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The metal-armed bartender hasn't been present as much of late. Courtesy of the other job. So it's Ana that Michael's chatting with - a little Q&A to determine what the angel of war might be up for. Apparently, that's something made with chocolate liqueur - theobromine and ethanol, experiments in taste and chemistry. If you're going to play around in the flesh, you might as well go for the whole shebang. Booze, sex, next thing it'll be drugs of some kind. Or who knows what.
The wings aren't on display, nor is the halo - he's learned the rules, so now he's only a man in a decent suit. God only knows where he got that, either.
Pity the loss of a talented assistant around Lux, though the staff by their very nature often come and go according to no regular reason. Naturally, the few questions asked, the better. As so very few of them suffer the curse of mortality, the mayfly damnation of someone doomed to die young, Lucian has little reason for immediate complaint. He eases out from the shadows coiling around the mouth of the mezzanine, easing down the steps one at a time in the breezy copper sheen. Tugging on his open jacket, he straightens the affectation of a casual business look to his bearing.
Drugs are rather pointless for their kind. He could tell Michael that, but better to see the poor angel waste his hard-earned cash on something with limited effect. The Thin White King taps his fingers against the rail, pushing his loose, dark gold hair back from his brow. "Are you raiding my supply? What, did home not have enough for that? Of course not."
He turns a fond look on Lucian. Not a grin, but pleasant enough. "No," he says, brightly. "I'm consulting her expertise on what tastes good with chocolate in," A tilt of the head indicating Ana. "Do you ever let this stuff affect you?" he asks more softly. "Beyond taste, I mean. They all seem to be so affected by that stuff, when they metabolize it. It works some impressive changes, especially the closer they get to the toxic dose."
Not a grin, but who is entitled to those nowadays? Not the proprietor of Lux, surely. His easy gait slows as he moves through the club that bears his hallmarks everywhere, Lucian in a microcosm. Light and dark contest their presence over him, painting long shadows under cheekbones and throwing worshipful beams to suffuse the paler highlights in his loose hair. It falls across his face, not bothered to be brushed away.
"Not Mazikeen? Alas, you will set up an impression you prefer one of the ladies over the other." Risk and adventure await in life for the truly immortals, and it's on Michael's own head to upset the pair. "Chocolate makes for a difficult combination unless treated as a liqueur and powerful flavoring. No," he says dryly, "I do not lose control of myself that why. Had you intended to shift half my cellar to find out what the experience is like? If so, you pay first."
Michael doesn't look wounded - it's very nearly impossible for him to take offense, between obliviousness, determined good nature, and patience longer than some geological eras. "Oh, I have been," he assures Lucian, easily. "I don't run a tab. And Mazikeen doesn't even like looking at me, no reason to irritate her further when Ana's been helpful." Mike's such a faded creature, by comparison. He may be the younger by those infinitesimal fractions of time, but he's got more shop wear on him, it seems.
"No? A habit popular among others, I confess, and one terrible for business. Largesse runs things into the ground. Collecting debts is a dreadfully dull business." Lucian raises his shoulders slightly. Let some accountant worry about the matter of money. Separating someone from their filthy lucre isn't his problem. It never has been. He frankly has no reason to distill his cares or burn out his concerns on the woes of mankind, their inability to meet with his cost. After all, who wants to owe a debt to the devil? Or ex-Devil, as the matter may be.
"Think of what suits you best, I suppose, and go from there. No doubt you have some kind of mercurial composition." He nods to the strawberry-blonde resting her arm against the bus, considering the array of philtres and potions on the shelves. Not much by way of chocolate is commonplace to them, other than the merest garnish applied with a light hand now and then. Desserts on the menu are another matter, though, and she can pilfer the necessary reductions from the kitchen to allow their mad alchemy a place to breathe, to flourish.
"Scotch, lemon, raspberry brandy. Throw in a spin of white cacao," Lucifer announces out of the blue. "Substitute coffee bitters for the lavender, and add a splash of honey. A study in polarity."
