The following fic is something I cooked up one night, and then spent several weeks establishing on. I can't say as to whether or not anyone will like it, here's hoping you do. For the record, this is completely UNrelated to my other Kevin Smith/View Askew fic, Life Askew. Please review if you read. Thanks!
KarasumaFirestorm
Disclaimer: No one mentioned (except for Isabella and a few angels) belongs to me, I guarantee it. So don't sue, you won't get much.
AFTERSHOCK
White lights. Everywhere, white lights. The young man blinked furiously and tried to focus. He'd seen this light before. He knew it. Was he actually back..?
"Young man, Caucasian, age approximately late twenties..." a female voice barked.
He was older than that, he thought. Much older.
"...No identification, no distinguishing features..."
As if a blood stained silver breastplate and ragged, bloody wing stumps weren't distinguishing. But he couldn't feel the stumps, he realized. The encompassing pain of losing his wings was overshadowed by an intense, searing, white-hot ache in his side.
"...Suffering from an intense stab wound in his solar plexus..."
LOKI
Slowly the room came into focus. The endless white light began to form shapes as his eyelids fluttered. He was on a gurney, moving quickly through the hallways of a glistening white hospital. He groaned softly. The pain was so great, he almost wished he was dead. But what would he face should he die? Heaven? Hell? Wisconsin again? There was only so much a guy could take.
Loki.
This voice wasn't coming from around him, it was reverberating inside of his head. He knew this voice. It was the Metatron.
"Where am I?" Loki groaned, his voice barely audible. He tried to force his eyes open, but his lids were so heavy...
You're in a hospital, Loki. In greater New Jersey.
"Am I dead?" he muttered. Above him, the nurses wheeling him about exchanged worried looks as their patient spoke.
"No, honey, you're not dead," one said softly. "You're going to be just fine."
But Loki didn't hear the words of comfort. All he could hear was the Voice of God.
The nurse is right. You're very much alive, Loki, and human.
"I must be. I feel pain. So much pain," he whimpered, tears building, "so much."
Try to keep calm, Loki. You'll be alright. If you must know, He has the best of the best working on you.
Loki hacked painfully. "In New Jersey?"
"Yes, dear, you're in New Jersey State Medical," the nurse said helpfully, wheeling him into a room. She and the other nurse moved him carefully onto the bed. "I'm just going to put you in here, I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
Nod, Loki. When she's gone, we may talk freely.
Though it pained him to do so, the former Angel of Death weakly nodded his head. The nurses smiled and exited, shutting the door behind them and efficiently cutting off the excess noise of the hospital.
Suddenly, in a flash of light and flames, the Metatron appeared at the foot of Loki's bed. Half-smiling, he sat down. "How are you feeling?"
Loki coughed loudly. "Like hell," he said weakly, his voice raw.
"I can imagine. You've had quite the experience."
"What happened? Those people...the innocents..." he coughed again, "Bartleby..."
"They've all been dealt with. Things have gone back to normal as if the ceremony had never taken place. And rest assured, it never will. At least, not at this particular church. You were sent here to recover."
"My wings..." Loki choked out, reaching over his shoulder one-handedly and trying in vain to find what was left of his precious wings. "My wings...where are they?" He was near hysteria.
"Bartleby cut off your wings, remember?" the Metatron said patiently. "God saw fit to remove all examples of their existence so as not to cause you problems when you were admitted here. Remember, no one knows about yours and Bartleby's exploits at the church. It was erased from time. These poor, senseless meat puppets, so easily duped, merely think you were mugged."
"What happened to Bartleby?" Loki started crying, partially from the pain, and partially from the thought that God was so kind to him, when he'd been so cruel.
"Bartleby was killed. The mighty voice of God was too much for his human form to take."
"So he finally became mortal?" Loki said, kind of pleased that Bartleby's plan had been executed beautifully.
The Metatron nodded and rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately. One of the prophets had a temporary mental lapse --I have a feeling it was more than temporary-- and flat-out shot Bartleby's wings off."
Loki winced. Losing one's wings was the most horrible experience ever. He wished it on no angel. Not even Bartleby, after all he'd done. He could feel Bartleby's pain as his own as he thought about it.
"I'm so sorry..." Loki whispered. It was an apology meant for Bartleby. Loki wasn't even sure if he'd done anything to apologize for, but he was flooded with sorrow and just wanted Bartleby to be safe and happy, wherever he was.
