The night and morning and afternoon all pass between the sheets. It is light and easy; it is everything his relationship with Lily never was, and everything Michael has always wanted. If he could just set up camp in their bed, he probably would.

After quite the session, he's left pleasantly drained, eyes shut and the promise of contented sleep beckoning to him. But he's not quite permitted to drift off, even as quite the buzzing warmth overtakes him. Instead, Scrappy nudges at his shoulder.

"Hey, corazón, are you all right?" Concern colors her voice as she speaks.

He nods and opens his eyes, some of the fire in him quelched, at least for now. Michael's about to smirk at her and say something casual— try—anything to get them back to being just them. But he can't. The words die in his throat when he realizes how fucking bright the room is. It reminds him a bit of the way Samael's wings, always more perfect than his old ones, shine with the light of their Father. But this is…the golden glow coming from every pore of his skin is brighter than that, more consuming.

He blinks again, not sure it's real.

But Ella's regarding him now, her face a mix of hopeful smile and anxiety, and Michael can read her fears in this moment enough to know that she's nervous for him, scared he'll freak out or bolt or run. He might have, if they hadn't known each other so long by now or at least come so far on their road trip and born so much of their souls and secrets to each other.

Not all yet, but he'll rectify that soon enough.

And as abilities go, this is not blood seeping forth and Creating malformed life. It is not his body at the mercy of his Fear, shaking and bent and pained until he takes from someone, leaves them screaming. This is awesome—in the very Biblical sense of the word, like any burning bush or parted seas—but it is not horrific.

For once, Michael is a bit grateful about that, but he is so very confused.

"I…I did this last night?"

Ella bites her lower lip and nods. "It's beautiful. You had your eyes closed last time after I…after your first time like this, and I thought you'd noticed."

She snuggles up against his breast and the contrast between her bronzed yet normal skin and his that shines currently like the damn Christmas star could not be more apparent.

She likes it though, so Michael will not worry about it being fucked up, even though it is.

No angel can do this.

Just like as his mind has been trying to tell him since Los Angeles and that weird fucking frog from nowhere by Baby, angels can't make life on their own. Even the Demiurge is supposed to have a balance. Something is wrong with him, something is making him more than he's ever been, almost like his mother.

The same light that was in her.

But he's…he's not…he's the lesser half of the Demiurge, just the raw material. He always was. Sam was the flash and the Will to shape it; Michael has always only been the clay. But clay doesn't bleed and make life, no matter how warped. Raw matter doesn't shine and thrum and zip through him, not like this.

"Corazón?" Ella prods, her eyes dark and serious as they regard him. "Does it hurt?"

He shakes his head and blushes, though if he's lit up like the neon strip, Michael doubts she notices it, even if he can feel himself flush. "No, Scraps. I feel really good."

I love you.

He stops himself from blurting something so small and stupid and traitorous. Not because it's not true, but because he's terrified. The Angel of Fear, and he's the ball of nerves and anxiety, not the mortal next to him witnessing the divine.

Michael's terrified because no one has ever loved him before. Certainly not his parents nor his siblings—myriad though they are—and to think Lily ever could love anyone but herself had only led to heartbreak.

He loves Lopez all the same, but if she didn't…it would break what little of himself he's cobbled together if he said it, and she...if she couldn't love him back.

So, Michael forces himself from saying much more.

"You know this only just started…" he stumbles through his thoughts, as if he's some awkward human teenager. "I never shone like this before in billions of years, Ella."

"Not even before with Lilith? You said you were on earth and in New York for years, right? So angels don't do this, huh?"

He laughs, and it sounds more ragged than he wants it to. "No, never. If Azrael did or Saraqael or any of us, I'd be deeply surprised. I…" Michael swallows hard and runs his hand through her hair. It's not a rat's nest like his, so it's not too hard to caress her silky strands. "It's true, isn't it?"

Ella quirks her head at him, and he knows that look. It's her scientist on a lead look, that overly inquisitive gaze she gives him when she's probing about Noah's Ark or what turning Lot's wife to salt really entailed. She's puzzling out the divine before her.

"What's true?"

"That I'm not an archangel anymore, am I?"

She smiles, and he feels no trace of fear from her for herself, not a drop, and it's wrong to probe, but he can't…if he's finally scared her too much, then Michael couldn't bear it. But there is still anxiety in her gaze, a sense that if she does anything wrong at all, he'll be gone.

"I meant it, corazón. You're a goddess."

He swallows hard, only knowing a fraction more about how much that means than Ella does. Dad's mysterious ways, forever keeping the Host in the dark. Scrappy looks at him like he's some miracle, and he's not. Not really. He is what his Father has reshaped him to be, but Michael cannot understand why. He's being punished; so how is making him even more than Mom ever was a curse or retribution?

