Former General Chapter 13

12 Weeks Continued…

Michael decides that there's a worryingly thin line between reality and Hell when he's sitting at the bar, nursing a soda, and waiting for permission to go up to Sam's penthouse. He and his twin rode over together because Dad has laid out everything in exacting detail, hasn't He? But his twin is catching private time with Chloe, and Michael is letting that happen but on the condition that Sam be quick about it because the doctor is due here in less than an hour. And also that they are going through this trial and error in Michael's quarters at Lux.

Because you know, Samael will not have time to clean up afterwards, and Michael cannot deal with knowing that the bed and the piano and the couch probably-no it's Sam so definitely-were just defiled right before he showed up to be prodded.

Nope.

He may have very tiny shreds of dignity left, but Michael still has a few that he's cobbled together. Sitting on Sam's couch, worrying what it looks like under a black light, is too far.

However, as he sits at the bar, which is closed at only noon, but Patrick has been kind enough to give him unlimited access to Shirley Temples. He would also bitch about that but apparently, Scrappy decided that caffeine might be bad too, as if he's just some mortal. But he can't say no to her. Also, to be honest, the grenadine is addictive.

Michael's through his third when he decides that needing a new Demiurge (and, no Sam, they are not calling it a Mini-Urge) that Father also arranged all of this in part because humiliating Michael is also hilarious and a great source of Silver City entertainment.

It would explain why Espinoza shows up with Trixie in tow behind him. The girl has an expression like a thundercloud, while Espinoza's not much better. She doesn't even say a word to her father before pulling away from his grip, stomping toward's Sam's private elevator, and disappearing up to the penthouse.

Michael hopes Celestial hearing or common sense has the Devil/Miracle sex fest ended by now. Because that would be scarring for any kid; he's sure. However, Espinoza, who also must feel as comfortable at Lux as any of Sam's pet humans, sits down on the stool next to Michael and nods to Patrick as well.

"Hey man, can I get a coke? I have to go back to duty, but I cannot believe my kid got suspended."

The bartender shrugs. "I got suspended a bunch in high school. I turned out okay."

Espinoza groans and picks up his drink. Michael would bet his best sword that, duty or not, the detective wishes it were spiked. "She's thirteen. This is seventh grade. I mean, she's not setting a good record lately. Chloe has off, so she has to watch her. I could take her to the station, but she just…how many times exactly, Patrick?"

The bartender holds up both hands, palms flat. "Like a dozen, but boss pays well and the insurance is top notch."

Michael has to laugh at that, and he hopes it's not high pitched and hysterical. Some days, he worries he suffered a psychotic break after the precinct fight over a year ago. It would explain so very much and not just his body and delicate condition but also the fact Pepe talks or exists at all.

"That sounds like Sam. He's got my care covered too. It's that or waste it on ecstasy and Dad knows what else."

Espinoza finally seems to calm down a little or at least the sugar rush of the soda is mollifying him. Maybe. Either way, he quirks his head to the side and really studies Michael. Currently, Mike's sitting so that the left side of his face is turned to the cop. It's healing slowly-oh so slowly-from where Sam slashed it several months back, but it's not what it was.

Story of his never ending life.

But, if anything, even as he takes in Michael's posture and his scarred face, Espinoza seems more intrigued. He leans in closer. "Hey, I thought this place was closed to the public."

"Not the public," Mike said, trying to keep his tone icy and give the douche, as Samael had dubbed him long ago, a clue.

Patrick seemed to take that as a good cue to leave on and went to busy himself in the back. Fair enough. Michael would escape this whole, great shit show if he could too.

Espinoza stilled. "But you just said that-"

"That Sam…sorry, Lucifer is covering my medical crap just like apparently he gives great coverage here for his actual employees?" Michael brings his Shirley Temple to his lips, and it would be more intimidating if he could still drink gin, but qué será, será as Lopez would say. "Yeah, I didn't stutter saying that."

"But you don't work here."

