Chapter 6

He tries not to make eye contact with her for most of the day. In a way, it's not hard. Even like this, rendered female in a form he does not understand, he still towers over Ella. If he just keeps his eyes ahead of himself, then he won't spy her own. And so he does.

He says nothing at breakfast, well, technically lunch, scarf down cold oatmeal, soggy pancakes, and anything else the staff still had on hand in the breakfast bar. The only reason they're able to get that much is because Michael put on a little fear to get access to things that were technically not open for customers. But she talks.

Oh dear Father in heaven, does she talk

She chatters about the buffet in about his stupid purse, which was not a that stupid an idea because it saves them money. She talks about her first time in Reno and how big and beautiful and also still somehow kind of ugly Vegas is. She chatters and matters and says things that he eventually blurs out in nothing but white noise. Eventually, Michael is able to blur it all out. And somehow, and he isn't sure how, the steady pace of her discussions becomes almost comforting.

But he is a fool if he thinks he's quieted her.

Lopez can always ask more about his feelings. Can always level those big brown eyes of hers like weapons of mass destruction and ask him if everything's alright. Of course, it's not alright. He's stranded on Earth. There's no way to his actual home, and now he can't stop thinking about her. About the way her skin smells of citrus, her soft breath against his collarbone, and he so tired of it already. Father has taken his wings, and his body, and even part of his powers. But Michael refuses to fall for human, at least on a normal one.

It is just the needs of the flesh he is trapped in, and he will not succumb to the demands of the mortal plane.

Not again.

Besides, he knows that nothing good comes from being with humans. They age, grow paranoid about their mortality, and then die. He wasn't around for Lily's end. But the first stages he saw. The first stages he bore. And he can't go through again: being blamed for not aging any more than he can currently for being wingless. This is all just a trick of being on Earth; It has to be. Despite all of this, he feels that he's doing a good job of keeping his cool and of not being dragged into conversations about this morning. About the utter embarrassment about traitor between his legs. At least, he thought Lopez hadn't noticed much. They hit the casinos early. Then by 6:00 o'clock I set it on the road for Tucson.

With Lopez driving, they should get there before midnight, find a new crappy motel, and really get into training her in the morning, since that's what she thinks she wants.

They're taking Route 66. It's a road that Michael is familiar with, at least by reputation. He spent his time in the 60s in New York, but even he knows about the main highway and artery of America. Humans are so very proud of it or were back in the day. Now, it's barely used, but. Lopez has decided that they should do the scenic route. Honestly, neither of them have any time frame and no need to be in Atlantic City too soon. He can't exactly argue against it. For the most part, she still been blathering. Ella seems to sense his mood, so she sticks to talking about her cases, although not mentioning much of Lucifer within them. However, what Michael is not prepared for around 8:00 PM with Scrappy Doo's tummy rumbling loudly is to pull up to what hill charitably call a diner for dinner.

It is made to look perhaps like a barn. It isn't the size of one, it could only aspire to be that large. It is red. The monstrosity is crimson, like a damn fire engine. It's sign is yellow like caution tape, and Michael thinks that's not a coincidence. And it has a roof that is completely flat, but a portrait swords with a big white awning over it. Sign proudly displays its title as the Road Kill Cafe.

Michael has rarely been gladder that eating is not necessary for Celestials, just a pleasure. As she pulls the Impala up to the nearest parking space, Michael regards her. "Are you high, Lopez? I thought humans could get salmonella or E. Coli or a million other bacteria that will make them sick for weeks."

For the first time today, those brown eyes search him not with sadness or concern but with utter fury. "It's supposed to be fun. I read it on the internet and saw this forum about it and all the posts were like 'it's totally kitschy!' Don't you wanna have fun?"

Michael rolls his eyes. Then again, sitting down for dinner will be a little easier than waiting for her to stare a hole through him in the passenger seat, as if he'd crack and tell her everything about himself. Sighing, he unfolds his long legs from the Impala and gets out as well. He stretches as best as he can, bringing his left arm over his head. He doesn't dare do the same gesture with the right. It will not reach. It has not reached there for centuries if not eons. Not without pain.

"Well, chica you're the boss so lead on."

