Ella wakes first, not that she slept well to start with.

She's worried about Michael. Here she's been, so absorbed by Pete and his endless bull shit and how him confining her just brought back so many memories and so much worse from her exorcisms, and Michael's clearly not as all right as she assumed. Okay, not that she'd think considering how wounded he is, that he was going gangbusters. More that, of the two of them, he's both by far the oldest and he's also been the least likely to break down crying or, you know, almost kick a man to death.

But last night outside that club was eye opening. Since everything with his brother and his brother's girlfriend, clearly, Michael's been treading water, and last night, she must have done the equivalent of walking in on him drowning.

She sighs and sits up against the headboard. She's in her favorite Grogu jammies (still a dumb name for Baby Yoda), Pepe is running about the room for exercise somewhere, and Michael's still conked out on the other side of the bed. He didn't even change from last night, still has on his jeans and her jacket which doesn't really cover as much as it could, considering their differences in size.

And that pains her, both that he would think that lowly of himself to let all that happen to him repeatedly—because he was the Sword of God and even now around humans, nothing happens to Michael unless he allows it—and that he would even think that's how repenting works.

Sure, she was not the world's best novitiate (and really the nunnery had no business hiring a landscaper that hot), and so Ella knew the Old Testament as well as she knew the Gospels. She'd only read Revelation a couple times, and in retrospect, she might need to brush up on that one. However, she'd always hoped that after the Lamb, the Big Guy was a lot more about peace and love and kindness, the good stuff in short, but the way just one of his children is so incredibly messed up…well, it's continuing to both worry Ella for the universe in general and make her disgusted and angry for Mike in specific.

Yes, what he'd attempted had been awful, but what he was putting himself through was pure flagellation, and it wasn't going to fix anything. Unless that's what God wanted, and would an angel know?

Ella isn't sure, but it says terrible things about the Big Guy that Michael would even think this is helpful. Oh, also, weird but angels definitely snore, even if Michael will later deny he did it. He's like sleeping next to a motorboat.

She smirks at that. Slipping quietly out of the room and leaving Pepe in charge, she goes to what passes for the morning breakfast bar downstairs before it closes up. When she returns to their room, her plate is brimming with (granted tepid) pancakes, bacon, as well as melon and strawberries. Ella's even managed to get the coffee cup's worth of orange juice up to their room without spilling one drop. She sets the drink on the nightstand by her side of the mattress and the plate on her lap.

Technically, Michael says angels don't have to eat, but he does. Quite a lot actually, and she figures it's either habit or, let's be real, eating shit is fun. While most road and diner food is terrible for you, it's all grease and yummy and totally worth digging into.

So, she waits and not too long after she's back, the archangel rolls over to his left side so he can face her. His eyes slide open and he regards her bounty.

"Scraps, you should have thought of yourself. What are you gonna eat?"

She shoves a strawberry into her mouth. It's on the border of sparkling but she's hungry, and it's decent enough. "Funny, we're sharing."

"Maybe I don't want to," he huffs, getting up and against the headboard pretty easily.

She's not surprised. If he's been hunting for days, then pain-wise, Michael's probably as good as he ever gets. He's not giggling shrilly or loopy either. It seems. So, whatever the effect of taking so much last night has on him emotionally must have cleared. At least, she hopes it has.

Ella sets the plate down on her nightstand long enough to pull her hair back quickly in a scrunchie. Like Hell she'll trust the goods unguarded around him. Then, she settles it all back on her lap. "You're a twin."

"Unfortunately."

"Then, shouldn't you be an expert at sharing?"

"Kind of the reverse feeling on it, chica. I spent billions of years splitting everything, so if you think about it, I'm due for everything all to me."

She laughs and picks up another strawberry. It's probably silly, but after last night, they both could use it. "Okay, so you know sharing can be fun."

"You don't know the Devil like I do," Michael snarks.

"No, I guess not, but you had to like each other at some point. Also, open up."

He blinks at her like she's requested that in Spanish. "Come again?"

"Maybe later," she quips, winking at him. "I can't just feed my boyfriend?"

He shrugs and shoves his mop of hair over one shoulder. She'll get him to understand the finer points of hair ties…eventually. "And you sure we're still—"

"Yeah, definitely. Now open on up because you're immortal, but I'm not and, you know, neither is the fruit." She waits less than patiently for him to open his mouth and holds out the strawberry for him.