It isn't.

Father has made him far more powerful. Uncontrolled, sure. At the mercy of his own abilities as they overwhelm his body, definitely. But he is more than the Host now. Not as much as the Alpha and Omega, but he is Creation, raw and unbridled and tinged with Will…from somewhere.

He is a goddess, and Michael knows that he is the last fucking angel in the heavens who should have the promotion. Then again, he also knows Father does nothing but lash things to strings and tricks and caveats.

There will be a price; there always is.

Michael's just not sure what it will be.

Instinctively, he clutches Scrappy tighter, scared that she'd be part of it. Michael draws her in and kisses the top of her head. "I am. I don't understand."

"Maybe your dad's not mad anymore?"

There is so much hope in her voice, and it hurts Michael to dispel it. "I don't think so, Scraps. Dad has games on top of games. My twin is paranoid all the damn time and self important, but he's not wrong either. Father never does anything without His reasons, and they're usually as compassionate as moving pieces around a chess board."

She sets her head against his breast again and sighs. "You're amazing."

He laughs but decides to take the compliment. Ella believes so hard in Dad that he knows it scares and hurts her to hear the anxiety from him, the worrying over Father's vengeful side.

"You're better. I'm literally a goddess, I guess—" he says.

"The whole day-glow experience says you are definitely one."

He kisses her lips and then sighs. "But you're the real deal. We'll figure this out."

"So, then you won't be a nightlight?"

"Lopez." He sighs again. "No."

"And that warlock will make it so you won't accidentally Create more pets?"

"Do you need more than just Pepe?"

She wrinkles her nose at him like a bunny, and it's too cute. Everything she does is, and he's had it bad for her for so long that Michael doesn't know any other way to be. "Maybe Pepe can get friends."

He laughs as ridiculous as his life is, even for a (former) archangel. The Fear Vampire cravings and the blood Creating creatures almost as if it had a mind of its own. The literal golden glow.

"I'm not a pet shop."

She blinks those wide, almost anime eyes back up at him. "You sure?"

"No, one rat to a customer, Scraps."

She fakes punching him on the shoulder and curls in more tightly against his body. He's no longer aroused. Much. And the glow is beginning to die out some. It's still bright, but it's…it's lessening. For the best, as it would be hard to go anywhere like this.

Be not afraid tended to not help much when humans were confronted by the literal glory of God.

He frowns a bit, relieved that from her vantage point, Ella can't see him do it. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Um, I'm good. Really good. I think you kind of fried my brain with the whole el padre de todos los orgasmos. But I think I'll recover."

He laughs, some of the tension easing from him. "No, I mean that mortals aren't supposed to see this, you know. If I had wings, and you saw them, you're supposed to…well humans end up drooling messes."

"The 'be not afraid' thing. Yeah covered that, Mikey."

"But this glow is more than even wings. This is like what my mother is."

"You mean what she could do," Ella probes.

He shakes his head. "No, literally. Dad's corporeal more or less. Mom's all energy, just golden light if she doesn't have a host. But an angel's wings warp human minds because they're pure divinity. My whole glow is too. You should—"

Ella sniffles a bit, and now her fear is acrid but of herself, of the years spent being told she was crazy or possessed or just dirty. "Well, maybe there's nothing left to crack open."

Michael holds her tighter.

He twists around a bit, best he can with his bum side and at the angle she's settled at to kiss her lips, to caress her as best he can. "I don't think that's it. Maybe it's all because I've been leaking some divinity at least since Los Angeles, and you're inoculated to it. I think probably because you've caught sight of kid sis's wings over the years, maybe more than once, and it helped keep you from freaking out with bigger Celestial bullshit. Not sure. But it's me, not you."

Ella laughs then. "So not the kind conversation you tend to hear in bed after the sex blows your mind."

"The theology?"

"No, the 'it's not you, it's me' thing…kind of." She yawns and nuzzles his shoulder. "You're beautiful like this, and you might be suspicious of your dad."

"Have a right to be, trust me."

"Sure, but He sent an olive branch after the great flood, right?"

Michael nods. "He did."

He decides it's probably pointless to clarify that Mom sent the floods in the world's ugliest divorce.

"Right, so how do you know that this," she continues, gesturing to his still glowing skin. "isn't an I'm sorry overture?"

"Because I don't know how making me neon makes up for shit. I…"

She nods and kisses his cheek. "Okay, well agree to disagree, corazón." Lopez yawns, and Michael both fears and kind of loves he'll be hearing her snore again soon. Even he's good and exhausted. Michael yawns too, drifting to sleep easily yet something is niggling in the corner of his mind, something he should know.

Something he should do, but he's too content to recall what. It'll have to come tomorrow.

Tonight, he already has.