"Fuck no. Rather jump off the top of the penthouse than owe him like that."

Espinoza leans closer, and Michael glares at the man, letting his walls down just enough to be rewarded by the sight of goosebumps erupting up the man's forearms. Yet Espinoza, somehow, doesn't take the hint.

"Are you one of his sisters?"

Michael snorts. "Yeah, sure, we'll go with that."

Because he doesn't want to explain any of this shit to a mortal, let alone one he had fooled and led around on a leash. It just makes him seem more pathetic than he already is. If he can just brush the cop off, hobble over to the elevator, and get to see Sam…well, he just does not have four hours to explain everything.

Espinoza crosses himself and mutters something in Spanish that Michael assumes is a prayer. He can't tell. He's never paid much attention to Lopez saying hers at night-seemed too much like prying-and she prays in English anyway. Usually.

"You're an angel?"

"Used to be," Michael admits. His drink is empty and he fumbles in the glass for the cherry with his good hand. Damn it, those things are the best part.

"I don't understand."

"How novel," Michael snaps. "I'm a work in progress, but I'm like Amenadiel and Lucifer, yup."

Espinoza seems torn between running in fear and anxiety-and oh can Michael taste that-and, somehow, sticking around. The man leans so close that Michael is wondering if cops understand what personal space even fucking is. It appears, for now, that curiosity is winning out.

"Do you come here often?"

Michael blinks at Espinoza. For almost a minute. And then his brain starts working again, and he realizes why Espinoza has been so fixated on him. He lowers his walls a bit more and there it is. Oh yes. The fear of rejection.

Michael almost chokes on the cherry halfway down his throat.

"What?"

"I mean…sorry, that's forward in about eight ways, and I noticed most angels probably aren't into humans. Forget I asked." He rolls the coke glass around in his hand and stares back to the mirror over the bar. But after a beat… "Unless you're interested?"

Michael stands up, grabs his purse (look he's famished now that the nausea is over and Scrappy made him take snacks), and turns to the elevator. "No. Nope. Not if you were the last man in Creation. Not on pain of being Unmade. No. Also, I'm three months-pregnant with twins so that tree could not be any more wrong to bark up," he finishes, relief flooding through him when the elevator dings, and the doors open for him.

"Oh…oh! Sorry, I just…what's your name?"

He turns, and gestures to the scar that sweeps down his forehead and across his right cheek. The one Espinoza knows. "Michael. And, again, not even if I could never have sex again ever if I said no to you. But, uh, I have a lot of sisters. Maybe hit up Sara. She has questionable taste."

Michael shuffles then into the elevator, leaning against the wall when the doors close. Head against the cool metal of the steel, he sighs.

Yup, Dad's now just doing this to have fun. To laugh at him. Michael can't even say Dad's not creative. Just a dick. Takes one to know one after all.

The appointment is not going well.

Sam is upset because Will is asking for triple the agreed upon fee. Not that Samael doesn't have the money (oh he does, dear Father he does), but more because it's the principle of the matter and "no one reneges on the Devil." It doesn't help that Chloe's kid and the news of her suspension has pissed everyone upstairs off. Decker took Trixie home to, he assumes, lecture at her for hours. He's pretty sure only he's so lucky as to get shot by Chloe. Fun times. However, that's why Sam's pissy. Amenadiel is constipated-looking because it's clear big brother isn't into guard duty now that it's been so expanded and the shifts split constantly between just him, Samael, and Azrael. He also is complaining lividly that he has no interest in feeling Michael's powers again, attempts to help Michael figure out control or not.

Mike even gets that.

He tore through Amenadiel hard last time, and he's not sure his brother really let himself realize or admit that the First Born truly wanted an angelic son only. Michael hadn't even wanted to know for himself, but he had been spasming so badly, and he'd rarely been able to read Sam. They were too evenly matched, too strong with each other.

