question has an alibi, Dan pops his head in.

“Hey, Chlo, we’ve got another one from Santa’s Village here to give a statement.”

“Who?” Chloe asks.

Dan’s lips twitch. “Uh, guy from the gingerbread troupe. Said he might have something.” He smirks. “Try not to eat him, Lucifer.”

“Tempting,” Lucifer responds. “Though I suspect the gumdrop buttons might get lodged in my throat.”

At this point, Chloe is giving up. “That’s another ten dollars for the pun jar.”

Shrugging, Lucifer reaches into his pocket and hands her a hundred dollar bill. “Here you are. That should cover me for the next hour or so.”

She snatches it with a glare, just to call his bluff. “Let’s go question our gingerbread witness.”

“Yes,” her partner says, following her out. “Let us see what crumbs of lies the cookie-man gives us.”

The man sitting opposite Chloe looks exhausted and slightly under-baked in a ginger-colored bodysuit, brown smudges of icing paint on his face, and the decapitated foam head of his costume resting beside him. Naturally, his name is Gerry Bredman.

Lucifer takes one look at the man and practically purrs. “Well, well, if it isn’t the gingerbread man himself. Tell me, did you run as fast as you could from the crime scene?”

Gerry groans. “Yeah, yeah, like I haven’t been hearing that one all day.”

Shooting her partner a warning look, Chloe opens her notebook. “Mr. Bredman, you said you might’ve seen something last night?”

“More than I wanted to.” He leans forward and adopts a conspiratorial tone. “So I stayed late to clean the cocoa machines—those things get clogged and backed up if they aren’t maintenanced regularly, then it’s a silent nightmare.”

“You see, Detective, I’m not the only one using puns around here.” Lucifer turns to Gerry. “However unoriginal it was.”

"Anyway, probably around eleven, eleven-thirty, I saw Santa—uh, Chris, I mean—heading towards the storage tent with Frosty. Um, Clara...Snowe, I think her name is. Thought it was weird, ‘cause they weren’t even supposed to be there. So I...kinda followed them.” He winces. “Let’s just say they weren’t counting candy canes.”

Lucifer smirks. “Ah, polishing the cane, as it were?”

Gerry’s eyes widen as he nods. “Yeah, exactly. Still, didn’t think much of it. Chris was always...well, I’m sure you’ve heard what people say.”

“Did anyone else see them?” Chloe asks.

“Not that I noticed. But about twenty minutes later, I heard someone yelling. Then music got real loud. When I went back, both were gone.”

Lucifer crosses his arms, a mock serious look on his face while his eyes dance. “So what you’re saying is, Frosty melted under pressure, did she?”

Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose. “Lucifer.”

“What? Clearly this Miss Snowe is our killer.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Perhaps Madam Frosty melted Santa’s cold heart—and then stabbed him in it.”

Gerry frowns, glancing between them. “Uh...are you two always like this?”

Chloe answers before Lucifer can. “Unfortunately. Just one last thing. Did you ever see Chris argue with anyone? Fights, threats?”

“Constantly. Everyone has had a problem with him at some point. But most consistently? Mrs. Claus,” Gerry says. “Or Mary Camas. She and Chris were going at it last week; he was hitting on Frosty right in front of her. Said she was going to ‘let it snow’ to get his attention back.”

Lucifer huffs a laugh. “Well, this Frost fellow gets more charming by the second. Santa’s been ho-ho-hoing around on Mrs. Claus.”

Chloe finishes her notes and wraps up the interview, thanking Gerry for coming in. On the way out of the interrogation room, Lucifer whistles cheerfully and starts humming under his breath, “It’s beginning to look a lot like murder...everywhere you go...”

Chloe sits shotgun in the Corvette while her partner weaves through traffic as if the laws of the road don’t exist for him. She pointedly doesn’t look at the speedometer, knowing that if she does, she’ll only give herself an ulcer. What she will admit is that riding in a convertible on an unseasonably warm December day is better than being stuck in her cruiser.

Maybe not out loud, but she’ll admit it to herself, at least.