To be fair, watching him bite into it and the juice run down his chin is its own reward. Then, Michael being Michael, just takes a slab of bacon from the plate for himself and munches it noisily. "More a red meat guy, Scraps."

She tosses a piece of melon at him and it lands somewhere near the top of his head. Ella decides not to tell him where yet. There's so many curls, he might never find it. "You really don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you?"

"I'd like to think so," he says, sobering a bit. "I don't like spending money."

She forces her eyes as wide as they go. "You don't say?"

"Look, one day you will enjoy my skill with coupons."

"Like traveling with abuelito, I swear…" She laughs and holds out a bit of pancake for him, and Michael obliges this time, taking it from her.

They go back and forth like that for a while. Eventually, Ella relents and sets the plate equally between them, even if Michael sneaks more for himself than he actually feeds her. And yeah, see her theory on how angels are bottomless pits again. Soon enough the plate is empty, and Michael is leaning forward with one, stray strawberry slice held above her head.

"Can you even reach this high, short stuff?" he asks.

She glares at him. "You know, just cause angels are freakishly tall—"

"Azrael isn't. My sister Remiel isn't either, and you want it, come get it, Scrappy."

She giggles. "Not actually a cartoon dog."

"Debatable," he replies. As she leans up and, okay, really stretches for the last piece, Michael drops it down her t-shirt. "Whoops, bad right hand and all."

She rolls her eyes and starts to dig for the piece between her breasts and before the juice can stain poor Grogu on the front of her sleep shirt red. Ella doesn't quite get the chance. There's a flash of movement and before her mind can quite register it, she's shirtless and Michael's lying over her. He's finishing up the strawberry he dropped, and then settling his chin between her cleavage before her brain fully catches up.

"Whoa."

"Sorry, I might have gotten carried away," Michael admits, a blush coloring his cheeks as his riot of curls falls all over his face.

"No, it's good, corazón, but I am probably never getting used to the speedster thing ever."

"I don't know what that means."

"Ooh, I can get you into comics too."

He snorts derisively. "First, that's not happening. Second, I'm aware, but I don't give a shit. That's the difference. I mean since Father ordered a whole multiverse made…"

She blinks at him. And again. He's surely bullshitting her. "Como? What?"

"Multiverse. Sam and I were at all this building blocks crap forever. Did you not know that? I mean humans kind of guessed some of it. I know about Einstein, was around here in Brooklyn long enough to hear about some of that stuff. So that shouldn't be a surprise. I think?" He frowns and lets his good hand stray over her right breast, which is inherently distracting, especially when he's talking about the multiverse.

"Wait so that's all true like in Loki or Rick and Morty?"

"Well, not sure how nerd shit explains it, and I don't know all the endless crap you watch—"

"You will."

He laughs and kisses her. "Promise or a threat, chica?"

"Bit of both, but I think you're saying there's more than one universe out there so then what? Comics are real?"

Michael rolls his eyes. "Well, sure, some of it. Not every single thing some human set down to paper, but some of the stuff, yeah. Not really a dimension hopper. Gabriel can, part of the messenger job. Like I said, I just made the raw materials—not as if Dad asked much whether I wanted to be a repository for endless matter but here we are—but we set it up. So, technically, yeah there's a universe where there's a Batman or whatever."

"That one you know?"

"Lily found Eartha Kitt amusing," he answers, looking away and shrugging his shoulders. "So, I'm aware of that one. You know, pow-bang and bat poles and uh shark repellant. And technically, yeah, a few universes over that's all as real as you are."

Her jaw drops. "Superheroes are real."

"Well, here they're not, so it's a matter of perspective," he admits. Then, Michael channels all his innate bitchiness, which by now Ella is certain is not a feature of his new form, and adds, "You know, you're talking to an archangel, more or less. Demiurge, fashioned all the shit you see or have ever even heard of. Even if some dude in a cape were real here, you know I'd be more powerful, right?"

She laughs and kisses him back. Then, to emphasize her point, kisses him on the nose, a little peck really. "You're jealous. That's crazy but kind of adorable."

"No, I am not," he snaps, trying to hold his head higher, which to be fair, does give him a more regal bearing, especially with his patrician profile. "I'm just saying if Batman were real here, I'd be better. I mean, he needs a special belt to do shit."

"He's a billionaire."

Michael muses at that, a little crease appearing between his brows. "Okay, scratch that. If I ever add dimension hopping to my repertoire—unlikely—we hop a few places over, and we catch ourselves a billionaire with flying rodent issues."

"Huh?"