Will, for his part, doesn't look like he's excited to be here, and Michael wouldn't need his powers that because, for all the doctor's efforts, he's clearly still nervous around not just two angels (well Michael was one till recently) but also the Devil himself. It's the first time that Michael chocks up Rush's twitchiness to anxiety and not just Colombian nose candy.

Among all this falderal, Michael sits in his bed. There has been no other types of exams today. But he's a bit tired, been pushing off another Fearing session among the patrons at Lux, and if he weren't doing the experiments today, he'd still need to stay long enough to grab a spare, rape-y patron in the alley. It's only been eight days since the last time, and Fearing is lasting less and less time. He doesn't know what that means for the final trimester.

He's not sure he wants to.

"Highway robbery," Sam mutters under his breath.

Will pinches at the bridge of his nose. "Look, uh, Satan-"

"Lucifer will suffice," his twin sniffs.

And once a petulant child…

"Right, sorry, Lucifer, don't damn me here," Will replies.

"Tempting but beyond my power," Sam explains. "Honestly, it's all on you lot and your own sense of guilt."

Amenadiel nods. "True, but I'm unsure about trials."

"I don't want to do it either," Michael adds, voice low. He stares down at his lap, but the sight of his hands just frustrates him. He feels especially small and female with both his twin and the First Born there. It's jarring to see the delicate hands on his lap. Instead, he shoves them under his comforter. "But it's accelerating. I need it more. It's barely been a week, and I hate to sound like a fucking afterschool special, but I'm jonesing again."

Will makes some notes on his pad and nods. "That's the point. An archangel and the devil can't be scared of their brother, right?"

"Amenadiel came first," Mike corrects, staring back at his brother. He's not actively mad at Menny, but he figures a big reason Ella even has her own apartment currently is because Amenadiel and Linda didn't exactly make her feel welcome previously. Although, Mike hasn't probed on that. Yet. "But he's not an archangel."

"Right, sorry, never actually read the Bible. I did use a few pages for rolling paper once in a jam, so I…never mind," Will trails off.

Sam waves his hand, so much like a king holding court. "Oh, I get it. Done the same thing myself more than once. Brilliant."

Michael sighs heavily. He should have known trying to herd his brothers into any kind of half-plan (or a fully conceived one for that matter) would be impossible. Being the head of His Legion was more like herding cats than it ever was about power and glory.

"What do you want to do for testing, doc?"

Will nods and looks between the three of them. "I want to see how it works, and also see how you affect three different species: angel, human, and demon."

"A devil is not a demon," Sam pouts.

"Right, well still infernal, right?" Will regroups.

"Yup," Mike says, "my twin is many things but also different than every other angel I know of. Do you have a preference on where I start?"

Will adjusts his notepad. "Better fucking get the thing over with. Also, I assume you can affect a human the most. So, start with me."

Mike hesitates at that. Will might be trying to get a baseline or a clue, but he's human. Mortal. He has fuck all idea what Michael can do, at least no more than Ella had when she grabbed him so long ago and he left her catatonic.

"I don't know if-"

"You should. I need to understand what it is you do. At least your brothers have seen it before."

Samael leans back in his chair, and it seemed in that instant like he was a king perched upon his throne. Should. Sam had spent eons on one. Poisoned chalice or not. "Oh, Amenadiel has felt it recently."

Menny rubs at his arms and sighs. "I'd prefer not to do this. I don't see how this nets us anything."

"I have no idea what I'm working with. I don't know what 'Fearing' actually entails. I need to know so we can figure out an alternate plant to help keep Michael sustained. If he's in pain, then he can't be stable enough to carry the twins safely."

"Great, thanks Dad. It's this kind of engineering forethought that created platypuses," Michael says.

"Yes, well, trust Father and his mysterious ways to go ass over tea kettle," Sam says.

"Anyway," Will says, his voice louder this time, "Michael, please, do your thing."

"I won't do much," he says.