Santa’s Village comes back into view ahead of them, with its sagging gingerbread roofs, gumdrop paths half-melted into glossy puddles, and fake snow retreating in uneven, defeated drifts. At this rate, the place is going to look more like a horror movie set than a holiday destination for families of all ages by the time it opens up again.

Lucifer is idly humming along with the radio, tapping the steering wheel to some aggressively cheerful holiday song. She wants to tease him about getting into the holiday spirit, but that will probably only set off another anti-Christmas rant, and she’s had enough of those for today.

She eyes him sideways. “If you sing, I will arrest you.”

He smiles without looking at her. “Detective, I wouldn’t dare. But if the spirit moves me, I can’t be held responsible for what happens.”

“That’s another one for the pun jar,” she says automatically.

He perks up instantly. “Oh, are we counting already? Can’t I just prepay again?”

“No. Because that would be humoring you, and that’s never going to happen.”

With a dramatic sigh, he parks the Corvette expertly and they make their way back into the fairgrounds. Despite the Village being closed until the investigation finishes, it looks like the entire staff is here, and in full costume. Chloe vaguely wonders if there's some workers’ rights law management is violating by enforcing their schedules in this heat without customers.

“Well,” Lucifer says, “time to mingle and jingle. Am I right, Detective?”

“That’s two,” she mutters without looking at him.

She’s busy watching a woman who must be Clara Snowe come into view near the Frosty photo-op wearing a silver-and-white costume and sparkling like she dipped herself into a giant vat of glitter. A large snowball head with a carrot nose and coal mouth and eyes sits nearby. The woman is beautiful, even for Los Angeles, and toothpick-thin, and gives off the air that says she thinks she should be compensated by others for the privilege of looking at her.

Clara glances up as they approach, her silver-grey eyes landing immediately on Lucifer, and absolutely lights up. Her smile spreads, slow and seductive, and she starts to smooth down her costume as she straightens, tilting her chin with the confidence of someone rarely ever told no. And Lucifer isn’t...unaware of her either. He steps close and she steps closer, like two magnets remembering their purpose.

“Well,” Clara purrs, biting her lip and letting it slide through her teeth, “aren’t you a tall glass of...something warm and toasty.”

Not one to turn away when the attention is on him, Lucifer removes his sunglasses and smiles like a man who’s never once had to work for this reaction in his life. “Hmm, yes, I get that lot,” he says. “Occupational hazard, you see.”

Chloe feels her eye twitch. “Detective Decker,” she says, flashing her badge pointedly. “This is my partner. Supposedly. LAPD.”

Clara gives her a brief, dismissive glance, and then looks right back at Lucifer, her expression even more intrigued. “You don’t look like someone who works for the police.”

“Police consultant, actually,” Lucifer offers. “I help put criminals on the permanent naughty list.”

“I bet you do,” she says with a breathy laugh.

And that’s three, Chloe thinks, adding it to the growing ledger in her head labeled Lucifer's Financial Ruin via Pun Jar.

“Miss Snowe, we need to ask you a few questions about Chris Frost,” she says out loud, briskly.

The other woman’s expression immediately turns hesitant. She looks around as though searching for an excuse to get out of questioning. When she sees the look on Chloe’s face, she gives up and they move to sit at a wobbly picnic table nearby. Clara sits across from Chloe and Lucifer, crossing her legs in a slow, deliberate way that angles her towards him, all her attention focused like the detective isn’t even there.

“So,” Chloe begins evenly, “we’ve been told you were seen with the victim last night.”

Clara blinks, making use of her long, thick eyelashes and most innocent smile. “Chris? No way. I didn’t even see him.”

Lucifer leans back, folding his arms. “Oh? Is that so? That’s interesting, given he was reportedly...sliding down your chimney.”

The woman snorts derisively. “That’s ridiculous. Who told you that?”

Neither of them answer, watching the microsecond delay and the defensive edge creeping in.

When the silence only lingers, Clara crosses her arms and averts her gaze. “I bet it was those nutcracking militants,” she mutters. “They’re obsessed with everyone else’s business.”

Lucifer hums. “I’d imagine splinters are the more common complaint with those two.”

