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Why the hell is Lucifer shirtless? That would be a point of contention for a man
Mazikeen wrestles out the door with contemptuous ease, her own black shirt soaking wet and scented vaguely of lemon. Blood doesn't drip down the fellow's head, but it certainly does gather in his face to the point he's oxblood in complexion, something normally associated only to the upholstery in mob-favoured spots.
A girl sits on the ground crying, the broken remnants of a glass in front of her. Another overturned glass and a champagne bucket are spilled on the ground. She, along with Lucian and two other bystanders are all soaking wet.
"It's n-n-not funny," she cries, ugly sobbing into her sopping wet sleeve.
The shorter woman tries to pull on a jacket around herself, her spoiled blouse a terrible thing. What they have in common? The two women, one ma, and one proprietor are all wearing white shirts that have now turned quite translucent. Impromptu wet t-shirt contests are so classy.
*
And in comes Michael the mild-mannered, in a dress shirt and pants. The spoiled shirts have him looking to Lucian in search of a clue. What's going on? He comes forward with that soft tread, cat-like, looking around in search of spare bar towels.
*
The soaked shirt does fine things. No telling where Lucian placed his jacket, the one he rarely wears in the confines of his own club. He nonetheless looks at the sobbing woman with infinite distance, gesturing to a seat. The suggestion is plain enough, and she frankly ignores it. The other couple sharing a different table try to pull themselves into some array, the gentleman going so far as to right the bucket.
Ana isn't on duty, suggesting Maz is. Therefore towels are neatly, ferociously folded and stuffed in a drawer. Not as though Michael has much trouble finding them if he has any inkling where to look. No, they aren't in the tequila. As if it's much sold here.
"This is precisely why we have security," the blond says. "Your abominable partner isn't welcome back. Ever."
*
Towels for everyone. Michael's generally a helpful soul, isn't he? When he passes Lucian, he asks, sotto voce, "What happened? I'm guessing from the distressed expressions that this isn't some jolly local custom I missed out on." This from a guy who genuinely enjoys splashing around in public fountains like the world's biggest idiot pigeon.
*
What on earth is Lucian going to do with a towel? He hands it over to the weeping woman to scrub her face with. When she hugs the one that Michael gives her to her chest, he mutters something in exasperation and drapes the cloth over her. "Get up and move."
Sympathy is his strong suit. On other hand, a creaking groan follows the door shutting, and Mazikeen holding her place on high after tossing out the pretentious boyfriend. The dark-eyed glare from the dusky woman signals a unique danger, one untempered by tolerance for mortalkind. She lacks such, and not much more for the russet-haired fellow down there making a mess of the place.
"A discussion turned into a discrepancy. The removed fellow poured his drink onto her," Lucian gestures idly, "and extended the gift to everyone. I was caught in the circle." He starts to button up the ruined dress shirt. "A distasteful game, something that is seen as a contest to determine who is the best looking. She not only ended up humiliated, but doubly when he admired another woman more." Cue louder sobbing.
*
Mike….his aura's not particularly reassuring. He's not one of the angels given to guide and comfort. There's nothing here he can immediately smite, after all, right? But he does pat the sobbing woman gently on the shoulder, hands out more towels. The question as to who might be the best looking earns Lucian a puzzled look. Lucian's here, that makes the question moot, doesn't it?
*
Cherubim they are not. Never were they intended for the purpose. Scolding humanity and rendering judgment, the fist of God, that suits Michael. Lucifer is the fire, the punishment for defiance in the flesh. He takes to shows of stubbornness rather poorly, walking away from the spectacle before things get any worse. Spilled water is hardly a problem. Fetching up a pan for broken glass isn't his problem, though levitating the shards would be poor form. Oh where be the person to help that? It means Maz has to descend and take care of matters, sweeping up the bits with a savagery that begs why brooms were invented at all.
"It's an ugly, dull matter to waste a night on. Once she's dry, she can go. That leaves the evening for the mature adults to entertain themselves," the blond seraph says. Nerves?
Scarcely.
*
He leaves her, at that, trailing after Lucian. No particular urge to clean - Lucian does have staff, as it were. "What're you going to do tonight?" he asks, in that very hopeful, rather Pinky-ish tone.
*
"Run a successful business. Render the general masses dizzy with delight and outfox my competition by bringing over better musical entertainment than they can muster. The contract is already signed up, though that daft Italian agent seems to think I am willing to bend on the conditions," the blond replies. It's more off the cuff as he pulls a glass up.