He fell into step beside her, shoulder to shoulder, although in this case it's more like her shoulder to the middle of his chest, but they go as well as they can. Her little ponytail bounces with every step, and he cannot quite understand how she can belie such confidence with hers paces. She's such a tiny thing. And the world is big and dangerous, both with men like Pete and beings like him. Worse things too.

Endless an unnamed things.

Although Lopez may never live to see any of those because this place is a dump. Inside, everything is covered-the ceiling, the floor, the walls themselves-with brown wood paneling. It makes everything feel darker and smaller and more cramped than it already is. In the air, the smell of meat sizzling catches his attention, and Michael hopes it's not actually roadkill, but he wouldn't put it past the humans either. In one corner, is a microscopic gift shop selling t-shirts and Route 66 signs. In the other is a bar, a big wooden monstrosity, and above that is taped dozens and dozens of dollar bills signed by tourists. It is, in a word, chintzy. And as he looks to the booths and at the walls around them, he lets out a groan. There isn't one deer head because why would one do? Oh no, there are half a dozen.

Michael turns and looks at Ella with disgust. "I'm telling you right now, chica, this is a terrible idea. I don't get food poisoning, but you do. Wouldn't you rather just not get that? Honestly, if you do, I am not taking you to the ER. I don't do hospitals, Lopez."

She pouts at him, Her expression should not leave stomach twisting in an almost delightful way. Damn it! He thought he'd been doing better. Since he had gotten out of the car, he hadn't thought about her that way at all. Stupid loner body. Stupid punishment. Beyond stupid Samael.

"You get a table, and I am going to get something cool in the gift shop. I mean it can't be all bad, Michael. It has a bar. Just order something that'll calm you down, and I'll be back after I get the perfect souvenir." She bounces away after that, and he realizes that once Ella Lopez has decreed something that it's just the way it is going to be.

He isn't sure if she's not fazed by him because of his lack of divinity right now denoted by his missing wings, or if she's always like this and even left Sam and Menny confused in her wake. Somehow, Michael thinks it's the latter.

He makes it a point to contact Azrael as soon as he can. Maybe he can ask her all about the eccentricities of Ella. Little Sis has apparently known her more time than any of the rest of them; The Angel of Death would be the Lopez whisperer. Since there's no convincing Ella to come back from buying useless crap, Michael takes seat. He flags over waitress, someone with dark bags under her eyes as bleak as his own, and quickly asks for add vodka. Neat. He orders a fruity drink that he can't remember the name of already as he waits. It was something themed around roadkill or the open road for Ella. If there's enough sugar in it, he's sure she'll like it.

It takes Ella fifteen minutes to comb through six feet of racks and bullshit. My class work through two vodka since then and is honest third. He's pretty sure the buzz is only psychosomatic because angels can't get drunk. Then again, he's not sure he's an angel anymore either. Oh, Sam would love that. Dad too.

She's beaming.

Michael can't even be one hundred percent grouchy when she smiles like that. He has nothing to do with the smile, but it makes him happy somehow anyway. Or at least less annoyed. For him, that's progress. She's like this golden retriever puppy he's adopted, and he's not quite sure what to do with her. He only hopes when he starts teaching her how to fight, that she decides it's not worth it. Michael needs an opening to talk her out of this vigilante bullshit. It's the surest way to get herself killed. And then Sam will cram what's left of him into an Altoids box.

She sets the plastic bag she's been caring, another bright caution tape-colored disaster, beside her on top of the table. Then she pulls out what she must think are treats. "Okay, so you are probably not going to love this."

"Stop right there, Scrappy. I know I'm not going to like it."

Ella pouts again, and Michael tries to find it attractive. He fails. She continues undeterred. "I got us a couple of t-shirts."

Michael rolls his eyes again. "You don't even know my size, Lopez."

"Do you know your size? I mean, not to be rude and all, but do you really know what you wear?"

And she's studying him with that big-eyed scrutiny all over again. And there is pity in her gaze, and he can't even object to it. Oh, he hates it. But he's sure mentioning it will just have her both deny it while continuing to stare at him like he's some wounded birth that needs to be taken care of.

He is not.

