Sam had been visibly shaken at all of the news Danielle had given him. He had practically bolted for the door when he heard Lucifer's soft footsteps coming back down the stairs. Castiel, too, had mumbled a reason for his disappearance an instant before executing it.

Danielle sighed and turned to Lucifer. "How's Gabriel?"

"No change," Lucifer grunted, settling herself on the couch beside Danielle. She again summoned the bottle of vodka to her hand. "Can't help but think this is all my fault."

"No," Danielle argued. "I don't think it's anyone's fault. You're all doing what you're meant to do. Michael is making impulsive decisions to protect his family; Crowley is making self-serving deals that make him more powerful; and you…you're opposing everybody. But it's your nature, so none of you can be blamed."

Lucifer was silent for a few beats, taking a long pull from the bottle. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "you suck at consolation. But damn, can you drive a guy to drink."

"Um…sorry?" Danielle looked down at her hands. "Look, Lucifer…I know you've done bad stuff—"

"Please. I'm the original 'bad stuff.'"

"—but so has everyone else. You don't have to be the one to take all the blame if you don't want to."

"Danielle," Lucifer said patiently, putting the bottle down and examining her nails. "I'm the Devil." That settled the argument, as far as she was concerned. "And now I'm gonna go for a walk, before I burn something down." She disappeared.

Dani sighed; despite the suffering she had experienced at the hands of Zachariah—or perhaps in spite of it—Danielle wanted to help everyone, if she could see what they were really made of. Given the right words and time, maybe she could get Lucifer to see her own worth. "Oh, Michael," she sighed. "I wish you could see how much Lucifer loves you. It's what makes this all so hard." She had no idea if Michael could hear her, but she hoped he took comfort in the fact that someone cared.

Michael heard Danielle's words the way he hears every prayer addressed to him. He tried to send out some wave of comfort, but it was hard though the many layers of Hell.

"Still tuned into Angel Radio?" Crowley asked, noting the look of concentration on Michael's face.

"Personal prayers," said Michael pointedly. "People who need me."

"You never answered them before," Crowley returned flippantly. "They only need you when it's convenient for you. Funny how angels work that way."

Michael stiffened in his seat, his jaw clenched. "You're lying."

"Am I?"

"That is what demons do."

Crowley actually laughed then. Out of sheer force of habit, he reached behind him for a bottle of whatever, despite the fact he had already imbibed more than his usual quantity. "Perhaps. Or maybe, no one believes us when we tell the truth."

Michael had to give that fair consideration. Having a reputation as liars meant that demons could get away with saying most anything, even if it was the truth. "Perhaps," he agreed reluctantly. He held out his hand for the bottle, which made Crowley raise his eyebrows.

"Can your celestial constitution bear it?" he mocked.

"Please," said Michael, suddenly remembering that he was still under Crowley's command.

Crowley rolled his eyes and handed it over; it was no fun if the angel didn't fight back.

After serving himself, Michael looked at the demon. He decided that now was as good a time as any to test his limits. "Your turn," he challenged.

"What?"

"I told you my past, now you ought to tell me yours," Michael said proudly.

Crowley chuckled. "That's not how it works, Love."

"If we're going to be working together for the next forever," Michael quoted, "we should at least try to get along. I do not even know by whom I've been employed."

The King of Hell raised his glass in a respectful salute. "Touché. You want me to start at the beginning, I take it?"

"Please do," the angel offered graciously.

"Don't think this puts you in charge," Crowley grumbled. "Very well…my father was a wealthy tailor who had an affair with my poor whore mother. Upon finding out she was with child, he left her and she gave birth to me alone in a barn. About a year later, when she had managed to raise herself up enough to live in a small dilapidated house, he came crawling to our doorstep, begging her to take him back. He had drunk his money away and his wife had left him in the dirt." Thus far, his tone was blunt and almost bored sounding, as if the entire story was burdensome. To him it was, but Michael thought that perhaps he was trying to show just how little it affected him.