Whatever that person ordered is now his, too bad. "Perhaps hunt down a few stray demonic spirits that have been troubling the south end of the island. It's so troublesome when they stir up the wrong sorts, basements end up filled by bleeding walls, and the like. Sooner or later someone is going to notice."
*
That makes Mike sit up and wag his tail, metaphorically speaking. "Ooh," he says, a delighted little coo. "Shall we? I could come along." He's all but batting his eyelashes.
He may not have *much* of an ego, but he has enough of one to not so secretly relish the way certain creatures react to his presence.
*
Because dangling bait is what the Devil does even in his retirement, isn't it? "Here I thought you were hungry for a good slice of pie and a cup of coffee. Weren't you the one to tell me that blueberries were the thing of divine perfection? Or was that Lasciel…"
Lucian compromises on that front, crossing his arms as he rests against the bar. The glass is empty, discarded.
*
"He was so fucking proud of berries," Michael says, aggrieved. "All of them. Fruit in general, they were his thing." A pause, and then a grudging admission, "….starfruit *are* pretty amazing. And now that I can taste things for real, I do have to give him credit. Humans do impressive things with fruit. And there are places open all the time that make pie and coffee, so….let's go."
"I discriminate between blueberries and the other sorts. It might be said they could have been easier to gather." Pulverizing them in a wave of his hand might be easier, but finesse is something that Lucian prides himself on. He glances off at Mazikeen, watched by those unblinking, severe eyes in kind. "Jophiel exhibited no restraint with strawberries, and I do wonder what hand you had in durians. Or perhaps you were inebriated at the time."
*
"I wasn't paying attention," he confesses. "I mostly left it to them. I thought plants were boring, I was working on kestrels at the time."
*
"Kestrels. What about the ones with the upside down beaks I had to correct? And those ridiculous hornbills with the added casque or whatever." Michael's sins are on display, discriminatory advice found over those indigo eyes. He pushes himself off the bar, still soaking wet. White material clings to his chest in a way that is patently unfair to everyone mortal. Crumpled shirts look fantastic on him, whereas his many times removed descendant, John Constantine, looks bloody terrible at the best of times. "Name your destination."
*
That makes Mike pause. Both the comment and the shirt. No ripping the latter of Lucian and seeing how far he can get in a public bar. Do you want hellfire? Because that's how you ge hellfire.
"That was…..oh, what's his name. That insufferable little cherub. Keziel?" Mike flicks a hand, irritably. "Let's go frighten some demons."
*
How far indeed might he get with a stolen shirt? Mazikeen might just give Michael a run for his money. Unlike him, she has no qualms about carving up the flesh in plain sight of damn near everyone. After all, what is going to happen? A fall belated after a few billion years? Her gimlet, flat stare outdoes most shades, turned on the younger archangel.
"Good. They're hiding mostly north of the Financial District," Lucian says, uninterested in dousing whatever interest might being there. The lonely neighbourhood of Two Bridges, south of East Village, is a tangled swirl of tenements and leaky basements infested by rats and bad dreams.
He's already on his way out the door, is Mike. He holds out a hand as he trots backward, beckoning his brother, even as the wings start to manifest. Subtle, at first, those shining pinions…..but not for long. "Lead on, my dear."
*
Easy to cover that distance. Up the long stairs shielded by sea-green glass and into the night, where East Village hums with activity. What's another winged figure here, where the masters who bless the masses throng around steeples and join the stained glass processions? Lucifer merely moves at a hasty clip that requires effort to catch up with or keep pace, especially the faster he goes through the twist of narrow streets. South of Houston, the eclectic architecture turns poor, streets darker, the scent of rot on the air.
*
What glory to fly with Lucian again. Mike makes play of it, like a falcon courting, spiralling around his elder's more direct path, whimsical, impatient. No touching or divebombing, though. That'd be rude, wouldn't it?
*
Flight, that is a thing done on spindrift motion. Lucian knows the immediate vicinity well. He sees something, he remembers it for eternity, that's how it goes. His usually white wings are so thin that even air passes through them, giving them a registered transparency even to tight vision. On the infrared spectrum they are equally invisible; only in the ultraviolet do they display their full range, wrack and hue. The whimsy of his brother is a thing alien to him while he reaches out his senses. Finding infernal poppets or chewy spirits is rarely hard. They don't like him but he's not the one with the intact halo."
They're going to pee their immaterial panties when the Destroyer shows up. Vastly below his paygrade, but Mike's entitled to disport himself with lesser evils if it amuses him. Like a man playing darts in his office on a slow day at work.