It's been two weeks since Michael bumped into Ella Lopez.

He's kept away from the El Dorado, avoided the Vagabond too. It's easy enough in this town to find other places to go, and he favors a casino in the intervening time that's as far from the El Dorado as it can be and still be inside the city limits. It's Saturday, and Michael has already had a great day at his usual spot. He's up an extra three grand for the day, but by the time he got back to his motel room, his right side is aching and he's having trouble dragging himself into his room.

Once he gets open the door, Michael stumbles to the bed and bites his lower lip. Screaming would possibly get attention even in this flea-bitten place. He can admit if he were a human woman, he wouldn't stay here. If he were a weak, defenseless mortal, he'd have gone anywhere else. But the price is right, and he's not a fraction of what he once was, but he is still and angel of the lord so the rooms that rent by the hour with tweakers and Dad knows what else coming in and out, are no threat to him. Still, if he screams with the pain-and oh it is so powerful that it's making his right size seize-he might actually get an employee to check on him.

He doesn't want questions.

Michael rolls onto his left side and curls into a ball as best as he can when a second wave hit, and it's as he feared it was. The pain isn't just coming from his weak side. No. Of course it's not because Father works in mysterious ways and sees fit to layer his punishments, like Russian nesting dolls.

Oh and how creative Father was.

Yeah, Michael fucked up. He fucked up big time, and somehow even after all Samael has done, he's still the favorite. Dad can levy punishment on his twin, but hurt Sam, and feel the full Wrath of God. It makes precious little sense. But yes, his wings were taken first. A snap of Father's fingers, and Michael no longer had wings. Poof. It took a week later before Father's second dig came to fruition, until he heaved over a bathroom sink in Vegas like a wretched mortal and everything changed. And it had hurt. Because muscle and form changing and rearranging, and organs appearing and disappearing…well those changes hurt.

And yet, that was nothing-shock aside-compared to the spasms that had started since Reno. Michael loathes them the most. The way he gets tired enough that his body twists and warps on itself, that the bubbling sprouts up under his right shoulder and it burns.

Fuck you so much Dad and Sam and even Amenadiel, it burns.

The phantom wings keep trying to push their way out and into this dimension, but they are not there. There is no way for the wings to push forth, but the muscles in his shoulder still shiver and spasm and flex under his skin. It might take hours before this subsides. The first time these phantom pains racked him, he spent six hours on his side, screaming and cursing everything from Creation to his Father to all of it.

It has never quite been that bad again.

But after two agonizing hours, the pains finally subside. He's sweaty and breathless when it's over, but it is finally over. Michael eyes the clock beside his bed. It's not quite eleven p.m. Fuck. He had no intention of going out again, but he needs to or the next phantom spasms will be on him tomorrow and they will last longer than now. He needs to feel stronger, and loathe as he is to admit this about himself, about his needs after too long on the mortal plane, he has to go.

Sitting up, he takes in shaky breaths and moves to his closet. He has precious little in it. While he makes good money running his scams, he sees no reason to waste it. But for what he has to do to keep the phantom pains away, there is a select wardrobe that helps. Within the hour, he's dressed in jeans and a halter top-and dresses are still beyond him even if he always found robes far better than pants and maybe later or someday-and driving out to the most crowded club in Reno.

It is not hard to find a mark.

Michael has no vested interest in this. He is, at best, indifferent to humans. They are Father's experiments, Samael's vices, and Amenadiel's betrayal, the sanctimonious first born who used to lecture for hours about how divinity and humanity should never mix. Now, he's abandoned the Silver City and the host for Chucky and that uptight bitch of a shrink. But Michael does not hate humans. He kidnapped Chloe Decker and toyed with Dan's mind. He never intended to harm them. He is not his crazy mother, and it is flatly beneath him to injure or kill humans.

They just don't interest him. They exist, little more. When the Host still appeared to them in the deserts of old and were tasked with Father's miracles, then it was his duty to help and guide. Now, he mostly found them as the right tools to pit against his brother. But now, well, things are different.