"Anyways, my mother sold his soul within the next year," Crowley continued. "She was a witch, my dear old hag was, but even her 'gift' couldn't raise her up from poverty. She summoned the demon and struck up the deal, and he was none the wiser. She only told me what she had done after he disappeared."

"I had no idea it was possible to sell another's soul," Michael mused.

"Demons enjoy cleverness and wickedness, and that was both," Crowley explained. "What she got from the deal was a large house on a hill above the village, as well as her name mentioned to the Grand Coven and a steady stream of questionable customers. And so," he shrugged, "I grew up in the lap of luxury. Well…more like below the ankles of luxury, but I think you get it."

Both of them had been drinking during the exchange, and would continue to so until it was over. "Then again," the demon amended, "perhaps not, seeing as you're a prince."

"Was it not that she abandoned you for the Coven?" Michael asked. "Fleeing the village from the witch-burners?"

Crowley set his glass down—hard. "I'm telling the story!" he barked, and the fireplace flared.

"Apologies," Michael deferred with a nod. "Go on."

"When I was eight years old, Rowena finally got her summons from the Grand Coven, just as the townspeople were starting to grow suspicious of her activities. She left my drunken sot of a father to raise me indefinitely, though she was only gone for three years. Apparently, the Coven had found her work 'disturbing and insubordinate,' so she decided to take her chances with us. Her magic had grown strong enough by then that she either enchanted or intimidated the townspeople into forgetting their threats."

A steady frown had been growing on Michael's face as Crowley recounted his story: it was not a pleasant one. Michael could well understand how Crowley had found enough hatred and anger to gain so much power.

"Once the proverbial cat was out of the bag regarding her profession," Crowley continued, his voice jarring Michael from his ruminations, "Rowena figured she might as well teach me her craft so I wouldn't be completely useless to her. She started the night after I heard the hounds take my father. Poor bastard was too drunk to even scream." His tone was anything but pitiful. "So not only did I pick up my father's business at the ripe young age of twelve, I also became a witch's apprentice. Mother got a new husband in exactly sixty-three days and tried for years to have a daughter; it turned out that her youth and beauty spells made her infertile. So she had to make do with me…for the time.

"Now, I was a smart lad and I knew that Rowena had sold my father's soul. I figured she would sell mine for a baby girl and wanted to do so before she could." He grinned over at Michael, very self-satisfied. "So I made a deal with a very nice demon who gave me twenty years instead of ten—again for cleverness—and returned home to rub it in her face. She married me off to a bitch worse than herself the next year, where I lived out my days in an alcohol-induced stupor before the hounds came for me at thirty-seven. The rest, as they say, is history." He spread his hands wide, giving the story the dramatic ending it needed.

Michael considered his words before speaking. The story had had an effect on him. On impulse, he would have said he pitied the demon, but it was something different than that. It was as if the entire world had been against Crowley from the moment he was born, yet he had not only thrived but triumphed. He was the King of Hell, and Michael was afraid for a moment that he admired him. To try to divert such sacrilegious thoughts, the angel asked simply: "What did you get in return?"

"Hm?"

"For what did you sell your soul?"

"Oh." Crowley grinned. "Wanna see?"

Michael had stopped paying attention, however, his attention transfixed on a single feather floating towards the ground. "No…" he whispered in horror, then looking up at Crowley desperately. "What did you do?"

This time at least, Crowley hadn't done anything. "Are you…moulting?" he asked with a mixture of wariness and wonder.

Michael buried his face in his hands and groaned. By way of answer, he spread his wings, causing a small shower of feathers to float lazily towards the hardwood. Angels had six wings, but without a conscious effort on their part, only two were visible to demons. Humans couldn't see any. As such, there were many more feathers on the floor than Crowley would have attributed to just two wings. He bent to pick one up, studying it carefully. "It's blue," he remarked. Indeed, Michael's feathers were a blue so pale that they appeared white, their true shade only visible upon meticulous inspection. When the angel remained silent, he spoke again: "Why are you moulting?"

