The days are long, but the weeks are short. Michael dutifully manages the hotel's record keeping and system for newcomers, and Emily charismatically engages in redemption sessions – coined by Charlie – and helps with keeping the patrons of the hotel joyful. The two are kept busy.

For the most part, life at the hotel is routine and comfortable. The classes and sessions dedicated to helping patrons find their better selves go smoothly, and Michael can't help the increasing sense of pride for Charlie and her group for coming this far with so much opposition.

Michael and Lucifer are taking advantage of an uncharacteristically free morning in the greenhouse, warmth of the greenhouse lulling Michael into a state of tranquility and ease. Lucifer stencils a small duck on the side of a pot while Michael attempts to transfer an overgrowing plant to a bigger pot.

"I think you're gonna need to do some research, Mick," Lucifer says from his elbow without looking up.

"What? No, I've got this," he answers stubbornly, not halting in his task. He's been taking care of plants for the last eon, he can manage a simple transfer of foliage.

The – literal – hellish plant he's been struggling to repot for the better part of the morning bites his finger. Again.

Michael sucks in a short breath and resists the sudden and violent urge to set it on fire, surprising himself with the sheer amount of emotion the little devil brings out in him. Lucifer snorts next to him but, sensing his brother is about to burn the greenhouse to the ground, wisely says nothing.

Michael sighs and gently coaxes the plant to release his finger. He sets the plant and pot down on the counter and steps away, increasing the likelihood the plant would survive the morning.

"Alright, I might need to do some research."

Lucifer and Michael are still in the greenhouse an hour later, a journal and a book open on the counter that Michael is using in an attempt to glean information on how to take care of Hell's vegetation – seriously, how can these suckers just grow in concrete on the street and yet Michael has managed to kill nearly every single one in the span of a week? – when the hotel gives a shudder like a short earthquake, pots clanging on the shelves of the greenhouse and one falling to the floor, shattering.

Michael's head shoots up to look at Lucifer, but his brother just sighs and sets down the pencil and pot on the counter, carefully away from the edge.

The hotel gives another full-bodied shudder, not unlike the first. Michael stands with Lucifer and follows him out of the greenhouse.

From their vantage point at the edge of the hotel's roof overlooking the front lawn of the hotel, Michael can pick out a group of about a dozen sinners, shouting something he can't quite make sense of from this high up. As he watches, two of them fling a massive beam of iridescent colored energy at the doors of the hotel. It disperses uselessly against the field of energy the hotel uses as a baseline protection, but the building gives a subtle tremor with each hit.

Lucifer frowns and lets out a breath of exasperation, watching the fiasco down below. "And Charlie wonders why my love and affection for most sinners is nonexistent."

The hotel is under attack.

Michael's fingers curl around the railing of the banister, coiling to fling himself up and over, when Lucifer stops him with an indifferent wave of his hand.

"Nah, he'll handle it." Lucifer leans his elbows against the railing idly, arms crossed at the wrist, looking utterly unbothered by the display on the lawn of the hotel.

Michael is about to ask what he means when in the blink of an eye, projections as dark as ebony shoot out from the ground, curling around the middles of three sinners and dragging them into holes of darkness, their screams cutting off abruptly as they disappear.

Leaning forward, Michael watches as Alastor appears in front of the hotel from a wisp of shadow. He says something to the remaining sinners on the ground Michael can't hear. There is a short pause from all parties before it is broken by a battle cry, and the remaining sinners rush forward towards Alastor.

It's over in less than a minute, Alastor barely moving an inch while his projections rip the offending sinners limb from limb, their screams audible even from the roof of the high hotel.

Michael glances over at Lucifer, who has shifted to turn away, a grimace on his normally open-expression face.

"Before you ask, yes he is always this brutal and yes he does in fact enjoy the guard dog gig," Lucifer offers without prompt, walking away from the banister in the direction of the greenhouse with a dismissive backward wave. Michael gets the notion that this is not an unusual occurrence. He smiles at his brother's back.

For someone who begrudgingly tolerates the radio demon so much, you seem to trust him enough to protect the hotel.

