/Supernatural is owned not, in fact, by me, but by Eric Kripke/The CW/The WB.
/Also, guys, this is a sequel to "The Archangel Gabriel Is Dead." You don't have to read that first or at all, I suppose, but it might help.
Chapter Four: "Earth: Consequences Damned, or: 436A Memory Lane"
Summary: The one where Lucifer clearly wasn't hugged enough as a child, but might have turned out the same even if he had been.
Gabriel is dead. Specifically, Gabriel is dead on the floor in front of Lucifer. Which is interesting, considering how Gabriel was supposed to have died some thousand years ago. Lucifer knows this to be false. Lucifer knows this because he just killed Gabriel. Himself.
His eyes feel strange.
Lucifer stares down at the body splayed across the grimy wood covering the hotel's probably poured cement floors. Gabriel's arms are empty and loose out at his sides; Gabriel's left leg is up in an almost-funny-ha-ha pose. Gabriel's eyes are closed. His hair is neat. His wings are two open burned outlines, the left curving up and the right draped over a table. There's no blood, but ash is absolutely everywhere.
Ash, Lucifer notes, is a bit like glitter. He expects he'll be finding it in uncomfortable places for weeks after this. How delightful.
Lucifer is standing in a ballroom. He has despised ballrooms on general principle for quite some time now. He's looking down at a body on the floor which he helped along through the tricky transition from 'person' to 'corpse.' He feels nothing.
Something crawls down the side of his face.
Gabriel deserved that. He had said, don't do it again, and what had Gabriel gone and done? Exactly what he said not to. Don't ever pretend to die, Lucifer had warned Gabriel years and years ago; the dumb sod earned that smiting.
He is not crying. Lucifer is the second oldest being ever. He is not crying at one measly death. All things, all mortal things, die sooner or later.
Lucifer has better things to do than stand here and stare at dead Gabriel. He leaves. He doesn't look down at the body again, because he doesn't care. He doesn't wipe away a tear and he doesn't sniffle.
Lucifer has a vessel to acquire. The process is frustratingly slow going. It's complicated by the general idiocy he is constantly surrounded by. If he could have only intelligent, enthusiastic, loyal minions he would be happy indeed. However, he makes do with what he can get, and sadly that rarely means followers who are even any two of the three. If only he could have someone with the power to fulfill his commands efficiently but the imagination to do so with style. Perhaps he could bring revelation to one of his siblings; he has many ex-siblings who would suit his purposes sufficiently. Gabriel would do quite well, hmmm, that is not half a bad idea; he could offer Gabriel chocolate, he's heard on the grapevine that angels enjoy chocolate, and his younger brother has always liked sweets –
Oh. Right. Ah, no, then. Gabriel will not be coming to the light. What with that dead thing. And all.
Well, that is a shame. It's too bad he had to kill Gabriel, but he had to do it, and that is the way things work out sometimes. He has a short list of ultimate goals to achieve, preferably in numerical order, and a long list of things that would make him a pleased person in numerous little ways. Because it's the little things that count. It's imperative he achieve his goals and Gabriel stood in the way of them, as if one archangel could stop him.
He is, still, after everything. An archangel, that is; Fallen or not, he of all people would know what he is.
Lucifer is very busy and has no time to waste thinking about dead brothers, whether or not he killed them personally. He has to be ready for the Winchesters to come find him. He knows they will. They're like puppies. He could leave them by the side of the road three states over, drive for two days to throw the scent trail off, and when he got home they'd be sitting on his front stoop panting happily.
That reminds him; he has a delightful idea for a way to pass the waiting time.
"Aisling." He summons her with just a soft entreaty; she will hear him calling and come running.
Metaphorically. She'd better be waiting on his word, able to glide into place at his side at a moment's notice. If she actually runs to answer him he's going to sit her down and discuss how to be a self-respecting aide to the so-called Devil.
Aisling does not come running. He silently congratulates her on her appropriate posture when she slinks into the room, her current human costume mimicking the way she moves as demon-smoke as best it can.
"Shah of sin," she greets, bowing her head to him.
He will have to discuss proper epithet etiquette with Aisling. This is getting ridiculous fast; she has apparently not learned anything in the months since he rose. She must be presentable to mixed company if she will stand beside him when he greets the Winchester brothers in a few weeks. He's confident they will find him. He's in Detroit. May has just begun. The brothers Winchester will find him soon.
"Bring me a puppy."
To her credit Aisling does not react beyond blinking. This may also be because her command of this body is not great; the body's brand new. She has been one of his attendants since he was freed, but she is clumsy. At least she doesn't break things that would be hard to fix. It's easy enough to get her a new costume. He found her a new body fifteen minutes after she was exorcised from that high school girl by Dean Winchester and the ridiculous teenage warlock. How she had even let herself be summoned when she was supposed to be working he doesn't know. Lucifer's personal left-hand demon should be above that.
"Go. I want a puppy. With big brown eyes. And a second puppy with green eyes. And brown fur. They must both have brown fur."
Aisling bows deeply. "I will return with two puppies as specified, exalted expert fabricator," she promises, then turns on her heel and departs.
Lucifer shakes his head. Aisling never forgot that after she brought him news, several centuries ago, he attempted to demolish Hell. But he stopped and did not obliterate her, and since then she has regarded that as a sign of great favor with him. He has never bothered to disillusion her in the few months he has been able to speak to the girl face to face because she wants to retain that favor. So she does all sorts of things he's not about to stop.
After he collected some demon followers, she was the one who brought him the first food he had tasted in a very long time. She'd had fresh purple grapes and a soft, melting cheese and a loaf of bread that had just come out of the oven. He can't remember a single thing that had pleased him so much since the war. She'd had plain water to accompany the food, but in the days after she had made a point of bringing him delicacies each time she had a chance. She's the reason he tried coffee and rum and sushi and chocolate cake.
He's honestly a bit surprised that she hasn't left something behind now. When she hasn't been introducing him to new tastes, she has been pampering her walking talking deity in other ways. She had gotten him new clothes, soaps, shampoos, moisturizing lotion, antibacterial ointment, cloth bandages. He hadn't understood the point until she had mentioned that they helped, when the vessel wasn't ideal. Aisling is possibly the single reason he has been able to wear Nick for so long. Aisling and his own sheer force of will.
After the incident at the hotel he had to burn the clothes he'd worn. Aisling had fetched a lighter and some gasoline to be useful, and marshmallows and skewers to be fun. Lucifer and his demons had enjoyed the scent of flesh and gas sizzling under their cooking marshmallows. The whole affair had been wonderful.
That evening he had discovered a box of hot cocoa mix sitting atop a fuzzy black blanket on the counter in the makeshift kitchen. Alongside the blanket there had been a box of tissues and a bottle of sleeping pills. He had not touched any of them, and he said nothing about it to her. The next time he looked at that counter they were all gone.
He hasn't put the sword down yet. It was Gabriel's. It's being maintained through his own Grace right now. As soon as he lets go of it, it will realize that Gabriel is dead, and vanish with the rest of his brother. He doesn't let go of the sword. It's tucked into a scabbard at his side, always in contact with his Grace.
Aisling strides into the room without knocking. Good. Knocking is for people who aren't demons. Better, she bows her head and she's got squirming things under each arm. He's not sure how long she's been gone, though, and that is unpleasant.
"Truest tormentor of the truth, I bring you two puppies, as requested." And yes, her voice is still high and annoying and emotive – she's confused – but Lucifer doesn't mind it quite so much now. Familiarity breeds apathy.
He holds out a hand. "The brown-eyed."
Aisling brings her left arm forward. She deposits one wriggling brown canvas sack into his open palm. She raises her eyebrows.
He'll tell her in a minute. He roots around for the neck of the bag and unties it, whereupon the moving creature inside of it promptly shakes the sack off and sits in his hands.
A beautiful immature dog blinks up at him. It has brown fur, floppy ears, tiny claws that he wants to examine, and brown eyes. But there's something wrong with the eyes. They feel – off.
He sighs. Aisling immediately launches into apologies. "I'm so sorry, I really did look, but there weren't any with brown eyes anywhere, and I thought if they seemed brown it would be enough, and they should be green, you know they should!"
He stares at her until she's fixated on her feet in shame. "Take off any spells you put on it. Now."
Aisling nods meekly. Ah, and she had even managed to avoid silly titles … Aisling tugs apart a rag doll she's produced from a pocket, the air twists, and the puppy shimmers for a moment. It now has green eyes, though in Aisling's defense they're a teal green, almost blue-brown. Odd color for a puppy, he thinks. Puppy eyes are usually light blues, like wolves, but they get darker with age – oh, no wonder she resorted to magic. The puppy shimmers again, to Lucifer's slight surprise, and its coat lengthens a bit. Now the puppy has fur just long enough to be called shaggy.
He smiles at the puppy. "You shall be known as Niusha," he decides. "Even though it is traditionally a girl's name."
"Oh good," Aisling comments. "I was about to say that they're both girls."
Lucifer blinks and turns to face her. Aisling's face is open, relaxed – she's completely serious. He starts laughing and doesn't stop. He almost topples over, finally manages to regain his balance on his wobbling chair, and returns to the puppy. He is still chuckling, his abdomen beginning to ache, as he looks Niusha over. She will do.
"Let me see the other."
Aisling withdraws the second puppy from its bag. This one has no spells upon it, he can already tell. The second puppy is barking, yipping really, as Aisling trades it for Niusha.
"They're sisters," she says. "I stole them from a pet store. I probably did them a favor. The poor things were in this tiny, dirty cage at the front of the store – they were on display like a zoo or something."
Great. This is great. Demons do not like puppies. It should be an official rule in the unwritten how-to-be-a-demon handbook, because apparently it isn't already.
Aisling likes puppies. He will pretend he did not hear that. He has a dog to name.
"This one is Rhonwen." He is quite firm about it. Names are important.
Rhonwen is louder than Niusha, and keeps trying to run out of Lucifer's arms. Rhonwen has eyes a brighter green than her sister's and shorter fur. Aisling did well. These are exactly what he wanted.
Lucifer closes the door with a thought. Then he allows Rhonwen the hyperactive puppy to jump down and explore, but he takes Niusha back to hold. While Rhonwen sniffs around absolutely every inch of the small, run-down room in the abandoned warehouse they're occupying, he curls Niusha in close to him and strokes her head gently.