"I'm nesting," said Michael shamefully, his voice muffled by his hands. "When an angel is becoming accustomed to a new location as home, we nest. It is disgusting. You do not want to see me like this." Truthfully, Michael did not want to be seen like this; nesting was usually reserved for fledglings and was indeed a messy process.

Crowley vaguely remembered reading about something like this, but he had quickly dismissed it as unimportant. Presently he reached out a hand to graze Michael's wing, an intense frown between his brows. The angel intook a sharp breath and pulled his wing away, looking up at Crowley in startlement. "I would not do that if I were you," he warned.

"I'll do whatever I want," Crowley mumbled. "Hold still." Even though it hadn't been an order, Michael complied, sighing in resignation.

Standing up to better reach, Crowley leaned over the desk and laid the flat of his palm against the angel's wing. He was surprised at how soft the feathers were: he knew that they could become razor-sharp in battle. Michael shivered, but held still. Never before had anyone touched his wings, and he could have stopped Crowley if he had wanted to. Most of him wanted to; the rest of him waited with bated breath for the demon's next move.

Crowley was about to say something, but the familiar tugging in his gut stopped him. He rolled his eyes and straightened abruptly—this was the worst possible time. "Be back in a flash, Love," he quipped. "Don't wreck the place while I'm gone."

Following Crowley's disappearance, Michael issued a groan of frustration that rose to a shout. He beat his wings once and the ensuing gust of air extinguished the fire. Surrounded by darkness, the angel clenched his fists as he felt his feathers rain down on him. He stood quietly and tucked his wings behind his back, trying to regain some semblance of control; the raging itch soon drove him to unfurl them again, pressing uncomfortably against the bookshelves. He felt the urge to tear at them, but he knew that would do him more harm than good. But he had to tear something, and the closest unfortunate victims were the books, which he wasted no time in shredding. The bookshelves were toppled in an effort to reach all of their contents.

The next few minutes seemed to blur for the archangel. One moment he was rifling through age-stained pages and the next he had collapsed onto the pile the shreds had made, freely weeping and raking his fingers through his wings. His feathers added to the pile and Michael curled up in their midst, suddenly lacking the energy to move. He wondered vaguely what Crowley would do to punish him when he returned, but was in too much discomfort to fully care.

Crowley, of course, had no idea what was going on in his office, since he was in a bit of a predicament himself.

"Your people killed him!" the woman hissed. A surge of power flew from her to slam the King of Hell into a tree. "I want to know why! He was just a kid, for God's sake!" Furious tears flowed down her face, of which she wasn't even aware.

Lucy Agabon rarely used her powers, because they scared even her. Being a cambion, a half-demon, she was already powerful. But upon killing her family, a demon named Anastasia had told her that she was the Antichrist: a position which had been passed to her after her predecessor had caused his own demise. Lucy had no idea why the powers had been passed to her, nor did she care. She had almost forgotten about them with the birth of her son, Jace. When he had been killed by demons, her powers had resurged and she had tortured the name of the boss from one lackey. The murderer himself had gotten away, but the whole group had allegedly been under the employ of one Crowley. Lucy had been hunting him for about a year and now that he was finally at her mercy, she could finally have her revenge.

Even in the predicament his current predicament, Crowley prided himself on playing it cool. "My people kill a lot of people," he said, ignoring the invisible vice that held him in place. "To whom are you referring?"

"His name was Jace," she hissed. "He was fourteen years old! He had nothing to do with demons!"

Crowley grimaced. "Did he make a deal?"

That was the wrong thing to say. That this creature could even suggest that her son was capable of such a thing renewed Lucy's rage. She tightened her grip on Crowley. "No. It was cold-blooded murder."

"Well, that—" It was becoming difficult to properly speak— "just won't do." Normally, Crowley wouldn't have cared. What did it matter to him that someone had gone and killed a human? However, he was rather fond of his life and had no doubt that this woman could kill him.

Lucy relaxed to be able to let him speak. "What?"