That’s five, Chloe thinks absently, while biting the inside of her cheek to avoid laughing.

She presses on with her questions. “Did you and Chris have a romantic relationship?”

Clara scoffs. “Romantic? Him? Please. He flirted with everyone. The guy was a total creep.”

“And you?” Chloe asks.

The woman shrugs in a would-be careless way. “I mean, I flirt. It’s my job. It’s like working at a bar—people tip better when they think you’re into them.”

Lucifer leans in, smiling. “So you’re saying Santa stayed late for the full experience? Tell me, was his tip generous? Does Frosty melt on command?”

Chloe can practically hear the cha-ching of the pun jar adding up. She shifts tactics. “Look, Clara, you were the last one seen with Chris shortly before he was murdered. That puts you at the top of the suspects list—”

“The naughty list,” Lucifer interjects.

She ignores him. “So unless you start talking, we’ll have to move this back to the station and you can kiss those Frosty tips goodbye.”

That seems to get a reaction from Clara. Her shoulders drop a few inches and she huffs irritably. “Okay, fine. I was with Chris in the storage tent. We’ve been...well, not seeing each other, but—”

“Stuffing each other’s stockings? Jingling each other’s bells? Helping Santa unload his sack?” Lucifer offers helpfully.

When Chloe throws him a glare, his smirk widens. The tally grows to ten.

“He promised to promote me to Mrs. Claus,” Clara bursts out.

Chloe blinks. “Sorry?”

The woman sighs, adjusting the cuffs on her shirt. “I mean, Chris said a lot of things, but he said if I...you know...then he’d make sure I get the position next year.”

“Sounds like less of a job offer and more of an extensive performance review,” Lucifer quips.

“He said Mary was on her way out. Said he wanted someone...fresher, prettier,” Clara goes on.

Lucifer smirks. “Nothing like a snowwoman taking over a warm position.”

Ignoring him now, Clara leans towards Chloe. “Look, I didn’t kill him. I swear. I wanted the job too much.” She hesitates, then sighs. “But...as I was leaving last night, I did see someone coming in through the side gate. They were headed for the Santa tent. I couldn’t tell who it was, but they were...jingling.”

“Jingling?” Lucifer scoffs. “Well, that narrows it down to...everyone employed here.”

“If you want someone who really hated Chris, like enough to kill him,” Clara adds quietly, “talk to Mary Camas. They were always fighting.”

“Mary Camas? Mrs. Claus?” Chloe says, raising an eyebrow. That confirms what Gerry Bredman the Gingerbread Man told them.

Clara nods. “Yeah. Last week, Chris was flirting with me the way he does with everyone and Mary saw. She went off on him. It only got worse when she heard a rumor Chris was talking to management about replacing her, and from what I saw, she was pissed.”

“Hmm, yes,” Lucifer says thoughtfully. “The North Pole hath no fury like a Mrs. Claus scorned.”

As covertly as possible, Chloe stomps on Lucifer's foot. He winces. She turns back to Clara. “Thank you. Don’t go far. We might need to talk to you again.”

They stand, and Lucifer throws one last smile to Clara. “You’ve been very frost-coming. In more ways than one, it would seem.”

Clara watches him go with her lips parted.

Chloe rolls her eyes and drags him away. They walk back towards the employee lounge, passing snow machines working overtime to replace the melting fake snow, a candy cane maze, and a mistletoe booth.

Lucifer eyes the latter with interest. “Nothing says holiday spirit like forced intimacy under foliage.”

Another eyeroll. “You know at this point, the pun jar is going to bankrupt you,” Chloe says dryly.

“Don’t be absurd. I could finance that jar for the rest of eternity and still have plenty of funds left over.” He clasps his hands behind his back, glancing over his shoulder to where they were speaking to Clara. “It seems our Frosty friend wasn’t so cold-hearted after all.”

“That’s seventeen,” she mutters.

“Oh, come now,” he says lightly. “I’m merely sleighing the facts.”

“Eighteen.”

He laughs. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m...tolerating it.”

“Tolerance is the first step towards appreciation.”

“Keep dreaming.”