"Look, I've had a few rough drug trips and a magical, mystery tour on ayahuasca I wish I hadn't," Will admits. "I think you can do more than kid gloves with me."

Michael sighs and pulls his hair back in a scrunchy. It's been falling in his face since the bar, and he doesn't need to make eye contact like Sam does for his powers, but it can help. "Take a fraction, see how you feel after."

Will sits up taller in his chair at Mike's bedside and nods to him. "Fine, but I need to know what factors we've got here."

Amenadiel shakes his head. "You may live to regret that."

Sam reclines even further back in his seat. "If this helps the twins…if this can help Michael, then please let's get on with it."

He arches an eyebrow at his twin. It's one thing for Sam to swear he doesn't want Michael dead and that he, too, misses the relationship they had back when they were close and fashioning Creation together. It's another to hear him actually not only say he wants to help Mike but to also seem so concerned. Michael's not used to that yet, can't quite trust it, but it feels…nice.

Nice as long as it lasts. Nice as long as the other shoe doesn't drop. The usual caveats for Michael Demiurgos.

He nods to his twin and breathes in easily. He will not be a monster, and he will not leave his damn obstetrician (of a sort) in a catatonic state or worse. Michael closes his walls up about 3/4th of the way and asks what he always does:

"Alright, William Rush, what do you fear?"

He has to give the doc credit. He's a more complicated mortal than some. Most of the time, humans spill to him instantly, but there's a few seconds where Will struggles to keep his mouth clamped shut before finally going slack jawed as all humans do eventually. His eyes glaze over a bit like a fugue, and then the doctor speaks.

"I'm afraid the baby is mine."

Sam, being Sam, speaks first. "Afraid not. Miss Lopez has done quite well in this deal. Didn't know she had twins in her. I do need to get her the nicest Cuban imports to celebrate her blessing."

Michael rolls his eyes, but Scraps has random and odd hobbies. He can't even say she won't appreciate the gift. "Thanks for the insight, Brother." He turns to Will, who is deathly pale even as he scribbles notes furiously on his pad. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't dig about whose baby, but considering Will's stepmother is his age, and well, the doc seems full of more bad ideas than even Sam (almost), Mike can guess. However, he doesn't pry further.

"We did warn you," Amenadiel says, and he's gone to pace in front of the window, glaring occasionally out to the street below.

"I…that was…difficult," Will eventually says as he calms down with his flurry of notes.

Sam arches an eyebrow at the doctor. "Yet I feel quite certain there's far more you want to say on that point."

"Not really," Will replies. He shoots Michael a quick look but doesn't hold eye contact long.

Michael slumps lower in his bed. For a few minutes at their last visit, he thought that he had a doctor who might not be able to fully understand but wanted to try. He's not sure that now feeling a fraction of his power, Will can continue to feel the same way.

"So, Michael, how do you feel? I know how I felt, and made notes on it. And you look better, complexion wise."

He clenches his jaw for a moment before snapping back with something cutting. It's still his default reaction after so long, and Mike might always struggle to contain it. "Thanks, doc."

"No, I see what he means, Twin. You were looking quite peaked, but now you have that rosy pregnant glow." Samael shrugs. "Not the literal golden one, but you do look much less haggard."

"Literal one?" Will asks.

Amenadiel stops pacing. "What?"

"I...like Mom. It's not a one-off. I get it at least once a day, sometimes more." Michael looks down to his lap again. "Team Creation. Great, huh?"

Amenadiel shakes his head and keeps pacing. "Father probably should have stripped you both of the Demiurge powers when Samael fell anyway."

"I don't think even He could," Michael replies, noticing Rush get quiet.

Though Sam isn't much more talkative, and that's a first for him.

Eventually, the Devil gathers his thoughts. "Do you mean that?"

"I do think that by the time he was giving my son a fever, Michael shouldn't have been allowed such a power like Creation, of course," Menny says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I didn't give Chucky a cold. He has daycare. He's mortal. They all get colds. I'm already reading up and it seems like little kids are snot magnets."