Michael turns back in time to watch Alastor dusting his hands like he just finished a particularly strenuous activity. He spins on his heel and heads back toward the hotel, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. The front of the hotel's lawn is littered with body parts.

Leaning a hip against the railing, Michael snorts a quiet humorous exhale through his nose.

He knows Alastor couldn't possibly have heard him from the roof, but nonetheless the radio demon's smiling face upturns suddenly, catching Michael. Though he can barely make out Alastor's eyes, he can't help but feel pinned to the spot by them, like he's been caught red-handed. He feels a flush in his face rise quickly. He aggressively tempers it down, feeling foolish for feeling foolish.

He looks elsewhere and backs away from the banister, retracing his steps to the greenhouse.

"I'm telling you now, mark my words, he is downright disturbing. Not even I'd tap that. Guy gives Smiles a run for his money in the creepiness department."

Angel Dust's voice reaches Michael as he descends the main staircase. The morning was over, and Lucifer had duties to fulfill somewhere else. Michael, frustrated with his progress in the greenhouse, decided to find company elsewhere before he truly did burn the greenhouse to the ground.

The spider demon is sitting at the bar, Husk with a rag on the other side of the counter. The two are accompanied by Charlie and Vaggie.

Vaggie pinches the bridge of her nose. "Angel, we can't kick him out because he's creepy looking, we've been over this," she says through her hand. Under her breath she adds, "Even though he is extremely creepy."

"Yeah, creepiness aside, I've spoken to him a few times and he's…uh… well he's a…" Michael can visibly see Charlie searching for the words. "A serious guy!"

Michael knows immediately who they're talking about without knowing any names, the scorpion demon he ran into in the hallway not too long ago coming to mind. Michael takes a seat next to the group at the bar. Husk raises a bottle to him with a questioning eyebrow, but Michael shakes his head politely. Husk shrugs and brings the bottle to his mouth.

"I'm just saying, toots. There's gotta be a limit to your understanding. The guy is a perv, believe me, I can pick 'em out of a line-up." Angel states, deft fingers wrapped around a drink, legs crossed on the bar stool. His hand cuts across the air. "Toss 'im out."

Michael sees the wisdom in listening to Angel Dust, his experience in this department not something to dismiss easily. There's a tug on his sleeve at his elbow. Emily has appeared at his side, her eyebrows furrowed in an uncharacteristically troubled way.

"Who are they talking about?" she asks quietly, motioning to the group. "Seth?"

Michael raises a brow. "Seth?"

Overhearing, Charlie steps over to them, tenting her fingers with a look of concern at Emily. "Yes, Seth. The scorpion demon that arrived two weeks ago."

Emily makes a noise that could be interpreted as subtle interest or understanding. Her shoulders are stiff. Michael narrows his eyes at her.

"Emily?"

Emily looks at him, and it's only because he's spent most of her life looking after her that he can tell she's not saying something. He drums a finger on the countertop and holds her gaze, waiting.

Emily looks away for a moment, rubbing her arm. "I don't want to say anything bad," she starts softly, looking back at Michael with anxious eyes.

Something quietly dangerous rises in Michael, curling and expanding like a breathing thing. He keeps his voice level. "Did he do something to you, Emily?"

"No!" she quickly exclaims, and Michael ignores the settling inside himself. "No, of course not. He just…" she sighs, looking at the group. "He…watches."

Vaggie is looking at Emily like she's suddenly interested in serving scorpion for dinner, her voice clipped. "Watches?"

Emily shifts, uncomfortable with the group's attention on her, and likely because she's never said anything negative about someone in her entire existence. She lets out of breath. "I can feel him, watching. He watches all of us. I don't know how else to describe it. His gaze is…" Emily shudders, her hands lifting in an abortive manner before wrapping around herself.

"I'll say it for you: creepy!" Angel Dust exclaims, hands up in the air.

"Alright, alright," Vaggie groans. Charlie is giving Emily a worried look, lips pressed together tightly.

Vaggie levels a look at Charlie, hand on her hip. "You have to be the deciding factor."

Charlie looks at everyone in the group individually, biting her lower lip. She must find what she's looking for, because she sighs, defeated.