Michael doesn't dance at the club. That's not his goal. Even if it were, after the day he's had, he couldn't move well enough out there to draw in the type of human he needs. On good days, and isn't that a qualified term, he wouldn't dance either. His right side…it will never quite cooperate with him, never bless him with fluid movement again. When he was more himself, that twisted version of Sam, it made him off-putting even outside of his talent-a lurching figure haunting with stiffened posture. As he is now, his right side makes him pitiable and at least the reactions from strangers is different.

He resents mortal pity, but he can use his perceived weakness to his advantage.

It doesn't take so long-and Michael credits the low plunging top he's chosen and aren't human males oh-so-predictable-for a man to sidle up to him and invite himself to sit beside Michael. He has to smile as the stranger invites himself to the booth Michael's staked out. He can feel the newcomer from here, the way he's so like Ella's shark a couple weeks ago. The bastard is already anxious about getting caught, and it will serve Michael's purposes.

The man is not a large one. He's shorter than Michael is now and slim with a thinning hair line and a too shiny forehead, and the shirt he's chosen seems like something from the 80s and the last time Michael ran business for Father on earth.

"Hello," Michael purrs, forcing his own power and pain away. The hardest part of getting what he needs is bringing humans in. Close to him, they can feel his wrongness, that rising fear eating through them. Michael works to shove it away, and in his efforts, he leans forward so that his cleavage is even more obvious. "You come here a lot."

"First time."

Michael forces himself not to smirk. This is a lie. This amateur has hunted here before, has found women at least twice before in this bar, and Michael can read that anxiety off him. That maybe a hat trick is pushing his luck. It is. But only because Michael will make him sorry and not the police.

"Well, that's cool. I'm from out of town and my girlfriend ditched me when she met a cute guy here." Michael offers him a small smile, if he tries to make his too wide, then the scar stretches too much…is too obvious. Thank you, Sam. He extends his hand. "Michelle, and you are?"

"Dave."

It's another lie, and Michael can feel that too, although Dave is getting harder to read as the man before him grows more comfortable with their interactions. He's oh so confident about who is the prey here, isn't he?

"Great, I…do you want to sit down?" Michael blinks up coquettishly at him, and yes, he has practiced that before in the mirror. It took a week to get it down without looking like he was going to have convulsions, but he's learning. "First, though, I'm totally sobering up. Could you get me a Cosmo?" He leans forward, ignoring the twinge in his bad side, and runs a hand down Dave's nearest arm. "I promise, hon, I'll make it worth your while."

The maggot before him perks up and hurries to the bar. Michael leans back in his seat, and takes in measured breaths. His right shoulder is better (relative term), but he feels the rippling under his skin and knows he needs Dave to hurry the fuck up, or Michael will have another spasm. He does not want to be doubled over in public.

Dave doesn't waste too much time and soon the man slides into place, more than that really. He's practically trying to sit on Michael's lap and watching Michael's glass with an obvious hunger that's practically telegraphing what Dave has already done to the Cosmo. Oh, foolish mortal, as if a little Rohypnol could fell one of the two angels who fashioned Creation.

Michael's about to take a sip, and to get to a point where he can feign "confusion" enough to lure Dave out back and help get what he needs so badly, when a familiar and annoyingly perky face pops up.

Ella Lopez is faster than he'd have given a mortal credit for, and of all the places for her to show up, here and now is the worst time.

"Michael! Hey, fancy seeing you here. Ugh, the Cosmos here suck. They do a mean mojito though." She grabs his stem and Michael pulls back instinctively. He over extends his strength, and pulls the drink so hard that it splashes all over him, leaving his hair wet and the sticky concoction dripping down his chest and under his shirt and bra (and that was a pain to learn how to put on, by the way)

Dave is on him then, trying to pat Michael dry, and the fumbling pawing of his chest is pathetic and obvious, and Michael is in no mood for it. Not now, and not when his time has run out. He can feel it in the way his right shoulder his starting to cramp, making his eyes water with the agony of it.

Michael doesn't even bother to disguise the Celestial from this worm. His eyes flash gold and he forces his power over fear almost as high as it will go, not enough to make the bastard catatonic, but enough to make him wise up to what Michael is.

"Fuck off!" Michael shouts and the human drops the napkins instantly and sets a land speed record darting from the table.

His arm is really tightening up on him now, and Michael cannot stop what's about to happen to him. He won't even be able to get out of the booth. Dad damn it.