"We're reasonably attractive brunettes. We just, you know, get him to sign shit over to us. He can keep the cave and the bats."

She laughs at all of that, mostly because it's insanely stupid but also because theoretically it's more possible than it was five minutes ago because there is a multiverse confirmed and superheroes who are real at least somewhere, even if an archangel can't reach it. Well, scratch that. Hers can't.

"I'm reasonably attractive now, huh? I get a demotion?" she says, giggling harder as he lavishes her with attention from her nipples down to her belly button. She may have, a little, encouraged a bit of a monster in bed so far.

"You know, pretty good. Not too hard on the eyes."

She laughs again as he makes his way under the covers and his mouth oh…

Ella thrusts her hips up a bit to give him leverage to let his fingers explore because, naturally, Michael's not quite ready to shut up yet and put his mouth to better use. Much better use.

"Fuck…I…I see that."

"Uh-huh," he says, increasing the pace of two of his fingers plumbing into her. "But sure, if you wanna go take over Batman's house."

"Called…unh…Wayne Manor."

He adds a third finger, and by this point she's about to forget her own name, let alone Batman canon. "Right, skipped my mind. Yeah, so I'd be game, but just for the loot and the butler thing. You're all mine, Lopez."

She panting hard even as he presses his right thumb tightly to her. In a few seconds, she swears she's seeing the very stars he made. "Always."

"You bet," he continues and eventually his ministrations change, and Michael, indeed, finds a much better use for his tongue than talking…

They leave that night from Houston, and she drives Baby a couple hours east and to Galveston. It's a great target to hit before Harrah's in New Orleans and, eventually, wherever they please in Atlantic City. But this is a place of vacationing oil magnates out to enjoy getting just far enough into international waters and the Gulf of Mexico to bet their asses off on riverboats. It is, finally, where she intends to find their whales.

Which is how three days after arriving in Galveston and of getting back to a more even keel for both of them, mostly with a few day trips she's planned and Pepe's walks, Ella has to sit down and break down for Michael exactly how tonight's trip to The Jacks or Better will work. And why jeans aren't going to be part of it, and, why yes, even for him, actual foundation garments are so so needed.

He glares at her after she finishes explaining how she's going to help him get cleaned up tonight. "No. Those things—" he says, curling his left lip up in disdain. "are torture devices. You don't run around with the Mother of Demons for close to twenty years and not know torture on sight."

She rolls her eyes and hands him the real bra with underwire (no sports bras allowed this time), the Spanx, and a slip. "Non-negotiable. One of these dudes? Huge shareholder in Chevron. We're doing this, and we're going to do it correctly and bleed that pendejo dry, right?"

"Chevron is?"

"You know those gas stations we keep passing? The ones you bitch about cause gas is expensive as Hell?"

"You know," he says, picking up the three pieces but still grimacing at them. "When I was here in '65? It was 31 cents a gallon."

She blinks at him, instantly jealous. "Wait, can angels time travel cause…"

"No, don't be ridiculous. If that's the kind of money we're talking about, fine. But I'm gonna look stupid, and it's going to be uncomfortable."

"Yes, well, not really a newsflash, but being a woman is all uncomfortable. Put that crap on. I gotta get you made up and then do me, so march, okay?" she points to the bathroom so he can get ready in some privacy, should he want it.

"And there you go, acting like you're in charge," he huffs, even as he does as she asks.

"Because I am. Clearly, one of us has to be the brains of the operation."

"Maybe I'll elect Pepe," he adds, shutting the door behind him.

"You hate Pepe!" she calls back.

He doesn't respond, but there is groaning, cursing, and the occasional thud quickly followed by variations of "I am going to kill you for this Lopez" that Ella takes as mostly a good sign. While Michael figures out the wonders of getting strapped in before eventually slipping on his dress, she gets her make-up and brushes out, setting them on the desk and also dragging extra lamps over for maximum lighting. About ten minutes later, Michael, a thunderous expression on his face, opens the door and stomps across the room to sit down for her.

"I hate you."

"You adore me."

"This has to be worth it."

"Billionaire," she replies, firmly. "We're gonna fleece a billionaire. Eyes on the prize, angel."

"And I couldn't do that in jeans or without…what did we do to my hair again?"

She laughs, taking a modicum of pity on Mike. "Flat ironed it. Your hair is nice."

"Uh-huh."

"But it can be a lot."

"You mean all the tangles won't bag us whale money."

"You ever read Moby Dick?" she asks.

