Title: Angelus Domini
Characters: Lucifer, Michael
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 645
Summary: A meeting of old acquaintances in the Eternal City (a.k.a. Rome): At the end of time, there's a prize to be to won, a price to be paid, and one or three lessons to be learnt.
A/N: What if they met again, today? What if their priorities and objectives had, well, not necessarily changed, but subtly shifted? What if someone suddenly had a personal agenda (or one that looks like one)? - This (still growing) story is a very different beast from my other Bible stories. It will include more swearing, more indecency, more quandaries. It is written with the same love and respect for the characters, teachers, preachers, principles involved, but if you have the slightest doubt as to whether you can stomach post-Biblical m/m, then please save us the grief and don't read any further.
Chapter Summary: Funny how the high-pitched drone of Vespas seems to grow louder after dark...
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Chapter One
Angelus Domini
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Tipping down his sunglasses, he says, "You look crummy." And he does. Lucifer gives him a quick once-over, then shoves his glasses back up. Angels. Hopeless, is what that means. Not expressis verbis, but as good as. Linen Armani, off-white, five years out of date and no shoes. Are you fucking mental?
They're sitting at the outer left end of Bernini's colonnade, and Michael chooses to hear him not. "Like arms. Outstretched arms," Michael says, studying the ensemble. "The arms of the Church to embrace the faithful."
"Mh," Lucifer says. He takes off his glasses and starts sucking an earpiece. It tastes a bit greasy. "And to top it all off, the lovely street Mussolini built. Now there's an Axis of Evil." Squinting down Via della Conciliazione, Lucifer shakes his head, still sucking his glasses.
Michael throws him a sour look.
"What?" Lucifer bristles. "Just because we have him, I'm supposed to like his architecture?" With a grunt he shifts his weight from one arse cheek to the other, then sits on his hands, kicking his legs.
"So," Michael says, once the Angelus has tolled.
"What, so."
"Here we are."
Lucifer starts playing with his braid. "Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Excuse me?" Michael looks down his nose, suppressing a flash of steel.
Familiar, that. Nice. "Nothing." Lucifer picks his nose, watches a few pickpockets on Piazza San Pietro. "Lovely sunset." So, Mi'ka'El, who is like God, here we are. You always were the brightest of the host. With that he wipes snot down the seams of his jeans. Or was that I?
Michael smoothes wrinkles from his suit. "He wants to meet you," he says, without further preamble. "I have cautioned Him against it but-"
"...his ways are inscrutable," finishes Lucifer glibly.
The angel blinks.
Joke, Lucifer lifts his hands, then takes out a cigarette. "I'll have to consult my schedule," he exhales.
Not looking at him, not looking anywhere, not even at the stupid Obelisk, Michael narrows his eyes. You will make time.
"Ooh." Affected fluttery wave. "'You will make time.' Say that again. I love being ordered about by men in a uniform. Even if it's outlet Armani. Did you know he designed the Polizia uniforms here? Armani, I mean. The fuchsia pinstripe is a dead giveaway. Now, as for the Carabinieri... that's Valentino."
"I am losing patience, Samael."
"And I thought we were only warming up." Lucifer sounds dour. He takes a long drag off his cigarette. "Where," he says eventually.
Michael jerks his chin to point across the river. "The Ara Pacis."
The Altar of Augustan Peace. Good. That's good. Neutral territory. "Fond memories of the Imperator of his childhood, I gather?"
He will let you know when you are to come.
"That sounds so filthy." Lucifer's lip twitches. "I like it already." Asshole. I shall find him, if it please me. Else, he can wait till kingdom come.
"Very well," Michael snorts. "Lightbringer."
"Standard-bearer." It's not much of a greeting, and as Michael rises, Lucifer stares at the angel's feet. They are perfect. Bare and long-toed and perfect, and they've yet to touch the ground. Stretching, Lucifer raises his eyes to the statue in rumpled linen. He can be obscene in his coyness, a mask with alabaster lashes, so he crooks his neck and bows his head and fold his hands and says, "I am ready: like a wise virgin I have taken my oil with me, howbeit the bridegroom tarried."
For the fraction of a second, just before Michael vanishes, there's a hint of good old smiting in the air; an intimidation of fire and brimstone that, Lucifer thinks, rather smells like home-cooking. Static crackles. "And the great dragon was cast out," he sighs, lighting another cigarette. Funny how the high-pitched drone of Vespas seems to grow louder after dark.
He's curious what Jeshua wants.
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