"Oh they are. Quite the hurdle in my relationship with the Urchin. At first, I was alarmed she might ruin a good Burberry with snotty little hands. I was mistaken and pleasantly so," Sam corrects.

"You say that but you pulled so many stuns," Amenadiel says.

"But-" Will starts, trying to get them all on track, "you Feared me and you already look better. Do you feel it?"

Michael wants to lie. He wants to say everything is fine, and he doesn't need this at all, and he's an angel not a…whatever he is now. At best a rapacious Goddess, and at worst…he's not even sure. Maybe there's not word for it exactly but Fear Vampire was thrown out there by Scraps, and for good or ill, it's stuck around ever since. He wants to deny he feels better, that he's no longer sleepy and he can even feel that flutter, not yet a kick, but that slight flutter on his weak side again from his belly.

"I…I do. I was passing out here just from the effort of driving over with Sam, and I rode here and didn't fuck around in the L.A. traffic. I don't feel ready to run a marathon, but I don't feel my shoulders tensing up and I don't worry I'm going to face plant in the middle of the meeting."

"Mhm, and you were doing what? 80 percent? Maybe around fifty or sixty?" Will prods.

He wrings his hands, his own anxiety outweighing his dysphoria. "Twenty-five."

Will drops his pen, and Sam helps him with it. It does occur to Michael then that maybe it's more than the dark hair and height that bear a passing resemblance. At least the chin too. Weird, small multiverse after all.

The doc's hand is shaking a bit as he resettles to make more notes. "Twenty-five?"

"Yeah, and I can't…I can't do harder on a human. It's not a good idea. You're shaky, but you're not out of it for hours or a couple days catatonic."

"You can do that?" Will asks, and he almost sounds clinical and detached again, but Michael is the Angel of Fear for a reason, and he can feel everything in exacting detail.

The doctor is terrified, but he's trying, and Mike has to give him credit for being one of the braver SOBs he's met lately.

"I can do a lot of things," Michael says sadly, and he is so shocked to have Sam set his hand over Michael's left that he jumps half way out of the bed. "What the?"

"I…sorry," the Devil fumbles. "You seemed upset."

"I was and I know Scrappy isn't here, but…" he doesn't have the energy to remind Sam that his twin hates him. Or hated him? Is it fading? Michael cannot tell.

"But you can do that with a human, even in a limited capacity and hey, wham, bam, thank you Rush, you've got more stabilized," Will says. "Can you get as much or even more from an angel?"

Amenadiel is very still, almost like a statue at that. They all agreed to these tests for the twins' sakes (the little ones not the original recipe), but Michael has taken deeply from Amenadiel before, and rightly doesn't want to be probed again.

"It's not proportional? I honestly can't get anything from a demon. I've read Maze since I got back and, to be blunt, it's like a rice cake. Technically I can feel it…" he looks away from all three of them, "I can, for lack of a fucking dumber phrase, taste it, but I don't feel a bit better. Just empty, uh, Fear Vamp calories."

"This is a rather burdensome and absurd metaphor," Sam says, but he does not take his hand away.

"It's from Lopez," Michael replies.

Sam brightens at that. "It's still ludicrous, but I can hardly fault my ersatz sister-in-law, can I?"

"Not there yet or possibly ever since I fucked a lot up," Michael grits out. "But demons don't work. Angels aren't…they don't do as much as a human. I'm not sure why."

"Can you show me?" Rush asks patiently.

"Menny? You said I could for the sake of the kiddos," Mike reminds his brother, as if Amenadiel could have forgotten. He's dense, not suffering a traumatic brain injury.

Amenadiel nods slowly. "I want to twins to be okay. Honestly, I'd love cousins for Charlie."

"Glad that's your level of investment, Brother," Sam says. The words are jovial but the tone is not. Michael can tell both brothers will have tense words with each other later.

"But please don't make it like last time," Amenadiel says.