Ella's eyes are wide, and he honestly could give a shit if she felt a blowback of his powers aimed toward Dave the predator of the night. She'd cost him, and he didn't ask for a tag along.

She shocks him a little, even with her eyes wide and the fear coiling through her. It is not of lilies and rot this time, but of this club with its stale beer and acridly piercing liquor and of him. But still Ella sits across from him in the booth and regards him with such wide, overwhelmed eyes.

"Dude, are you okay?"

Michael's shaking again. His right shoulder is screaming, and he wants so badly to let his wings out. They are not there, but his shoulders twitch over and over, a reflex he cannot squelch when the pain gets like this, and he tries anyway to unfurl them. To make the pain stop.

But he cannot.

Ella reaches across the table and grabs his good hand but soon drops it like she's been scalded. And fuck of course he has to deal with the noxious stench of lilies in his nose and something is around his throat and what even is that? Why is it hard to breathe now?

Michael doubles over and tries to wall himself off, tries to push his power down, but he hurts and in pain he has less control over fear than he normally does.

Ella still does not leave even though it should be obvious to her that she's neither wanted nor invited here.

Another shoulder spasm and his muscles flex painfully, and it almost feels like his shoulder is separating in its efforts to let wings out that cannot come, may never even come back. He's shivering and moaning, but there's a soft tap on his shoulder.

Michael glances up in time to notice that Ella has used her clutch to get his attention. Well, at least this one can learn. He is nothing to be touched; he has never been someone to be touched. And right now, for once, that does not bother him. He's in too much pain to care.

"What's wrong? Did he already lace your first drink?"

Michael takes in a shuddering breath. "I can't be drugged, Lopez. What part of angel did you not get the first time?"

She nods and while she looks like a bobblehead doing it, at least Ella seems to be understanding what he is, and the power thrumming through him. "You're still really hurt. I mean, I saw you come in and then that guy screams skeevy. I watched him get your drink and he poured something in it before he left the bar. I was just trying to help, Michael. I'm guessing you're new to being on earth and, uh, a woman too."

"I've had several months to adjust," he gasps out between clenched teeth. "I wanted that weasel. You think I didn't know what he was? I can feel him and all his anxieties, same way I read your attacker, Lopez. It was intentional."

"Oh!"

"Yeah, genius, I can't get drugged."

Ella frowns. "Oh, so you're doing the vigilante thing and told me not to. Is that it?"

And if he weren't racked with pain, Michael would be staring back at her with gold eyes and the fury of an avenging angel. Is she serious? Ella Lopez is a tiny-really tiny—mortal whose red too many comic books. He shaped the cosmos and threw his brother-freaking Satan whether Samael admits his own guilt and cruelty or not-from Heaven. They are not equals.

Not even quote.

He shudders again with another spasm and when he talks, his voice barely croaks out. "No, that's not it. I…I needed…"

He cannot exactly explain it in mortal terms. The best explanation is that when he uses his power, it strengthens him…energizes him. It gives him enough strength to compensate for the loss of his extra divinity and his wings, to keep his spasms from leaving him a crying, shivering mess. An incoherent one if it gets bad enough. But yes, energy is what he needs, and to get that, he must elicit fear.

In a blunt, mortal term, he must feed.

"What?" Ella presses and he can feel her fear roiling offer her worse. It's a weird, layered set of worries, and only some of it is about him. Michael finds himself shocked even through his agony to feel that some of her fear is for him. Dad knows that has never happened to him before. "What was this?"

"I need to scare someone, Lopez. Badly. It makes me…it takes the edge off my injuries," he gasps out.

He will not explain more-can't really-because to admit what it really is, that an angel of the lord, an archangel still technically, has been reduced to lurking in shadows and scaring mortals witless to stay sane himself. It is monstrous. He knows it. It may not be the scarred, fucked up red skin of his brother, but it is no less profane, and again, Father's punishments are always layered and always spiral.

Her hand is back over his and he can feel the fucking hands on his throat from nowhere and the lilies are gagging him too, but still Ella holds.

His eyes widen at her, and he shakes his head. "You want to let go now. What I do…you know it's not pleasant." Fucking understatement of the millennium there.

