Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler
They fall into a routine in Galveston, mostly because the money is so good and fleecing whales on different riverboats is far too easy. Also, despite the need to get to Constantine, to see if there's anything to be done to stabilize his powers, Michael is too jarred by his latest changes to leave so soon. So, they end up spending a few months in Galveston, living high off the hog, and making such swift work of the boat-based gambling circuit that being banished is almost more of a reason to finally head to Georgia than his own mystical troubles.
But they're off, staying a couple days in New Orleans before finally hitting the outskirts of Atlanta later this weekend.
Michael is adjusting to all the crap in his life. He's far from happy about it. He's shocked and confused and not even sure what the fucking point is of having a cycle. Michael settles on the assumption that it's all part of Dad having fun, mocking him with one change after another, and that this—both the ultimate sign of having been rendered female and something so human in its needs—is just the highlight of Dad's torture tour. After all, what other purpose could it serve?
He's further mortified to realize that women (or those presenting as such in his case) sync up on their periods. By the final month in Galveston, both he and Lopez are miserable and crampy and cranky at the same time. Only a metric ton of chocolate and, finally, Scraps agreeing to get a few cases of Vodka made that week bearable. But they're now almost ten days past that, officially banned from all riverboats for their scams, and mostly happily pulling into the New Orleans city limits.
Michael notes mostly because Ella is driving, and he has suffered with Pepe sitting on his good shoulder and chittering in his ear for the last almost six hours. The little thing adores Lopez, but he has started to show some affection toward Michael too. He's not sure, honestly, how he feels about Pepe, since the little monster both signifies his uncontrolled Creation potential and also how crap Mike is at it. But the chinchilla has turned out not to be actually radioactive or poisonous and, as always, if it makes Lopez happy, then Michael will gladly endure it.
They have had such a good run in Galveston that Michael can't even object to a splurge. Part of that is because he knows the trip has been rough so far, and part of that is because he fears both what Constantine will have to tell him and, in turn, that the time has really come to catch Lopez up on everything, especially if the warlock can fix his form. So, he picks up the tab for the Roosevelt Hotel, and smiles at the way Lopez's face lights up when they get to their room. He's not sure if it's at the four-poster bed and all the (for her) antique style or the bouquet of flowers he's arranged to have already waiting in a crystal vase when they come in.
Either way, it's all worth it, as he can feel so acutely that these happy days are numbered. At least, so far, the root that Death via his sister sent them to chew to keep Mazikeen away has done its job. But, soon enough, Michael can't keep hiding from who he is and was, from how his thorn in the side, Samael, is the same as her best friend Lucifer.
But a couple more days.
He is in such a good, relaxed mood, that he even smiles as she sets up Pepe's huge cage (they've upgraded since the first one to one with fun tubes or some such bullshit Lopez swears is good for stimulating him) in the bathroom.
Again, he knows he's whipped, that he'll do anything for her. Gladly too.
Once they're settled, Michael slips into a dress, mostly because it's summer by now and anything else is too hot, and it's nothing special really. Just a yellow sundress (or that's what Lopez called it when they went shopping before leaving Texas) and slips on his sneakers. By now, he has figured out that whole hair tie thing, so he manages to get his curls controlled and looks up at her like an expectant puppy, he's sure.
"You want to go do the tourism thing? Harrah's can wait a day or two before we hit the tables. I know you drove so if you're exhausted…"
She laughs and goes over to the foot of the bed where he's sitting. Lopez kisses him and sighs. "You look too eager to say no to, Corazon, but I think you know that you have me wrapped around your little finger."
He smirks at her. "I think you've found lately that my fingers aren't that little, Lopez."
She rolls her eyes and rummages through her suitcase for something to get on. "Now that's what I was waiting for, that way to puff yourself up. Such a guy move."
"Proudly so," he chirps. "Get cleaned up. I'm sure I can find something to watch till you're ready, Scraps."