Aisling is grinning at him. "There was a runt there too, but I left it behind. You said you only wanted two."
"Yes," he agrees. He knows about the third, he has his ways, but he has no interest in any runts. They are of no use or amusement to him.
"The runt looked sad and lonely though … I felt bad," Aisling continues, petulant. Lucifer resists the urge to frown and waggle a finger in her direction disapprovingly. He could swear he'd taught her better than that.
He scratches behind Niusha's ears. "Give me five minutes, and you can take Rhonwen back to the runt."
Aisling frowns. "Just because Rhonwen is – "
"No," Lucifer objects sharply, rising from his battered wicker chair. "That is not why. I just don't like damaged merchandise."
"What do you mean?" Aisling asks, looking from him to the puppies and back.
"I mean this," Lucifer replies, and his foot lashes out. He had to time this carefully, but he is good with time, and his foot connects. The kick sends Rhonwen flying across the room, and as she impacts the opposite wall, then slides down to crumple at the baseboards, a crunch then a subsequent squelch are audible.
Aisling lets out a shocked gasp and gapes at him. "You just – "
"I did," Lucifer grins at her. "I loved God so much I had no love left for anything else. Even chocolate labrador puppies."
Aisling scowls. She hurries over to the whining puppy, and as she goes he can hear her mutter, "No you didn't," harsh in her obvious anger.
"What was that?" He demands.
Aisling, glowering at him, gathers up Rhonwen in her arms and soothes the whimpering pup. She strokes her hand over Rhonwen's ribcage, her fingers trailing shimmers as they go. Lucifer is torn between wanting to order her not to heal the puppy and pride at her developing magical skill. When he'd suggested she become more useful months ago he had only hoped for basic hiding spells. She has grown so much. Still, she cannot be allowed to wantonly contradict him.
"Do not make me repeat myself," he hisses. Proud or not, he will do her damage if she does not obey his orders to the letter.
"I said you had love left after your father," she replies. She looks at Niusha, still comfortable in his arms, apparently not very bright. Niusha hadn't even barked when he'd kicked Rhonwen.
He snorts. Of course he did and he knew it. But he had maintained stridently that he was exiled from Heaven for excess of love for his father, a blatant lie to anyone who truly knew him – which meant Michael and only Michael. There is no way for anyone else to know what his dispute with his father was, tied up in his love for Michael, his determination to not be ordered about, and his refusal to venerate a being he saw no greatness in. Where did she learn that?
Aisling stares at him full in the face. "You loved your brother. The one whose sword you're carrying on your hip. You've had it ever since the night we burned the clothes with the bloodstains."
Lucifer is furious, ready to tear her to pieces and feed her her own intestines, he's moving across the room before he consciously decides to, but Aisling stands her ground. She has already felt the power of his rage once before – though his fury caged in Hell and his wrath embodied on earth are two different things entirely – and she is confident she will survive this too. She trusts her god not to break her permanently.
In her arms Rhonwen snarls at him as a puppy can, and in his arms Niusha yelps at her sister. It's a happy noise and the juxtaposition jars him into stopping, inches from ripping into Aisling's face, and looking down in bewilderment. Niusha is licking his hand. Rhonwen has ceased her snarls in favor of staring at her sister. Lucifer gets that. He's doing the same thing.
He moves away from Aisling to raise Niusha up to his eye level. He searches her eyes, but they are the eyes of a child-dog, and he finds in them nothing to explain her behavior. Niusha looks back at him, and this is what puppy dog eyes are, this wide soulful look that makes Lucifer close his own eyes tightly to stop seeing that horrible trust and innocence. Something rough and wet runs over his cheek and nose, and his eyes snap open again in shock and disgust – the dog licked his face.
That's it. That's just it.
Abruptly he shoves Niusha into Aisling's chest, turning away and returning to collapse into his seat. Aisling manages not to drop Niusha, juggling to hold both puppies. "Glory of the morning," Aisling starts, uncertain, but he throws an arm over his brow and sighs out past his elbow, and she trails off.
"Get that thing away from me," he orders. "Before I skin it."
"At once, he-who-shines-like-stars," she squeaks, and spins to go, double-time.
As she crosses the threshold he adds, "Get that runt. Name it Abishag. Don't bring them near me."
She replies without looking at him, flat and short, "Yes, patron of temptation," but she doesn't slam the door when she closes it behind her. He's pleased. She knows when not to test his patience.
When she's been gone for at least twenty minutes Lucifer removes his arm from his face. He really would have skinned the dogs, filthy stupid mutts that they are, but now he wishes Aisling were still here.
That sentiment disturbs him. It evidences his growing gentle affection for Aisling. She has no real practical purpose that could not be served by any other demon. She has no truly singular abilities. She has nothing in particular to recommend her. Yet somehow he is grateful he has not killed her yet. This both perplexes and infuriates him. She should not be worth his notice.
On that note, Zachariah is now beneath his notice. Raphael seems to be insane, not a surprise all things given, he was always a bit on edge even before he wouldn't let Lucifer open up his mind, there's a reason he patronizes what he does – but Zachariah, as far as Lucifer can tell, is in full command of his faculties. It's just that Zachariah is a psychopath. Lucifer has never cared for him particularly; not because he has never had the chance to speak to Zachariah and grow to appreciate him as an angel, but because it has always frustrated him how Zachariah walks in his shadow and attempts to replicate Lucifer's life. Zachariah is a cheap imitation, nothing that would hold up under examination, but Lucifer is not psychopathic and Zachariah is. Zachariah gives him a bad name. Lucifer dislikes it when people misuse names, because names matter, they aren't just words to call out and watch as they ring in the air, bouncing off snowy mountain tops and craggy outcroppings.
The thing about Zachariah and Raphael is that they are scheming, which Lucifer practically invented. Between the war and the serpent, Lucifer defined what schemes were. This understanding aside, Lucifer is not stupid and never has been. He knows what Raphael and Zachariah are doing. They want the apocalypse to come now because the idiots believe they can actually win. They are wrong.
Lucifer, aside from not being stupid, is also himself: he has spies and minions who bring him interesting news. Especially about how Michael has not been seen in hundreds of years and is presumed to be fading. Lucifer's response to this news – disbelief shading rapidly into towering, betrayed, murderous bloodlust – had been narrowly eclipsed by a summons from pagan gods. Which then resulted in that diverting violence. Which spiraled into Gabriel's death. It's quite unfortunate for the pagans, really, that he was called upon in such a foul mood. Otherwise he might have given them more time to run.
He has time now to decide what to do about Michael's possible state. Michael's possible death.
He would like to believe that Michael isn't dead, but he has never been that lucky in the whole of his memory. Besides which, angels are dropping like flies around him these days. Hah. He is turning aside this plague. He merely swings an arm and a brother dies before him.
His siblings need to stop that.
It is not as though he does not offer to let them join him. It is not as though he does not try to save them.
If Michael is gone, Lucifer will hunt down his ashes and bring him back. They have a score to settle, the two of them, concerning Michael's betrayal and Michael's failure, and Lucifer will not allow Michael to hide from the defeat he has rightly earned. Lucifer looks forward to making Michael hemorrhage from a billion sewing needles inserted into his veins and arteries and capillaries and eyeballs. Lucifer will document the event with pictures on his new camera, and when he pastes them into his scrapbook he will caption them with accurate descriptions. He imagines his favorites will be 'anticipation' (wherein Michael realizes what is to come), 'desanguination' (wherein Michael will shine less than a candle in the dark), and 'exsanguination' (wherein Michael will be decorated with finger-paintings of himself flying, depicted skillfully in Lucifer's hand with Michael's blood).
If Michael is in danger … Lucifer will save him. Lucifer loves his brother, and though his brother is not more important than his cause, Lucifer's cause is one defined by his willingness to break some eggs for this bloody omelet. If Lucifer decides to forsake his cause for Michael's sake, which he won't, but if he does, he will dare anyone to call him a hypocrite. Lucifer cares enough to save the one brother he will admit matters to him, whatever Lucifer must do to save him. There is nothing he would not give for Michael.
But he will kill Michael. It will hurt.
He will kill Michael, though in a moment he would die for him, for his safety, for his happiness, for his future. If Michael asked it of him, if Michael ever were to look Lucifer in the eye, and quietly or irrationally or calmly or despondently or desperately, ask or demand or plead or request or order or require or implore Lucifer to lay down his life for Michael and Michael's cause, Lucifer would be able to say, no, never. Not ever. But Michael would never. Michael is too kind and welcoming to ever ask that of anyone, though as Michael is, or should still be, commander of Heaven's forces, he must expect it of many.
He has been brooding for who knows how long on matters that are entirely settled.
This is pathetic. His behavior is repulsive.
He has an apocalypse to orchestrate. He has no time to be ruminating on the sanity of brothers or his own unhealthy desire to die for Michael.
He has a world to destroy, because Lucifer always, always breaks his toys. There is beauty and fun to be had in enjoying the toy and the chance to play. Then there is boredom and apathy. Lucifer is one of few who takes the game a step beyond and takes the toy apart. Sadly toys are rarely built to be put back together again.
And this earth is a toy to the likes of Lucifer.
The Winchesters will find him soon. Sooner now than before. He has only a few days left. He cannot waste time now, he has much to prepare for when he can wear Samuel Winchester, his perfect vessel, Sam, Sam the man made to surrender his body to Lucifer the Adversary. He cannot sit here in this room and produce nothing. He must get up, collect himself, finish his work – and he will. In a moment. Just a minute longer here. He wants only a few minutes more to be alone in the dark.
Against his back the arms of his old wicker chair stand strident. His face is surely covered in a woven indent. The walls are black and concave in the dim lighting from a single shining source; they stretch up and below, cavernous to his blurry vision. The room is empty except for him and his chair, as it has been the entire time he has used this room as his, since he and his horde made this warehouse their temporary camp nearly three weeks ago.
He will rise from his seat, in just a minute more now … he has things to do, he needs to get up now … he cannot. He cannot face standing, leaving this room, finishing his preparations. He has sworn that he will not stand until he has released Gabriel's sword. He has promised himself, upon his love for Michael, upon the strength of his belief that let him kill Gabriel, that he shall not stir from this seat until Gabriel's sword is relinquished to death. He must stop this foolishness, but to do so is to let go of the sword, and he cannot.