Crowley cleared his throat before he explained: "Demons," he lied on the spot, "have a very strict discipline system. They kill who and when they're told, no other time. Otherwise, there'd be no humans left. I don't know who killed your Jace, but I do know every demon in Hell. So if you'd like to find the guilty party, perhaps a deal can be arranged."

Lucy narrowed her eyes. "Not your way."

The King of Hell shrugged one shoulder. It had been worth a shot.

"Tell you what," said Lucy. "I don't kick your ass right here and now, and you get me what I need to know." As much as she hated to admit it, the task would be much easier for him than her. Besides, if he went back on it she could just find and kill him later. "Name and location."

"Done," said Crowley, congratulating himself on his own cleverness. "I'd shake your hand, but…"

She dropped him.

"Thank you." He dusted himself off and took a step backwards. "You'll hear from me."

Michael sighed as he felt the demon's presence once more. Crowley said nothing, having found himself suddenly in the dark, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a small cyclone. "I think," he remarked, "the one thing I said was, 'don't wreck the place.'"

Michael groaned, not even bothering to look up. Every time he moved, more feathers would rain down from his wings, so he tried to keep still.

With a wave of his hand, Crowley set the hearth ablaze once more. Not only had all of his furniture been toppled and pushed aside, his books were no more and the stuffing had been ripped from his chairs. The angel was sitting in a pile of anything soft he had been able to find, though most of that was hidden beneath a thick layer of blue-white feathers. There were still plenty left on Michael's wings, but Crowley could see a darker colour peeking out beneath them. "You've certainly gotten yourself into a predicament, haven't you?"

"I do not wish to be seen like this," Michael muttered, though he had learned by now that this would not deter the demon.

"No, I don't imagine so. You're positively…undone." There was an odd note in Crowley's voice that made Michael glance up. As he did so, he glimpsed his own wing from the corner of his eye and nearly fell into despair once more. The feathers were black.

"I am ruined," he sighed resignedly.

"Why?" Crowley would have taken a seat, but the chairs had been destroyed. He instead lowered himself to the floor, sitting on the edge of the pile—nest, he supposed.

Michael shifted away from Crowley, shaking loose more feathers. The itch was gone, but now it was a matter of finishing the moult. "Black wings mean an angel has fallen," he said. Heaven was everything to him: he was supposed to keep it safe until his Father returned. Now he was out of favour.

"So what?" said Crowley dismissively, moving closer to examine Michael's wings. This was a process he was not likely to view again. "Maybe it's just because you're moulting in Hell," he quipped. "All the brimstone in the air."

Michael beat his wings in anger, nearly extinguishing the fire again. "This is a serious matter!" He wanted to smite Crowley, who was acting like this was a joke.

"I know." Michael last motion had caused some of the detached feathers to get caught in the quills of the new ones. He began pulling these out, but Michael turned to him sharply.

"What are you doing?" the angel snapped.

"I want you in top shape for the business of Hell," Crowley explained, moving around behind Michael so the wings couldn't be pulled out of his reach. "As soon as possible. So I plan on getting you out of this rut."

"How generous," Michael said dryly.

"Hey, if we're gonna work together for the next forever…" Crowley grinned even though Michael couldn't see it. He had no idea why he was enjoying himself so much. Maybe because this was supposed to be Heaven's absolute. Maybe because he had drank enough to affect even him.

"Shut up." Michael didn't care about punishment at this point. Nesting was torture enough.

Crowley tsked as he set once more to pulling old feathers out. "That's no way to speak to your King." Michael didn't answer, too miserable to care. He also didn't move his wings, simply because the effort was futile. He allowed himself to space out, staring into the fire. If he didn't think about it, he was able to forget that a demon was grooming his wings. This was something that happened between brothers, as fledglings, and later on between lovers, for the few angels who took them. It was extremely personal, but if Michael mentioned that Crowley would probably have just mocked him.