"Alright, we'll kick—"

"Charlie, wait," Emily interrupts. She takes Charlie's hands in her own. "The whole point of the hotel was rehabilitation and giving second chances. Seth hasn't done anything. You're right, we shouldn't turn him away because we're a little creeped out."

Michael isn't particularly enthused about keeping the scorpion demon around now, but Charlie gives Emily a watery relieved smile and admits, "I really don't want us to kick him out."

Emily smiles gently at Charlie while Vaggie puts a hand on her face and mutters quietly in Spanish. Husk grimaces but says nothing. Angel Dust rolls his eyes, downing his drink.

"Don't say I didn't warn ya."

Later that night, Michael and Niffty sit in the parlor of the hotel, listening to the radio. A time or two a week, the two have developed this habitual routine. They're commonly joined by Angel and Husk or Charlie and Emily, but tonight it's just them, each absorbed in their own downtime task while the radio plays softly in the background.

Often, the routine coincides with a certain radio demon's nightly broadcast, and the parlor becomes the listening place for Alastor's radio program.

Though he'd be reluctant to admit it out loud, Alastor's broadcasts are actually vividly entertaining to Michael. The program itself is unhinged but clever, just like the man, and with excellent delivery. Michael understands the "face made for radio" shtick after just listening to a handful of transmissions.

Somewhat regularly, Alastor's broadcast has a gag or two about Michael, something he'd done that day or otherwise. He is always the butt of the joke, and for lack of a better way to describe it, Alastor essentially roasts Michael on his show. It all started after one evening Alastor had returned to the hotel and noticed Niffty and Michael in the parlor with the radio on. A sharp, widening smile was all Michael's warning before the next program was dedicated to one not-so-fallen deadbeat brother archangel.

Right on cue, the program starts over the radio, music fading and Alastor's jocular voice transmitting.

Salutations, sinners!

Michael doesn't mind Alastor using his broadcasts to get under Michael's skin so much, even when some things hit a little too close to home (i.e. Alastor's favorite thing to harp on is Michael's lack of any brother-of-the-year awards, and did you know Michael means 'gift from God'? I'm looking for the return policy!). Michael knows that giving any indication that those broadcasts bother him would just encourage Alastor more.

Surprisingly, when Alastor isn't using Michael or Lucifer as cannon fodder for entertainment value in his broadcast, he transmits reliable information to Hell's listeners. He regularly reports on shifts in power dynamics among Overlords and lesser territory rulers in the ring. Before his elusive disappearance, Niffty told Michael that Alastor used to report on the Exterminations every year, with death counts and where Exorcist angels were concentrated the heaviest. Michael found that he had been surprised learning that, for the only reason he could think of why Alastor might do that would be for the protection of sinners by giving them a heads up where the executioner angels were.

However, when Michael brought up his suspicions one evening to Alastor, the Radio Demon had nearly snorted in his mirth.

"Of course a Heavenly being such as yourself would surmise that to be my intention," Alastor's smile is wide, eyes lidded as he watches Michael. "Tell me, if you were a sinner and I told you where exorcists were, would you flee that territory?"

Michael tilts his head. "Yes?"

"And if you were the lord of that territory, would you consider your underlings safe if they left the area exorcists were?"

"…Yes?"

Alastor nearly rolls his eyes at Michael but continues patiently. "It would likely behoove you to make a deal with someone with the ability to spread information quickly then, would it not?"

Understanding clicks. Michael lets out a noise of disbelief. "You made deals with territory rulers that you would warn their territory if exorcists were coming to minimize their loss."

Alastor's smile is wicked. "Not so gallant to you now, am I?"

"And the lords that didn't make a deal with you?"

The radio demon hums and cradles the head of his cane between clawed fingers. "A territory unaware of a coming army naturally did not fare well." Alastor's eyes cut to Michael's, his smile sinister. "The next lord would be more inclined to make the deal."

Indeed, Michael was quickly learning that Alastor hardly did anything without some sort of gain to himself, and the headache of one mic-wielding mortal soul was quickly becoming an enigma that Michael would sooner ignore than evaluate.