"But I messed up what you were doing," she counters, and she's shaking too

He can see it all so clearly as he takes in her fears, too tired and sick and exhausted to stop now, not when it strengthens him, not when it makes the spasms stop. He is in that sunny yellow duplex, that deceptive building with its cheery demeanor, but hiding a hot house of death and paralytics underneath. Some wretch-some utter pissant of an excuse for a man-is over him and squeezing so hard. Michael's vision swims because he's seeing as Ella saw it, and she's passing out-she almost passed out then. It's luck and the frantic grasp of a spilled syringe that she plunges last minute into Pete Daly's chest.

Michael feels her fear so fragrantly now, as it shifts from living it to relishing it. Ella's pale and white before him, and her chin is trembling. She can't really see him, as her eyes have glazed over like a scared rabbit about to be eaten by a wolf. And it feels good. Dear Dad help him and whatever has been made of him now; this feels so right and the pain is gone.

Michael forces himself to pull away from her, and when he does, they are both left gasping for different reasons. He's reveling in the lack of pain again and the power flaring through him, and Ella's gone catatonic across from him, not even blinking.

The relief he feels is short-lived as something hot and sharp bites his stomach. Fuck, he's really messed this up.

"Ella? Hey Lopez, can you hear me?"

She's whimpering, and he's trying not to use his powers any longer, but he can still feel what she feels, and it tears viciously at him that this is his fault. Yes, Ella was stupid and grabbed him when he warned her not to, but it's still his power-his needs-that have done this to her.

He was the second brightest of God's angels once. And now…

Just look at him.

Michael sighs and offers her as calming a smile as he can. "Lopez, come on, snap out of it. You're not there any longer." It is long past the time in his life where he can show her glowing wings and utter a simple "Be not afraid" to calm her. But he needs to get her out of here. The club has been loud and in the din no one has noticed their respective spells at this side booth, but he needs to help her. "Hey," he says, leaning forward and she shoves herself against the booth as hard as she can. Michael winces but tries to pretend the rebuff doesn't hurt him. "I won't hurt you. I…look, my place is a mess and it's not safe for mortals, too crime-infested." He laughs but there's no humor in it. "I'm not exactly allergic to lead projectiles." Just ask Chloe Decker. "Ella, are you still at the Vagabond?"

She manages to speak again, but it's so soft and quiet and stilted that if Michael wasn't gifted with Celestial senses, he wouldn't have heard her at all.

"No, I have an apartment." She's shivering harder and he's having a problem blocking the raw elemental terror in her mind. Oh Father, what has he done? "Why?"

"Let's get you home again, Lopez."

"I…" and her voice is so very tiny. "Don't hurt me."

He stands, and his strength is at its max, well for an exiled and wingless angel it is, and he comes to Ella's side of the booth. Michael makes no effort to touch her, but he holds up his hands-palms flat-and stays very still. "Ella, look, get me your keys. I won't touch you, but you have to walk to the parking lot with me. I…let's get you home."

She's shaking so hard, he almost worries her chattering teeth might chip and can that happen to humans? Fuck if he knows. "But you aren't going to do that again, right?"

Michael wants to scream his frustration. He was doing his best to avoid Ella Lopez and any even peripheral ties to Samael. He was in his own territory in this city, and the last thing he wanted was to use her like this. If she'd just left him well enough alone tonight…if she hadn't been so stupid as to touch him when he's like this.

"I won't. I'm a liar. Like I lie all the fucking time, so I'll let you know that, but I don't want to hurt you and I can control it right now. I just couldn't before. I am not going to hurt you, Lopez. Now," he says, stepping back from the booth. "Let's go."

She's been curled up on the small, striped loveseat in her apartment for hours. Michael's been so desperate for noise-and he never thought that would be a problem around Ella-that he's turned the TV to some inane reality show. But she's not focused on it, and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know anything about humans, just that his so-called gift does not match well with them, and that's why…well, besides usual disinterest, Michael has avoided Father's pets for a reason.

He's scared.

How odd that feeling is.

Of course, Michael can feel fear. It plunged into the pit of his stomach when Sam tried to yank him to Hell as well and did ruin his wing in the process. It bit hard into him when Father came to Earth and stopped his fight with his brothers, but that was a simple, building dread…a discomfort in anticipation of what was to come. And terror. He knows that well too, even as the Sword of God. He knew it the minute the first phantom wing spasm hit, and he feared they would never stop.