"We know," Metatron said.
Loki shook his head with some effort. "No. Bartleby..."
"He understands," the Voice said gently.
"Is he alive? Is he okay?"
"He's..." Metatron faltered, and looked about the room at the different medical apparatuses. "He's outside the Gates, Loki."
Loki sat up straight in bed and glared at the Metatron. He was so angry, he managed to ignore the pain. "Why? How could you do this to him?"
"I did nothing of the sort," the Voice said irritably, "you should be taking this out with your Creator, not me."
Loki didn't hear. He jabbed his finger at Metatron, eyes wild with fury. "He was crazy! He didn't mean anything he did, you know he didn't! Let him back in, God damn it! That was all he wanted, that was all he wanted!" Loki was breathing hard, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He promptly collapsed against his pillows and passed out.
Metatron rolled his eyes. "Not this again," he muttered, and opened the door to the room so that someone could see the poor boy in a state of distress.
"The patient in twelve-oh-two!" a passing nurse yelped, and the Voice took that as his cue to leave.
BARTLEBY
Bartleby yawned and stretched out his legs, eyeing the long line of dead, waiting for Judgment. Being outside of the Gates totally sucked, but he was getting used to it.
Every morning Saint Peter passed by him, smiled and gave an encouraging hello, almost as if he didn't know what Bartleby had done, as if they were the same old friends they'd been back in the days Loki was still Angel of Death.
The angels, from the conversations Bartleby heard on the inside, were divided on the subject of the Grigori's punishment. Some thought it was far too nice, that Bartleby should be roasting with the likes of Azrael and Lucifer by now. They, Bartleby thought ruefully, didn't have to deal every day with the burning guilt of having gutted their best friend. The other half remembered Bartleby and Loki from back in the day, when they were 'good kids', just doing their jobs. They'd thought the exile was unfair at the time, and the separation of the two was even more unfair, apparently.
Bartleby watched dully as Saint Peter admitted one human after another. His heart swelled when he heard stories of the good some of them had done. It made him wonder precisely why he had snapped and wanted to destroy them all. Now all he wanted, all he wanted in the world, was Loki by his side again.
"Did you hear?" one of the angels was saying on the other side. "They finally got ahold of Loki."
Instantly Bartleby perked up. He sat up straighter, crossing his legs Indian style instead of slumping against the wall like a drunk in an alley. "The Almighty removed his wing stumps to make him fully human," Bartleby heard. "He's at a hospital in New Jersey. The Grigori sliced him up pretty bad."
Bartleby winced. He'd stab himself if he could, if it could undo everything he'd done.
"The Voice went down to visit him, and Loki just went crazy," the angel told his friend. "Those meat-puppets and their meds, it nearly killed the poor boy. From what I hear, he just lost it and started screaming at the Voice."
"What about?" the second angel inquired in a smooth, melodic voice.
"What else? The Grigori." There was a pause. "Poor Loki seems to think Bartleby should just be admitted back into Heaven. As if it was that easy."
"I'm fascinated by all this," said the second. "How many times are they going to get themselves kicked out of Heaven? Are they that naive?"
Bartleby shook his head as the voices faded away, and he slumped down once more, eyes absently following a human inside Heaven. "Just homesick," he murmured. "Oh, Loki...if only you could hear me. If only I could tell you how sorry I am."
If only I could tell you how sorry I am...
Loki awoke to Bartleby's voice echoing in his head. The divine powers were gone, but some residue still remained, and he could hear his partner faintly. It was because of his memories and his heritage that he knew he was actually hearing Bartleby in his mind, though he doubted Bartleby knew he could.
"Bartleby," he whispered, trying desperately to summon some ethereal ability to contact Bartleby in his head. "I forgive you. I forgive you!"
But there was no answer. Just the empty pain of being alone. He wanted to talk to God. Christ, he'd take the company of anyone celestial right now. A muse, an apostle, an angel...anyone. He just didn't want to be alone right now.
As if answering his silent prayers, the nurse from before walked in the room and shut the door. "Hi. How are you doing?"
"Fine," Loki lied. He didn't want to be around a human. They wouldn't understand his pain. They only knew physical ache. They didn't know the eternal pain of betrayal, and loss, and--Oh, God, he just wanted to go home!