So tonight, he listens with Niffty while reading, tuning in and out the broadcast as the time ticks by. He picks up his name on occasion, huffs a laugh begrudgingly, but otherwise is undisturbed in his routine.

Mostly.

An hour later, jazzy tunes mark the end of the broadcast. Three more chapters in and Michael has a better judgment on how to care of hellfire flowers. His appreciation for his greenhouse is tried by his inability to make barely anything grow as of yet, but Michael enjoys a challenge.

The air shifts in the parlor and Alastor materializes, his shadow close behind him. A tall and lithe thing, with its smile particularly ominous tonight, open mouthed and knife-like.

Niffty looks up from her carving, smiling at Alastor as she waves with a fist curled around the paring knife. "I really liked your broadcast tonight, sir."

"Why thank you, Niffty, dear," the demon in question replies jovially. His eyes cut to Michael sitting across from her and his smile sharpens.

"Oh, ho! I didn't realize you were listening in tonight!" His tone says otherwise. Alastor takes a few leisurely steps into the parlor, leaning against his cane as he looks down at the archangel. The red in his eyes glow in the dimly lit parlor. "I might have been a little nicer."

Michael looks up at the radio demon, closing his book slowly. He lets a small smile play on his lips, lids lowered over blue eyes. Elbow on the arm of his chair, he rests his cheek against his hand.

Michael has had infinitely more time to perfect the look of unbothered.

"Not at all, Alastor. In fact, I feel truly flattered."

Alastor's eyes narrow, one eyebrow raised. "Well, isn't that a relief." Relief is punctuated with the soft sound of a knife sharpening in the background.

Michael continues. "Dedicating some time in your broadcasts to talk about me…" Michael trails off, putting a hand on his chest.

He doesn't miss Alastor's eye twitch, his smile twisting in distaste.

He tilts his head at Alastor, and Michael's smile has teeth. He wonders distantly if it looks as much like baring fangs as it feels. He leans forward, voice dipping an octave like what he wants to say is for Alastor alone, a caress.

"And I just love that you think of me when you're alone."

There's a distinct noise, like an alarm bell that Michael can feel rather than hear, accompanied by a soft scritch of radio. Alastor is still for several heartbeats before he hums nondescriptly, turns on his heel and leaves the parlor.

Michael leans back into the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee and opens the book again.

He doesn't lose the teeth-bared smile in his delight.

"What in all things unholy was that?"

Michael looks up sharply. Lucifer is standing in the threshold of the parlor, a deep frown of revulsion on his face and eye twitching.

Michael raises an eyebrow. "What was what?"

"That!" Lucifer waves forcefully at the air beyond Michael.

"Oh, that," Michael starts, balancing the book on his leg. He clears his throat. "Strategy."

"Strat—" Lucifer cuts off, hands up like he can ward Michael off. "You know what? Nevermind. I've decided I don't want to know."

Lucifer leaves the parlor and Michael's smile is a little less feral but amused, nonetheless. Niffty is watching him from beside the low table, bugs and carving forgotten.

"Maybe you are a bad boy."

Michael snorts and picks up his book.

Alastor doesn't mention Michael again in his next broadcasts, and Michael counts it as a victory.

.

.

.

.

The weeks turn into months.

Charlie, in typical Charlie-fashion, throws Emily and Michael a "Happy Three Months in Hell!" surprise party complete with a homemade cake, candles, and dancing.

Emily, naturally, adores the celebration and squeals excitedly when the lights come on and the group, including the many new residents of the hotel, cheer at their entrance with mixed enthusiasm and volume. She claps and hugs Charlie tightly.

"It's felt like hardly any time at all!" she exclaims, laughing.

Michael uses the distraction of Emily jumping up and down with Charlie to maneuver to the outskirts, away from the spotlight and attention as the music starts up. He makes his way onto a bar stool at the counter, Husk and Angel already occupants of the area.

He accepts a glass of champagne from Husk with a smile and downs half of it in a single swallow.

Angel and Husk give one another a glance that Michael misses. Husk refills his glass.

"Parties not your thing, huh?" he asks in a low tenor.

Michael lets him refill his glass and shakes his head, watching the bubbles. "The party is lovely."

