1964-09-21 - Burnout
Summary: Michael learns about the grigorim around New York.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
michael lucian 

Has it been an age since the brothers had bagels somewhere along the formerly Jewish quarter of New York? No, because they almost never have bagels. There was that incident with the Jewish mama and her beagle, perhaps, but that was a very long time ago indeed. Maybe that's entirely all in Kamala Khan's fanfic about angel adventures.

But there is a bagel smeared with cream cheese and Lucian sitting there, dressed to the nines in tailored French threads that aren't the sort of couture one finds anywhere. Mostly because they're made by a visionary in another dimension, handling the fit in part. He tugs lightly on his cuff, pushing it up to check his watch, though the timepiece is perfectly unnecessary. "No more trouble affecting any of you or yours?" Yours is a misnomer; it's not as though there are a pile of lesser archangels tumbling around with pigeons, having the time of their lives.

Mike remains Mike, with no regard at all for human clothing. The general of the heavenly host, dressed like a down at heels veteran. Fatigue pants (so many useful pockets! Pockets are wonderful!), t-shirt, worn canvas parka, battered boots - that sunlight pale crop of hair brushed into a kind of order. He's clean, at least. Dirt is only fun to play with up to a point.

At the moment, he's turning a bagel with everything around and around in his hands, examining each kind of seasoning and seed in turn. But he does look up from his scrutiny to nod at Lucian. "All quiet," he reports, amiably. "I'm very much enjoying watching the photosynthesizers getting ready for the axis shift." Translation: Michael is willing to sit on the edge of abuilding for a week to watch one individual maple tree change color. But then….some people *like* watching paint dry.

"Photosynthesis. I suppose I should drop you in the Amazon and recover you in a decade and a half. Are you going to become like Francis and stand still long enough for the birds and lizards to start perching on you?" There were angels who did the same, but it's so much more entertaining when the starveling hermit does it in the name of a Creator who doesn't care. His careless posture is open and easy, his leg crossed over his thigh, the priceless loafers shining a chestnut brown in the sunshine. He's the antithesis of Heaven's leader, the bluff man who can hold the weight of reality on his shoulders. Maybe he already is. It would make sense for the lack of computational power available for everything else.

"This time of year is a fair sight better than the stir of winter," he allows himself. "Though troublesome. You have not seen any of your old band roaming around causing problems, have you? I would so hate to have to enforce any laws."

He's got a bite, which he is chewing methodically as he listens, pale brows drawing down. "That's a thought," he says, smiling at the first suggestion. That may be how Lucian loses him on this world - lost in some forest, defending it from would-be destroyers. "I'll move on eventually." In some decades, perhaps. That question makes him stop and remember to swallow hastily.

Instantly, he's on alert, setting the bagel down on a napkin. He cocks his head at Lucian like a raptor. "No," he says, and his voice is utterly flat. "Why do you ask?"

Lucifer can take all the time in the world with his bagel. It's cut in two and he neatly brings one of the cream cheese smeared halves to himself, taking a bite. Which is all well and good, but the topping manages to smudge his upper lip with a mustache that would make any cat proud. How to best address it? Ignore it? Dive into the bushes for a napkin? No, he licks it off, utterly unconcerned. Nobility only goes so far; he's not the emperor of China or the master of etiquette for Versailles. He will make them all jealous with how well he does feline got the cream, no? His back straightens and he carelessly flicks away crumbs. Oh, that got his attention?

"One came to visit Lux. I was tempted to burn the shell he came with, but explaining columns of fire that smell like burnt butter and glue is rather inconvenient." He doesn't meet Michael's eye; he doesn't need to, right now. "But my laws are direct and for all Father isn't doing a damn thing, per usual, to enforce them… He did set me up as the punisher of the wicked, no? Maybe I should dress up for Hallowe'en as the man in the devil pajamas in Hell's Kitchen and teach them why."