Ella nods and scurries into the bathroom, and he hears the shower drizzling soon after. She's right on both counts, really. She's got him on the shortest of leashes. He'd say by the short hairs, but, thanks Dad, that expression no longer really applies. But also, oh yes, he's proud of his hands, mostly the left one of course, but both of them work hard to bring Lopez to climax and leave her screaming night after night. She's been so patient with him, with him trying to adjust to his form and then feeling thrown off balance all over again with his cycles starting up. And while he loves her attention, loves feeling her mouth over his breasts and almost every other swath of skin she can find…he's not been ready yet for the final steps.
He thinks he's almost there, but it's just all about patience.
But, yes, he loves driving her wild and is glad he can, even with his bum side and, frankly, lack of how he'd normally do it.
He's through one episode of some inane sitcom and into another about half way when Ella comes out of the bathroom. Her hair is mostly dry and thrown up in one of her high ponytails. She's put on a sundress too, this one like many of the dresses she favors, cut high on her petite legs, and Michael licks his lips at the display of her thighs. Her dress is a bright, festive pink and all of it compliments her.
He stands, groaning a bit because he has been putting off hunting a few days longer than he probably should have. It's complicated, both because it's harder since his admission at the Grand Canyon to believe that he deserves more than those pawing hands of the men he seeks out, but Michael's promised Ella not to let anyone hurt him. Not that they really can. Michael's trying to stick to it. But also, every time he abuses his power that way, even if it keeps him from debilitating pain, it just reminds him how warped he is.
How broken.
How he's closer to Lopez's moniker, however accidental, of Fear Vampire than he is to an archangel.
But he'll worry about it tomorrow or the day after near Atlanta. This evening, he is going to show his girl the town and not even use coupons. Much.
He crooks his arm for her. "So, Lopez, are you ready?"
"Por supuesto, Corazon, thought you'd never ask."
They walked from Canal Street to the Quarter. They went to a restaurant first. He doesn't technically have to eat, but it's enjoyable, and he's genuinely impressed that the city's reputation for spice holds. He enjoys jambalaya and gumbo both so hot that even he feels it. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but he's sure mere mortals would be gasping for water. Well, he was. Lopez shovels it down plus even more spicy treats as if it were nothing, and he's seriously underestimated her talent for the spicy side. After that, they walk arm in arm through the shops. He rolls his eyes as they duck into one proclaiming to sell genuine voodoo artifacts as he reminds Lopez that actually talented practitioners are rare and certainly wouldn't sell real supplies or secrets to tourists popping down to drink Hurricanes and buy gaudy beads too. Finally, they find themselves in Jackson Square.
He's tired because that's in his nature now. Once the Sword, but now so battered and fragile that eventually even human-normal levels of activity can exhaust him. He takes a bench, settling his giant purse on his lap—and Lopez is less critical of it when it holds their water bottles and a tiny, battery-operated fan he notices—and watches as she sits for a caricature portrait from a street artist.
Michael watches keenly and smiles at how often the artist has to remind Scrappy to talk less and sit still more because of course she has to.
He barely notices when someone sits on the other end of the bench from him, but the woman eventually speaks, her voice low and husky.
"You're far away from where you started, angel."
Michael turns to his right and arches an eyebrow at the interloper. She's older, and he's so bad at estimating human ages, but he'd bet in her seventies if she's a day. Her grey hair is pulled back in braids and her dark skin is a few shades darker even than Lily's; her skin wizened and one eye a bit milky, the sign of a cataract developing.
"I don't follow, lady," he replies.
"But you do, don't you, St. Michael?"
He can't help but gape at her. As his idiot brother has demonstrated over and over again, humans are excellent at denial. Michael has met few who have Sight and even fewer among that number who would admit to it.
"I…what are you?"
"Human, but you can tell that on your own." She looks across the expanse of the square to Ella. "She's special, isn't she?"
"She puts up with my crap, so she literally has more patience than a saint, not that I asked for canonization, you know?" he replies, deciding it's pointless to pretend to be something he's not for a Seer.
She nods and sets her hands on her lap. "You're not going to find your answers in a book or with that warlock acquaintance of yours."