"You don't look fine," the nurse said, sitting on the bed and noting the tears welling in his blue eyes.
"I don't need any more drugs, if that's what you're thinking," he said darkly, blinking back the tears. The last thing he needed was to have a breakdown in front of this human.
To his surprise, the nurse smiled. "I'm off-duty. I won't give you any drugs unless you ask," she promised. She extended her hand. "I'm Isabella."
He stared at the hand for a moment, then slowly shook it. His hands were callused and rough and cold against her smooth warmth. "I'm Lo--Larry," he said, using the name he'd given Jay and Bob on the train. On the train. It seemed eons ago, though in the span in which he'd existed, it was only a second, a brief flash of memory.
Isabella nodded. "It's so sad what happened to you," she said. "Do you remember anything?"
Loki remembered a lot of things, but he shook his head, wanting to know what the humans thought they knew. Isabella sighed, and looked away as if the story was much too painful for even her to relate. "Well, they --an elderly couple out for a morning jog-- found you facedown in the street outside of the church." She swallowed. "You were mugged."
It took a considerable amount of effort, but Loki managed to shrug nonchalantly. "Coulda been worse."
Isabella smiled weakly at him. "That's the spirit. You could have been killed."
Loki smiled back, but deep down he was thinking death was a far better alternative to this. At least he could see Bartleby again. "Do they...do they know who did this?" he asked. Of course he knew who did it. How could he not? Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by it. He saw the crazed look in Bartleby's eyes as he leaned in, softly caressing the back of Loki's neck, and then effortlessly and thoughtlessly plunging his knife in Loki's side. He wondered if he'd have that wound forever. The physical one, at least. The mental one certainly wasn't going away any time soon.
"I know what you're thinking," Isabella said.
You can't possibly know what I'm thinking, Loki thought spitefully. Not unless she was a celestial, and even if she was, he wasn't. Not anymore.
"You're wondering when you're getting out of here," she continued.
Loki blinked. That had actually been pretty close.
"Well, your vitals are sub-par if nothing else. After this morning's little episode, the hospital personnel aren't totally sure what to do with you. They think you have some sort of mental trauma."
Mental trauma. That was one way of putting it.
"Well, I have to go, my break's almost up." Isabella rose to her feet, and smirked at him. "I can't believe I wasted my time on you instead of going to get a donut or something."
Loki, despite himself, grinned. "Well, I suppose I'll owe you a donut when I get out of here, okay?"
"That's a deal," she said, and left.
Loki groaned and tried to sink into his pillows. Making deals with the humans? Who did he think he was? Lucifer?
A sigh racked his body, making everything, especially his stomach, ache. Even more than he wanted to talk to Bartleby, he missed God. It wasn't fair! Bartleby had been the one to go crazy, and at least he was forgiven and got to go back up. He'd gotten to see God. He wasn't in Heaven yet, no, but he was a lot closer than Loki. All Loki had gotten was a big scar and a headache.
He knew now how Bartleby had felt in the car garage. Jealous. Except Bartleby had been jealous of the humans, and Loki was jealous of Bartleby.
Bartleby missed God. More than anything, more than missing Loki, more than the guilt, more than the whispers of the other angels behind the Gates, more than watching the humans pass through, more than Saint Peter's false cheerfulness, the worst part of this punishment was not being able to see God. He had to receive his sentence from Metatron, because he was mortal now.
And speaking of which, being mortal sucked. Especially if all he was doing was sitting and watching people go in and out. Up and down. Of course, he was a Grigori, a watcher, so he was used to it, but this wasn't nearly as much fun, without the ethereal benefits.
"Saint Peter, may I have a word?"
Bartleby looked up, pulled out of his reverie. He knew that voice. Everyone in Heaven knew that voice. It was The Voice. And the Metatron was standing off to the side, conversing with Saint Peter softly enough that Bartleby couldn't hear. Finally they stepped away from each other, and Bartleby seized this brief opportunity. He jumped to his feet and jogged over to Metatron.
"Can I...can I talk to you?" he said nervously. The last time they'd spoken, the Voice hadn't been terribly pleased with the Grigori.
"I suppose you don't have much else to do," the Metatron noted, and sighed. "Fire away."
"I want to see Loki," Bartleby stated. "Please, sir. I know I don't deserve this, but all I ask is that you let me see Loki. I just want to tell him how sorry I am."