Crowley was growing frustrated with the soft down stuck at the base of Michael's wings. The discarded feathers were impossible to get out, and Crowley resorted to raking his fingers through them to pull them free. He stopped his actions and frowned as Michael's shoulders relaxed, an audible sigh coming from the angel.

"Are you feeling faint?" he asked, his voice roughly drawing Michael from his daze.

"No," the archangel replied coldly, sitting up straight again. He was embarrassed, both that he had been enjoying the demon's ministrations and that he had allowed it to show. He ruffled his feathers haughtily, trying not to look at them.

Crowley chuckled, patting Michael on the shoulder patronizingly from behind. "Alright." He didn't sound like he believed him at all. Michael was prepared to turn and reprimand him once the pressure of his hand had lifted, but it never did. It seemed like Crowley was planning on pulling away once, but decided against it.

"They're not black," Crowley said into the silence, moving his hand only to run both along the tops of the angel's wings. "They're still blue." Indeed, just as Michael's wings had been the faintest blue before, they were the darkest blue now, black to the casual observer.

The statement made Michael feel marginally better, but he wasn't about to give the demon the satisfaction of knowing it. "They are still hideous." That much was true, at least.

Crowley snorted, both of his hands once again on Michael's shoulders. He had a firm grip, but it wasn't uncomfortable. "Angels aren't ugly. They're the definition of beauty." He sounded bitter even to his own ears.

"Some are more beautiful than others," Michael argued, folding his wings neatly behind him.

"Archangels," said Crowley pointedly. Unconsciously, he began rubbing Michael's shoulders, working out the tension with his thumbs. It gave him something to do with his hands.

"Y—" Michael's response was cut off in a grunt of pleased surprise. He never really considered the comfort of his vessel, and ignored the aches that plagued the fragile human body. He was surprised to discover they affected him too. "Yes, Lucifer among us." No matter what vessel an angel took, other angels and demons could always see their true faces. The same was true of demons, though because of their inherent ugliness they often tried to possess attractive vessels.

"The Morning Star," Crowley quoted, sounding unimpressed.

"God's favourite," Michael confirmed. "His most beautiful creation, besides humanity."

"And would you believe that? Both are corrupt," Crowley remarked cynically. He had noticed a few knots in the muscles of Michael's wins during the grooming, and he moved to massage these out; now that he had started the job, he couldn't leave it unfinished. "Lucifer's too perfect," he continued. "Like a statue or a doll. Makes people uncomfortable." Actually, Lucifer making people uncomfortable had nothing to do with his looks, but Crowley was more than a little biased in that judgement

"No." Michael sighed. "He is absolute perfection."

"Are you jealous?" Crowley asked, his voice dripping with amusement. When Michael didn't answer, he laughed. "Don't worry," he said patronizingly, "you're pretty too."

Michael again felt a jolt of anger. He jerked his wings from the demon's hands. What had he expected, besides derision? He turned to glare at Crowley, eyes flashing. "You mock me one too many times!"

Crowley held up his hands defensively. "For once, I wasn't mocking anybody," he said in faint surprise at Michael's reaction.

The Grace-blue in Michael's eyes faded back to green. "Lies," he said. That was what demons did, and this was their King. Michael would do well to remember that.

Now it was Crowley who grew angry. "I'm lying because you don't like what I have to say?" he scoffed. "That's not how it works."

Michael was about to protest, but Crowley was right. "You sounded very condescending," he pointed out.

"Oh, yes," said Crowley cheerfully. "I always do; it covers up real emotions very well." He hadn't meant to say that.

Michael raised his eyebrows. "And it is said that one learns something new every day. That was a foolish thing to say." They were, after all, still enemies.

Crowley had just been thinking that himself, and wondered why he had lost control like that; among demons, that was a fatal error. Moodily, he put his hands on Michael's wings once more: it was a personal challenge to finish now. The angel said nothing as he did this; both had resigned themselves to it.

"It has been said that demons can neither appreciate nor even see beauty," Michael stated. He was asking, of course, for the purpose of gathering information and not because the alcohol had left him craving conversation.