The last, the only, the final piece of his brother. Gabriel's sword is as bright today as it was millennia ago, slashing fiercely. Gabriel had been a thrill to behold in battle; his opponents fell quickly and often around him as he spun and hacked and twisted and stabbed, efficiently and gracefully obliterating any who stood against him. When Gabriel had fought, he had taunted the other fighter, and his jibes were an amusing backdrop to the rush of conflict.
Lucifer is the reason Gabriel is gone. Lucifer killed Gabriel.
But what audacity, for Gabriel to side with pagan insects against him! What dishonor, for Gabriel to plant himself between his own brother and sniveling human filth! The sheer unadulterated nerve of that! Gabriel deserved to be skinned and drawn and quartered and drowned in boiling lead! To stab him once was a kindness not shown to others whose offenses were far less! He should be grateful to Lucifer for that mercy!
Gabriel can't be grateful, of course, as he's dead. That is a bit of an impediment. Probably.
Gabriel's sword is still tight in his hands. If not for the scabbard – and Lucifer knows this is not why – if not for the scabbard, his hands would be bleeding copiously.
Lucifer's eyes feel strange. Irritated.
His face is puffy, and the swelling stretches the sores that worsen each day, dragging them wider to crack his skin and ooze out pus made noxious by his presence in this vessel. His nasal cavity is leaking; it's repulsive, the mucus is revolting. His chest aches and his shoulders absolutely refuse to be still. He's curled up in the chair in a position he would never allow an underling to glimpse. It's far too vulnerable and obvious.
His eyes drip liquid that stings the wounds dotting his cheeks and nose and chin.
He has been here, in this chair, in this dimly lit room, in this hiding place, lonely with Gabriel's sword alone lighting his surroundings, for the past thirty-three hours.
He may not rise from his place until he releases the sword and allows the last portion of Gabriel's Grace to depart this world forever. He has sworn this to himself. Though he may break oaths at the drop of a halo, he has sworn upon his cause, and that he will not forsake. He swore too upon his love for Michael, but that is a frail and squalling thing he plans to drown before the end of all this.
He may not rise from his place with the sword still extant. He must rise, but he cannot, he will not, he is the sole reason the sword will die without the iron lung he has become these past weeks.
His eyes burn. He is fine. He is not crying, he is not, he is not, he is not. He is Lucifer, he is the first of the Fallen, he was the Morningstar, he was the light of God, he was the beauty of Creation alive to shine out over all his rays could illuminate, he was … he is … he is a murderer.
He had to do it, he didn't have a choice, what else could he have done? Gabriel would not join him, Gabriel would not move away – Gabriel stood against him. He had to do it, he had to …
Why does it hurt so much? He had no other option, no better plan – why then does it hurt so much to make the best of a bad thing? Why can he not stop feeling this rend in his chest for the murder of his closest younger brother?
He is not crying.
His eyes overflow, and he admits it to himself, if no one else, that the tears he has choked on, ignored, denied, for so many hours already have won this war.
Lucifer does not want to be crying, but he is. He is weeping and he cannot make the sobs still, he cannot even lessen the volume of his wails.
Later, when Lucifer has not ceased crying for some excruciating five hours, a knock sounds on the door. It is quiet and timid, or it seems to be, but his sobs may distort his hearing.
Lucifer makes no answer to the knock. He is in no condition to see anyone.
"Luster-upon-cursed-pearls, may I come in?"
It's Aisling, it's always Aisling … no, she may not come in, he is not about to let anyone see this –
Quieter than before, so Lucifer has to strain to stop hiccuping and snorting and gurgling long enough to hear properly, Aisling continues. "I know what you're doing, teller of unhappy truths."
He's throwing the door open and pulling her inside without thinking, telekinetic grip rough on her shoulder, slamming the door the second she's through it.
Aisling gasps when his face comes into view.
"And what, oh brilliant smoke slave, was I doing?"
He means to hiss it, low-pitched, quick and dangerous, a venomous snake of words, but his throat is sore and his nose is stuffy. It's a mispronounced whisper instead, and halfway through, 'smoke' gets caught and he coughs raucously.
"Grieving," Aisling whispers back, staring at him, wide-eyed. She's frozen like a deer – rabbits freeze only for a moment, then sprint away in parabolic leaps – she hasn't moved an inch from where he left her inside the doorway.
He's pasting a jaunty smile, a showman's, salesman's, oily-sleek smile atop his grimace; he's mustering a blearily average tone.
This isn't going to work, but he tries it anyway. "What gave you that impression?"
Aisling has the sense not to answer that. She does at length get out of the shadow of the door, coming to sit at his feet, barely inside the faint sphere of light Gabriel's sword gives off, visible in the dark.
There is a long quiet. Lucifer stifles each sob until he chokes on it, then besieges his body to hold in the resultant hiccup, then fights not to burp after he swallows the hiccup's air. He does this again and again, pretending Aisling is not here, yet clearly reacting to her presence. After he wins a battle against a stalwart hiccup and makes a noise somewhere between gargling blood and expelling a chicken bone, Aisling intervenes.
"Here," she mutters, proffering a warm, dark cylinder and a wrapper of white wax paper. "I brought sweet tea and fresh chocolate chip cookies."
Lucifer turns only his eyes to look at her. He raises an eyebrow. She flushes and looks down.
"Maybe some tissues first? I have those too," she defers, speaking to his shoes.
He knows she isn't looking, but he raises the other eyebrow anyway.
"Look, I've been expecting this since I saw you come back covered in blood three weeks ago, okay?"
He grunts. "How?"
"How did I know?" Aisling queries. It's such a stupid question Lucifer makes no response.
"You were carrying a sword. You didn't have it when you went out earlier."
Lucifer creates a noise best described as a 'snargle.' It is not exactly a snort, a giggle, a huff, a gargle, or a sniff, but it is similar to all of them.
The snargle has the intended effect. Aisling elaborates, quieter, but more enunciated. She seems to recognize he wants none of her waffle or verbal curtsies; that or the shock makes her forget.
"You had blood everywhere else, but not the scabbard or the hilt or even the guard."
Keen eyes, noticing that. None of the other demons had. Or at least none of them had said anything. Those were not the same, were they.
"It wasn't your sword. You would never hold it in its scabbard like that. But you cared about whosever's sword it was, because you kept it completely clean."
Aisling is more observant than he gave her credit for. It must be a product of being sent to spy on his various enemies for centuries. She has a lot of practice watching angels.
"It was some sibling of yours. That is definitely an angel's blade."
It's no wonder she knows that, she can probably feel that, just as he can feel it when the demons are near him. They pollute his mental landscape like plastic in burning hair.
"The only way you'd get another angel's blade is if they gave it to you, or you took it after you killed them. Either way, if you still have it they must be dead. It's been over two weeks. They would have reclaimed it by now." Aisling finishes her explanation, voice high as always, but level and controlled. Her conclusions are sound, well-reasoned, and simple.
Aisling knows too much from basic deduction. How much do his other minions know?
His mounting anxiety is interrupted by Aisling speaking again.
"Can I tell you a story about family dying?"
What? Can she what? Yes, he supposes so; Lucifer flaps a hand to say, go on, I have no feelings one way or the other, I am apathetic. Aisling produces now a packet of tissues, which she presses into his left hand, and into his right she shoves the cylinder that he sees is a tall, lidded mug full of black tea.
Aisling settles into a more comfortable pose, leaning against his legs in a solidly warm manner, and begins to speak. "I lived as a human a very long time ago. Well, for me it has been a very long time, though I suppose to you it's just like a day …"
All the emotion drips out of Aisling. She reclines as if he has become a lounge chair on a pool deck, comfortably cool from the shade of the building behind her, large amber-brown sunglasses covering half her face, swimsuit, too small to swim in, laced up her sides, fruity iced drink perspiring in the heat, and the swish-plop-burble of the harmonic curves in the water draw Lucifer down to the fancy sloping beach entrance …
"I lived in a beautiful, green country, where people prospered. Or at least my people did. I was born in a small village, so small I can't remember its name anymore. I don't remember a lot, really, not after spending nearly four hundred years in Hell for initiation."
As Aisling's words are true but not necessarily objective fact, Lucifer's memories are truths but not necessarily exactly what happened. He looks back on them with a lens of disappointment, rage, purpose, blame, loss, and that creeping modernity which slunk inside his soul sometime when he wasn't looking. Well, his Grace, at any rate.
Once Lucifer and Michael spent the day at the beach. Lucifer wanted to go to the pool instead, but Michael liked sand. He claimed the miniature abrasions it created were nice, that they exfoliated his skin, leaving him new and fresh afterwards. Lucifer thinks that is a little odd, but Michael has his little oddities.
The sun shines brightly in the sky, warm on Lucifer's back as he lies on a fluffy beach towel. Beach towels, he's found, are normal towels but larger and patterned strangely. This beach towel has seashells, most of them stylized beyond the point of technical accuracy. Lucifer tries not to care about the little imperfections.
"We didn't speak this English, I know that. And when I was very small I was terrified of fairies in the hills and monsters in the bogs, but not bears, foxes, wolves, or snakes. I didn't fear snakes until Alastair realized I'd never seen one and was kind enough to introduce us."
Michael is at his side, at his left side, he is on Michael's right. Michael's beach towel is larger still than Lucifer's, which is considerably huge, given that Lucifer's beach towel keeps his wings off the burning sand.
The sand is yellow-white, rough and bumpy. The grains are big and many of them are just actually pebbles, not sand grains at all, what terrible masquerade costumes they brought.
Michael and Lucifer are stretched out on a flat strip of ground fifteen feet out from the high tide water line. They would face the water, if they weren't facing each other, eyes closed to doze in the late morning beams. Their wings are entangled, overlapping, tickling the other but not themselves, causing a constant low flutter and twitch that makes a nice breeze fan over them.
Why, Lucifer drowsily considers, does Michael have so enormous a beach towel when it is Michael who likes sand?
"My mother was a quiet woman who never lifted a finger to help me."
They set up this comfort in the early hours of dawn: beach towels, flimsy umbrellas uselessly far away, and an oversized canvas bag, stuffed with various and sundry things Lucifer didn't bother to catalogue; it was dawn, for Michael's sake.
Lucifer had protested – it's not like we're going fishing, Michael, it's the beach, it will be there all day – but Michael was adamant, Michael was molded steel.