He finishes his vodka and decides not to take a fourth. It's a waste of money anyway. "I pulled most of what I find out of dumpsters, Lopez. If I went to the Goodwill, I just held stuff up against my body and hoped it'd work. I admit that a few pairs of jeans didn't work out that way, and it's hard because once I thought I was one size in them, and then I tried something else and they didn't work. What a waste of money too. And extremely annoying."

"There's a lot about girl clothes that don't make as much sense as guy clothes. I'm sorry."

Oh, they really are doing this, aren't they? They really are going to talk about his life before and it now. Or at least his form, such as it is. On second thought, he's going to need that fourth drink. He gestures for the waitress and doesn't speak until it has new shot of vodka in his hands.

"I just need something to wear, so I'm not naked. Humans have rules about all of that that are still very confusing too. Convoluted."

Her eyes go wide. "Dude, wait so is Heaven like a nudist colony?"

He sips his drink and grumbles. "Not all of it, but Duma isn't too into robes, no. Honestly, most of the fashion hasn't changed there in millennia, so you wear your robes and you do your duty. I meant more that everything with humans is so culturally bound. Different century, a different trend. Go to a different area of the world, and that's a burka can be a bikini instead. It's very confusing. And it's all overpriced."

"Not that it really matters what you wear. I mean, outside of being dressed enough not to get kicked out of places for indecent exposure."

He chuckles, mirthlessly. "Now that's a thought."

She giggles back. "Yeah, let's not do that. I just mean you're tall and you look like a model and probably everything hangs amazing on you." It's probably his imagination that she's blushing just a little. Ella sips her fruity, bright red and pink monstrosity and continues to talk. "Seriously, you could wear a burlap sack, and it would still be hot."

"I honestly don't care what I wear. As long as it doesn't get me ejected or arrested, then I figure I'm doing okay." He sighs and drums his fingers on the table. "I have a few halter tops I wear. I know they have a plunging neckline, and that makes men stupid. Well, human men."

Although he also knows Samael very well. While his twin thinks that's not true, Michael does. Men and women, both in revealing clothing, are more than enough to short circuit most of what passes for Sam's brain on any given day. It is a surprise, though, to know that Amenadiel is almost as easily swayed. If not by human beauty than by human urges. To settle with a mortal and to have a child?

How beneath any real Celestial.

"True, but we're going to have to get you some actual outfits. I hate to tell you this, but jeans and a t-shirt will only get you so far. If they are bigger casinos or riverboats we're going to hit between here and Atlantic City, you are going to have to look the part of a high roller." She sighs then and looks at him. Oh, that concern will kill in between here and New Jersey. "But do you mind if we went shopping? We get to Tucson, and I can even swap. You teach me how to fight better, and I teach you how to dress better."

He furrows his brows at the suggestion, thinking it over. "I don't like dwelling on any of this. Since Dad fucked with me, I just keep…I keep running, don't look back. But you're right, if we're going to hit higher marks, I'm going to have to look better than trailer park chic. So, you have a deal. Fair warning. I probably have the better end of it though because I'm going to run your ass off when we get to Tucson."

"Game on." She offers him a genuine smile.

Then, Lopez opens the bag. She pulls out two t-shirts. At least they're in different colors and not fully matching. However, one is black, like his soul, and one is bubble gum pink. Both say I went to the Road Kill Café, and all I got was this crappy t-shirt. She digs deeper into the bag and yanks out one Route 66 road sign, all gleaming silver and blue.

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. "At least it's on you. I'll wear that shirt, chica, but if you're going to buy dumbass souvenirs every place we go…oh, it's going to be a long trip."

She rolls her eyes and tosses the shirt as his face. He dodges easily and snatches it out of the air with his good hand. "Yeah, but it's fun. Besides how often do you get to say you've been to the Road Kill Cafe. And we're going to order food here anyway, so get whatever you want. My treat."

"I'm warning you. I'm not an angel who can heal any longer. You're on your own here, Lopez."

She opens up the menu, which is comically large and obscures her face from his view. Must have a million items on it, and he's sure they all taste of grease and gravy. "So, you could heal before?" Ella tilts the menu away from her face just enough so that he can spy her biting her lower lip after her question.