They pass the hot chocolate booth where Max Sparkles is chatting with a pair of sugarplum fairies. He looks up, eyes lighting on Chloe, a grin forming on his lips.

Lucifer growls.

Like, an actual, animalistic sound that vibrates through the air and down Chloe’s spine.

The blood drains instantly from Max’s face. He yelps, turns, and runs down a gumdrop path as fast as his jingling feet can carry him.

Chloe blinks, looking suspiciously at her partner. “What did you just do?”

He smiles at her serenely. “Whatever do you mean, Detective?”

She narrows her eyes at him, then decides she probably doesn’t want to know.

“I still say that elf is our killer,” he adds. “He’s even jingling.”

“I already told you his alibi checked out,” she says, exasperated. “It wasn’t him. The angle of the wound is wrong for a man of his...stature. Besides, it’s looking more and more like Mrs. Claus was the one who gave Santa a sweet and pointy end.”

Lucifer stops in his tracks as if he hit a brick wall, gaping at her. “Detective! Did you just make a Christmas pun?”

Her lips twitch, outside of her control. “You’re a bad influence on me,” she mutters.

He grins proudly. “For once, I am more than happy to take the blame. Look at you embracing the spirit.”

She shakes her head, still fighting her smile. “Well, if you can’t deck them, join them.”

A groan slips from his lips, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Be still my heart.”

The laugh she lets out is entirely involuntary. She doesn’t miss the way Lucifer's eyes soften at the sound, but tries to pretend she does.

They reach the employee lounge just as the door swings open and a woman steps out wearing a red coat cinched at the waist, trimmed with white fur, and a pair of candy-cane-striped glasses perched on her nose. Her makeup is flawless in a way that says she spends hours perfecting it. Chloe is starting to think management at Santa’s Village hires models for the female characters.

The woman stops in her tracks, eyes locked on Lucifer with heat-seeking missile precision. For the second time in less than half an hour, Chloe feels that slight shift in the air, a subtle recalibration of a stranger’s posture when Lucifer Morningstar enters their orbit. The way desire and curiosity and hunger stack in their expressions, and they couldn’t look away if they tried..

A slow, appraising smile appears on the woman’s lips. Lucifer, infuriatingly, smiles back.

Chloe tells herself she doesn’t care. Tells herself she’s immune to this by now. She’s seen it a million times—men, women, everyone in between, pulled towards him like moths to a flame.

She is not jealous.

She is...irritated. Because they have a job to do and Lucifer's magnetism gets in the way of that.

Yes. That’s it. Irritated.

Nothing else.

The woman’s gaze flicks to Chloe at last, assessing her with a glance that’s both polite and dismissive in equal measure. “Hi,” she says brightly. “Can I help you?”

Chloe flashes her badge. “That depends. Are you Mary Camas?”

The woman blinks. “I am,” she says slowly.

“I’m Detective Decker. This is my partner,” Chloe says again.

Lucifer inclines his head. “Lucifer Morningstar. Pleasure. Though I fear we’re meeting under rather...Krampus-y conditions.”

Shaking her head, Chloe gestures towards the lounge, herding Mrs. Claus back inside. She goes reluctantly, taking a seat near the door, forcing her posture into something more open and confident. Chloe watches her hands fold on the table, manicured and steady. For now.

“Mary,” Chloe begins, pen poised over paper, “you play Mrs. Claus here at the Village?”

“For the third year running,” Mary says proudly, smirking. “It’s been...magical.”

Lucifer hums. “Magical. Yes. Nothing says enchantment like synthetic fur in eighty-degree weather.”

Mary smiles wider. “Well, this is Los Angeles. You get used to the heat.”

“Some of us thrive in it,” he replies, eyes gleaming.

Chloe clears her throat sharply. “Mary, where were you last night between eleven and midnight?”

Mrs. Claus doesn’t hesitate, as if she’s been practicing the answer all day. “Holiday party at a friend’s place in Silver Lake.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

Mary blinks. “It was...a group thing.”

“Okay, well, we’re going to need to check your alibi, so...”

The woman’s smile tightens. “Of course. I can get you a list.”

When Mary laces her fingers together in her lap, Chloe notes it—she’s getting defensive.