Which personal attention seems to please him. "Sounds good," he says, with a nod. He knows roughly what some of those flavors correspond to.
There's even a hat on the stool beside him, goes with the suit. "You have it all down, though it doesn't affect you, eh?" Mike's tone is idle.
"That'll do," Ana agrees, shaking her head a little and tucking her strawberry-bright hair behind her ears. The blur of motion begins slow enough, a path whipped through the inner reaches of the bar. She knows where to reach for different concoctions, though review of the contents finds the labels printed in bright letters and no form of language meaningful to anyone including angelic eyes. Code is code, whimsy defining the value of whatever system they use to identify rosemarie extract from lavender or crushed lemon distilled with a certain kind of water obtained from a mineral spring upstate where the heavy tincture of the underlying bedrock suits certain mouth feels just so.
Lucian arches an eyebrow at the hat. A hat? If it lacks a feather, it isn't living. He'll make his judgment on that afterwards while nudging along a bowl from under the granite curve to make Ana's life easier. A burning-bright cobalt look sears over the younger brother, an echo of a thought that cleaved the darkness. "A question too loaded to answer. You never have been satisfied without trying what I have, I suspect."
His own eyes are pale as a summer dawn's sky, tinged with gray. That statement makes him tilt his head, arch a brow. "Not always," he says, easily. "And well, you are the eldest. Always the trailblazer. What can I do but follow?"
A trailblazer piloting his route through the world for others to follow. The notion strikes Lucian such that he nigh inhales, a sharp take through his pinched nostrils. "Oh, veritably that. My purpose in the world is to bushwhack and allow you all the pleasures of not running into the branches first? Delightful." Once again, fuck you, Dad. Apparently the value of the world exists in not being consumed wholly and totally by self-importance.
"No, it's not your purpose," Michael returns, gravely. "Not in the least, and we both know it. You know this world, I don't. I take seriously your interest in it." He does his best to play by the rules Lucian sets down. "I look to your example."
Purpose. What is a man's purpose anyways? An odd question to have for those who need not define themselves in seventy years of active life, a span far too short to make much out of. Lucifer stares out over the crowd mingled there. "What do you hope to gain out of that?" For a moment, the seraph no doubt sounds as absolutely ancient as he is, something beyond the skimming weight of time and space. "Wander about the world in awe of that which hasn't been visited by you in ages, and delight in absolutely everything? How droll. Come back in a thousand years when you've run out of new for further ideas? They innovate quickly. I don't see what it has to do with my example."
"Experience. I have very little. And delight, yes, if it's warranted. All I've been seeing is what happens when something gets destroyed." A shrug at that. "You care. You're interested. If it were merely a matter of being away from the City, there are myriads of places. I did come to see why here."
Ana's work ensures she returns some time later with all the necessities in hand, notably that cacao. It's not liquid chocolate form the desserts made for the place, but Lux does not keep such rare ingredients for seasonal creations on hand. She had to probably wander down into the basement, through the abyss, and milked a cheshire cat.
Lucian raises his shoulders. "Tonight? I really don't have a reason to. The city wanders on. Lives move about at their petty pace. Drink well, brother. Go find some enticing thing to entertain yourself with."
Michael makes a dismissive gesture. "Not tonight, specifically. And I do. Humans are very obliging on most fronts." He gives Ana a smile as she returns. "Thank you."
Ana gives another smile back and pushes over the drink, a poured admixture in a martini glass. She drops a raspberry leaf for garnish, and no telling where she found that. At least the delivery matters. "There you go. Don't enjoy too much of it at once, or else you might end up with a bitter sliver to go along with your sweetness. Pretty sharp contrast, really." Lucian doesn't say much, shrugging under his jacket. He's removed a hundred miles from them, and a million years from anything else. That's all he has to say as he veers past the bar for whatever dark escapism remains in the bottom of the glass or the cellars.