"Big proclamation from a human sitting next to me in a tourist trap," he huffs, turning his attention back to Lopez.
"I can only remark on what I see. And you haven't even gotten started yet."
"Oh, I think fourteen billion years, being on the wounded though technically winning side of a Rebellion, and all of Dad's fun punishments say otherwise."
"Nope, you don't know what's coming next."
"Clearly, and if you want to be cryptic with me, then don't waste my time. Of course, I have fuck all idea what Dad's planned. Six months ago, I was me, and now I'm a mess…a mess run ragged by my own Creation more than my Fear. I could literally wake up a toad tomorrow and not be surprised."
She nods and lets her hand stray to his stomach. He stills at that. "But more things will throw you for a loop. After all, your Father needs his Gemini, doesn't He?"
He pulls away from her angrily and sets his giant, so-called Mary Poppins purse between them, like a barricade. "Yeah, no touching. I'm not a nice angel, but you're too old to hurt…unless you push me. Second? Sam and I are both on massive timeouts. Dad hasn't needed the Demiurge in years. Oh, and third, I wouldn't spit on Samael if he were on fire—not like that's possible—but we're not exactly a dynamic duo."
She shrugs and stands, leaning her weight heavily on her cane. It's carved and wooden and has a handmade aspect to it. "And one day, that won't be a problem. Not between you and your twin, not with a bit of empathy. I can see my thoughts are going to fall on deaf ears, St. Michael. You have a good night."
"Trying to," he grouses, focuses on the portrait of Ella, which to no surprise has such a pronounced ponytail and huge eyes. She might be a bit of a cartoon character to start with. "See ya never."
He shoos her away with a dismissive hand gesture.
And yet, she doesn't take the hint.
"You need to tell her."
"I'm working on it, and why are you still here?"
"You should do it before the chance is taken from you, angel," she answers and then turns to the tourist shops along the rue.
He stands and reaches for her, grabbing her shoulder in his good hand. "And what does that mean?"
"I see what I see," she replies, pulling away from his grasp. "But I see a lot on that horizon, sugar, and it'll go better if you man up and tell her. You owe her that."
"I am trying—"
"Are you?" she asks, before hurrying back to her shop.
Well, damn, okay so one actual practioner has a side hustle. He would not have called that.
She is glad for once that they have Baby, not just because she's a sweet ass ride or because she easily accommodates, okay, maybe some of her overpacking. But now she's also glad that Baby can easily hold the portrait she had made in the square tonight with Michael watching. She can understand why he didn't want to sit with her. These caricatures always pick out the most exaggerated features in someone—and her eyes can't be that huge, can they—and she knows that the artist, bad intentions or good, would have exaggerated the way that Michael lists to the right. It's pretty pronounced lately, and she knows he hasn't hunted yet. He might yet later tonight in New Orleans.
She's not sure.
But Michael probably had the right idea to sit it out.
However, he seems agitated since Jackson Square. Even stopping for approximately a metric ton of sugar in the form of beignets from Cafe du Monde has not calmed him. The walk home seemed pregnant with his quickened pace, tension, and overall thunder cloud of an attitude. Back in their room is more confusing with Pepe even knowing—though his cage door is open—to stick to exploring the edges of the room and keeping a wide berth as Michael paces at the foot of the bed.
Another honking red flag.
Michael doesn't usually pace, for obvious reasons. Extra steps, especially when he's about two weeks or more past a hunt, just tire him out. She can watch as minute by minute his right shoulder hitches even higher and his gait grows more stilted.
Ella flops onto her belly on the mattress and settles her chin on her crossed arms before her. "Okay, spill. Digame, Corazon. What did I miss while I was doing my best Mona Lisa impression?"
"Nothing," he spits, making another lap and circling back to pace more. He's making her a bit motion sick just watching.
"Riiiight. And I'm an idiot. Try again, Mike. What's up?"
"Stupid voodoo priestesses and magic users. Don't trust any of them."
"You must trust Constantine if we're going to see him next."
"I trust I can buy him off with enough money and premium booze; that's different. Witches and priestesses and everything else are just fucking trouble, Lopez. Far more trouble than they're worth."