"Well whoever said that is talking out of their ass," said Crowley with a slight grunt as he tackled a particularly stubborn knot. "Demons can see what's right in front of them perfectly fine."

"I did not know that," Michael admitted, spreading his wings so Crowley could reach everywhere.

"You ought to," said Crowley, then muttering something.

"What was that?"

"I said—" Crowley sounded annoyed— "'I mean, look at you, seducing a demon.'"

Michael grimaced, turning halfway around and letting his wings droop to the nest. "I am not seducing anyone. Lust is a sin."

Crowley regarded him impassively, but he was panicking inside. Perhaps he could get away with pretending he hadn't said that. He simply shrugged, but Michael would not give up so easily. "What did you mean by that?"

The demon rolled his eyes. "Bloody Hell, angels are thick. I mean—" He reached up to place a hand on Michael's cheek and lowered his voice. "Demons are sinners." Though he was screaming mentally at himself to stop, Crowley leaned forward and kissed the angel—gently, not the kind of kiss he used to seal deals.

Michael was slow to realize what was happening, probably because of his earlier consumption of alcohol. He gasped, pulling away, and Crowley's hand dropped. Michael blinked at the demon uncomprehendingly, but didn't move. He was still sitting mostly with his back to Crowley, his shoulders and head turned. He could well imagine the shocked expression in his eyes as he looked into the demon's, which held nothing but stubborn resolution.

It was too late to back out now. Without even thinking, Crowley ran the backs of his knuckles over one of Michael's wings before gently grabbing it, his other hand coming around to rest on his upper thigh. He was positive that he didn't imagine the angel leaning into him, nor that the second time they kissed, it was Michael who did it.

Every fibre in Michael's being should have been shrieking for him to stop. Indeed, most were, but Michael's control had been shattered by a multitude of factors. He surrendered to the situation, progressing awkwardly. He had never been touched before—barely been touched by anyone, actually—and was horrified to discover that he was enjoying it.

Unlike Michael, Crowley knew very well what he was doing and quickly took control, guiding the angel along. Michael didn't resist, and he somehow found himself lying beneath the demon, feeling pleasure in ways he hadn't even known existed. His awareness of anything but Crowley was rapidly diminishing, though he heard himself whispering breathlessly in Enochian on more than one occasion.

When the demon took him, Michael cried out both aloud and mentally. No words formed in his mind, only a wave of colours both preceding and proceeding Crowley's name. The sensation was so strong that it escaped the confines of Michael's mind, thin traces of it travelling down the cerebral corridors.

Lucifer looked up from where she was sitting on the roof of a high-rise building. "What the Hell…?" The faint energy coming from her brother was something she had never felt from him before, and she focused to try to make sense of it. She immediately wished she hadn't. In a blind rage and having nowhere else to go, she teleported back to the room in which Gabriel was resting. She knew he could hear it too: the idiot wasn't just projecting loudly; he was projecting over Angel Radio. Lucifer screamed in frustration.

Gabriel heard her shout. He also heard Michael, and it was the one time he wished he was more unconscious. He couldn't see anything, and he was glad for that—only the mental ecstasy was being shared—but no one would have any doubt as to what was happening. Trapped in his comatose state, Gabriel couldn't even distract himself with something else and was beyond relief when his brother's thoughts quieted and faded out.

Michael opened his eyes, even the light of the fire seeming dim compared to the colours that had been exploding in his head. He was aware of the demon's weight and warmth beside, but both were breathing too heavily to speak. The archangel let his eyes drift closed again, merely meaning to compose himself, but when the adrenaline wore off his entire body felt heavy.

Neither angels nor demons need sleep, and most choose not to, but Crowley and Michael both drifted off silently, the angel's head rolling sideways in his slumber to rest against the demon's shoulder. His wings were spread, one stretched out under Crowley and the other draped over them both. The firelight glinted off his darkened feathers until it burned down to coals, leaving the two immortal beings cloaked in gloom.