"I'm sure he knows, Bartleby," Metatron said dryly, but upon seeing the look on Bartleby's face, relented. "All right. I'll put in a word for you, but that's it. Don't expect anything more."
"Thank you!" Bartleby said, sinking to his knees in utter relief. "Thank you so much."
"I said I'd talk to Him. I'm not making any promises."
It was night. His sixth, his seventh night there, Loki didn't know. He hated it here. Lying in that bed, with nothing to do. The TV only had three channels, and one of them was static. So he found himself watching soap operas all day long. He was escorted to the bathroom twice a day, and had to use a bedpan all other times. His first few days he was only just getting used to having digestive organs and soiled the sheets several times. But now things were under control, though his dignity was ultimately long gone.
Isabella came in to check on him every now and then, and often stopped by to say goodbye before she went home. Her schedule was fairly erratic, so whenever she popped in it was quite the surprise. She was the only one in this godforsaken building that Loki liked. Once a day he was approached by an official of some sort --nurse, doctor, social worker, police officer-- a different one every day, asking him personal details. Apparently it had gotten to some higher ups in the local medical field that Loki --'Larry'-- was a confused young man, suffering brain damage, and possible amnesia, as he didn't remember anything past his own first name. Of course, Loki remembered everything that had happened to him since his conception, all those eons ago, but he didn't dare tell them that, for fear that they'd put him in a mental facility. Loki was a lot of things, but he wasn't that stupid.
The wing of the hospital Loki resided in was one for the long-term patients, and was pretty quiet at nights. Loki could count on several hours of uninterrupted thought. He preferred to sleep during the day and avoid the constant questioning if he could.
So Loki wasn't expecting his door to swing silently open that night, nor was he expecting the shadowed figure that entered the room and sat on the chair in the corner. Loki feigned sleep, all the while watching his visitor and trying to anticipate the next move.
It was a full five minutes before the visitor moved from the chair to the edge of Loki's bed. And then Loki realized who it was. "Bartleby..?"
A light came out of nowhere, dimly illuminating the two fallen angels so they could look upon one another. Bartleby nodded, his face drawn and pale, tears in his eyes. "Yes, old friend. It's me."
Loki wasn't sure what to do. He stared at his friend for a long time, unblinking, and then finally threw his arms around the other's waist and squeezed. "I've missed you."
"And I you," Bartleby said, his voice thick with emotion.
Loki laughed shortly. "And you say I have a penchant for the dramatic."
Bartleby didn't smile, he didn't even blink. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," Loki said, coughing, and leaned back against the pillows once more, as if they could swallow up his pain, which was evident on his face, physical and emotional. Bartleby's heart contracted. "I'm so sorry," he breathed, and despite himself, reached out and began to stroke Loki's hair.
Loki closed his eyes and began to cry silently. Both men sat in the dark and silence, sobbing to themselves. "Whatever happened to us?" Loki whispered.
"Too much," Bartleby said darkly. "Far too much."
"I forgive you, you know."
Bartleby shook his head. "I don't deserve your forgiveness."
"Maybe not, but you have it."
They were silent for a long time. "It's late," Bartleby said softly. "I should get back."
"You're going to leave me?" Loki whimpered, grabbing Bartleby's hand. Having his friend back was almost too good to be true. He didn't want Bartleby to leave him here alone with the doctors and the questions and Days of Our Lives...
Bartleby wrenched his hand free and stood up. "I have to. I had to fight to come down here, I didn't think God would ever--"
Loki bolted upright in bed. "You talked to God?"
Bartleby stared at him. "Of course not. I had to ask Metatron."
"And Metatron passed the message along for you?" Loki demanded.
"Well...yeah." Bartleby smiled.
To his surprise, Loki looked infuriated. "WHY?" he screamed.
"Why what?"
"Why you and not me? Why do you get to go back up to Heaven while I stay here in New Jersey?"
"I don't get to actually go to Heaven," Bartleby pointed out irritably.
"You're closer than I am," Loki said shortly. "You got to see God. That was more than I ever got."
"Now, Loki, I don't think that's fair."
"Of course it's not fair. Nothing about this is fair. I did what I was made to do, and I got punished for it. You went against everything you were created for, and you still got to go up. Sure, you're not back in yet, but it's only a matter of time, and we both know it. I may be stuck in here forever."
A bright light surrounded Bartleby's form, and illuminated the tears on his cheeks. "Loki. It's not like that."