“What was your relationship with Chris Frost?” she continues. “The man who played Santa.”

Mary scoffs. “We were coworkers, obviously.”

“Did you get along?”

“As well as anyone else working with the same person for years,” she says with a shrug. “I guess you could say we were...partners.”

Chloe meets her gaze evenly. “We have reports that the two of you had several heated arguments.”

A shark-like grin appears on Lucifer's face. “Yes, what happened there, Mary? Did Santa leave coal in your stocking?”

“What? No,” Mary scoffs. “We...bickered sometimes, but never had any problems.”

“Really?” Chloe says, tilting her head. “Because we also heard Chris was planning to replace you with a younger Mrs. Claus.”

The other woman laughs too quickly. “That’s ridiculous. I have a five-year contract.”

The claim isn’t convincing. Chloe catches every microexpression on Mary’s face—the way her eyes flick left, the breath she holds just a fraction too long, the slight tick in her jaw. She’s lying. Not well, either. Emotional lies never are.

Chloe leans back and studies her. “Were you and Chris having a sexual relationship?”

Mary goes still immediately, then seems to catch herself and relaxes. That’s a yes. Rather than pressing the subject, Chloe glances sideways at Lucifer, giving him a subtle jerk of her head. A wordless your turn.

Lucifer gets the message. He shifts closer, resting his arms on the table, and gives Mary a soft, predatory smile. “Tell me something, Mrs. Claus,” he says quietly. “Apart from a more respectable occupation, what is it you truly desired from our dearly departed Santa?”

The effect is immediate. Mary’s eyes dilate, and her shoulders slacken. She leans towards Lucifer as if being pulled by invisible strings. “I...” she breathes, a dreamy expression on her face. “I wanted him to stop cheating on me with inflatable snowwomen.”

Chloe’s eyebrows shoot up. “So...did you stop him?”

Mary nods slowly, still caught in Lucifer's thrall. “Of course I did. I should have been the only one getting his milk and cookies. And that rat bastard thought it was all a game.” Her lips curls. “But he won’t make that mistake again. Not after I punctured that fake belly of his with a candy cane.”

Silence fills the employee lounge for a moment. It never ceases to amaze Chloe how Lucifer does that, always getting the confession. Almost two years as her partner, and she still hasn’t solved the mystery of his mojo.

“Well, there we have it,” Lucifer says, satisfied. He breaks eye contact and leans away.

Mary blinks and straightens, her eyes widening. “Why—why did I just say that?” she whispers, horrified.

He smirks. “Because clearly that’s what he gets for dipping his marshmallows in someone else’s cocoa.”

“Okay,” Chloe says, giving him a look. “That...that’s enough.”

The smirk widens. “Well, Detective, I’d say this wraps up our case. Complete with a shiny red bow.”

All the blood drains from Mary’s face and she bolts for the door before anyone can stop her. Chloe’s chair scrapes back as she stands, already moving. They burst out into the Village—but Mary doesn’t get far. A herd of reindeer cross the walkway, handlers tugging at reins while bells jingle furiously. One reindeer—Rudolph, judging by the nose—snorts, his red nostrils flaring, and stamps a hoof directly in Mary’s path. As if he knows she killed Santa Claus.

Mary skids to a stop, looking around wildly for an escape route.

Lucifer strolls up behind her, unhurried, with his hands in his pockets. “Well, Mrs. Claus,” he says coolly, “looks like you’ve been stag-nated.”

A snort slips from Chloe before she can stop herself. For half a second, she forgets to be tired or annoyed or anything but human. She shakes her head and swiftly cuffs Mary while Lucifer looks on with a grin that is far too pleased.

“What?” Chloe mutters, heat creeping up her neck. She blames the unseasonably warm day.

He leans in, his eyes sparkling with mischief and pride. “That is the first time today you’ve laughed at one of my puns.”

She forces a scowl. “Momentary lapse of judgment. Won’t happen again.”

But she still can’t quite hide the smile tugging at her lips as she leads Santa’s killer to the waiting patrol car. Lucifer follows, looking as though Christmas has come early.