"And you met a voodoo priestess? Like a real one?"
"Or a Seer, same difference. Felt like giving me unsolicited advice."
"Dude, she knew?"
He finally stops and sits down on the bed. Michael takes the top right corner, as far from her as he can get and, for now, Ella allows him the space. Anything if it'll get him to open up. "She knew, not just what I was or am or whatever you wanna say…she knew I'm an angel. And she knew I was Michael…she said as much. Which isn't an obvious guess considering."
"Yeah, true, and did she say that things go super great with Constantine by any chance?" Ella asks, trying hard to keep the hope out of her voice.
"More like vague, ominous warnings about Dad probably wanting me and Sam to work better together. Yeah, right, fat chance that'll ever happen. Also…I don't know, just that as bad as all this is, I was barely getting started." Michael rolls his eyes and gestures to himself, from head to toe. "Pass on that. If Dad has more hoops for me to jump through, well, He knows where to shove them."
Ella sits up and then awkwardly knee walks over the mattress to curl up next to him. "It won't get worse."
"She seemed to think so."
"We won't let it," she adds adamantly. Then, she reaches up to stroke his cheek. "No lo permitire. Forget us; I won't let it."
That at least jars something loose in Michael's agitation. He laughs long and hard, his curls falling everywhere as he does. "Well, no offense, Scrappy Doo, but you're a buck fifteen soaking wet and have not one Celestial gift to show for yourself. Pretty sure Dad has you beat."
"I'm a biter."
Michael chuckles again. "Are you now? Haven't noticed."
"You haven't asked, Corazon," she adds, kissing him lightly. "I'm serious. We've weathered a lot, so whatever your dad decides to toss our way, we'll figure it out. We managed it all before."
"We have a bunch of band aids on a bigger problem. The hunting doesn't stop the fact that without wings, I'm far more crippled than my usual. The, okay granted decent, plan of not getting cut or spilling blood to avoid accidentally Creating more Pepes is also just muddling through."
She nods and strokes his cheek again. "Well, whatever a woman in the square, even a voodoo priestess says, I'm in your corner, Mike. So we'll figure it out."
"I just want some stability. I mean, Rae Rae isn't wrong. I shouldn't have ever fucked with Samael, just let his own rampant insecurities sabotage himself and then eaten popcorn as it collapsed."
"Or, you know, you could just stop hating your twin?"
Michael's eyes flash and he huffs. "Yeah, not an option."
"No, I get it. I have so many issues with Ricardo. I mean, not the same ones you have with uh, you know, the Devil, but I understand not forgiving. I just mean, try not to think about it. It's like an asshole brother wins twice if you spend all your effort on him."
Michael gestures to himself with his left hand. "Oh, believe me, Sam has won over and over. If he knew what had happened to me, he'd never stop laughing. I can tell."
"It's not funny."
"It's bullshit," Michael adds.
She frowns. "I wish angels were nicer to each other; that's a let down and—"
"Well, we were made to be warriors, not Care Bears."
She wants to ask him how he even knows that allusion since he wasn't around in the '80s, but Ella saves that question for later. Instead, she sets a hand on Michael's hip, letting her fingers stray up to the warm skin of his abdomen, now visible as his Roadkill Cafe t-shirt rides up a bit. "I was going to say that they shouldn't make fun because there isn't anything to make fun of. I…I know this doesn't feel like you, and I can't begin to imagine how you feel or how confusing it all is. But and I don't even know if this makes you feel better or worse, Michael, but you really are beautiful. Your brothers and especially your sisters would be jealous if they saw you."
He shakes his head. "Doubtful. You should see Sara. She's pretty. I'm just a crippled mess."
Ella doesn't have the words, even with the French and Spanish she speaks too, to explain to Michael how wrong he is, how she bet even before all this happened to him that he was more than handsome back in heaven, and his siblings let the bad wings distract him from his worth. Which would be shitty for any brother or sister to do. Considering he'd been their general, the Sword, it seemed unforgivable.