"You're His favorite, Bartleby."
"That's not true."
"I hate you."
Bartleby stared. "Don't say that. You don't mean that."
"Don't tell me what I don't mean."
"You can't mean that."
"I can and I do."
"I..." Bartleby choked, "I have to go."
"Maybe I'll get lucky and you won't come back."
Bartleby opened his mouth, presumably to reply, but he was gone.
Loki lay down again, exhausted. He was asleep before he could cry.
METATRON
He'd never questioned his creator's word before. But sitting here, seeing the dejected angels, it was almost too much for him to bear. He'd known them since their conception, pretty much. Bartleby lay slumped by the Gates, he hadn't moved in days now. Down on Earth, Loki had been moved to a mental hospital because he hadn't spoken since Bartleby's visit, and was prone to just staring into space, unmoving for hours on end.
They needed each other, Metatron speculated. Loki had been rejected by God (or so he thought), and Bartleby had been rejected by Loki. And because of this, because they were stubborn and stupid, they were both destroyed. They needed each other. They had been created at the same time, made to complement each other, as Azrael and Serendipity had.
It was nighttime down on Earth. The dead in Heaven for the most part followed the same schedules they did when they were still alive, so the majority of them were asleep, leaving Metatron free for an uninterrupted stroll throughout Heaven.
He found himself coming to the Gates, and peering out, where a long figure sat in semi-darkness. Bartleby. The poor Grigori was curled in the fetal position, hugging his knees and moaning in his sleep. Occasionally he would utter "Loki..." in the most piteous voice imaginable, and it was enough to depress Metatron, who already had the most depressing job one could be assigned.
He sighed, and watched Bartleby a few more moments, feeling increasingly sorry for the boy. Metatron made a vow there to try and convince God to put the two ex-angels together again, for their own well-being.
Loki started. He was hardly conscious of time anymore, having become almost accustomed to falling into haphazard and fitful sleeps and waking at the most inappropriate times. More often than not, this time being no exception, he awoke to see a horde of doctors peering down at him.
Only one face, one in the crowd, came into focus. It was an old, weathered face, examining Loki with concern through large bifocals. "How're you doing, son?" he asked kindly.
Loki stared back, unblinkingly, but he wouldn't answer. He hadn't spoken in a week or so now, he couldn't even remember how long it'd been. The nurses down at State had freaked and shipped him to a mental facility that would 'better suit his needs'.
So they thought he was crazy. Or at least in trauma or whatever. Loki didn't care. Let them think whatever he wanted. He wouldn't speak. He had no reason to. He was mortal now, all he was going to do was sit back and wait for death as calmly and efficiently as he could.
Of course, death meant facing Bartleby. He wasn't ready for that yet.
Or ever.
Loki hated Bartleby. Was that even possible? To hate someone you'd known for your entire existence? He and Bartleby were practically extensions of each other's being; they knew each other better than they knew themselves and fought endlessly like an old married couple.
But this time was different. It was so different. Bartleby had done wrong, but he still got to talk to God. He still got to go to Heaven. Loki had only been doing what he'd essentially been programmed to do, but now he was stuck here in this building full of crazies. Like he was one of them, even though he was probably more sane than anyone he now currently shared a planet with.
He wanted to die. He now knew what it meant when life was worthless and a waste. He knew what it meant to hate waking up to face each day with nothing to live for.
Damn Bartleby.
Loki rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling as if he could see right through it to where Bartleby was presumably prancing about in the fluffy beyond. Tears welled in his eyes, something that did not go unnoticed by the doctors still occupying the room.
"Son? Larry? Are you all right?" the old one asked him. The guy was probably a grandfather, counting the minutes until his shift ended and he got to go home to his family. To sit around and eat a big meal and laugh and tell stories about the crazies he had to work around.
"Go away."
Loki spoke quietly, but with emphasis and vehemence that they couldn't ignore. It was the first he'd spoken since he'd arrived here, and they were too stunned to do anything but comply to the very simple wish.
And at last Loki was left alone again.
Alone, as he was destined to be.
Alone and waiting patiently for death.
Bartleby didn't move.
He didn't move and he didn't speak.
It seemed that any motion, any sound he made would have been an insult to Loki. Loki, immobile and unspeaking in his desolate hospital bed. Loki did this by choice. So did Bartleby. Anything less, he felt, would have been a cardinal sin.