"Did you?" he counters even as she starts getting out the concealer. They'll work the best they can with his scar, but it can only be minimized so much. Still, the concealer and foundation first, then she'll work from there. "Read it, I mean."

"I read the Cliff's Notes the night before my final in college so sort of." She admits.

"Yeah, I read it, and you know it's maybe not the metaphor you want for a whale hunt, right?"

She starts with the concealer, layering it delicately with a soft applicator over his left temple and across the bridge of his nose, following the line of his scar since he has no other blemishes. Perfect angel skin and all that.

"Okay, still, you need bait, right?"

He nods and stops when she clucks at him to hold still. "Fair enough, but I'm not doing this all the time. This is bull shit. Also, I don't have human needs but how do you get back out of this crap to go to the bathroom if you did need it?"

"You don't."

He blinks at her, wide Bambi eyes clearly confused. "What?"

She works her way to his right cheek, where the scar is deepest. Unbidden, Ella sets her free hand over his right one, trying to reassure him. She knows he's the most aware and ashamed of this part of his wounds. "I'm serious. Dude, you think I get strapped in with like five types of spandex and then drink anything? I mean, in theory you can undo it all but it's actually shit in person. So, yeah, I look hot if I gotta, but I'm not gonna eat and drink much all night."

"That's really stupid."

"Well if you were living with Lily in the 50s and 60s, right? She had to have tons of girdles and stuff and abuelita always said those sucked harder." She continues on his right cheek and starts looking for the best foundation out of the corner of her eyes.

"I only cared as much as I needed to so I could unstrap her," he huffs. "I wasn't volunteering to try it on. Looks great on, once she had all her dresses and the whole sequined up shit, but yeah, not volunteering to be a pretzel too."

"Well, congrats. At least it's 2020 and not 1965. It's way more comfortable now."

His eyes flash gold just a bit in his irritation and he yanks ineffectively at this lycra on his thigh. "You're lying."

"Oh, poor innocent Sword of God. You have like no idea. I mean, you don't even need your eyebrows waxed."

"I don't…humans are bizarre. That's it. You morons have made everything more complicated since the Garden. Clearly."

She ignores his bitching and switches out the concealer for the palest shade of foundation she has. It won't quite look as good on him since he's fairer in complexion, but this is the best she can find. She takes a sponge, applies it liberally and gets to working at smoothing under his chin and up his neck, trying to blend it seamlessly as she can. Michael seems to get the stick out of his ass and relaxes, even sighing a little as she eventually works the cream base over his cheek bones.

"We can argue how crappy this is, and you're not even wearing stilettos."

"I couldn't come close to balancing and just no. Torture devices, all of it. You sure men even like you ladies?"

"Most days, sort of," she admits. "Anyway, I'm the one who will be limping bad by the end of the night. You're gonna be fine."

He sighs again. "Maybe, but this feels so weird, not that everything lately isn't."

She nods, even if he can't see her right now, and pats his knee. "You're doing great. This is all about the con, right? I get if this is confusing most of the time, but for getting some oil money bled out of this idiot, we just need you to slay."

"Slay what? Dragons are behind me, chica."

She laughs again and grabs her palette to do up his eyes next. "Keep it all closed, Mike. I don't guess you can feel it if eyeshadow and then the liner gets in your eyes, but yeah, that's no fun."

"I trust you, Scraps," he admits as she starts at the corner of his left eye nearest the tear duct. Ella's chosen a couple shades, one with hints of white to it to highlight a shade of deep cobalt. Might be a little overkill but she's working at it, layering it in, and with the dress he has… "That said if we have to whale hunt more than every month or so once we're finally settled in Jersey, I reserve the right to murder you."

"You won't do that. Besides, I'm gonna make you fabulous," she chirps.

"You're gonna make me…" he pauses but doesn't open his eyes as she keeps working on the shadow. "...I'm sorry I won't look very good all dolled up. I mean, not that I want to be, but no matter what you have in that bag of yours or how many brushes, the scar down my shoulder from where Sandaphalon stabbed me forever ago still peeks out. I'm good for a bit longer, but I know even this close to being, well, fed, I list to the right." He swallows hard before continuing. "My face…"

She kisses him softly on the lips, glad she is naturally doing the gloss last. "Corazón, these idiots aren't going to know what hit them."

He laughs at that even if it's tinged with some sadness, something bitter underneath. "Of course, Scraps, because you're going to knock 'em dead the way you were the first time I really saw you in that alley."