Michael nods and doesn't think it will be. He's had a bit from Will already, and he's not starving or in fear and pain of his own as when he was brought to Lux originally. "I won't open my walls anymore than they already are. You get twenty-five percent too."

The First Born nods but keeps his arms crossed tightly over his chest. If they could risk having their wings out in front of a mortal like Will Rush, Michael knows that Menny's feathers-all of them-would be as bladed as they got.

"Alright, Amenadiel, what do you Fear?"

His brother isn't fighting it like Will, and honestly, one could argue Menny has always been simple. Simple in his devotion to Father and now having transplanted that same sentiment to Charlie. It isn't hard to coax his mouth open either.

His eyes don't quite glaze over but he speaks and seems to stiffen as he talks, to fight it a tad but far too late.

"That I've made a mistake."

Sam's hand tenses over Michael's, and he understands why, both that Amenadiel's loyalty between Charlie and the two of them and their nascent families is divided. But, more than that, Mike knows the mistake is having a mortal child at all. Or, at least, taking a human to bed and running that risk at all.

Breathing harder, he sets his free hand-his bad one-over his small bump, the one that would barely or maybe not quite be a space for Pepe. He doesn't know what Lopez's children will or won't be. He does know they will have Creation and Will, but if they develop Fear and Desire as well or if they get other angel powers or if they will have his surly nature. He understands in that moment, harsh as it is, Menny's fears, at least a little.

Michael desperately wants the twins to be everything Lopez is-tough, kind, and effervescent when she wants to be. He doesn't have her on a pedestal. He knows her dark parts, but he loves how she tries, how she keeps pushing them back. She is a survivor, and if her twins take after her, they will already be a force even before their angelic nature is considered.

But if they are like him, if they are cutting and petty and cruel. If they are schemers and awkward and…

He wants the best for them, even if the odds are high he'll never live to see it. Michael knows many things after endless epochs, and it would take hardly a millisecond to know that whatever he is-whatever his nature is-it is far from the best for anyone.

But he wants them desperately. Whatever they are or aren't, he loves them already. He cannot imagine putting conditions on it like Father has always done with the Host. Like he fears Amenadiel is already doing for Chucky.

"Brother?" Sam prods, looking at Amenadiel. "Are you okay?"

Menny looks green, but he doesn't leave this time. "I…I'm fine, but I don't want to be tested anymore."

Will looks between all of them, and the fear is not pouring from him any longer, but there is still general unease bubbling there. The doctor is seeing just a glimpse of how complicated everything Celestial can be. The smallest chip of it.

"That's enough. Michael, did you get as much?"

He shakes his head. "I…do I look more motherly glow or whatever crap Sam was ranting about."

Will squints. "You look a bit better, cast is better, but not as dramatic a shift. When you got here, you were pallid. How do you feel?"

"Well if a demon is a rice cake, uh, kill me, but this is more like a hot dog or something. It'll work but there's not a ton of nutrients in it."

"Oh, how delightful to hear that Amenadiel is the Celestial equivalent of snouts and arseholes ground together," Samael says before winking to the First Born. "Do lighten up, Brother. It was just a bit of cheeky fun."

Will looks between the three of them and frowns. "Why do you all have different accents again?"

"Sam has his schtick to probably get laid or did before Chloe," Michael says.

Sam snorts. "Michael's one to talk. Spends a couple decades somewhere, apparently, and ends up sounding like a bad spot of gangster cinema."

Will looks to Amenadiel. "And you?"

"Had to run errands for Father the most often on Earth after World War II. The United States was always on the verge of escalating something, nuclear problems, things like that. I think the accent just stuck because of always being here, just making sure the world didn't flare out."

Will swallows hard, and Michael has to congratulate him. He has seen shit, told Mike as much, between the mobsters and the who even knows what that can and do pay his retainer. Hell, Rush looks like his own benders have landed him in a literal dumpster more than once. But he's hanging in there, among Celestial conversations of war and everything else. It's more than most mortals could or would do.