The angels passed by the Gates frequently. They apparently took great sport in watching their former fellow lying there with no purpose or meaning. Bartleby ignored them. He ignored the humans. He only stared absently, not really seeing at all.
The emptiness was overwhelming.
GOD
Metatron came to me with daily pleas. "Look at them," he'd say, in that voice of his that always sounded condescending, no matter who he was talking to or how much respect he held for them or how much he liked their company. "Just lying there like lumps of putty. They need molding."
He had a way with words, my Voice. I suppose I'd created him that way, but a lot of it came from him, if that makes any sense. In any case, he was the perfect choice as my translator of sorts.
He was probably right. It killed me (metaphorically, of course) to admit that to myself. That I'd made a blunder of epic proportions. Of course, I'd felt the same way when I'd first banished the two Angels. How I'd loathed those eons without them, though they passed as mere minutes as humans would see them, in the greater scheme of things.
Loki. He was faithful and loyal. Had I created him that way, or had he just been that way because it was who he was? It was hard to ever tell these things. As far as I could tell, Loki only ever cared about two people: myself and Bartleby. No one else had ever mattered, though he was polite as one would expect when talking to the other Angels. You had to give him credit, he never talked down to them though essentially he was as much my right-hand man as the Metatron was.
But in the end, his devotion to Bartleby won out. Sure, on many terms, it was the alcohol, but he'd let me down all the same. It hurt, but that was the way I'd created them. To be together. They were intended to complete each other. Which they had.
Bartleby. He was a brilliant mind if ever I'd made one. I was quite surprised it had taken him several eons to come to the conclusion that ultimately, humans were favored over Angels. I hadn't, however, expected that he would turn on me. But he had, and I'd been forced to act.
I hadn't wanted to split them up. I'm not even totally sure why I did it. I'm the Almighty, I have all the answers, right?
Well, not in this case. I'd meant it to be a lesson. But they were so empty without each other. I hadn't planned this. They needed each other.
But would they want each other?
Loki awoke to a brilliant light. It was horrendously bright every time he opened his eyes, but this time was different. It was Holy.
The Divine Presence. He felt it in his bones, in his blood, pushing itself through to the very core of his being, and his eyes alighted on his beautiful God. He sat up, unsure of what to say. She was looking at him, gazing at him with a certain rapture that a mother has when seeing her child.
He wanted to say something. But he wasn't sure what to say. Just having Her in the room was enough to cure him completely, but he still couldn't bring himself to speak, only stare through his grateful tears.
She smiled at him. It said a million things to him, and made everything okay. It wasn't Her he hated, it was Bartleby, but in Her presence, none of that seemed to matter. It seemed stupid.
There was a miniature burst of flame, and the Voice appeared. Because Loki was mortal. He sat up straight and waited.
"Loki," Metatron said. "We're obviously here for a reason, which I'm sure you can guess. We've come to return you to--"
"To Heaven?" Loki burst in excitedly.
Metatron rolled his eyes irritably. "You meat-puppets are all the same," he complained. "They won't let me finish a thought. Could I continue? Or would you rather we just," he gestured elaborately, "leave?"
"No, no, continue. Please," Loki said, ducking his head ashamedly.
"As I was saying, we've come to return you to Bartleby."
Loki jerked his head up instantly. "What? You're going to reunite me with that...that...that dick?" he cried angrily, and then nodded in the direction of God. "Sorry," he half-whispered. "No," he said, in his normal voice again. "No way. I won't do it. I never want to see him again."
"Oh, Loki, don't be ridiculous," Metatron said.
"Did you see what he did to me?" Loki said, on the verge of hysteria, throwing off his blankets and waving a hand haphazardly at his punctured side. "Look at me! I'm an invalid because of him! They put me in a mental hospital! I am the Angel of Death! He goes crazy and kills everyone within a five-mile radius, he gets to go up! I do what I was programmed to do, and I get shoved into the heart of New Jersey!"
"Be quiet, would you?" Metatron said. "The poor boy cries himself to sleep because of you. You've forgiven him for betraying and killing you, and you won't speak to him just because he was sent to Heaven and you weren't? You're being childish."
"Let me be childish!" Loki retorted angrily. "I'm a human now; I can do that!"
God looked at the Metatron and tilted her head. He sighed, "Bartleby needs you, Loki. Please understand that."