She makes him open his eyes and explains to him where to look so she can line and then get the mascara situated. Michael would probably be bitching more on this delicate set of steps if he could actually get poked in the eye, not that she plans to do that.

"So, you're saying at first in the El Dorado, you thought I was ugly?"

Michael starts to shake his head but stops instantly when she glares at him, eyeliner pencil raised like a dagger. Almost. Then, he stills. It shouldn't blow her mind like it does sometimes that the Saint Michael (sometimes) listens to her, but it does. She's just a mortal, the most average of humans, and he not just trusts her but respects her. It makes less than zero sense.

"No, Ella, I thought you were too nice for your own good but pretty, sure. I'm a guy with eyeballs."

She laughs at that, lines the bottom, and then goes for the top. Michael blinks a bit, complicating it but again, the immortal constitution helps a lot since he doesn't tear up like she did so much as a kid doing it for dance recitals. "Thanks. Check, appeals to sighted men."

"No, I mean," he continues, holding as still as he can as she moves to the other eye. "In the alley, I know you eventually got your ass handed to you."

"Thanks, corazón, real ego boost there, buddy."

"But," he continues as she finally gets his liner done and ferrets around for the right mascara. He's a bit too fair for the dark black she prefers, but Ella's pretty sure she has a brown one somewhere. "I don't know if this makes you feel worse or better, but in the alley, when you were going at it, that's who you are. It's like this whole curtain opening and seeing all of it."

"Huh?" she asks, finally deciding on the right tube and prepping it for him, making sure to get the excess off. "Okay now do not fucking blink, k? You'll ruin it and end up full raccoon."

"Are you serious? That looks like spider legs or something."

"You never really watched Lily get ready either huh?"

He shrugs. "Better ways to pass a couple hours. When do you think I had time to read the classics?" Point him. "But okay, just don't stab me. I don't feel it but yeah that raccoon eyes thing, let's just not."

"Sure, why didn't I think of that," she says cheekily as she works on applying it. This, she's done a billion times for others, again all those backstage last minute adjustments before cheer or dance team. She's got this. "It's a lot of steps."

"I'm getting that now." He doesn't move but lets out another long sigh. "You were—still are really—untrained and small and fragile."

"Hey! I'll fragile your angel ass."

"Sure, Scrappy Doo, but" he adds, and she can hear the pride creeping into his voice. "You were a revelation, and an angel even whatever I am would know. The ferocity of you, the sense of justice. Remiel would like you, I think. You have as much fight in you as any of my sisters." Michael laughs warmly. "Definitely more than Saraqael. She's smart but more like Samael, very creature comfort focused."

Ella breathes slowly, even as she finishes Michael's eyes and, in short order, rouges his cheeks and does lipstick and gloss for him. He lets her finish in silence though he still rambles on a bit; it is Michael after all. This time, recounting something from the Crusades, a bit of a bet between him and that Remiel he mentioned. But she kind of only hears it through a fog because the former head of the Big Guy's legion just said she was as fierce as his sisters, that she'd have made a good angel. Part of her thinks that's just because he cares about her so much, that he put her a lot on a pedestal but another part is so flattered she can barely focus.

As she grabs the tissue for him to blot his lips with, she finally finds her voice again. "You really think that?"

Michael stops regaling her with whatever angel war anecdote he was in the middle of. "That Gabriel is an idiot and wouldn't know strategy if it bit him on the ass? Sure."

She laughs as he takes the tissue from her. Ella automatically grabs another and mimics blotting on it til Mike gets it. A bit like working with a baby bird, but he's not bad at aping what she needs him to do. "No, I mean that even the first night, you…you thought I was tough?"

"I thought you were beautiful and a warrior, and I admired that. Still do," he admits. "You still need a shit ton of work, of course, and you lean too heavy on your follow through when you punch…gets you off balance and—"

She hugs him because she's not smearing his make-up damn it this late into the process. "I get it, General. Maybe I won't ask for real opinions."

He stands finally and rummages through the closet to grab his dress and his flats. Then, he heads back to her before ducking into the bathroom to finish up. She'll need the space to make a mad dash for all she needs too. But he stops long enough to run a hand through her hair and caress her chin. "I lie sure, but not to you, and we'll train more soon enough. I just…you are amazing, Lopez."

"I…gracias, corazón."

He kisses her cheek, and she sighs, knowing she'll have to start by getting the lipstick mark off it before she does her own routine. "Oh oops on that."