Rosy pink bloomed from the wild grasses breaking through dunes at the beach's edge when the two angels walked down to the "perfect sunbathing site," or so Michael claims. Really, what expertise would Michael have at determining where best to see the sun, that Lucifer would not know better? It is Lucifer who is the shining Morningstar, Lucifer whose brightness broke the inky sky to greet new day.
Ah, but wait … this is that morning, this is the last morning alone, truly alone, with Michael …
"My father's name was Eoghan."
Lucifer sinks deeper into the sand, and Lucifer recalls that oh yes, it is only the two of them, it is, just Michael and Lucifer, so Lucifer is not Lucifer, not now and not yet, he is Helel … his Father named him … Helel, the shining one, star of the morning, son of the dawn … he never really changed so much, did he … how different is 'light-bringer' … now is not the time, it is different enough, now he has Michael in the sand at his side, now he is Helel.
"I had no brothers or sisters, but I had aunts and uncles, plenty of cousins, and two close friends. They were Saibh and Muirgen. Muirgen was named specially, because her parents found her on the beach one morning. She washed up from the sea, and we never knew who had sent her adrift."
Today is the day Gabriel will be made. Lucifer's Father will make him and swiftly bring him to Michael and Lucifer. For now, until they arrive, shadows and cold lines on his wings, Helel is happy.
Michael is just Michael, he is not the commander yet, he is only the only brother Helel has ever had. Helel knows Michael is his brother, though he is not sure what 'brother' means. Before he was made there was no such thing as a 'brother,' but then Father made him and there was.
"I couldn't read or write, and I couldn't sing. I was pretty, I suppose, but in the wrong way. My hair was too like the sun, they said, it blinded men to the ugliness of my heart."
Helel's hair is sunlight curving round and round his head. He doesn't particularly care about the style or the color, but Michael appreciates golden curls to reflect Helel's gleaming halo.
Against Helel's wings Michael shifts, settles back to the same position, sighs. Helel receives the message clearly without words or speech. It is a nice day, means Michael, and I am content here and now. Helel agrees.
Michael likes the beach, so Helel learns to. He wishes still for less sand; it's accumulating in strange crevices, like the dip where his wings meet his back. He'll never get it all out, it feels like.
"I guess I did have an ugly heart. I still do now."
Helel lets the world fall away around him in the warm sun. All that is is this. He is bonelessly relaxed and he is by Michael's side. Sand is of no consequence. He ignores the sand until it doesn't exist for him.
"My father was an honorable man in an honorable time, according to his friends. But my father was also what is now recognized as an alcoholic."
United they nap until Helel snores, Michael jerks at the new sound, the motion pulls on their entwined limbs, Helel yanks back his twinging wings then rolls up to discover the source of the confusion, and sees that Michael is lying on his back now, blinking in sleepy confusion.
'What?' Helel demands. 'What is it? What happened?'
'Did you know you snore?' Michael redirects, a lazy glance roving up to Helel's own alert stare.
Helel is thrown off. 'No I don't,' he asserts. His wings flex, oscillate in time with the ocean.
'Mmm, yes, you do,' Michael replies, rotating to lie on his side, looking toward Helel. 'You always have.'
"It wasn't uncommon, then, for a man to beat his wife or children. They needed to learn to obey him, learn their place. Well, my father beat my mother and me, but only when he was drunk."
Helel doesn't really care if Michael thinks he snores, because Helel knows the truth, which is that he does not. Still, ruffled at the displacement, he curls up on his beach towel, shading his eyes with the edge of a wing. Michael chuckles, reaching out to tug Helel's wing higher and shield his left ear too.
'You'll get burned if you're not careful,' Michael chides.
'You're the one who burns,' Helel huffs, but his mouth betrays him, curling up.
"If it had been done sober, he might have known to stop before breaking bones or disfiguring us."
When Michael is clearly forgiven the terrible affront of claiming Helel snores, the two return to peaceful enjoyment. Maybe half an hour later Michael speaks on the wind.
'I'm sorry about your wings,' the migrating air rushes into Helel's hearing. 'I didn't mean to hurt you.'
Helel could send back a gale of acceptance. Instead he concentrates and moves one muscle only. A wing-tip brushes the line of Michael's carotid artery and the circular protrusion at the end of a jaw bone. Michael twitches. The wing-tip passes the end of Michael's nose and flashes down his jugular. Michael's shoulder flinches up, down. Helel's wing-tip pokes Michael's ear, and Michael loses the game. Michael giggles.
Helel is on him, everywhere, Michael's sides, his feet, the backs of his knees, his ears, Michael is giggling, yelping, roaring with laughter, the first-made is ludicrously ticklish for so dignified a being – Michael's laughter draws out Helel's own snickers at the victory and the sight before him.
He's distracted enough that Michael turns the tables, and Helel's snickers become gasping laughs as he struggles to wriggle off of Michael. The two tumble and wrestle until something cold and wet slaps Helel's back and Helel shrieks in surprise and cold! Cold! Cold! That is so cold! Argh, wet, urgh, what is that –
Michael falls back into damp sand, perfect for mud pies or sandcastle mortar. Michael shakes, rolls about as though he's putting out a fire, laughs booming out into the open blue sky above. Helel has ended up in the water. That is seawater rushing in with the tide. Helel flushes. Yes, it is a beautiful thing to make Michael laugh by seeming scared of water. Fantastic.
"This was my childhood, and my girlhood, and then I was a woman grown. I had no husband or suitors, for I had learnt well to be vicious to any and all, save my two friends. Even Saibh and Muirgen, though, got the sharp side of my tongue whenever they mentioned my family."
Helel splashes Michael from his position in the shallows. Michael snorts and charges into the water, running slower as the level rises on him, splashing Helel right back. Helel returns the favor, propelling an incoming profusion of foam to knock Michael over and dunk his head. Michael comes up spluttering, then throws a jellyfish at Helel's head. Helel leans out of the way and flings a starfish at Michael's wings, dragging smoothly in the water as though the angels are manta rays flying under rippling waves. From there the wrestling match is rebegun in the ocean, and the sea sends echoing their amused shouts and trills of laughter to rebound upon the beach cove's cliffs.
"I had no land or money or husband. I had no future. I realized I would spend the rest of my short life getting hit."
They play for what may be hours or days or five minutes, Helel has no idea. Michael slows, and it takes Helel a minute to realize Michael isn't just tired or getting bored. Then he does realize, and laboriously makes his way through the cresting waves over to join Michael.
He situates himself to Michael's left. Michael's right-handed: if Helel is on Michael's right, he'll be in the way of Michael's sword. His own sword is on the edge of his awareness. He can be left-handed for Michael; he could fight right-handed back-to-back with Michael. He doesn't need to ask for Michael to explain.
'I don't think it's anything bad,' Michael reassures in a whisper the water carries far. 'I just felt something, that's all. Don't worry.'
Helel scowls around the cove their beach hides in. Michael says it's fine, but Michael hasn't relaxed. Michael's wings are tightly wound in position to launch. Helel's wings gradate into diamond feathers, a million prisms causing a million refracted rainbows to flow around them in place of shadows.
"That wasn't what I wanted, though, and eventually I was so angry with it all, all the beatings, all the times my mother didn't say a word to my father in my defense, all the times an aunt, a neighbor, a cousin would see the bruises on my face and look away, that I swore I would do anything to pay them all back."
Helel's searching for whatever Michael noticed. He sweeps the cove, one curved cliff, the beach, the dunes, another jutting crag, far-off open ocean with a trench drop off a thousand feet down, the cliff again, the beach again, the dunes again, the crag – the dunes again, the beach – his Father is on the beach. Father has something bright and squirming in his arms.
Helel nudges Michael as Michael turns to see; Michael too can feel their Father and that bright bundle. Michael and Helel stride up out of the water onto hot dry sand that singes Helel's feet.
Father smiles beatifically down at them. Father is taller than both Michael and Helel. Father is handsome, strong, glorious to behold. Helel sees Father as an angel with wings uncountable, a sun in space illuminating, body throwing more light still, outlined all around in brightness. Michael might not see that. Helel has never asked and has no plans to.
"Hello, my sons," Father says.
"I tried looking around the hills first. I hoped I might join a night revel with the fae, drink magical wine, and be unable to ever leave. I thought that couldn't be worse than life in my little village."
Father isn't using mind-speech like Helel and Michael use. He's speaking Enochian out loud. Quite why, Helel doesn't know, and doesn't care. That's just how Father has always spoken to them. Or so Helel hears it. Michael might not hear that.
"Hello, Father," Helel and Michael chorus.
"I see you are enjoying the day," Father says, quite kindly, looking down at the two angels.
Helel wonders why Father is being unusually kind about this; what's wrong with it that he condescends to ignore? Perhaps they look silly. Helel glances at Michael and then at himself and understands. Their hair is mussed and matted with salt water; his halo is, somehow, hanging crooked; Michael has a starfish in a wing now soft and open; and there is sand and mud and the stink of fish absolutely everywhere. They do look and smell silly.
" – and the water is fun," Michael finishes with a smile. Helel realizes Michael has been replying to their Father. Helel's mind was elsewhere.
Helel hurries to contribute. "Yes, it is great fun, Father," he offers up.
Father speaks, "I am glad. Now here – " He begins with a nod down to the bouncing bubble of light in His arms, but to Helel's shock He's interrupted by a squall.
The wiggling mass is making high-pitched whines, each short and pointed. What is that, and why does Helel feel like the thing is hungry and should be fed right this moment now?
"I never found any faeries."
"Alright, alright," Father laughs gently, rocking the bundle. "Boys, this is your brother, Gabriel. Michael, take him while I make some food."
Father hands Gabriel over to Michael, who unlike Helel has his arms open ready to receive the new angel. Michael settles Gabriel in his grasp, firm without crushing, and lets his wings wrap around Gabriel's tiny feathery puffs. Helel watches in awe.
Father draws his hands together and apart. In the sand there is a low, carved wooden table and three woven reed mats. Father gestures at the place settings and Helel sits immediately. Michael takes more time to get to the ground without jostling Gabriel in his hold, all the while murmuring to the new one quiet reassurances of safety. Father sits only when Michael looks up at Him and smiles.
There is a spread of food upon the table, but it is all intended for the new angel, Helel can tell. Everything is soft and light: rice pudding, mashed bananas, pulped peas and green beans, all made from nothing or cloud or air, who knows? Angels don't need to eat but the new one wants to, so they do.