Chloe’s kitchen smells like sugar and butter and enough warmth to settle into her bones. The heatwave finally broke around sunset, bringing in a chilly breeze that has her wrapped in a knit cardigan as she bakes. The second batch of cookies cools on the rack by the window, their edges just starting to firm while the centers are still soft. Christmas lights blink around the window, flashing red and green and yellow every few seconds, and somewhere, someone is playing carols loud enough to serenade the entire complex.

The case of the departed, depraved Santa has been closed, filed, and wrapped in a procedural bow.

Mary Camas broke quickly under interrogation at the precinct, giving a full confession as mascara ran down her cheeks and her voice shook. She admitted to sneaking back into the Village late last night, spotting Chris Frost and Clara Snowe together, and hiding out in Santa’s tent until he returned. An argument broke out between the two, Mary snapped, broke a PVC candy cane, and shoved it into Chris’s belly. She was enraged and jealous and humiliated over being replaced as Mrs. Claus by the woman playing Frosty.

The whole thing was ridiculous and groan-worthy and exhausting.

And—Chloe exhales softly, pressing a cookie edge back into shape with a spoon—kind of fun.

She’d never say that out loud, of course. Respect for the dead and all that. But the case had been a carnival of absurdity, and somehow, Lucifer had been right there through every melting snowbank and every awful pun, irritating and sharp and...helpful. Annoyingly so. Comfortingly so.

As frustrating as he can be sometimes, she wouldn’t change a single thing about him.

Another thing she’d never say out loud. His ego is massive enough as it is.

A knock on the door startles her slightly. She straightens and wipes her hands on a towel, glancing at the clock. It’s still fairly early in the evening, but she wasn’t expecting anyone—probably a delivery. Something about the knock is familiar. Just a soft, polite tapping, and yet she knows before she opens the door who it is, thanks to the traitorous flip her heart makes.

She tells it to knock it off as she rounds the counter.

Sure enough, when she opens the door, Lucifer stands on the front walk under the porch light in the same suit he wore today. His hair is slightly disheveled, a curl hanging over his forehead that she wants to smooth back into place. He’s holding a dark leather tote in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. For half a second, he looks, ridiculously, unsure.

Chloe leans her hip into the doorframe and crosses her arms. “Hey,” she says lightly. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d be Grinching it up at Lux.”

He doesn’t react to her teasing. In fact, if she didn’t know better—and she knows better—she’d say he’s nervous. Lucifer is never nervous. About anything. Ever. His mouth opens, then closes. He clears his throat.

“Well,” he begins, drawing the word out like he’s thinking as he speaks, “I merely wanted to congratulate you on another job well done. Nothing celebrates solving a candy cane caper like wine.” He holds up the bottle in emphasis.

She lifts an eyebrow, lips twitching without permission. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” he says, recovering a little. “Textbook police work, Detective. Very...by-the-book. Despite the book being sticky with peppermint oil and betrayal.”

A smirk pulls at her lips. “You sure you don’t have another dozen puns to unload? Maybe you can fund the next two precinct holiday parties.”

He huffs a laugh. “I could certainly oblige, if you insist. My pun jar runneth over.” Then he hesitates, fingers tightening on the tote strap. “But actually, I had a rather different intention.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small box wrapped in glossy blue paper patterned with snowflakes and tied with a silver ribbon and bow. “For you, Detective.”

Chloe blinks, staring from it to him and back again, as if the concept of gift-giving has suddenly turned into an impossible equation she can’t solve. “You...got me a Christmas present?” The words come out softer than she means them to. “What happened to you walking around like Ebenezer Morningstar?”

A caught-out look flashes across his face that makes him look almost boyish. “Well,” he says, shifting his weight, “I know you humans place a certain value on this absurd holiday, and while I’m vehemently opposed to it for my own reasons...well, I thought I might make an exception. Just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

For a long moment, she just watches him. The way the porch light catches in his eyes, warming them more than usual. The way his shoulders are a fraction too stiff, like he’s braced for rejection or mockery or both. She wonders again, as she has so many times, if she will ever fully figure him out.