He feels it now.

Not just for Ella because Michael knows little about humans, but he knows this is far from how humans act. But he's scared for himself, truly. If his brothers think he did this on purpose, if Samael and Amenadiel think that Michael has intentionally set out to destroy Ella, then they will find him, and he knows his brother. The Devil will tear him apart.

And there's not that much left of him to ruin.

Sighing and desperate, Michael fishes the mug of tea he's made from the microwave, and then settles it on Ella's coffee table. She startles and pushes herself against the sofa until he retreats with deliberately slow, quiet steps to the far corner of her modest hovel.

"I thought that might help? I wasn't sure. I don't…you had tea, so I figured you drink it."

Ella blinks slowly and at least she seems to register the things around her. Reaching out she final grabs the tea. Blowing on it, she brings it to her lips and takes a sip. She blanches a little, and it's the first facial expression he's seen on her in hours. At least that's progress. "This doesn't have any sugar."

"Well, I'm not a short order cook, Lopez. I did my best."

He will not mention that he overheated the first mug so badly it cracked. Cooking isn't his thing either.

She starts to laugh, her fear warping it into an absentminded cackle, that stabs at Michael's chest in a way he doesn't anticipate. He thinks this must be guilt. Damn it; he tried to warn her but it's still his fault, his burden because he is wrong, and he's trapped her but not really fit to be among mortals, not as he is now.

"Ella? Are you…do I take you to a hospital? I really don't know how humans work."

Her hysterics peter out, and she manages a few more sips of her tea. "I think it's better. I'm not spacing out."

"Oh," he says, not sure exactly what she means.

She sets the mug down and looks at him, but Michael stays firmly planted in his corner, as far from Ella as he can be. He will not hurt her again, and he won't let her in whatever naïve idiocy she labors under reach out for him. That's the mother of all crap ideas.

"You're that Saint Michael?"

He sighs. So they're back to the basics, are they? "I am, sort of. I mean, I used to be more impressive. Once, long ago, I was the head of Father's legions. Then, I was injured when Satan fell. He gave me quite the parting shot so my wings and side. Recently, and I am not getting into it so don't dig, but a few months ago I made some epic, Biblical level fuck-ups, and Father punished me. We established that."

She nods and at least seems to have stopped shaking by now. That's good, right? That and the full sentences have to be good.

"Yeah, that's why…you don't have wings, right?"

"Not now, no." He snorts and vaguely gestures to his waist. "Father has added insult to injury, of course. For the duration, I'm lacking more than just my wings."

She focuses on him, and he can tell she's trying to ferret out an answer, make the puzzle pieces fit. He saw her do this on the one case they worked together (not that Ella knows this). He isn't sure he likes being the specimen under her gaze. She barged into his life, damn it, and not the other way around.

"Look, dude, I spent twelve years in Catholic school. I was on the path as a novitiate for almost a year. I've never heard anything ever about St. Michael, um, you."

"Yes, I am that Michael. If I say it a few hundred more time will that sink in?" he asks, a gruff annoyance working its way into his tone.

"Just…what was going on back at the bar. I deserve to know because I'm pretty sure nowhere in Catechism was like 'Oh hey, Michael touches you and you want to die.'"

He does not flinch. He doesn't. He's just standing straighter in his corner, not startled by her words. She's familiar, sure. She's the only person he's had repeat conversations with in months, okay. She's still just a mortal, and she is lesser than he is, even now. Her words and stark truths do not hurt him.

They can't.

Not really.

"Angels each have something they do. I have a brother who can control time, and a sister who's the literal Angel of Death." And he would be speaking to Rae Rae soon, even if he hadn't yet gotten through to her with prayers. "One who could see any pattern in events and predict the future with unerring clarity. I have always controlled fear. I didn't ask for it. No one would fucking ask for it. It has gotten worse since I was punished," he admits. Michael looks down at his hands and tries to ignore Ella's big-eyed scrutiny.

"You were shaking so bad in the booth and you looked like you were in pain and I was scared and-"

"You are an idiot, Lopez. If you saw a lion freaking out with a thorn in its paw, that you'd try and take it out to help?"