God fixated Loki with an almost pleading look. As much as he wanted to stand his ground, as much as he may have hated Bartleby right then, he couldn't say no to Her if he tried.
He nodded reluctantly, and took Her hand.
"Did you hear the news?"
Bartleby awoke to hushed whispers from inside the Gates. He moaned softly and rubbed his aching head.
"What news?" the second angel inquired of the first.
"Well," the first angel started, but was interrupted by a third angel running up, panting, "Is it true?"
"Anything you've heard is probably true," the first said decisively. "She brought Loki back in."
Bartleby's muddled thoughts suddenly became clear, and he sat up ramrod-straight. Loki was back in..? Loki. Loki, if you hear me, please answer.
In his brain, there was only dead, empty silence.
"Loki," he murmured pathetically.
Go away. I have nothing to say to you.
Bartleby's heart leapt. The words were angry, but they were there nonetheless. Where are you? I heard you were in Heaven. Are you in Heaven?
Yes, no thanks to you. He was so angry.
"I want to talk to you," Bartleby said aloud, attracting stares from Saint Peter and several humans, but knowing the conviction of his words was more powerful than telepathy.
"You can talk to him now," The Voice said, and Bartleby stood up, seeing Metatron standing beside the open Gates. "Follow me."
"You're...He's...I can come back in?" Bartleby said, hoping against hope it was true and fearing that he was being set up by Lucifer for something far more cruel than anything he could imagine.
"Yes, you can. But do hurry, would you? Contrary to what you may think, I haven't got all day."
The former angel leapt to his feet and followed dutifully in the shadow of Metatron, well aware of the stares he was getting from the host of angels around them, and too lost in euphoria to care. He was in Heaven; he could see God; he could see Loki again! More than anything, the prospect of seeing Loki in a place where he couldn't possibly get mad put a slight skip in Bartleby's step. For the first time since he'd died, for the first time since this whole ordeal began on the train, even, a smile crossed his face.
Loki paced. God sat on Her throne, waiting patiently for Metatron to arrive with the parcel. That's what Bartleby was, a parcel. Important in a way no one could possibly guess, least of all Loki. At least, that was how he felt.
More accurately, he felt scared. Scared of what being back up here meant, still decked out in hospital pajamas. Scared of whether or not he'd be allowed to stay. Scared to admit to himself that he wasn't all that angry at Bartleby anymore. Being up here had an overwhelming affect on his psyche, and those painful, agitating weeks in various hospitals, alone, afraid, and pissing himself slowly faded from his mind.
Loki didn't want to admit it to anyone, but he missed Bartleby. Oh, how he missed Bartleby, and regretted how quickly and irrationally he'd cast his best and only friend aside. So many times he'd forgiven Bartleby for rash acts, surely the angel would do the same to him.
"He's here," Metatron said rather unceremoniously, pushing into the room. Bartleby shuffled in after him, head lowered humbly.
God smiled. Loki, despite all pretenses at keeping cool, broke into a grin.
Bartleby slowly lifted his head. He gazed around the room, looking to the smiling deity, the surly seraphim, and the Angel of Death wearing a gleeful expression hardly befitting for someone of his morbid title and stature. The Grigori looked endlessly hopeful, and within seconds the two had embraced each other as old friends.
"I'm so sorry," Loki said thickly, his words muffled by Bartleby's scruffy shirt.
"You're forgiven," Bartleby answered.
"So sorry..." Loki repeated, rocking back and forth slightly as he clutched his friend.
"Loki, relax. I forgive you. All the times that you've forgiven me, I forgive you now."
As they stood together, it was as if Time itself had stood still, and at last everything was right with the world.
I watched from above. I had that luxury, after all.
Bartleby and Loki shared an apartment building, living across the hall from each other. They quite enjoyed being human. Loki had joined a local soccer league and had called up Isabella upon his return. The hospitals had, of course, released him, with full apologies, having deemed him quite sane. I'd had some hand in that, I'd expect.
Bartleby had taken up a job at a local bookstore, a task he fully enjoyed. He was keeping in fairly regular correspondence with Bethany, the (Second to) Last Scion, surprisingly. She'd forgiven him for trying to kill her twice, but she didn't have a divine lineage without being fairly magnanimous.
Suffice to say, it was a moderately happy ending for all parties involved.
Just the way I'd created it.