"What's got you looking like someone pissed in your Wheaties then?" Angel tactfully asks.

"It's the time that's bothering him," a voice says from behind them.

The three look up at Lucifer's arrival. He hops onto the stool next to Michael. Literally hops, because they're tall stools. Michael secretly suspects Alastor keeps them that way on purpose.

"The usual?" Husk asks him, setting down the champagne bottle. Lucifer nods.

"Am I right?" Lucifer asks.

Michael sighs and leans his face into his hand, elbow on the counter. He massages his brow and levels a silent look at Lucifer. His brother only shrugs.

"You know better than anyone that Heaven moves on its own timetable," Lucifer says, accepting the martini from Husk with a thanks.

"Even this is slow for them," Michael says, tapping a finger on the counter. He keeps his voice low, though he knows Emily couldn't possibly hear him over the music. "Three months? Nothing. Not even a letter."

"Michael, they're probably hoping you'll change your mind and come back," Lucifer suggests. "Emily is young, naïve. As far as temper tantrums go, a few months in Hell to get her rebellious spirit out of her system would be something understandable."

Michael scoffs. "And me? What's their excuse for me?"

Lucifer smiles widely. "Nostalgia? Alzheimer's? Going senile in your old age?"

Michael snorts, rolls his eyes, and finishes his drink. This time he waves off Husk's attempt to refill it.

Lucifer claps a hand on Michael's back, grinning. "Come on, Mick. This is a celebration. Worry tomorrow, when you're hungover and you remember all the embarrassing things you'll do tonight."

At Lucifer's beckoning, Husk refills Michael's glass and pushes it to him. Lucifer's expression sobers up for a moment and he meets his brother's eyes. "Seriously, it'll be alright."

Michael brings his glass to his lips and narrows his eyes at Lucifer. "When did you get so mature?"

Lucifer laughs but his gaze is at something over Michael's shoulder. Michael doesn't have to turn around to know he's looking at Charlie.

"Who knows?" Lucifer says fondly.

The four of them cheer to the future and after which Michael is convinced to drink another few rounds with them by Angel and Lucifer's encouragement. He puts on a show of denying it, but in the end he's at the mercy of their peer pressure.

The party is in full swing now, dance floor populated with pairs and groups of hotel residents, including the core group. He catches a flash of Charlie's hair, her musical laughter heard over the song even from where Michael sits. He's surprised, but suspects he shouldn't be, by Alastor gracing the dance floor as Charlie's partner, twirling her expertly. By the time Emily and Alis, a salamander hotel resident, join him at the bar, Michael is feeling pleasantly warm and makes a promise to himself to opt for a water next round.

"Michael, why don't you play your trumpet?" Emily asks breathlessly from beside him and motions to the live band in the corner. Her cheeks are flushed from dancing.

"Another time, maybe. I'd likely embarrass myself right now," he jokes, smiling gently at her.

She returns the smile and suddenly straightens up, reaching an upturned hand out to him. "Will you dance with me, then?"

Michael gives a soft chuckle, puts down his glass and straightens off the stool. "It would be incredibly rude of me to reject a lady's invitation."

Michael takes Emily's hand and allows her to lead him to the dance floor. Emily grins up at him mischievously. "Should we do the dance we do in Heaven?"

"Why, Seraphim Emily," Michael gives an exaggerated guffaw, "Are you asking if we should show off?"

But he's already leading her in the first few steps of the dance they've done a hundred thousand times, Emily's natural grace enhanced by her light steps and quick turns. The beat played by the band tonight is a touch faster than their normal dance's tempo, so her spins whip her hair outward. Michael's height has Emily with her arms up a majority of the time, like a ballerina at the precipice of an elegant movement. A mirrored image, Michael and Emily's practiced steps draw them across the floor in a flurry of movement, their movements synchronized, each step complementing the other. Despite their height difference, Michael and Emily are effortlessly balanced from years of practice.

Emily tips her head back and laughs, spinning away from and back to Michael, who knows he is grinning like a fool but doesn't care enough to stop himself or temper down the rising tidal wave of joy.

Heaven be damned, he thinks, and catches his ward once more from her spin.

AN: Please review!