"I kept looking for something, anything, anyone to help me. I never found it."
Michael shifts Gabriel on his lap. "New one, if you want some food you need to have a shape to eat it," he suggests. "Manifest yourself."
The light rustles in Michael's arms and its wings flutter rapidly. It does not resolve into a clearer form. Helel has a flash of inspiration; he's never dealt with new angels before but he might just know how.
"Gabe," he calls. The shortening feels right. He has Michael's and Father's attention now, but more importantly the squirming brightness that is his younger brother fixates on Helel.
"Make yourself look like Michael and me," he says. Not Father, even Michael doesn't exactly look like Father. "Want it very much. If you look like us you can have some pudding. Mmm, rice pudding … " Helel serves himself some rice pudding with the serving spoon and plate he now has.
Gabriel's focus follows Helel's hands as he scoops out pudding. The more of the rice pudding Helel takes, the more Gabriel's attention feels like Michael's incredulous eyes on him, and then it works.
The intense glow of newness fades into the normal radiance of a typical angel. Gabriel is revealed on Michael's knee, small, round, wrinkled, pudgy, red-faced, newborn. For a second, at least, he is a newborn, then his head – so much heavier than Helel expects – wobbles up so he can see Michael's face. Then Gabriel ages. He looses redness from his face, expands in size to be round all over but not wrinkly, and brown hair, a color exactly between Michael's and Helel's, sprouts from his skull.
Gabriel gives a new grin. It's toothless and wide-lipped and his eyes crinkle and he claps, and Helel's heart swells three sizes in that second.
"I heard from a traveling priest – we weren't a big enough village to have our own – that the Devil made bargains. You had to be wary, constantly, because otherwise you might sell your soul to a barman for another ale."
"Good job," Helel coos, and he collects a tiny bit of pudding on a smaller, softer, rubber spoon.
He leans into Michael, brings it to Gabriel's mouth, and Gabriel gums at it a bit clumsily, but together they succeed and Gabriel swallows down the portion. Gabriel claps his jaws open and shut a few times, his tongue roves around, and he looks off into the distance. He returns to Helel's face, still at Michael's shoulder, Helel choosing to ignore Michael and Father for a moment while he waits for Gabriel's verdict.
Gabriel smiles again. His fluffy protuberances flap in excitement, and he reaches for the spoon in Helel's hand as if to say, more now. Helel obliges gracefully, feeding Gabriel patiently for the next several minutes, continuing while Michael speaks up.
"You're good at that," he comments. He's not doing anything but watching Helel spoon pudding into Gabriel's waiting maw. Gabriel is still secure in Michael's arms, of course, Michael balancing him neatly with wings and torso, his head supported by Michael's arm and chest.
"Thanks," Helel replies politely. It's gratifying. Michael's first effort didn't work because Michael might have raised Helel but Gabriel is not Helel. Admittedly Michael had no way to know they would not be similar in this regard.
"You are indeed," Father says. Helel doesn't look over at Him. Besides, he's already thanked them for the compliment. He dips his wings in acknowledgement.
"Why did you call him 'Gabe'?" Michael asks. At the sound of the nickname Gabriel pauses his lunch to burble pleasantly at Michael, who looks down seriously and nods at him. "Yes, Gabriel, I was talking about you."
Gabriel chitters at Michael, who blinks and glances at Helel and Father in question, but both shrug in incomprehension. Gabriel seems to believe that his message was received loud and clear, though, because he turns back to the spoon. Helel hasn't refilled it for wondering what Gabriel meant. When Gabriel finds it empty, he frowns and makes that short pointed whine. It grates on Helel, who scowls at the manipulation and fetches Gabriel more pudding.
"Helel?" Michael repeats. Helel shakes his head to clear it.
"Hmm? Oh, right, yes. 'Gabe' just seemed to fit. I don't know."
Father's eyebrows meet, shake hands, exchange polite inquiries about their states of being, remark upon the recent nice weather, discover they attended the same summer camp in high school for marching band, date three times, marry while intoxicated, and sue for divorce. Helel counsels them to legally separate first and file proper papers, at which point he snaps back to himself and jumps to reassure his Father.
"I like his name! I love it! 'Gabriel' is excellent! It's stupendous, it's amazing, honestly – "
Father laughs and Helel is, if not forgiven, assured that his offense will be forgotten.
"I do not mind the use-name, Helel. Have no fear. There is a certain ring to it."
Helel is relieved. His wings unknot themselves and finally the diamond structure dissolves into soft feathers, today strewn with the reds of the dawn. He goes back to feed Gabriel, perhaps some bananas now the pudding is running low, but Gabriel's eyes are wide and his jaw is low, ignoring completely the spoon before him.
Gabriel is staring at Helel's wings. Michael grins indulgently. "I know, new one, I feel the same way. I can change my wings, too, but Helel's are so much more interesting, aren't they?"
"At first I never believed him. The priests were too new to get much credence."
Gabriel gives a wondrous nod, neck suddenly strong, head twisting up and down between Michael's face and Helel's wings. He twitters, gurgles, quickly, fascinated. Gabriel's hands rise, reach, and Michael shifts him in his arms to be closer to Helel. When Gabriel keeps reaching, Michael chuckles.
"Okay, I get it. You want Helel. Give me a second, I'll hand you over." What? Wait.
Michael gathers up Gabriel and moves over to place him in Helel's lap. Helel nearly drops the pudding spoon in shock. What is Michael doing? Helel's never held a new angel, what if he drops Gabriel? What if he hurts him? What if Gabriel hits his head on the table or the ground? Is that bad for new angels? Helel's wings are shaking, red dawn vanished behind cloudy black storm clouds, feathers gathered mists.
Michael takes the spoon and places it on the plate which had held pudding. He moves Gabriel slightly this way and that until Gabriel is comfortably situated. "Don't worry, it's fine," Michael promises. "His head doesn't need support any more, I don't think. You won't drop him, and even if you did you're already sitting on the ground. He'll be fine. Come on, show him your wings, he just wants to see them better."
Gabriel might not be Helel, but Michael has the experience required to be calm about this.
Helel takes a deep breath and forces his wings to still. He's tense, storm clouds, mist, until he makes eye contact with Gabriel. Gabriel is unwavering in his faith in Helel. Confidence flows through him, and wings shrink down around Gabriel's puffy white feathered stumps. Storm clouds are red and pink dawn on the hilltops, mist is the scent of magnolias and the texture of springy green moss.
He's careful, very careful, and moves only one muscle. Helel tickles Gabriel's wings as he tickled Michael, and he's restrained and holds back much, but it succeeds now just as it did then.
Gabriel laughs and laughs and laughs, this new high bright giggling sound, and Helel laughs too in sheer, utter joy.
"Finally I said to myself, well, if that priest was wrong no harm done. It's worth a try."
Helel lifts Gabriel up, both hands large around Gabriel's tiny torso. He settles Gabriel into a seat on his forearm, where Helel's wings are much closer and more accessible. Gabriel claps and bats at them as soon as he can. Helel indulges the new one, splaying his wings for Gabriel to tug at and run his small hands through. When Gabriel's pulls are too hard Helel winces and pries Gabriel's fingers looser, hushing admonitions about gentleness. Gabriel's own baby wings flutter nonstop.
While Helel amuses the new one, Michael turns to Father.
"He is wonderful," Michael says. He means it.
Father nods. He watches Gabriel play with Helel. Michael, too, turns his attention to his younger brothers.
Father clears His throat. Michael's eye flick back to Him. Father looks down. Michael's whole body turns back. Father scrutinizes the sea. Michael's wings fold in around him. His back straightens and his mouth flattens.
"I called up a demon, a crossroads demon I know now, though I never did learn its name. It was wearing a body which stood tall, slender, and generically male. The nest of hair upon its head I recall vividly, because it burned."
When five minutes have passed with no sign of speech, Michael starts. "Father?"
Father sighs.
"Father, what is wrong?" Michael persists.
"I need you to look after him for a while," Father says. "I have cleaning in my workshop that needs doing, and he will be very bored. I also need to build. That might not be safe for any of you."
Michael's flat mouth turns into a full mask of blankness. His wings, already still and compact, lose their luster and glare matte gray.
"It asked me, 'Child, do you want to make a deal?'
"I was exhilarated. At last, at last, I could really do this.
"I replied, 'Yes, I do.'
"The demon smiled. 'What do you want?' it asked me."
Helel's been listening. Until now he felt Gabriel was both more important and more interesting. But with Michael so repressed, furious, Helel supposes he ought to do something before there's an altercation. No one would benefit from that.
"We can keep him safe," Helel suggests. He and Michael are indeed more than able to watch over a single angel.
Father smiles over at him. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you."
Helel basks.
"How long?" Michael grates out.
Father looks sharply at Michael, but He speaks calmly. "A few weeks, at most."
"He may not be new anymore after a few weeks."
"He will be." Father states. Omniscience. It's useful.
Helel thinks they should stop scaring Gabriel now. "You were new for what, a decade, Michael? Even that is barely any time at all. I was still new for fifty years, remember? Gabe," pause to let Gabriel chirp in response to his name, "will be new for at least a century if that pattern holds."
"He can grow at any moment," Michael murmurs. He gazes down at Gabriel with despair and premature sorrow etched into the curve of his cheek.
Helel fluffs Gabriel with his wings. Gabriel smiles his baby smile, and Helel says, "He won't."
"I looked it right in the eye, and I said, 'I want the village behind me to die. Everything in it, tonight.'"
Why Michael takes Helel's word but not Father's, he can't explain. He trusts.
Maybe it's because Father has made a new angel, a new son, and left him in Michael's care – again. Not that Michael resents his siblings, Helel and Gabriel are perfect in his eyes, but Father should be there for them like He was for Michael.
Helel supposes this is what's running through Michael's head. It certainly sounds like the resonance his Grace is projecting.
"It blinked at me, its smile lost. 'You wish them dead?'
"I looked at the ground. 'I would like to kill them myself, but I can't. I'd settle for all of their deaths.'
"Then the demon's smile found its face again, wider and redder than before. 'With such a request, I am happy to bind this contract,' it lapped out, speaking through a mouth suddenly fanged like a cat's."
Michael nods at Helel. "Okay. Okay."
"Good," Father says, and He lets sand flow up and around Him as He sinks into the cool layers below. Michael and Helel clearly don't mind the heat, and it's not going to hurt Him, but He appreciates the refreshing sensation.