So, instead, she kisses him, long and lingering, letting her tongue tease his, tasting not just him but also letting him know how hungry she was for him.
As she pulls away, she notices the way Michael's pupils are blown wide. She can't exactly solve all their problems, but she can get him to relax. That's something at least.
"Corazon, you've been amazing for months, and I'm not pressuring you, but I feel like I've gotten the lion's share of everything. I want to pay that back, but only if you'd let me."
"Lopez, I…there are things we really need to talk about. That woman might be off about me or my Dad's plans or all of that, but I need to tell you so much more about my messed up family, and I just don't know how."
She kisses him again, gratified at the way she can get him to mewl for her. And if you'd told her months ago that the Sword of God was so very vocal in bed, made so many moans and pants in addition to a mouth that never seemed to quite shut up, she'd have told you that you were nuts. But he responds so well to her, to touch at all, and that makes her sad too, that knowledge that he's been touch starved for so long, even if he doesn't talk about it.
"Tomorrow, promise. I'll grab all the beignets because, be real, angels are just sugar factories and you can tell me things about your family you've kept till now, okay? Promise. I know you want to, but we're in such a beautiful place, and it's been mostly a good night and, well, I want you."
He gapes at her, and it cuts into her heart all over again. Because it's obvious no one has said that to him either, not and meant it. She has no idea what his relationship was with Lilith, but considering she was the Mother of Demons…Ella's gonna guess "functional" wasn't it. But fuck.
Lilith couldn't even be bothered to tell Michael when she wanted him too?
She forces those thoughts away, that regret for her angel. Ella's painfully aware that maybe forty or fifty years at most is a blink for someone like Michael, but if he'll let her, she'll try to make him happy for all of it. To make him feel valued for once when clearly his family and his first never did.
"You do?" he asks.
"Yeah, and if you just want to stick to the places you're comfortable…" She grins. "I can still make you scream all night just that way." To emphasize her points, Ella shifts to face him and runs her hands over the mounds of his breasts. "What do you really want, Corazon?"
He rolls his eyes. "You have no idea how much you'd have derailed things if you'd said 'desire' there, chica."
She laughs, but something pings in the back of her mind, and she shoves it away. Like the big, white feathers that weren't from any bird the ornithologist at UCLA knew of and the head demon of Hell whose name in English almost could have been "Maze." Not now. Maybe not ever. She's happy, and she will let her freak savant CSI brain not ferret through too many pieces tonight.
Or tomorrow for that matter.
"Well, tell me, Michael. What can I do for you?"
"Even swap?"
She smirks. "Lo espero. I mean, sure, I hope later tonight, you'll give as good as you get."
"I try," he says, holding up his left hand and wiggling his nimble and more than skilled fingers.
She's already wet thinking about them. Ella coughs to get her mind back focused. "Say the word."
"I…I want you to do everything you've ever thought of."
He highlights his point by shifting stiffly and grabbing the hem of his t-shirt. It takes a minute for him to yank it off, and he really will have to hunt soon because his right side is so stiff. But he manages. She lets him do it solo, knowing enough to not insult him by doing things for him. Michael settles himself, and she has the funniest flash of that line from Titanic: Paint me like your French girls. He is laid out before her, every curve, every inch of skin, even the, okay not the 1960s anymore, thatch of curls at the apex of his thighs.
Michael's blushing deeply, and it shouldn't be possible for a being as ageless to look so innocent, so untouched somehow, even though he's hinted that Lilith had more than her share of adventures in bed with him.
He gestures to himself again, down to his hips. "I'm ready."
She nods and starts by kissing him. First his lips and then a line down the curve of his jaw, following down his long, swan-like neck. He moans beneath her, and his left hand reaches under her, tickling her side. It occurs to Ella that, for now, she's mostly dressed, just in her sleep shirt, this time Steven Universe, and it's a reverse of their dynamic. Michael tends to keep most of his jammies on. Or, at least, only shed his t-shirt.
But maybe, somehow, this helps him feel secure. Not that she plans to do anything but make him happy.
It's been her goal for a while now...