"And if you tried Lucifer?" Will asks.

"I can try, but most of the time, we are equally matched," Michael admits.

Will looks to Sam. "Will you let him do all he can? I want to see which source is best for him among the available options."

Samael doesn't hesitate, and Michael figures that's because this is all about what is best for Lopez's kids. It's fine, as long as it helps. He just can't imagine his brother ever giving this much of a shit about him, especially since the last couple weeks have been filled with pissed off texts about morning sickness.

Yeah, like Michael wanted to go through it either. At least the nausea is getting better. That's something.

"Whatever is required."

Michael nods at that and lets all his walls down, everything he keeps up. He notices Amenadiel turn away and walk to the furthest corner of the room. Rush is shaking even with the release of the ambient anxiety Michael can provoke at his max levels, and he can smell the disinfectant of a hospital and hear the screams of a man he doesn't know, but who he'd bet anything is Will's father.

And isn't that the oldest story in the universe?

He turns from that and focuses his gaze on Samael, on a face that would almost be his-used to be exactly his own-before such a clusterfuck. Taking in a deep breath, Michael releases all he has at his twin.

He doesn't even ask because like this, with so much Fear flowing through him, he doesn't really have to.

But Samael is half the Demiurge too, and while he starts to sweat, while he shakes a bit with his mouth slammed shut, he does not give.

Michael digs deeper, feeling his eyes go gold with his power, and he speaks this time, the command inherent in his words, "What do you fear, Samael?"

Sam's eyes go bright red, matching his own though in different shading, but he finally buckles. It has happened a few, scattered times across the eons, but this felt easier, like the lock's been greased a bit."

"That Father will kill the Detective and her offspring to punish me."

Michael falls back to the bed. There is something noxious in his brother's fear, something that makes it feel like a rebound effect. It fills his nose with a stench he cannot place and sends pins and needles up his arms and legs, like fire ants are biting him.

And, confusing as this is, Michael speaks too, offers his deepest fear in return for them all.

"I'm afraid I can't stop taking. I'm terrified I'm going to kill someone to keep myself in one piece."

He is still for a long time, and the only sound around all of them is Will scrabbling his notes. In the intervening gap, Sam's hand has not stopped gripping his, but Michael is tired again, has been drained emotionally though not physically by admitting the worst-and the most obvious-to his family and his doctor.

Eventually, Will speaks, and Michael has to wonder if Linda has coached him in the last week or so in Celestial bedside manner because he's not freaking the fuck out like a champ. "Well, not doing that one again."

"You think?" Michael snaps.

"Point," Will adds, shrugging. "Then, we know humans are still the best option. We also know that you can get some energy in smaller draughts. I know you want to Fear as little as possible but that's not helping, it's making your need worse when you do feed and risking the human's sanity and safety at best."

He does not say the at worst in the scenario; Will doesn't have to.

"And what do you recommend?" Amenadiel asks.

"More often. If you get fatigued every eight or nine days, then feed at least every 2-3," Will says.

Michael feels sick and it has nothing to do with the weird reverb of his Fear acted out on Sam and that has to be that fucking, stupid twin empathy thing. It only has to do with the idea of doing it more, of being so fucking not angelic even more often.

"What just alley hunt all the time?" he croaks.

That is not a solution; it can't be.

"I actually think that's not helpful. It has a few issues with it, mostly because a situation like that works up adrenaline or whatever you have like that and makes you less focused, more likely to overtake or hurt someone in the moment," Will finishes.

"Then what?" Michael demands.

His eyes have dimmed, but he just is so frustrated. Not even at Will or his brothers. Just at his father and petty punishments and all of it.

"I have an idea, actually," Samael says. "Over lunch, you and I can discuss it, Still Michael."

He rolls his eyes as Sam stands with a flourish (he does everything with a fucking flourish, the preening ass), but he lets it go. Samael is adjusting to being like an actual brother, and it's a half a step back for every bit of progress they make. It's better than nothing and far better than constantly beating the shit out of each other.