Michael looks at Father once more. Michael sighs, shakes his head, says, "We'll take good care of Gabriel, Father, I promise."
Michael has said nearly the same thing once before. This time, even as the last time, his Grace warms him within to swear such things. He strides over to the waves, gesturing for Helel to bring Gabriel down to the water's edge. Michael loves water and it is one of the first things he taught Helel.
Helel hesitates and Father is suddenly attentive to him. "Helel?" Michael calls, pausing.
It's not that he doesn't want to play with Michael and Gabriel in the water. It's not that he isn't willing to share Michael's time with Gabriel. It's just … well, the ocean is sandy everywhere and cold and the salt stings his eyes and when the salt dries on him his wings feel tight, stretched, abruptly painful and uncomfortable by turns. And Gabriel is so new, is it really a good idea to take him into that? Besides, the tides, the current, the undertow might scare or endanger Gabriel.
It feels like Father's view of him is shifting and Helel has no idea how he can tell that from the sense of being watched by small dark eyes on his back. Is this a choice he has to make? Is there a test he's unaware of?
Helel is conflicted. He wants to not be in the sand anymore, though he has truly enjoyed today, but using Gabriel to get him out of the sand feels wrong. It isn't wrong, though, is it, when he's just trying to protect the new one. Gabriel might not do well at the beach, there may be sharks in the water or a crab that pinches him, Helel has no desire to hear the new one scream and cry.
It isn't wrong. Helel is doing the right thing here.
"Perhaps the ocean is not the safest place for Gabriel right now," Helel eventually says. Gabriel hums loudly at his name.
Michael frowns. He's considering that. His wings blur around him as he shifts from standing in the swell to standing next to Helel.
Gabriel, from Helel's arms, is concentrating on Helel's wings still. Michael observes him as he flutters his own wings repeatedly, getting more and more excited. Gabriel's little wings are white and very fine fluff, proportioned for his body now, but he's shaking them faster and faster, and then to the collective astonishment of Michael and Helel, Gabriel's wings are speckled gold. They match Helel's hair.
Michael blinks. "While that is impressive, you may be right, Helel. What should we do instead if not show Gabriel the sea?"
"Well … " Helel draws out. This cannot seem too quick, he cannot seem to plan this. "We could, hmm … I suppose … maybe we could teach Gabe to swim after all."
"How?"
"Pools are less dangerous for the unwary and the young," Helel points out.
Michael's mouth moves into a thinking frown. He's not upset, he's just ruminating. "That is very true," he says. "And it would be nice to teach him to swim. The pool it is, I think. Besides which, pools don't involve sand."
Michael winks at Helel, and Helel knows that Michael knows what he did but Michael agreed with him, Helel wasn't doing the wrong thing, Michael thought it was fine.
Father expels air with surprising volume. All three of His sons turn to Him, but Father does not say anything. He buries His head in His hands, and to Helel's sight the multitude of wings He has shudder and lay wrapped around Him in a self-hug.
Michael wants to say something, Helel is confused, and Gabriel is pouting, but Father puts up a hand to stop them all. He sits up straight and shakes His head, and His children know He will not explain.
Michael thought it was fine. Helel suspects Father did not. Furthermore Helel suspects Father is bothered that Michael, Michael who knew, supported Helel despite that.
"It stepped closer to me. 'For the price of your immortal soul, child, I will give you the power to kill every living thing in the village behind you.'"
Helel soldiers on. He has made his choice and he will deal with the fallout personally, here meaning he will go to the pool with his brothers and his Father will want him around even less. Which is difficult to imagine, considering that Father wanted him around so little already that he had been practically given to Michael to raise and Father had seen him for perhaps ten percent of Helel's life. In comparison, when Michael was new Father was there all the time, and even now Father visits Michael often.
Helel resettles Gabriel in his arms for easier transport. The change brings the top of Gabriel's head just under Helel's chin and he impulsively kisses the crown of Gabriel's hair and his tiny golden halo. His own action makes him grin, pleased, and sniff the new one, who smells like nothing he has smelled before but delights his nose and hindbrain.
When he looks up to ask if Michael is ready to go, Michael is staring at him. A strange composure decorates his elder brother's face. Something glints in his eyes; some buried longing slithers out to curl about. It's not sad, not a lament, more a secret unconscious wish for the future. Helel is baffled and raises both eyebrows and wings in question.
Michael snaps out of it and pretends not to see the confusion Helel broadcasts. He gives Father a parting bow of his head and murmurs, "Goodbye."
Helel offers his own farewell politely and Gabriel waves a chubby fist. That brings brief joy to their Father's expression, which has again elected to be intriguing and inscrutable. Helel discerns resignation, budding muted contentment, and threads of pity, sympathy, but no empathy. There's more in that face and Helel doesn't know what it is, nor can he make sense of what he does see.
They leave. Michael leads and Helel carries Gabriel securely.
"I stepped closer too. 'I accept your deal,' I said."
They have left Father sitting on that beach alone. Does Father ever get lonely? Besides His three children, the only other being Helel is aware exists is Death, who Helel does not imagine spends much of his time socializing with Father. Though maybe the two are friends.
"To my surprise, the demon kissed me, and when it pulled away I could taste its blood on my mouth."
At the pool Gabriel is initially wary of getting in the water, but once Michael proves it's entirely safe, he dives out of Helel's arms and splashes absolutely everywhere with a cannonball. Spluttering, wiping his eyes and shaking out his wings, Helel is torn between an impulse to splash Gabriel right back and an urge to snatch the new one out of the water this second because can Gabriel swim? Is Gabriel keeping his head above water? Is Gabriel okay?
Gabriel is, of course, fine. Michael was there to catch him, and new does not mean infantile or ignorant or stupid or oblivious or weak or helpless. New is only new.
Helel squashes the irrational panic and jumps in carefully. He doesn't land on either brother, but he does land close enough to pelt both with tidal waves of displaced liquid. Together the three of them spend a hilarious time at the pool, Gabriel displaying rapid growth each time his older brothers blink, or so it seems.
When they've been at the pool for probably days already Gabriel yawns. His gaping mouth has a tooth cutting through the lower gum that wasn't there two hours prior. Helel is slightly surprised Gabriel hasn't cried about it yet, but he isn't about to push his luck. Michael sees it too, and shares a look with Helel that says clearly: do not mention it. Helel nods his acquiescence and scoops the new angel up. If Gabriel is tired he should sleep. Much like eating, angels do not need to – or Helel and Michael never have – but if the new one wants to, he will. Michael demonstrates two methods for drying off wings: rapid fluttering that induces a cold breeze to blow the drips off or stretching out heated Grace that evaporates the droplets.
Michael leads the path again, and again Helel brings Gabriel securely in his hold. Michael takes them back to the bower Helel and Michael share. It is one, not two joined to be one but truly one, because it has never occurred to Michael or Helel to have separate bowers. Michael warps the bower to produce a sleeping space for Gabriel. While Helel is loathe to call it a nest or a perch, it is rather like a mixture of the two. It's a soft cot suspended in the air with space for Gabriel to stretch out his wings. Michael knows not to put in pillows or blankets yet – Gabriel cannot smother but the concept induces a Grace-deep terror he shudders to suppress – so he lines the bed with feathers he plucks from Helel and himself, for warmth and comfort.
Gabriel nuzzles down into the nest-perch and yawns again, curling his small fingers into patches of donated wing. His eyes close and his breathing evens, but his wings remain speckled gold and his hands do not relinquish their grip on his brothers' feathers.
Helel and Michael stand watch for a long while. They say nothing, but Helel sings in his consciousness and he's rather certain Michael hears, because soon Michael begins to hum the tune in time with Helel's nonverbal ditty.
"Then I hugged it, and I suppose it was shocked, because it squawked like a parrot. I was so happy to be finally able to make them all hurt too."
Father returns for Gabriel some month or so later. Michael lets his pleasure at the late-but-fulfilled promise flare out in his eyes when he answers the knock at the door. Helel is envious, maybe, of the kind of devotion that would bring his Father to raise a son.
Michael and Helel are granted many more opportunities to care for Gabriel over the years of his newness. Once Gabriel has learned to crawl on his own Michael urges him to stand and in short order it is Michael who teaches Gabriel to walk. A week later Father comes to gather up the youngest. His face when Gabriel walks across the meadow to cling to his leg is proud such as Helel has never seen before.
The next time they babysit, Helel allows Gabriel to have two weeks of walking, but then it is Helel who teaches Gabriel to fly. The brothers three race in the air, Michael on swift wings, Helel craftily supporting Gabriel so that it is Gabriel who wins in the end. Michael and Helel cheer and congratulate him, and Gabriel claps and cries out, "Again! Again!"
As they trudge back to the beginning of the racetrack, Helel thinks on all that Gabriel has chosen to learn from his older brothers. New angels are new only so long as the choose to be, and their growth is as they will it, exactly as Gabriel had very suddenly not been an infant anymore so that he could look more like Michael. Gabriel is not adult and mature now, but only by his own volition. Helel is honored to be trusted as this continued newness proves.
Helel does teach Gabriel much and Michael even more, but Helel thinks Gabriel creates a great deal on his own. Already Gabriel has a knack for warping things and breathing movement, false life, into illusions. Yet it was Helel who taught Gabriel to draw an illusion at first, Helel who explained the use of double bodies in strategy, Helel who prompted Gabriel's first word and immediately thereafter his first sentence: "Pudding?" Gabriel had asked, with big brown eyes and gold wings. "Can I have pudding please brother?"
What was Helel supposed to say to that except certainly, right now, let me make some?
Gabriel meet their Father at the door this time. He chatters on at such speed that Father's eyebrows rise in brief confusion. Michael and Helel had discovered that once Gabriel began to speak he did not wish to cease. At all. Even while asleep.
They also discover that Gabriel loves nicknames and uses them frequently. Helel is Lel, Michael is Mike, and to Michael and Helel's great and needless worry, Father is Dad.
"I turned around and walked back to my little village in that green country. I spent the next four hours slaughtering everything in it, some of it literally slaughtering, the way you should slaughter pigs. I could tell you how each one of them died, I remember every smell, every little expression, but that's another long story. Long story short, none of them died well, I got inventive, and it ruined my dress. That was when I learned burning bloody clothes is the best way to go. Some things just don't come out of fabric, like blood, or grass stains, or kidneys."