For a moment, his expression is all cold hauteur. Some mere peasant is kicking around the rules, and while he's soldier more than he is a policeman, that has Mike's back up. There's even a glimmer of his wings, ash, shadow, and the rosy shimmer of dawn….or the last embers of destruction. "Indeed," he says, and his fingers are going for the flat table knife by his napkin reflexively. Comical, save for the Father's gift when it comes to Michael and anything that may be used to do harm. JAwbone of an ass, indeed. "This one….its name?"

Cold hauteur meets that incandescent smirk and those burning eyes that know all too much, all too well. An old fracturing point for the heavenly legions and their erstwhile former leader, no doubt: the right to be where they are without consent. And consent is everything, really, when the earth and the heavens and the dark were divided. "Oh, it did. Grigorim; lowly miserable thing. I've taken to calling him Pancake-smasher, as they do around here. Did you know there is a gentleman who calls himself Flag Smasher? Unbelievable, but there it is." He flashes a dark, quick upturn of a grin; his gaze is impenetrable, and the rustling of those unseen wings is no issue for him. Daytime feeds Lucifer in dangerous ways.

There's a shimmer of red glow, barely visible to human eyes. The angelic equivalent of Michael cracking his knuckles. "No name of its own?" he asks, picking up the bagel again, more deliberately, taking another bite. "And what would you prefer I do about it?" Almost deference - politesse. Lucian is the elder, and Lux and presumably this island his territory, as it were.

"Nadiriel. One of those aligned to the bowl and offerings to Dad. You know how it passes, despondent Grigorim out to prove… ah, what was it again?" Throw weight around, and watch the Morningstar shrug. Go get uppity and he'll provoke outrage, outright, striking on the one who cares far more about the law than he himself sometimes does. "I figure he has, what, three nights before you have him solidly pinned down? What ever would I like you do to about it? A test of new beginnings, I suppose I should ask what you would like to do with it. I don't, after all, care to stab him to death. How dull."

Salt. Why is salt so wonderful? He doesn't need it to metabolize any damn, thing. But….tastebuds are tastebuds. Mike's nibbling to make it last. "I'll find him, make him leave, one way or another. The smaller they are, the more officious they get. Little bureaucrats," Michael's voice is scornful, tired.

Salt is a fine thing. God turns people into pillars of salt and made the sea salty. No doubt his children share that. "Try reconfiguring his wings to sting him whenever he sounds like a pompous ass," Lucifer tosses in. He has ideas. They may not be good ones, but they are entertaining.

There's a beat where Michael's got that raptor's glare, pale eyes fierce. Then he relaxes into laughter. "That's a thought," he says, sitting back, making the chair creak in protest. He shakes his head, more in pity than in anything else. "This Grigorim, what did it think it was doing?"

Lucifer rolls his eyes, unable to prevent himself from scoffing with a sniff. "What do they always do? Cleanse the earth and reveal the true will of the Creator, the divine plan gets corrected. It stormed in believing I would not be there, and then when I was… ah, well, nothing to be afraid of. He's an uppity one." One shoulder raises in a shrug. More of the bagel is considered for a bite. "Bureaucrats. Little mandarins hungry to prove themselves." If his fingers weren't itching for his sword, well. Now, they are.

Michael wonders, with a distinctly dyspeptic cast to his expression (though has he ever had an actual upset stomach?), "…..were your lot this bad? A lot of officious whining, or restless, pointless aggression?" As if the Heavenly Host were a high school detention.

Dyspeptic? Superb. The state of the archangel pleases the brighter of the brothers, his arms loose to the sides. "It's a meritocracy down there," he says tightly. "They aligned themselves to whoever they thought would raise their position, and they were ruthless about acquisition. With the Lilim, the masses were never in doubt their position could be precarious. I scarcely imagine that would ever be welcome in the Silver City. "

"It's a reform I'm tempted to advise when I'm back," Michael says, brows up. He's finally remembered that he has a water glass, and takes a few swallows. "We could stand to thin that herd, introduce a little competition." Heretical sentiments.

"We could. Given it hasn't changed. Oh, but if I try to build a better future and current creation, everyone blames me for wanting to destroy the current way and being evil." Heretical? Right then, get the stake.

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