Then she smiles and opens the door wider. “Come in,” she says. “I just took cookies out of the oven. You interested?”

“Detective,” he says solemnly, stepping inside, “I would sample your cookies any time.”

She snorts a laugh despite herself and closes the door behind him. By the time she turns around, Lucifer has gravitated towards the breakfast bar like the scent of sugar is drawing him in. He helps himself to a red sugar cookie and bites in, eyes closing briefly in appreciation.

“Oh,” he murmurs, a crumb catching on his lip. “That is criminally good.”

“Careful,” she says, reaching for another tray. “I’ll have to arrest you myself.”

He swallows. “I’d allow it. For justice. So long as I can take these with me.”

Chloe laughs, shaking her head, and reaches for two wine glasses. There's always something about having Lucifer here that makes her apartment feel more like home. Which is probably a thing she shouldn’t consider too deeply. She likes having him here, though. In her space. In her life.

As he goes for another cookie, Lucifer looks around, his gaze skimming over the modest decorations—twinkling lights along the staircase and fireplace, the small, slightly crooked tree in the corner, ornaments collected over the years, some of which belonging to her father. The little village on the mantle she and Trixie spend hours on every year, debating on the best setup. The candy gingerbread house her daughter and roommate put together—though more candy made into their mouths than the house.

“Hang on,” he says, frowning slightly. “Why have I not yet been accosted by your offspring, Detective? Is she planning an ambush?”

Chloe rolls her eyes, lips twitching. “No, she’s not planning an ambush. Trixie is Christmas shopping with Dan tonight.”

He makes a face. “Do you know,” he says, “I can’t say I’ve ever felt more sorry for the douche than I do right now. But speaking of the child, I’ve something for her as well. A sort of planetarium projector for her bedroom. Shut off all the lights, switch it on, and she’ll be in space.”

Warmth floods Chloe that has nothing to do with today’s heatwave. “Lucifer, you didn’t have to do that,” she says softly.

She swears the tips of his ears turn pink. “Well, I couldn’t leave the Urchin out, could I? That would be rude, Detective, and the Devil is never rude.”

“Right,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.

Her eyes flick towards the living room, and she debates for a moment before making up her mind. If her fingers graze Lucifer's on her way past him, maybe she can pretend it was accidental. Crouching in front of the tree, she shifts aside a few of the gifts already stacked until she finds what she’s looking for. When she stands and turns back with a box wrapped in red and green paper, Lucifer goes very still, another cookie halfway to his mouth.

“It’s not Christmas yet, obviously,” she says quickly, crossing the apartment and holding it out to him, “but you’re a tradition-breaking kind of guy.”

For a heartbeat, he looks speechless, as if he can’t believe she actually has a gift for him. He manages to hide the reaction with his usual smirk, though it looks softer at the edges. “Oh, that I am,” he purrs. “Shall we, then?” He hands her his gift. “Ladies first.”

Chloe takes a breath, her pulse kicking up a notch as she slides the ribbon free and carefully unwraps the paper. She’s never been the type to shred into gifts, even when she was little. The box inside is small, heavy in her palm. Her first thought is that it’s jewelry, maybe something to go along with her bullet necklace.

That isn’t what she finds.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet, is a coin a little larger than a half-dollar. It’s silver, but the metal seems...deeper somehow, catching the light in a way she can’t pin down. When her fingers brush it, it’s warm, as if it’s recently come off the presses. One side bears a sun, etched in fine detail. The other is a scatter of stars.

“Lucifer...it’s beautiful,” she says honestly, turning it over between her fingers.

“Well, it’s...” Lucifer says, suddenly very intent on twisting his cufflink. “It’s...us. The sun is you, Detective, making the world brighter. The stars are me. I wanted something to show how we...balance each other. Different sides of the same coin.” His eyes flick to where her necklace hangs and soften, even as he adds, “And since you’ve already demonstrated how well you...penetrate my defenses, permanence felt appropriate.”

Her heart squeezes, eyes prickling. A choked laugh falls from her lips. “I love it,” she says softly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “Thank you.”

He exhales, relief loosening his shoulders. “You’re most welcome.”