One day Helel returns from a distant star – he'd had a want to learn the tango and stars make the best dance partners Helel knows – Gabriel is visiting Michael and it truly is a visit, not a sitting, because Gabriel is grown.
His new little brother is all grown up! Helel is torn between joy and sorrow sweet.
Ignoring both frustrations, he greets his brothers and the three share an evening where Gabriel feigns that he does not see Michael and Helel's slight discomfort on his sudden lack of newness, Michael acts as if he has no problems, and Helel's wings shiver each time he looks away and back at Gabriel, suddenly caught by the reminder that Gabriel is now an adult.
When Gabriel gives up this fox and retreats to his castle with his hounds, Helel catches him with wings raised for flight at the door.
'One question,' Helel blurts out.
Gabriel smiles, and this smile is not the wide toothless smile Helel knew so well, this stretches only half his mouth and crooks to make the whole expression barely the far side of a smirk.
'Sure,' he offers.
Helel has always been curious, about everything and nothing. 'Why new and then old? Why never adolescent?'
Gabriel laughs a quiet huffing laugh, and Helel reels inside because that laugh says he will never understand in Gabriel's eyes. 'Can you imagine me with pimples? Come on. I'm already short. Besides, maybe I wanted to be something other than the baby of the family.'
"I stood naked under the stars and closed my eyes. I savored the smell of the dead and the nice quiet evening."
Gabriel is not the last angel to be made. Next is Raphael, who wails like nothing Gabriel ever sounded like even when he tried, but who also finds Gabriel's face hiding game to be the funniest thing in Creation. Helel sometimes, privately, never for very long, really it doesn't count and Raphael is his younger brother he's practically required – Helel sometimes thinks Raphael is a bit of a brat. But then Gabriel was too from time to time, and either way Raphael is the new one. Brat, maybe; brother, yes.
Gabriel spends two days with Raphael before announcing that Raphael is now officially Raph.
Another new one, a sister now; then another sister; then a sibling. Of those three Helel sees quite little. Father is around much more to raise Raphael and those who follow than He was for even Gabriel. It's just Helel He didn't want anything to do with.
More and more and more siblings appear. Father makes angels left and right and sideways. When Father makes the eighth angel and Azrael is specialized, unique, the angel of death packaged complete with her twin the ninth angel, the angel of destruction, she is not as the first seven are. She is Helel's sister but she is lesser all the same, and Father calls those first seven 'archangels' and Helel is filled with a rush of pride. Gabriel ignores his Dad's fancy proclamation and crushes the twins in a hug which they promptly shove their way out of. It's later revealed that neither Azrael nor Abaddon adores their new nicknames: Azy and Aby.
Father makes new angels in big bunches after that. Not singular or twinned only, but clutches, litters, schools, murders, kisses, flocks, flights, swarms, streaks, nests, herds, colonies, troops, droves, armies, clowders, broods, bands, packs, pods, mobs, gangs, gaggles, charms, quivers, prides, fleets, scourges, huddles, exaltations, leaps, casts, parliaments, chatterings, hatches.
It's frankly impossible to successfully con them all into believing he knows each and every one of their names, let alone actually know all those names. He knows many, very many, and if he's given the chance to think he probably can guess a name or a purpose correctly, but it's not an exact science.
That's the thing about all the newbies. Father gave them names and purposes. Take, for example, his baby brother Raphael, who is precisely what his name suggests, the healer, or his baby sister Achaiah, who governs and embodies patience. Gabriel has been promised a purpose and Michael has been declared the commander of the hosts of Heaven.
The newest ones are never new for long. Not that angels are ever helpless or weak or children, but Helel had more of a childhood than most he sees now, and that stitches something shut, because he can feel the tugs of the thread pulling at his skin and the ache of the puncture wound beneath.
"Then the crossroads demon came to get me with a pack of hellhounds. I hadn't known most people ask for a ten year delay in their deals, and I had done nothing of the sort."
So many angels need more than a nest-perch in Michael and Helel's home. They create bowers for each sibling and spend easily a decade working out the complex rules governing how, when, why to attach two bowers and make them as one.
The first four are sparring on the newly laid training fields in front of newly formed garrisons when Gabriel, innocently, asks why Helel was never given his own bower.
'I mean, I get that you guys share,' Gabriel pants, dodging a high horizontal slash from Michael, 'but really, when you get right down to it, Lel's crashing at Mike's place all the time. How do you guys stand that? Don't you want your own space?'
Helel blocks a rather poorly timed stab from Raphael and considers the notion. When next Gabriel and Raphael distract one another with an obvious ploy to take out Helel and Michael simultaneously, the eldest share an uncertain moment wherein Helel can't read Michael for what may be the first time, and he assumes that must mean Michael does want his own space.
Well, if Michael wants to, they can split up, he'll just move out …
The next day Michael and Helel make a new bower, then spend the rest of the day apportioning their things. Who gets Gabriel's nest-perch? Who takes the couch?
Helel, on both counts.
Two weeks pass and Helel is so miserable alone he goes to Michael to beg him to let Helel come home. Michael greets him at the door with thanks to their Father in relieved tears, and soon drools on Helel's shoulder because Michael has been unable to sleep these two weeks.
Michael doesn't need to sleep, but he's gotten used to it because of Gabriel's proclivities, and going without was unpleasant to say the least. Helel breathes Michael in through his hair, sits on their couch in their newly rejoined bower, and smiles.
It is, of course, never the same after. Two joined bowers as one are not one. It's practically the same thing, it shouldn't make any difference, they ought to just go back to the way they were, but it's not quite, it does, and they can't.
"Most people cry, scream, claw the floor to get away from the dogs, and the dogs tear their human bodies to shreds pulling that soul down, still kicking and wailing. Not me. They didn't have to drag me. With my village dead I didn't much care what happened. I went with them willingly."
Father's promise to Gabriel is fulfilled. He is named Father's messenger. Gabriel will speak with the voice of Heaven behind him whensoever he chooses now. Gabriel is not 'the voice of God,' as that is a position not a purpose and Metatron is a title quite neatly placed upon Joshua, but Gabriel carries the word of God with him and his speech rings with Heavenly weight – truths Gabriel announces are truer than other truths. The concept is fascinating and so very Gabriel, who loves wordplay and things like lexicons and syntax and morphology.
The first time Helel hears Gabriel speak with the voice of truth, he instinctively believes every single syllable Gabriel utters, despite their ludicrous nature. 'Raphael is scared of spiders.'
The first time Helel hears Gabriel speak with the voice of Heaven, he is touched by Grace-deep comfort and never looks at Gabriel the same way again. 'We are a family.'
Helel never hears Gabriel speak with the voice of annunciation or sees Gabriel present the word of God.
"I'm not sure what happened to my little village after I left. I certainly never buried any of the bodies. They probably rotted away in the sun or got eaten by crows."
Helel does, you know, love the kid sibs and all that. Honest. No, but honestly honest, he does.
However, their sheer abundance cuts into the time he spends with Michael. Helel can't recall when he last got to just sit alone with Michael, not even for a second.
Helel does not resent this. If he repeats that often enough he might sound convincing when Gabriel or Raphael inevitably calls him on it. He practices in front of reflective metal.
"In Hell I was sent to Alastair early on. My soul-broker had made sure everyone in charge knew exactly what I had sold my soul for. Apparently requesting the power to murder everyone I knew made me a prime candidate for becoming a demon. So Alastair groomed me personally. He always appreciated a good massacre."
What is his purpose?
Helel is haunted by ghosts. He cannot turn a corner or close an eye without apparitions clawing at him or screaming from gashed open throats. Metaphorically.
He is stalked by the questions of why was he made? What is he meant to do? What should he be? And why won't Father tell him? What is Father hiding?
"Demons don't make friends, they make enemies and alliances. The closest you can come to cordial relations is making deals, and somebody has to lose. The thing about deals is they are never truly fair to both sides. They seem like it, but they aren't. Not in the end."
Helel does not suit him. Lucifer is better.
Gabriel calls him Luce and Lucifer privately reflects that if Gabriel ever refers to him with any variant of Luci or Lucey or Luciferous or Luce-a-doodle – he knows his brother – Lucifer will be forced to designate Gabriel 'princess Gabriella the third of marshmallow town, reigning lady of gaudy necklaces.'
Michael always, always, hesitates before he says 'Lucifer.' Michael wants to say Helel. Lucifer is not Helel anymore and Michael doesn't really know why, and Lucifer can't explain it, and when he tries to tell Michael that it's complicated, Michael essentially explodes.
While Michael flees to sulk by sinking himself further into this stupid commander crap, Lucifer retreats, as un-tactically as possible, to their bower. He spends two hours pacing, mulling over worries that Michael won't want to keep their bowers joined and it'll be like those terrible two weeks all over again.
Lucifer brings himself out of that unproductive anxiety by slamming his head painfully against the wall. Several times. He leaves red drips on the floor molding and gray streaks on the paint. It helps. He can think again. He can see it now.
Of course Michael doesn't get it. Of course. Michael will lead the army, but Helel, Helel, oh, he will not be a part of that army, he will not be lieutenant general to his brother, he will be on the other side. That is Lucifer's purpose. He will end it all in fire and ice, because Grace may be flames but he burns cold.
"I think I won my deal with that crossroads demon. My soul was less of a price than I could have paid, looking back with what I know now. And it might just be that now I can't see soul-selling as wrong, but I don't regret anything I did to get here."
Lucifer is Lucifer and he is not Helel. Not anymore. Not now. No, now he is himself again.
His head breaks the surface. He shakes it off. Droplets fly off dripping hair; the sodden vestigial vanity covers his eyes. He brushes the curls away. Oh, no, not curls, not really … Nick doesn't have curly hair …
That's right, he's wearing Nick. He is out and about on the town on the prowl on the hunt for a dashing new suit! He is here and he is now and he has stopped crying.
Looking back, sane, it's funny how little of what he remembered was as it had actually been. Case in point: before their father had shaped the earth, where might he and Michael have gone to the beach? Nowhere with sands like that existed then. Honestly, sometimes his imagination runs wild as a herd of horses. Moreover, the realization of his destiny and the formation of his rebellion against his father were not based solely on one fight with Michael. His older brother might be very important, but Lucifer has never had an unhealthy fixation on him, and the war Lucifer fought was not some petty spat.