"If I were Daniel sure!" She smirks at him, and Lopez really is a groupie for Dad, isn't she? "I was trying to help."

"I can't be helped. I have a routine and a system. It keeps things controlled. You fucked that up, and then you touched me when I warned you not to."

"You were in pain!"

He sighs and looks up at her. "Level of definition. I have been in pain since the Rebellion. This is a worse degree, sure, but you know what they say: there's no basement in Hell."

Ella frowns at him, and he almost preferred her catatonic. "What was going on? In the alley, you weren't like that."

"My wings are gone, but the muscles underneath in my shoulders are not. They spasm for hours and it is taxing and drains me. I lack the resilience I usually do tooling around on earth." He spits out the words distastefully. "I'm less resilient here, okay? But they ache and if I…If I really scare the shit out of someone, I feel better, have the strength to deal with it. Happy? If you'd left me alone, I'd have pulled what I did on you with Dave the incel. Get it? It was reflexive what I did, once I get that bad, and you touched me." He shakes his head and runs a hand through his long, tangled hair. "Never do that again. I can't help that I'm not safe."

Ella considers that and her eyes grow shiny. Fuck, he doesn't need her pity. He needs no one's pity, and after his tantrum in Los Angeles, he does not deserve it. Even Michael knows that much. Ella wouldn't feel sorry for him one bit if she knew what he'd done to her friends, to the way he'd led Chloe on and tried to take advantage of her, to kidnapping her…to any of it.

"So it always spasms?"

"Eventually," he says, shrugging like this wasn't the most naked he's ever felt around anyone before. "I can usually go a week or two without it, but then…" he looks away again, at the paint peeling on the popcorn ceiling. "I need a victim."

He never has said that before, not even to himself. A mark, a source, a target. Sure. But in his head, he's never admitted what he is now, the predator he's been rendered by his Father and Dad's great punishments.

"So you were gonna choose an asshole like that roofie guy?"

He nods. "I always do. It feels at least less terrible to do. They have it coming."

Michael does not understand the broad smile that breaks across her face. "Cool! We're totally on the same page, dude."

"What?" he asks, gaping at her. "Now I'm the confused one."

"Good, cause dealing with angels and fear and all of it is a huge crash course, socio," Ella replies, reaching for her tea again. "So, okay, you're like a fear vampire, right?"

He recoils at such an asinine term. First, the undead, not a thing. Second, he's still one of the Host. He is not Sam, and he is not Fallen. He's just banged up, and that's a question of degrees and nothing more. He's been banged up since before the Garden of Eden. He's used to it.

Mostly.

"I am an angel of the Lord," he counters. "I'm just on probation." Now if that's for a century, a millennium, or until the next Ice Age, Michael has fuck all idea. "I'm not a-" His voice fails him because the rest of that sentence needs to remain unsaid.

He can't bear the reality of it.

Ella stands and takes a few steps closer to him, but he freezes up, as if he should be the one afraid. He is though because Ella has no common sense to go with her enthusiasm and she does not listen. She's liable to reach out and grab him again, and that would be a disaster.

"That's what the Big Guy did, right?" She asks, her mind pulling it all together. "This whole…the way your powers are out of whack and hurting you too…that's the real punishment."

Michael crosses his arms over his chest and it is still distracting to feel the roundness of his breasts there. Dad's so good at mindfucks on top of mindfucks. "Father is good at smiting."

"You don't want to do it, do you?"

Michael snorts. "I didn't want to do it to you. I don't really give a shit if some skeevy asshole at a bar gets what's coming to him, no. I'm really sorry. I did try and warn you."

She nods and takes small, tentative steps until she's within a foot of him. "But you don't want this, right?"

"Well, when Dad makes something final, it is, until He changes his mind." He sighs and gestures to his face and shoulders. "This is what I am now, and I'm adapting. I'm sorry you got fucked up in the process. Honestly, it's best I move on. I was thinking of going out to Atlantic City anyway."

Ella considers that. "I'm subletting."

He blinks, confused by the non-sequitur. "What?"

"I can go with you!"