Bringing it closer to examine, Chloe asks, “What kind of metal is this? It’s not silver, is it?”

“No,” he murmurs. “No, it’s...a rather rare material that can only be found in one place in the universe.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “Trust you to know of that one place,” she teases gently.

“Oh, indeed. I know all the best places.”

Chloe shakes her head, smiling outright now as she nudges his gift towards him. “Your turn.”

Lucifer takes the gift, holding it tentatively as though he has no idea what to do with it. Slowly, more cautiously than Chloe opened hers, he starts to peel the tape like it might disappear if he moves too quickly. The box inside is about the size of his palm, and he shakes it slightly, trying to determine its contents. A faint rattling only seems to bemuse him. Finally, he lifts the lid and stares from the brushed black metal flask to the tiny funnel tucked beside it, saying nothing.

The longer he’s quiet, the more unnerving it all is.

“I know you already have a flask,” Chloe rushes to say. “But I was in an antique shop a couple months ago, and I saw this, and—I don’t know. It reminded me of you.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, fingers brushing across the stylized L.M. etched into one corner. “You purchased this...months ago?” he asks quietly, his voice awed as he lifts his gaze to hers.

She nods, lacing her fingers together. "Yeah, I was going to save it for your birthday or something, but I got impatient."

He looks stunned. Genuinely. She tries to remember if she’s ever seen him like this and comes up empty. Nothing surprises Lucifer—or at least, he doesn’t typically let it show. Now, though, he looks at her warmly, dropping some of the walls he keeps up.

“Well, I shall drink on the job in style now, Detective,” he murmurs, saying more with his eyes than his words. “Thank you.”

Chloe hesitates a moment, knowing how Lucifer reacts to genuine physical affection, but she steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist, anyway. As expected, he stiffens for a split second—though it feels more like surprise than discomfort—before his arms curl tentatively around her shoulders.

She smiles against his chest, inhaling his Lucifer scent that always settles something in her. “Merry Christmas, Lucifer,” she murmurs.

His arms tighten slightly as he settles into the hug, and he rests his cheek against his hair. “Merry Christmas, Detective.”

When they finally step back, neither wanting it to end, they don’t move far, things hovering between them they can’t seem to vocalize. Chloe clears her throat and averts her gaze before she can say too much.

“Well, I should...finish the next batch of cookies before Trixie gets home,” she says lightly.

“Right, yes,” Lucifer says quickly. “Of course.” His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Are you elf-sufficient, or do you require my help?”

She groans through a laugh. “Okay, that’s it. Just for that, you’re helping.”

With a grin, he follows her into the kitchen, already reaching for an apron. “Delighted to lend a hand. I do enjoy a very merry bake-off.”

Lips twitching, she points a spoon at him. “Careful.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll make you wear Trixie’s elf hat.”

That makes him pause. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She throws him a sweet smile. “Try me.”

Narrowing his eyes, he mimes zipping his lips, though she knows from experience that won’t last long. They fall into their usual easy rhythm where she measures, he stirs, and they laugh more than focusing on what they’re doing. He makes pun after pun, some clever, some terrible, some so inappropriate she nearly drops a tray laughing. She even retaliates with a few of her own, to her absolute delight.

“My reindeer Detective,” he says, beaming. “Look at you, snowballing success!”

“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” she says, rolling out more dough. “Consider it a seasonal condition.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding sagely. “Festive madness. No worries, Detective, happens to the best of us.”

Later, when the cookies are baked and cooling and the kitchen is a mess of sugar and warmth, Chloe leans against the counter and watches him lick frosting off his thumb. In his other hand is the flask she gave him, already filled with his top-shelf whiskey. He’s hardly put it down since unwrapping it. And every time he sips from it, his eyes flick to her, softening in a way that makes her heart flutter. She reaches into her pocket where the coin he gave her feels warm against her hip.

The ridiculously insane holiday case is over. The night is quiet—at least until Trixie bursts through the door. Lucifer glances over, catching her gaze. He gives her that tender half-smile he only ever seems to give her.

If this is what Christmas cheer feels like, Chloe decides she can live with being slightly...pun-ished.