"Yeah, being a girl is complicated, now hurry up. Whales, Mike, whales!"

He rushes then to the bathroom, not hard for him with such close confines mixed with his long strides. Ella busies herself on her own routine and is still not quite done with her lip stick let alone got her shoes on when Michael grumbles on his side of the door.

"I don't know about this, Scraps."

She continues to line her lips and glares at the door, as if she can will Michael to be less stubborn. Good luck with that. Ella can't understand how off kilter Michael must feel all the time. Besides, even before he was changed, he clearly struggled especially in Heaven with how battered he is, not that it's all that noticeable this soon since the last time he hunted. Honestly, even when his shoulder hitches his worst, Michael is still striking. It's just that everyone he knows has always told him the opposite. For all he must have liked Lilith, Ella has the worst feeling even she didn't speak to him kindly. But add that and a form he's clearly not used to and the new outfit all for luring in the oil baron they want, and it's natural Michael's nervous.

Unsure.

But she saw him in the dress weeks ago without even the right foundations or the make up. She knows he'll look amazing, which is great for their odds at the tables, but also selfishly a nice sight for her too.

Ella finishes with her lips and walks barefoot to the bed. She sits at the foot of it and looks toward the bathroom door. "Corazón, I'm sure you look great."

"I'm certain you can see the scar on my shoulder, and this is…it's too obvious with how deep the back plunges and this is a mistake, Scrappy. It is."

"Please, just let me see, and if it's that off, we'll think of something else, okay? The red dress you liked okay."

He sighs on the other side and, eventually, the door knob turns. When he steps out, Ella definitely can't remember how to speak. The dress, royal blue and cut in an almost Grecian style, all flowing with empire waist and, yes, a back so low it's basically non-existent. It floats easily over his long frame, making him look even taller than he already is (and, again, kind of unfair). His hair is straight for once, flowing down his shoulders, a rich, full curtain of chestnut. His lips appear even redder and fuller than ever, thanks to her efforts, and he looks every inch the Celestial being he actually is.

Ella just gapes at him, her heart beating fast, and she may not make it through the night, let alone be able to focus on Black Jack. Most of her wants to undo all their combined hard work and shove him against the wall and kiss him senseless right now.

And more.

But talking is…hard.

Michael deflates a little at her silence, worry creeping into his brown eyes. "I was right and—"

She closes the distance between them and kisses him. Hard. Michael responds instantly, wrapping his arms around her back and they stay like that, reveling in each other for a long time. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls back first.

"Okay, so I'm guessing we can't just paw at each other as that won't feed the bulldog."

She laughs. "You really are like an abuelito. I swear."

Michael winks at her and striding more confidently than before, he goes to the closet, rummages around, and pulls out his giant ass Mary Poppins purse. "Okay, so ready?"

She yanks it from him and groans. "No."

"But they might have food to bring home and—"

"Oye, no vamos a hacerlo. We're not doing that," she corrects, handing him a small, silver clutch for the night. "Here you go."

He opens it and rolls his eyes. "Nothing fits in this!"

She puts a lip gloss in there for him and his room key. "Nope, two things fit."

Michael grumbles to himself as she gets her shoes on and retrieves her own clutch. He opens the door for himself and doesn't hold it for her. As always, he is a learning process, a boyfriend in training for sure.

"You'll regret it when we don't get to bring home high roller caviar and such," he whines as she comes through the doorway after him.

"You mean if you shoved it in your purse to have lint and random stuff roll around in it?"

"Everyone's a critic. Mark my words, Lopez. Everyone one day is going to carry giant-ass bags for smuggling."

She laughs and threads her arms through his. "Maybe we have a long way to go, Eliza Doolittle."

He laughs, and it really is a beautiful sound, especially since he does it so unguardedly. "Yeah, sure 'the rain in Spain,' yadda yadda."

She blinks at him as they both pass the front desk attendant, who stares at them both but especially at Michael's breasts. Ella just barely restrains the urge to punch him for good measure, the creeper. But at least she can be sure Team Bait is working.

Focusing back on Mike she asks, "Wait, that you saw?"

"I was here a long time; besides, Hepburn was cute in that small, slight way." He winks and kisses her before they step out to the parking lot. She is mostly sure she imagines the wolf whistle from the front desk…at least she hopes she did. Michael breaks from their embrace and holds her hand tightly in his right one. "I have a type you know."

Ella beams up at him as they walk hand-in-hand to the Impala. "You don't say, corazón. You don't say."