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Anxiety isn't something which Lucian ever knows. Not when reading a review from some questionably louche editor at an underground magazine singing the praises and curses of Lux. Or the curves of Mazikeen. Not when a lawyer murmurs something about leases and contractual obligations, which he barely listens to. He can knot someone into pieces if he must. Whyever would he be concerned about the state of the world or his cellar? These too are complaints brought to him in the wee hours of the early evening while he drinks a martini, shaken rather than stirred. A better muddle that way. The martini is, of course, not standard. No self-respecting drink in Lux is. You can't order a simple drink here without getting drummed out by a stony glare or a simple 'No.'
But his fingers trace over the Steinway's white keys.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the worlds, Mike walks into this one. How long has it been since Lucian saw that face? And how much longer since that face wasn't over a gleaming set of armor or a blazing sword? He looks diminished, almost ashen, wearing a corporeal body. No wings, no tattoos, no shield. No heavenly host at his back. What in all Creation is he doing here? He hasn't come in in his capacity as the Presence's attack dog.
No, he settles at the bar as if he were any other human come in for a drink. The blue eyes are calm, curious, and alight. Watching Lucian respectfully, rather than casting down a gauntlet.
Probably sooner than anyone would like, if the universe has a sense of humour and occasionally repeats their likenesses in toast and underpasses and waterways gone to ice. You never know. Lucian trails his fingers down the keys, picking out scraps of a melody bedeviling him as the best music so often does. No escaping that. His fingers strike the keys in no particular order. Certain creations probably exist because of the same method, letting himself weaving a little of this and some of that. Allegations to the contrary can be ignored. He is nonetheless painfully aware of the conversations around the bar, the staff in their movements, the clockwork of the Heavens. Disturbances in the force happen because he literally is the compacted force in a human likeness.
Mazikeen, dark and tempestuous, wipes the interior of a mug and watches another shadow ripple down the undulating green sliced glass partition wall. Her shoulders go back. One might almost /feel/ her calling for her blades. He might be prone to pulling his own sword were it not deliberately cast off as a sign he said Eff You, Dad, and walked out of Hell. Her voice is barely audible, the Lilim's shining warning dangerous enough to halt Lucifer in his languid movements. He gazes back. The Lord of Hell. The Right Hand of the Father.
When he's not the most puissant knight of the Father, he's kind of a fatuous idiot. The thing with Michael is that he's almost never angry. Bewildered, perhaps. Even distraught. There was pleading from him, before the Fall, with both Lucian and the Presence. Inasmuch as the latter can be said to be listening, really.
There's a polite nod from Michael to Mazikeen. IT's clear that the menu's more complex than he's used to, so he points at something arbitrarily. There's gin involved, and lime. Might be good.
Then he looks mildly back at Lucian. No rush. All the time there is. Clearly, he'll be waiting until the Morningstar condescends to greet him….or the bouncers throw him out at last call.
To think one of them might have disassembled the legions of the other with the twitch of a finger is not beyond notice. A few millennia pondering the possibilities usually gives a comprehensive overview and analysis. Lucian might hold a grudge. He might have some choice words.
"What do you want?" The question for a thousand lifetimes laid out flat in unfriendly feminine tones is the great leveller. Maz doesn't treat Mike any differently than she does some other yahoo in a suit with an expensive account to make Croesus blush. She knocks her hip against the inner marble bar and awaits the outcome as surely as an executioner ready to level a blow. Dare she?
Time for the universe to end? No telling.
Lucian pauses at the piano, the last elements of the ditty turning into a soughing fugue wind toying over a battlefield, lacing through a crashing glacial waterfall, ending soft in a minuet lullaby.
There've been no signs. No rain of blood. No plague of frogs. He takes a breath - the first one he's taken, considering he needs it only for speech, really. And wonder of wonders, the greeting he returns is not the ritual "Fairest and fallen, greetings and defiance," but a far more simple and matter of fact, "I thought I'd come visit, have a talk." The accent's lightly English, of all things.
Why wouldn't the Creator possibly use some better solution and a touch of manipulation when dealing with him of all people? Michael might have all the talent for lying given to the common sponge, but the instrument conceals a purpose sometimes.
"A talk," Maz says in that impeccable flat tone, mouth a line and eyes glittering with a hellbent passion barely restrained. She was there at the Fall and long, long after. It may be she still maintains some connection still that her wayward companion doesn't.
Lucian turns from the piano and stands, making the transition effortless and yet so very physical. It disregards the presence of any wings or objects around, something done without the least bit of difficulty. He takes the martini glass with him on the way to the bar. "Do you? Quite the journey for that much. By all means, it won't be busy for a bit yet."
At that he hesitates, but nods. "Not just for that, but….it seemed like the best thing to do, to see you first. You're the only one who really lives down here. Though I hear Raguel's still wandering about. Haven't found him, though."
"Is that so? I had heard of several of them loitering about, though none obviously intersecting my path." And why would they? "Not to mention all the watchers and the undecided." His smile is a thin blade in a golden shaft of sunshine, letting only a few cracks through. Lucian sips the alcohol again, and that diminishes the level by a quarter. He sets aside the drink where Maz watches it, hawk-like, alert ot the slightest of movement and the least disturbance.
Michael, by contrast, is utterly relaxed. He's even slouching, just abit. "Only one I can confirm," he adds, easily. "Though of course we've lost track of quite a few…."
"Why would you tell me this, Michael? Are you after someone to clean up those gone astray or had you hoped I knew where your missing flock were?" Lucian asks dryly. No barb or indication of a real risk lies underneath his tone, so much as he sounds idly amused by the whole affair, by life and the turning of wheels for those whom time is suspended because a greater portion of their being exists in eternity. "I highly doubt you've come for old time's sake or merely to shoot the breeze."