Chapter Eight Clothes Make the Man

"Lopez, I don't think I can do this."

Ella sets the collection of dresses and other outfits she's accumulated at the department store (and wasn't that a fight to explain that no, the Goodwill wasn't gonna help) on the nearest chair and goes to stand on the other side of the changing room door.

"Michael, are you okay?"

"These are clearly torture devices. I was around for the Spanish Inquisition. This is a trick!"

She stifles a giggle and tries really, really hard not to laugh at him. Bras are complicated on the best of days and of course no two ever fit the same. It could be like torture devices, but if they are going to up their game and gamble in the swanky places, Michael can't just go without or, worse, mix and match a sports bra with a couple hundred bucks cocktail dress.

Pfft, that would get them ejected so fast.

"Do you need help?"

"No…I don't think so. I mean I can reached behind my back kind of. You know, maybe I'm wrong. Dad sent me to Hell and this is the final part."

Ella definitely chuckles at that part. Until she met Michael, she'd have assumed that all angels were stoic and wise. To be fair, Michael's seen a lot and has tons of stories from any time period, but she's not sure that wise is the word for him. She knows it's not stoic. The guy can talk, which makes them suited to each other anyway.

"Do you, uh…need help?" She is blushing so brightly then that she figures all of Nordstrom's can see her face, as if it were a neon sign. "I can help with the fastening part if you're confused."

"Sports bras are fine."

"Nope, they won't…Michael just open the door already."

"Fine, but we better make so much scratch off these whales and high rollers. This is just, well, Hell."

She smirks to herself until he does open the door, and Ella is presented with a Hell of her own. Michael, though he clearly can't quite wrap his head around it, is gorgeous. She figures as a guy, he was really attractive too. That has to make sense right? It's not like God made ugly angels. Probably just loaded them all up with ethereal model looks.

Well, at least her test sample of one tells her that much.

For now, Michael is huffing in front of her. He has jeans on and is fumbling with a strapless bra. It's nothing special. It's beige and cotton and bland as can be, but Ella can't quite keep her heart from speeding up at the sight. His hair is down, and between Eve and Michael, Ella realizes she totally has a type in women and the dark hair and huge, Disney princess eyes do it for her. A lot.

But that's not fair.

Bad, Ella, bad.

She mentally dumps cold water over herself and offers Michael a patient smile. "You tried to put the bra on from the wrong angle."

"This is how you wear it so it has to go this way first." He blinks at her, clearly approaching this as an engineering problem, unaware of the only way she even knows how to strap herself in.

"Um, you start with the clasp in the front, clasp it, and then shimmy till it's all behind you. Then, you put your arms through the straps."

He blinks at her again and then his eyes narrow. "That's such bullshit. You're making fun of me."

"No, dude, that's how it works. I mean, that's how my mamí taught me. Even when I was doing dance class and at recitals…after in the dressing room, never saw a girl try a bar by just clasping from the back and go. You could…uh maybe…but this is way easier."

"So I just sort of cheat clasp it first and move it around?"

She nods and her mouth is suddenly way way too dry. "Yes siree." And it definitely cracks on that last part.

Michael doesn't notice, just glares at the offending item of clothing as if it's in a conspiracy against him. "You must be joking. I just 'shimmy?'"

"Well, more like desperately twist it so the clasp once fastened is at the back, but sure, that's the same idea."

"Oh for Dad's sake!"

"Let me pop back out, and you try that instead. It'll go better than trying to fasten behind your back…unless making your arms extra-extra long is an angel power."

"It's not."

"Okay then, be right out there, Mike."

She ducks out before Michael can think to ask her to just do it. She doubts he would since he's very prickly about, well, everything, but if he had asked, she'd have had to make up any excuse not to. Ella knows better, knows how deeply wounded and messed with he is, but she can't quite stop herself from finding him beautiful too. That's okay; she's almost forty. She's had unrequited crushes before. The most embarrassing one was over Pierce…okay so it was an obvious one, but way to pick em, huh?

Michael must have gone back to figuring out the mysteries of the bra as he's making grunting noises and something bumps against the door.

"You're okay, right? Let's not break the dressing room."

"Shove it, Scrappy. I almost and there. Seriously, when did it become a freaking rubik's cube to get dressed."

"Ooh, so it's on?"

"Yeah, and it works, and you were right to come to this place and get a fitter to help which we will never talk about again."

"Scout's honor!"

"You were?"

"I have sold so many cookies in Detroit; you don't even know, dude. But okay, I found a few of the nice, swanky cocktail dresses. I'm gonna dump a few over the door and you figure out which works for you. Uh, I'll explain slips and undergarments later."

"I have a bra and underwear."

"Yeah but you have to…lines…and anyway, we'll work you up to a thong or get you a slip maybe?"

"I am not doing that first one. Also, fuck you too Dad. What an asshole."