Michael starts to laugh but stops when large, earnest brown eyes are looking back at his. "Wait, you're serious? Lopez, you touched me at the wrong moment, and you ended up catatonic for hours. Remember that lion metaphor? Still a thing, chica. You don't want near me." He didn't want near himself either. "Suddenly we're going to what? Road trip to New Jersey and be roomies? Do you hear yourself?"

She crosses her arms over her chest and mirrors his posture. "I think it's a good idea, actually."

"How?"

"Look, a lot of terrible shit just happened to me, and I know you felt it when you touched me. You saw."

Michael lies often; he has not stupid sense of puffed up, so-called honor like Samael. However, with this tiny woman, he finds he has no real interest in sugar coating anything. "I did. I'm sorry you got hurt on the job. I'm serious, though, you need to go home, Ella. I'm not a friend you want."

"You don't know what I want."

He quirks his head and stares down at her. "Okay, I'll bite. All I got is you're a masochist who wants a partner to break the bank in Atlantic City on Black Jack and poker. Am I wrong?"

Ella nods. "I don't want to feel weak anymore."

"Well being a possible accidental snack for the Angel of Fear is gonna have the opposite effect."

"Look, we have a lot in common."

He looks at her and snorts. She's changed from her clubbing outfit and back into her pajamas. She had enough sense of herself to do that much, even if she went through the motions like a zombie. But this little ball of energy, blunted as her sunny disposition is now in Reno, is still nothing like him. She's wearing PJs with some type of anime character on them, the massive eyes are a giveaway, but fuck if he knows which one exactly or cares.

"I doubt it."

"Look, you need to…if you have to let that out, then doing it on guys who are gonna hurt people anyway is a good idea. I was doing the same thing back at the El Dorado."

"And you got your ass handed to you, so you're welcome for me saving your ass."

"And I saved yours." She blushes then, obviously thinking better of her mistake of letting Dave slip away first. "I think we could make a good team!"

"For vengeance and gambling?"

"Look, I don't want to be afraid anymore. At least you didn't mean it when that happened, and lesson learned, not helping you, uh, feed-"

"Let's not call it that."

"Okay, you need, um, an outlet, and I just need to deal with what happened."

"So vigilantism is gonna help? Lopez, those comic books aren't real."

Kind of. He's just not going to explain the multiverse and all its eccentricities to her now. He's already blown her mind twice in as many weeks. As far as Ella Lopez knows Wonder Woman and Batman are not real, and it needs to stay that way. Not like he can pop over into another earth anyway, not without wings and his full Demiurgic birthright.

"I need something. You need something, and I just…can we try?"

He is not sold on this idea. It is a terrible one, and it will somehow, even across a continent, get back to Samael. Michael knows this, but, at the same time, he always makes the worst choices. End of the day, he has a hard time saying no, even when he knows better. Just because he can be methodical doesn't mean he will stick to his plans.

This is like agreeing to partner up with Scrappy Doo; it's that obvious.

And yet, Ella has felt everything he can do, and she wants to stay. Granted, she's desperate and spiraling and is clearly going off the deep end if she's going to think of herself as a vigilante. But if he's not there, she'll just do it anyway-Michael can tell-and if she dies, then somehow he'll still get blamed for it.

If he keeps her alive, then Samael won't end him.

Works for him.

For now.

Besides, he really is tired of being alone. This is something. It's a crazy, stupid, desperate idea, but both of them have no other options.

Michael sighs and runs a hand through his hair once again. "Alright. Probation. We go to Atlantic City, see how this idiotic idea of yours won't work, then we split our winnings and part ways. Got it?"

"It'll work!" She says, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and he's rarely met a human that reminds him more of a golden retriever puppy in his immortal life. "Like I said, you, um, have needs, and I just…it helps when someone like Pete gets hurt." She sighs. "It helps if I stop them from hurting someone else, okay? I can actually sleep."

Michael considers that and gives her a brisk nod. "Alright, deal for now. You get packed, and I get the wheels. Because me? I used to have wings, Lopez. I am not flying coach."

If possible, her eyes grow wider at this idea. "Sweet, road trip. I know just the place to boost the right car." She turns and hurries to her room even before Michael can respond.

Instead, his answer echoes in the empty den:

"Wait when did you learn to steal cars?"