Michael has no more cheek space to scar after all.

"Do you need me?" Amenadiel asks.

"Not before seven when we switch shifts," Sam says.

His oldest brother doesn't ask questions after that, just heads for the elevator outside in Michael's own living room and soon a ding indicates that the First Born is gone.

Will looks between them both as he puts his notes away in his satchel. "Do I get to hear this?"

"Just a plan between brothers, I assure you, but we'll run a test and see how it works out. I think this is exactly what a growing Demiurge will need," Samael says. "But," he says, rubbing at his own stomach, "and I cannot believe I'm offering something so pedestrian, but I was pondering over ordering Chinese or perhaps pizza. I couldn't decide. I usually prefer something for a more refined palette. However, I think I'm rather leaning towards both."

Michael's own stomach rumbled. It was nice to be past nausea and his shake had tasted like grated shit. "Only if you add stuffed crust and tons of beef lo mein."

Will gives them a once over again before speaking, "Great, and I have a Bloody Mary back at my place calling my name and an assistant who has texted about a dozen times. Mike, can you give me a second while your brother goes up and starts his ordering campaign?"

The Devil in question is already walking toward the elevator when he adds, "Oh and I know a bakery that delivers the most delectable souffles…"

Michael can't say any of that sounds bad. It actually has his stomach rumbling already, and he has more than one type of hunger to feed currently. "Yeah, good call." He rubs his belly and regards Will warily as the elevator dings again. "If you're gonna split now, I get it. You've seen more than most humans ever have. And I tried to warn you…about what I do."

He sighs heavily. "It would be better if you had alcohol around here, but I have a few things when I get to my car."

"I don't doubt it, Dr. Scratch and Sniff. Or mostly just the sniff part," Mike says drolly.

"And I did want to know. I had to know exactly what I'm dealing with. If that's just a fraction of what you do when you spiral, then I needed to understand that."

"So now you're terrified of me?"

He slinks down a bit, shoving his hand in the pockets of his cable-knit sweater. "It was a hell of an experience. Worse than ayahuasca, but I made a promise, and you're both an interesting patient, which is rare, and one I know needs someone in their corner."

Michael perks up at that. "Oh doc, you really do collect strays like your assistant, huh?"

"Sure, I have a weak spot for brunettes with asshole domestic situations."

He laughs hard at that. "Sure, that love that dare not speak it's name." Michael sobers again and nods to Rush. "That said…Celestials are a lot. Me most of all. I'd get if-"

"I'm definitely putting have lunch with your girl on my list. If you keep trying to pull the rip cord on everyone, honestly, I don't have time and your twins don't either for me to promise about a dozen more times. You're a good person."

"Oh, I'm really fucking not."

"And you're my patient, so I don't quit."

"Because you're making three times as much."

"Because sometimes, rarely, I'm not an asshole and, you're right, not a soft spot, but I hate to see people kicked when they're down."

"Even by God?"

"Still wrapping my head around that one," he says before heading to the doorway. Rush must think better of something because he looks over his shoulder one last time. "Oh, and better hurry upstairs to keep your twin from ordering out from half of Los Angeles tonight. He, uh, usually like that?"

"All sins are in his domain or whatever. Includes gluttony, but never for pedestrian shit people actually like eating. You know, rich people crap."

"Yeah, reminds me of dinner with my father, which I've successfully skipped for, oh, years." He frowns once more. "Well, then, enjoy your pizza-lo mein-souffle fest. And whatever else you eat like too drunk as hell college kids."

Michael fakes a salute to him. "Will do, doc. I…thanks."

"Thank me by just offloading on me when you have check-ups. I can tell you're struggling, and while game recognizes game and I'm a huge fucking mess too…well…probably good if a Goddess doesn't go postal."

"Gee, thanks, Will. Might wanna work on the bedside manner."

"That costs extra."