Author's Notes: So I have a job now, a second job and no free time. I'm a middle class kid, right out of high school and I have practically no summer. I'm not complaining about the jobs, I love them both and I love the money they're bringing me, but I have to hate them on principal.

Here's your chapter. The fourth is in storage while chapter five is being compiled.

Chapter 3: Normalcy

Angela's Apartment, Los Angeles

The door creaked softly, heavy with spells and newly-applied magicks. Under his hand, the brass doorknob was cool and smooth, not unlike Gabriel's ancient trumpet, which he had so lustrously played not so long ago. Not long enough, Michael thought bitterly, the fallen one was still alive and wandering about this plane.

His secondary duty as a human here was to hunt the traitor down, his orders from higher authority and his recruitment by way of an almost explicit amount of payments from the typically opposing party. As a spy, he could serve both sides and keep his own record clean, though his warrior's heart was repelled with the idea of service to any cause but his own. Even from other angels, he did not take to orders well. He never considered himself a soldier, and sometimes he felt he was the only one who could discern the difference.

Uriel would understand. Uriel understood everything. Filarial would have to take him to Uriel, he would make it so. Unlike other angels sent to earth, he had not been relieved of a large portion of his power. He hadn't understood until he had arrived and slipped out of his first year and a half of utterly human confusion that he would, indeed, need that power to keep track of his charges and fend off what he often thought of as 'predators', the terminology used to settle his human half when it rose against his duty to kill. He didn't like being human sometimes, he didn't like wrestling control from the grasp of the Constantine's child, whom he had possessed and bound himself with for both of their survival. Without the child, he wouldn't have a vessel and John would most certainly have thrown him from the window. In some strange sense, the man had known that on one level or another, Michael was still his son.

Without Michael, the baby wouldn't have survived its first few precious hours. Born with a heart deficiency that only magic could heal, the child's spirit had submitted easily to the terms of their agreement and grew easily alongside the strength of his angel half, combining them until they were no longer separate entities. On occasion, he would have a dual sensation of different opinions raging within him, but for the most part, there was harmony.

Filarial was standing outside, smiling nastily. Though she had always been quite tall, he felt unusually dwarfed standing in front of her. Her dark eyes flickered in recognition, sharp has he remembered and always full of challenge. She was a wartime spirit, who thrived on strife, personal or international. On all levels, she was the last angel he would've liked to appeal to at this moment. She thought that his venture into the human world would weaken him, make him soft. With the trembling he felt in his knees, he was momentarily inclined to agree.

"Michael," she greeted, her voice gruff and deep, "You've shrunk since we last spoke."

"Spare me the formalities, girl," he snorted derogatorily. He had to set his place in her mind, again. If he didn't stand up to her as his proper ranking, she'd look down on him for centuries. Though he didn't like the way she was glaring at him for his remark.

"I would invite you in, but I need you to go and fetch Uriel," he continued.

"I'm here for an execution, Michael, I'm no one's fetch dog."

Michael smiled darkly, his other hand gripping the handle of his spelled knife behind his back.

"On the contrary, Filarial, you're my fetch dog," he corrected, making a shooing motion with his free hand, "Shoo. And don't come back without Uriel or expect a rather unpleasant greeting next time."

She couldn't refuse him. She was only a lower Angel, while he was an Archangel. He held the power at the moment, if only by diplomacy. She opened her mouth to retort, thought better of it, and turned to go, fuming silently. Her broad shoulders disappeared into the elevator and Michael waited until he sensed her leave the building before he let out his breath. He stepped back into the apartment and shut the door quietly.

John was watching him, both a little shocked and a little proud. The look filled the boy's chest with unhindered warmth and he couldn't suppress a small smile. He queasily walked back to the table and climbed onto his chair, setting the knife down on the varnished wood in front of him and letting his face down into his folded arms.

"I've bought us some time," Michael said from inside the dark safety of his arms, "Now I have to think of a realistic reason to protest your execution."

"Uriel isn't easily swayed," John pointed out, matter-of-fact.

"Uriel lets some things slip by, for me at least. After all, he's been my best friend since Lucifer's fall; certainly he can allot me one more favor. He enjoys holding debts over my head," Michael sighed as he sat up and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach like a freshly fed elder. John looked at him, one brow frowning in curiosity.

"How much do you owe him?" the man asked. Michael flashed a dreadful look at him.

"Too much."

He could see his father's slight shiver and nodded vaguely.

Right thing, he should be afraid. Uriel was both his friend and his most dire opponent. They clashed as often as they agreed, sometimes changing sides of issues within moments of declaration. Sometimes they did it to slake their lust for battle, as their first instinct was to wage war rather than a younger angel's urge to strive for peace; sometimes it was to keep them in practice for what their experienced souls prophesized as the next great skirmish. There were always wars to fight, reasons to argue.

He just hoped his once closest companion would not abandon him now, when he was so desperate to save something for the first time in his existence. To have his father's blood on his hands…

His family was the only thing he'd ever wanted to protect since his first thought, his first breath of life, when he'd opened his eyes upon the face of God. He would die for God; he would die for his family. God could protect God well enough. His family, though, was precious and fragile, like a glass sculpture.

One breath to the sculpture, and it's spindly, multicolored beauty shattered into a million tiny fragments, fragments he was sure he could never pick up again.

Sometimes he thought he was put here so he would appreciate the human life.