Ella's mind goes blank as she remembers that the "Dad" Michael is so furious with is the Big Guy, Yahweh, the Alpha and Omega of everything. For her, that's her rock and source of faith and strength. For Mike, his dad is anything but a comfort. It makes Ella's blood run cold honestly as she dumps the dresses over the door for him. Michael swears it's because God is harder on the angels to begin with and favors humans. And because of his punishment.

And for the millionth time, she wonders what he did to deserve both the loss of his wings and his…other things. But he won't talk about that. And it's rude to ask now that they have their rules. Yet, either Michael epically fucked up or God is unerringly cruel. Maybe both, and as just the lowly human in all of this, that terrifies her.

She figures it'll be a while for Michael to go through the handful of dresses she's picked out for him. So, she pulls out her cell-and it's still hers, not some temp phone or a burner-and looks at her messages. Nothing much from her family. As far as they know, she's still "dating that nice guy Pete" and working for the LAPD. It was easier that way, to just let them pretend she was still functional. Otherwise, there'd be all this pressure to come home, and as bad as she feels, Detroit is the last place she wants to be. Besides, only her mamí has texted, just gossip about Mass and her friends at church this weekend. The only other thing is a voicemail from Chloe. The detective's tone is patient, but Ella can hear the tension underneath. The worry:

"Hey, Ella, I know it's been a while since you've been in town, but you can always come back. You have to know the tribe would be there for you and have your back even if you're not a forensic scientist anymore. Whatever you need to do. I can't even imagine…but you have a home here too. Oh, and Trixie misses you too. She tells me 'Sushi shirt forever,' which I guess means something to you. Please? Love you…the whole gang loves you. Call me!"

Ella sighs. She misses them all, from Maze who still calls her "Ellen" to Dan who is a brotherly friend again after the weird and terrible decision to have sex with him that one time to all the tribe. They are her home, but for now, she needs to figure out who she is and where she's going in her life. She knows that as much as she loves science, her days as a forensic researcher are over. She can't…if it ever led another killer to her…she wouldn't be that lucky twice.

Besides, Pete was a monster and an asshole, but he wasn't wrong. There is a darkness in her. She's always used it, those errant thoughts about how she'd kill someone or how someone would die to help. She's focused it as a forensic and not a killer. But those thoughts still are there, still bubble under the surface of her thoughts all the time. She knows there's a side of her that was always into less-than-legal things: boosting cars, gambling, and running with bad boys. Considering her brothers, that's probably partially a Freud thing. However, since she started patrolling, she's realized there's even more to it. To her. She likes the crunch of bone, likes hearing someone beg for her to stop.

A good person isn't like that.

Sure, the guys she targets are usually this close to slipping a girl a roofie or hurting someone forever, just like Pete did to her, but it doesn't make the joy she finds in their agony any better. If her mamí and abuelita knew…

…they'd beg her home for more meds.

Hell, since she's on the road with the archangel Michael and that sounds insane out loud, they'd definitely make her come home for a psych hold. But Michael is real, damn it. No one that simultaneously infuriating yet kind could be fake.

Speaking of…

"Yo! Lopez, did you fall asleep on me? I need help."

"Do you need a zip up and sorry, was reading uh Twitter."

"I'm glad you're oh so invested in our 'girl time,'" he snarks back.

"I know this isn't what you'd rather wear."

"Underfuckingstatement."

"But…it's only for the big casinos. Any other times, jeans and a t-shirt will work. It's just the best way to trick marks, okay?"

"Yeah, I'm…I'm just not sure this works? Do you think this works?"

She rolls her eyes and giggles, her fears about herself and her longing for Los Angeles forgotten. "I don't have X-ray vision. I'm sure all angels just have that too."

"We don't. Don't be ridiculous." Michael punctuates his grumpiness by opening the door.

It takes everything in Ella not to blurt out something embarrassing and unforgiveable like, "Take me now."

The dress wasn't actually a sparkly and short number, which really fits casinos best. A few of those are in the pile, and Ella will make sure that Michael takes those too. But this is a throwback item, a cobalt blue number that is all flowing fabric and cut with an empire waist. It looks positively Grecian and its long, flowy skirt and plunging neckline all compliment the form that Michael's been given.

"It's dumb, right? I look really dumb, don't I?" Michael asks.

She snaps out of her stupor and shakes her head. "No, this is perfect. You show up to a game and any straight guy or queer girl is going to forget how to count, let alone how to play poker. This? Is a keeper."

"A? We can't just splurge."

"We have enough winnings, and you need bait to catch a whale, duh."

Michael's forgotten his awkwardness and puts his hands on his hips. "This one is already three hundred. Come on!"

"You really are some old grandpa type here in the fifties when everything cost a dollar, aren't you?"

"More like a dime and Lopez-"

"No, we're getting you enough and me enough to really run the best tables in whichever city we choose. No arguments. Now, how did the shorter ones do?"

