Lucifer was no fool, he knew that silence was not affirmation. But the Morningstar had never listened to anyone's whims but his own. Part of it had been for the simple pleasure of watching Remiel's expression, the angel would never rule; especially not with an expression so easily broken down. The way his eyebrows broke the clean lines of his face, eyes narrowing, lips twisting. Remiel was far from beautiful when angry. There was some perverse pleasure Lucifer got from breaking angels, whether it was their bodies or faces. He would not admit to it, to say it aloud would be crude and shallow. He thought himself above the petty games of being vindictive. The way, though, that the Host went blindly, that they believed themselves to be Just and Right, that they assumed dependence was the only existence there was… they made him sick.
He reads his reflection in Duma's gaze. Silence, waiting. Lucifer can read the difference between himself as he is now and the angel Samael. It is more difference than just the clothes he wears, the length of his hair and brittle wings that lay on the ground of Hell. He has become absorbed with the idea of something, an idea that anyone with the patience can untangle and read. Michael could have read and understood it, if he had cared too, but Lucifer's brother was just as blind as any other angel. Moreso, because whatever Lucifer could see, Michael must be blind to.
"…he thinks you accuse him."
The 'he' is clear between them, and Lucifer allows himself a bit of smug satisfaction when he hears the rustle of wings behind him. Remiel thinks that he is being clever, hidden from sight, eavesdropping. The satisfaction is tinged with obvious distaste, however, as Lucifer looks at the realm which he had once thought of as his. How bitter it had tasted when he had realized what his Father had always known. Hell was simply what Lucifer was to Michael. The other side of a coin. The rebellion had been planned, He had been waiting. He is always a step ahead. It I irks /I him, that small bit of knowledge.
Duma shrugs in response, a motion that carries a reply to Lucifer's eyes, if not his ears.
"…and I think you do as well."
There was a sliver of sharpness in Duma's eyes, the shred of what might be brief surprise or anger. Lucifer grabs onto it, looking for something to confront. He speaks more clearly through confrontation or commands and here, at least, he has the good grace to remember that he can be pleasant.
"Do you think of the 'what', sometimes, Duma?"
He moved. Crossing the distance in the room, claiming it more than traveling it. This is Lucifer Morningstar, the Light Bringer, the one who would have been God's Will had he chosen it. Instead he chose what he believed to be his own will. He thought Lucifer would only do as Lucifer wanted.
Silence is not an affirmation. And it's Remiel who gasps. Lucifer who smiles.
Duma, as always, is silent.