Sometimes he thought it was out of spite.

"I sense them," John said softly, putting his newspaper down on the tabletop. He hadn't been reading since Michael had stiffened a few minutes ago. The boy was still silent; his chair turned to face the window, and didn't move until there was a knock on the door. John jumped a little in his chair, but Michael only slid from his seat and quietly padded to the door.

"Hello, Uriel," Michael greeted with false enthusiasm, "You can come in, but leave your pets out here."

"Polite as ever, Michael…" the archangel Uriel hummed gently, his voice like summer evenings, as he moved inside and Michael closed the door behind him. John started to his feet and nodded his head at Uriel out of respect. Uriel smiled and nodded back.

The archangel was tall, rail thin and androgynously beautiful, much like Gabriel, but black-haired and green-eyed. His clothes were of Renaissance style and a long saber was swinging at his hip when he moved. His wings were folded in brown-speckled glory at his back.

Michael sat down at the table and pulled his mug of milk over. Uriel joined him and John followed suit. All watched Michael silently, but the boy didn't speak. He sipped his milk loudly and with the vigor of a child, ignoring the other two completely until the mug was completely empty and upside down over his mouth. When he put the mug back on the table he looked at the two of them as if he had no idea why there were there.

"I was working on a very detailed case when I was called, I expect this to be important," Uriel growled, obviously irritated, but not enough to be angry.

"How much for his life?" Michael asked, straight to the point. Uriel looked a little confused and Michael motioned at his father. Uriel appeared as if he were going to start laughing.

"I don't believe I understand…"

"How much to save his life, stop the execution, exmay the curtains, if you may?"

"You're for real?" Uriel asked, disbelief apparent in his shocking green eyes.

"Real as the hair on my ass."

"You've no gift for romantic language…"

Michael tapped his fingers on the table, impatient. "Well?"

"I'm sorry…but I can allow-"

"Don't give me that bullshit Uriel, everyone can be bought!" Michael snapped, his voice powerful in the tiny Formica kitchen. Even Uriel paused. "Tell me how much and get the hell out of my house!"

"My house," John corrected softly. The two angels looked at him as if he'd appeared out of thin air. Michael narrowed his eyes, effectively silencing him.

"I can't, Michael."

Michael changed tactics lighting fast, going from angry to pleading in less time than it took to steal a car. The boy was out of his chair and grasping Uriel's hand before John's eyes could even follow.

"Please, Uriel. I've never asked for a life, but he's needed here. I'm dead serious; Angela can't handle everything here on her own…"

"You're here…"

"If you take him, then there's going to be a lot of H-E-double hockey sticks down here, more than we can deal with alone."

"H-E what?"

"Please, Uriel!"

There was silence for a few beats, where the two looked at one another, considering the next thing to do. It ended when Uriel sighed once, heavily and slipped his hand out of Michael's smaller grasp. Michael knew he'd won for now, but he didn't show it. He didn't even smirk.

"You've bought some time, then. But don't think this is going to go unpaid, Michael."

Michael smiled almost innocently as led Uriel to the door. "Of course, Uriel…"

As soon as the door closed, Michael punched air and whooped.

Angela was talking the moment she hit the door, groceries in both arms and cell phone wedged between chin and shoulder. She was directing, cursing and some other things both boys ignored as they stuck their heads in the paper shopping bags, looked around and switched. John silently helped Angela stock the cabinets and refrigerator and Michael looked on, feeling as pleased with himself as he had all day.

John still couldn't help identifying the kid with Angela's cat.

John gave his wife a kiss when she hung up the phone and went back to cooking supper, which involved ripping the box open, dumping the food on a plate and punching numbers into the microwave. Angela gave Michael a hug as she passed him on the way to the master bedroom.

"So we finally closed a case, the one on the drug dealers, remember?" she said as she kicked off her shoes and changed into her pajamas, "But we got a new one right after that, so I've got Carlos working on some prints for me, but he keeps complaining that they were partials. It isn't my fault, though, because the C.S.I.'s were supposed to get them. And-" she continued for several minutes later.

Angela changed and make-up free sat down in a chair across from Michael and smiled at both her boys.

"So, what did you two do today?" she asked.

They looked at one another for a split second, deciding to resort to a classic excuse. It didn't do to worry Angela, she was busy.

They shrugged.

"Nothing much," John said as he pulled the nuked suppers out of the microwave and dropped them on plates.

"I learned to tie my shoes," Michael said with a smile. Angela smiled back and forked her supper.

"That's great! We'll get you some big boy shoes this weekend, then. How's that sound, sweetie?" she said cheerfully, easily pretending she had a normal family waiting for her at home. It was easier to deal with, John was sure.

Michael didn't skip a beat.

"Okay."

Fin Chapter 3

Please Review

Author's Notes: Its 64 degrees in my room. It's June and it's 64 degrees in my room!

To My Readers:

IssayI made someone's day. That's unusual. (feels praised)

fanficgeekI can't stop writing this fic with such great reviews! And it's interesting…

Sorry about the errors. I get lazy with editing after the second or third run through.

And I'm not sorry about the cliffhanger. How else could I get you guys to come back?

Hey: Sweetheart, if you had read the author's notes in previous chapters, you would know that I am not writing this based on the movie, but the novelization of the movie which is based on the very famous comic Hellblazer.

Thanks for the feedback anyway.