"Good, but I mean, I'm tall so they ride up my thigh a lot." He blinks back at her, completely guileless and she gets the weird feeling of looking at a deer with his wide, brown eyes. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Not if you want to really distract them."

"Good, because for all this fuss, we better win."

"Oh, trust me, Michael, no one will be able to concentrate with you in all that stuff."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. At least this one is mostly comfortable. More like robes than most, and that I'm used to." He turns around a few times and eyes himself in the mirror. By the third spin, Ella is smirking. She figures he's at the point he just likes making the skirts float around him anyway. "So, bra and dress and we'll talk about a slip. Those I know but mostly from peeling them off of Lily after a show-"

"Lily huh?"

"The ex. She was a performer in New York in the fifties and sixties. Never thought I'd be wearing whatever, but they could be worse, I guess." He faces her again and frowns. "But am I…shoes? Because if you say high heels, I'm going to boycott."

She laughs again. "No, I'll do them. If I don't, I'm like 5 nothing almost. But you're so tall."

"One thing Dad preserved, thank you very much."

"So you can get away with flats."

"Thank…well not Father…but good because those things look like torture devices Torquemada would be proud of and I am just not. I have this tiny, little shred of dignity I'm preserving, and I'm not going to let it go."

"You say that now-"

"I'm not, Scrappy Doo. Okay, so I'll get this all off and back in jeans and we can see if there are any sales we're missing."

Ella is over how hot Michael looks dressed up and sighs. "You mean you're going to brow beat the cashier into how expensive things are and pretend you see tears in things. Please don't."

"This dress feels great sure, but I bet I can get it down to 200 tops."

"How are you an angel?"

Michael's left shoulder sags as he looks back in the mirror and shakes his head. Ella swallows hard at the cascade of dark hair that moves slinkily over his back and shoulders. "Trust me, Chica, I ask myself that a lot these days. But you have no appreciation for bargaining."

"Oh, I do, but I don't want to die of embarrassment. So this is all on me, and you'll thank me when we just run some riverboat casino big wig into debt." To preserve her sanity, she shuts the door so Michael can get dressed in his regular thrift store special.

"Maybe, but…Ella?"

She frowns, not really used to him using her real name, even thought they've only been road tripping a few days. Ella already has the picture that Michael isn't going to use her given name much, which fine. Oddly, it reminds her just a bit of Lucifer, who even after years won't just call her "Ella." People and their nicknames; she swears.

"What Mike?"

"I…it did look okay? For real?"

There's a tenderness in his voice that breaks Ella's heart. It makes sense in a way that he wouldn't be able to tell. His whole world and appearance and everything have been turned inside out over the last few months, at least as far as his story goes. Something happened yesterday morning too, and she suspects it has more to it than just a bum right side. She's not sure what…but it felt bigger than that. However, anyone else sees a runway model, a goddess in the flesh. Michael can't see that, she suddenly realizes.

"What?"

"I…I know I list to the left and hitch up my right shoulder. I know my scar isn't great. I mean, does the dress look better or worse with my slope shoulder? Would any dress hide it?"

"You looked amazing, Michael. I swear."

"Really?"

"Can you tell if I'm lying?"

"I can tell if you're scared, and you are but not of me or this conversation. More of that asshole and the lilies. That's always back of your mind. Fucker. I could fix that for you."

She blinks, not sure at first what Michael means. "Fix what?"

"Pete. I can't just easily fly out and get him while he's out on bond-"

"You know?"

"I Googled. But if you want, we can detour back to Cali and make him very, very sorry. At this point, I've already pissed Dad off. I wouldn't kill him, but I can make him wish he were dead. Trust me."

She wants to say no. Ella wants to cling to all her Catholic virtues of forgiveness and kindness and being light and love. Turn the other cheek 7x7 and everything else. But she hasn't slept in months and an archangel (mostly) is offering. It has to be mostly okay if St. Michael is sanctioning it.

"You would?"

"For you, Chica, I'd do a lot. Even wear a dumbass strapless bra. So what do you say? Do you want to make that detour before we hit Route 66 hard?"

"I shouldn't."

"I didn't ask what you should do," he says, opening the door and back to his jeans, sneakers, and a plaid shirt. She's pretty sure he didn't put even a sports bra on. Perfect. Like that's not going to be distracting on the road.

"I…"

"Lopez, what do you want? Be honest." And he looks at her with those big, doe eyes and how does it feel like the wrong kind of temptation with the Sword of God talking to her.

"I…"

"Yeah?"

"I want to make him suffer."

"Perfect. Then, we head to L.A. for a quick cameo. And we have some fun making Pete a catatonic mess. That seem fair?"

"I shouldn't ask."

"I offered, Scrappy. Let's do it." He finishes this declaration by sweeping up the dresses in his arms and them dumping them into hers. She almost topples over with the weight of them. "Don't forget, all those high price tags are on you, chica. Chop chop."