"So you see, I know a bit about dead family. I killed mine too."
Lucifer jolts out of Aisling's tale and almost spills the both of them to the ground in his flail. Aisling's looking up at him when he looks down and they agree, wordlessly, to never mention that undignified moment again. Can he be graceless mucky grit on the streets that sticks in the tread of cheap new shoes, certainly; will he ever do so without meaning to, not a chance.
Aisling waits politely for him to gather himself. He does so as quickly as he can; she keeps distracting him by not moving away. She's sitting at his feet, leaning on his legs, and it's so strange to have someone actually touch him – well, his vessel, but she knows it's a vessel, it's his vessel – he has trouble focusing.
He succeeds. "It's no wonder why you make a good demon. You have experience."
"Don't change the subject," Aisling chides. She earns herself a weak red-rimmed glare. She flushes slightly.
"What subject?" He can be as obtuse as he likes.
"Killing family!"
"Oh, that. Right, well, good for you."
Aisling almost smacks Lucifer's knee, but stops herself in time. He raises both eyebrows and she pastes on a fake grin then pats his leg gingerly. She sighs and drops the faux grin. "I meant, you don't need to be so broken up about it. Family isn't always family."
"What?" Tautology is tautology.
Aisling says, "Being related to someone by blood doesn't mean they're family, because being a family is about loving and supporting one another, you know, being there for each other. Blood doesn't always do that, and correct me if I'm wrong, but your blood relatives have been pretty harsh on you."
There's not much he can say to that. Though 'blood relatives' is relative here, given that angels don't actually have blood.
She continues. "They're not your family. We are. Demons. We love you. We support you. You're not alone in this."
He would rather be alone than have demons call him family. This is pathetic and creepy, not touching. Hell clearly warped her.
He tries the tea so she can't expect him to talk. It's very sugary, and lukewarm now. He heats it. The billowing steam settles in Aisling's hair, which frizzes unattractively. She apparently straightens her body's hair. Why does he know that? He doesn't care about that. The tea isn't bad though.
Aisling reaches up to curl her hand around his. She looks right into his eyes with her own held wide and earnest. "You don't have to love someone just because they're blood. You're allowed to make choices. Family is family because you love them, you don't love them because they're family. It's okay."
Aisling is repetitive now; silly, as if anything she's said will start to mean more to him because she says it twice. It doesn't. It doesn't.
Aisling squeezes his hand. "I loved my mother," she says quietly. "I hated her, but I loved her too, because love and hate aren't mutually exclusive."
Alright, he has better things to be doing than sitting here listening to this – but Aisling is ardent.
"It's okay if you didn't love that sibling you killed, because you didn't have to, and it's okay if you did, because you have every right to, and either way it's okay to miss them!"
Lucifer stops. Everything. Moving, breathing, thinking.
He does miss Gabriel. He really, really, does, and he can't regret killing Gabriel because Gabriel'd left him no choice no choice at all but he misses his brother so deeply and it's by his hand that Gabriel is gone – gone –
He must have loved Gabriel, he must have loved more than just Michael, he's never been sure – not since before he changed his name – but now he is, he loved Gabriel and he took that love and used it as a weapon. It's too much, too soon, and Lucifer is bawling again, huge sobs that shake the chair and send the tea and tissues crashing down to the ground where they spill out in a liquefying mess.
Lucifer is barely aware that Aisling carefully stows the chocolate chip cookies far away from the chair to be safe. She pauses then, indecision painting streaks of discomfort and uncertainty across her face, but she goes through with it. There isn't space for two on Lucifer's rickety chair, and she's not brave or stupid enough to clamber onto his lap, which would send all the wrong signals anyway. Aisling secures her arms around his knees and pulls firmly until he crumples off his seat.
He's a wreck, crying on the dirty floor. She lifts from his armpits and tugs and twitches and resettles various and sundry appendages. She stops when she's holding him like she saw Saibh's mother hold her when Aisling came in the dark that night. Like Aisling can protect him from the world forever, she can kiss booboos better, she can chase away monsters.
She rubs his back and rocks him back and forth, the way she always wanted to be. He snorts and snuffles and cries about the sibling he'd killed, and she croons a lullaby between murmuring 'hush,'es and soothing 'I'm here,'s. Her song is fragmented and broken, pieces cobbled together far poorer than an elf might offer, stolen from old memories of others' mothers, one verse bleeding into the next's chorus; she sings like she speaks, high-pitched, emotive, irritating; but it's a lullaby and he's crying.
"Can ye sew cushions, an can ye sew sheets? Hush a bye bairnie, hush a bye dear; does wee lammie ken that yer daddy's no here? The wild wind is ravin', but ye dinna care … hush-a-baa-baa, me treasure dear; dey'll naebody hurt thee whin mam is near … come away, o human child! To the waters and the wild, with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand … the water is wide, I can't cross over, and neither have I wings to fly; but love grows old, and waxes cold, and fades away like morning dew; I know not how I sink or swim … my bonnie lies over the sea; last night as I lay on my pillow, I dreamed that my bonnie was dead; my bonnie lies over the ocean, oh bring back my bonnie to me … "
He sobs; then he coughs, hiccoughs; then he sniffles, rubs his face; then it's over and he's done.
It's been two hours.
Lucifer is aware now. His head feels stuffy but calm and clearing. Perhaps that is just what he needed to get back into the swing of things. He only needed to sit down and really let it all out. Aisling has been wonderful.
He's still wrapped up in Aisling's tender embrace, and it's nothing at all like wings. His own are – it's a bad feather day, it has been since he fought Michael. That's the best way to put it. Without using words like 'scars,' or 'melted,' or 'pus.' He doesn't think about them much now. Thinking about necrotic flesh doesn't breathe health back into it. Out of mind, out of sight. He doesn't let them out much now. Human vessels can usually handle it, yes, but Lucifer has been having such trouble securing Sam Winchester's acquiescence that he just cannot justify needless risk.
Sam Winchester is him, him as he might have been if born to humans, him as he might have been in some other life, him as he never wants to be, because demon blood, well, it's an abomination.
Which reminds him, he's wrapped up in the arms of a demon right now; and yes, in some ways she's family because he created demons, so despite the fact that, unlike humans, demons are not all related, in some ways she's like his great-great-great-etcetera-granddaughter. Not that he considers Lilith a daughter. That would be disturbing. She's more like a painting he spilled ink all over and called finished in an art-nouveau, avant-garde, formalist, expressionist, abstract, individual way.
It was much easier to handle his own psyche in Hell. Being unable to actually speak to anyone meant he wasn't expected to, and thus never had to worry about when he lost his train of thought (he'd been doing so well! He'd had a purpose, and a plan, and it was all going so well! But this infernal catharsis had thrown him off; well, he's not going to let that stand! He will rise again) or being interrupted by anyone in his head. Which of course only holds him.
He's being held.
Lucifer shakes his skull until he can feel the brain within smack each side and deform slightly. Bruises made of fresh deadly blood start forming. Intracranial hemorrhage. The distraction of healing that centers him again. He needs at least two trains of thought or the station has issues with signage.
He takes stock. His chair has toppled over in the commotion. The tissues have entirely been consumed by the evaporating beverage, now spread, darkly pooled, about the floor. The cookies, he notes with little interest, are set next to the door. Aisling's sprawled on the floor, curled around him, as he is around her; his arms are looped around her neck, her collarbone is wet.
He just spent two hours crying in Aisling's arms.
That is unacceptable.
He looks down at Aisling. She's served him faithfully, if not well. She's always tried, he knows that. She made him tea and cookies. She sang for him. She knew him well enough to predict this breakdown. She knows him too well.
Aisling blinks up at him. She smiles at his clear face, his dry eyes.
He snaps her neck and smothers her instinctive attempt to flee the body. It's like chloroform. Less acid burns, more death. Morphine overdose. She's gone quick and easy.
He makes sure it doesn't hurt.
Lucifer stands up and discovers he's still clutching Gabriel's sword somehow. It's inexplicable, improbable, that his Grace could keep track of the sword while he was so out of it. It's a mi – no. No, it isn't.
Lucifer stares down at the body on the floor and the body in his hands. They both are, as much as either is. Gabriel's sword is not the whole of his remains and yet it is; Aisling's latest vessel is not the sum of her corpse but it must be.
Aisling, no, Aisling's vessel, is slumped on the ground. The pose she lies in is awkward. In life she never would have settled into that. Her back bends over at an odd angle and the curve of her spine makes a roadbump in the room. Gabriel's vessel had had a leg bent up and an ashy wing outline tossed atop a hotel buffet table.
He's tired of killing people he doesn't plan to. If only they wouldn't get in his way …
This is what war costs him. It's worth it. Nobody's ever asked, but if they did, he'd say it's worth it.
What are a few bodies here and there, when he's fighting for freedom?
When he's fighting for the liberation of a species subjugated and enslaved by an abusive parent?
They're nothing. This is what the war has cost and mortgage payments will only rise with the steep interest rate he borrowed at.
Gabriel's sword is in his hand. He removes the sheath, lays the blade out on his palms. He closes his fists tight around the edges, and they shy away from injuring him. With Gabriel's consciousness departed, the sword acts as Gabriel's Grace did without direction: it would never harm the brother Gabriel had never wanted to hurt.
Lucifer opens his hands. The sword hasn't changed. They all look like this, in vessels; the short silver gleams its default shape. One sword is as another is as another.
Lucifer looks at it and wonders, was it worth it, Gabriel? He can't ask, but he wonders nonetheless, was dying worth it to save that girl? One girl? Lucifer wouldn't have damaged the Winchesters, not then, he knows how to be patient; he has practice.
Well, this hasn't ended yet and if he has anything to say about it, it won't end well, but at this second all's well.
That's enough. He's wasted plenty of time on emotional baggage that he should have just checked at the gate, but now with only his drug-free carry-on he's ready for this flight to leave. He looks at the sword one minute more, just one last minute more.
Then Lucifer lets go of the sword. He has a world to raze.
The sword's gone. No more magic pacemaker for it. He picks his way through the mess strewn on the floor. These may not be great shoes but there's no occasion for tracking muck all around and leaving an easy trail to follow.
At the door he pauses. There's a white wax paper bundle sitting by the door post. It's the uneaten chocolate chip cookies.
Aisling made those cookies. She'll never make cookies again.
He takes the cookies with him on his way out.