"Now my word tends not to be great. Honestly, before you, I was pretty much an inveterate liar. However, Ella, we had our deal. We still have our deal. As long as you don't ask too much about Dad, my punishment, or Jesus Christ, then you can keep asking me all the questions your Catholic, little heart must want to know about heaven, hell, and everything in between."

The menu goes back up in front of her face as she ponders his terms.

"Alright, but are you sure about that, Michael?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Okay, maybe he's a little hungry.

Just like maybe he's a little tipsy. Michaels not quite sure what not having wings means for him fully. Besides the pain. And the hunting. But apparently human needs are cresting on the horizon, though he better not be forced to eat roadkill armadillo or some other garbage.

Ella finally closes her menu and sets it down. "and finally going with that Chicken fried steak with extra gravy. Let's see how the open Rd works."

"I'm just going to take some regular steak and hope they can't fuck it up. But I mean, let's hope for not dysentery." He put his own menu aside. "why do you think our arrangement would be different today?"

He can't quite face her scrutiny as Ella regards him. So, he looks down at his drink.

She tries to sound peppy, but as she talks but the worry is clear in her words. "You haven't explained what happened this morning. I didn't want to press, and so for the last eight hours I've just talked about anything else. But even I can run out of things to talk about, Michael."

Some small, very petty part of him wants to tell her that if she actually knew how to shut up, then Pete wouldn't have strangled her. It's a cold, cruel thing to think. But that's how he used to do things. To throw fears and phobias back in his siblings' faces until they stopped asking him questions. But he can't with her. Won't. So, they have a bit of an impasse. They both know what scares the other. But she'll say it, and he won't. It's not hard for Lopez to know that he can't stand what's happened to him. But he's not even sure which bothers him: the loss of his wings or the loss of other parts. Although with the wings gone, he has to do such horrible things to chase the pain away, so probably that. After all, the wings were his divine birthright and his true gift from Father.

He was a general once.

Just look at him now. He was…what was it again Lopez had blurted out? Yes, fear vampire, how pathetic.

But even so, he cannot tell her the truth. Michael cannot tell her why he stumbled in the shower that morning nor what he felt and how he had to deal with the lust building in him in such a crass fashion. Angels didn't feel that. Alright, correction, well he didn't feel that with just any mortal. And he certainly shouldn't in a body that wasn't even his own.

Michael tents his fingers in front of him, while trying to ignore how slender and sleek they are. How delicate. How not his. "I'm stronger than a human, you know that, right?"

Her eyes get big as saucers. "Uh yup, you tour the handicapped bar off the wall. And that took a big tip to make uncomfortable questions, go away so you're welcome."

"Thank you. But for an angel, I'm compromised. Yes, I'm far from weak and you've seen that. But I'm not what I should be. Far from. And my limbs get tired, and especially my right side is always the weakest side. It's as healed as it'll ever get. It was a bad morning, and I just…I slipped. I'm sorry, Ella." He flags over the waitress and gives their orders.

Between one regular steak and one chicken fried steak, he hopes everything goes well and that the kitchen doesn't fuck them up. Then, he looks down at the peeling laminate on the menu as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.

A soft hand is over both of his all of a sudden, and it takes everything he has not to feel flushed over her contact with him. "But you're okay, right?"

"I am what Father made me to be. And now I am what he remade me to be, whatever that is" Michael shrugs and like always, his right shoulder barely moves.

"That's kind of a vague answer, Michael."

"Is this better? I probably won't trip again, Lopez. I'll try and get more rest so that I don't. We'll get double beds next time or separate rooms, even. That way, when I need the space to stretch out and rest my right side, I can get it. Really, I'm fine."

Michael could tell already that was going to become his litany. As if saying he was fine enough would wall off any encroaching breakdowns. Well, it damn well better.

Her hands give his one more squeeze, and large, limpid eyes stare up at him, trying to show trust. And almost making it. "Yeah, well, I do have a lot of luggage. I think you're right and spreading out could be best. As long as you're okay We have a lot of ground to cover, and I just want my partner in crime to stay healthy." She pulls her hands back, and he tries to offer her a smile to make her feel better.

But it pulls against his scar, and he sure it's anything but reassuring.

"Trust me, Scrappy Doo. I'm going to be with you every step of the way, whether you like it or not."