1965-04-02 - Easter Among the Fallen
Summary: Easter's a bad time to be an angel. A fallen one, anyways.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
michael lucifer 


Easter. The highest holy day of the Catholic liturgical calendar, celebrated not only on a forgettable terrestrial rock around a forgettable yellow sun in a forgettably distant arm of the galaxy, but repeated over and again throughout countless planets great and small, celebrated in vast empires and humble villages.

More than any other celebration undertaken by humankind and other declensions of two-legged creatures with a surprisingly similar DNA, Lucifer takes to Easter with certain distaste. Not the eggs painted and the candy distributed, for those hearken to a pagan revel under Ostara. Nor does he care about the baked bread, the crosses, the abundance spilled out on tables. Hams hardly irritate him.

He drinks two fingers of storm-dark rum that do absolutely nothing and shimmers with solar energy absorbed in the worst of ways, after spending several hours directly in the solar wind. Nothing else short of plunging into a star gives him that kind of surge in power. Restless synergy while he plinks out complicated melodies with both hands on the piano upstairs. Not a Steinway — that's just one to impress the locals — but something more individual, made personally by him, bearing the stamp of a factory that doesn't exist in a town that never was for a country vanished into the ether at the turn of the century when all Europe ended up redrawn. By glaciers. Or plate tectonics. Clamour fills the air as he hums his own melodic chorus and counterpoint harmony, vibrating. How many of the prayers to the Father and the maker he hears, doubtful. That was always Michael's role in purity and now? Who sits by the chamber of the Presence, listening to the deafening silence, while the trueborn seraphim sacrficice their burning mantles?

Fuck you too, Dad. Every note spells it out.

*

Gadreel, uneasy with the weight of the Sword and the Shield, sitting outside the chamber, restless and cursing Michael's impulses. How dare the General dally on Earth with the Lightbringer?

For Mike himself shows no guilt at all, but perhaps that rarest thing of all, tact. No mention of the holiday or their Father. There's the thump of booted feet on the balcony outside, Michael coming in for one of those gooney-bird landings, nearly toppling over in a glory of wings. Then a discreet tapping at the glass door. Has he permission to come in?

*

Gadreel no doubt would like the other sword, the great burning blaze of sunlight that marked the emergence of the Lightbringer into existence. Only God himself knows where that is — if Lucifer does, he wouldn't be lamenting its absence every other moment of his current existence. Neither Heaven nor Hell have the guarantee of its presence. So he drinks. He plays music. All he needs is a woman to balance out the old triple threat.

He glances up at the tapping, but his fingers make Rachmaninoff look like a piddling mess as he forces the piano to perform in ways almost at the limits of its creation. Taut strings hum, hammers striking, his feet working the pedals to produce melancholic notes that radiate off the open terrace. They pass through the glass walls, and he hums in a multiharmonic cadence his agreement on that front.

*

Without denial, he lets himself in….and comes to stand, listening, watching. There's no human mercy, no attempt not to stare. He adores looking at Lucian, listening to him. And so he is silent, gazing at the Lightbringer, wings just faintly spread, as if to gather in the notes - to feel the sound in pinions, as well as eardrums. In his usual plain clothes, but clean, unrumpled. Perhaps he did laundry, in honor of the holiday.

*

Mercy and kindness are two very different things. The Devil can achieve one and not the other, though one might be hardpressed to distinguish between the two. His fingers strike down on the keys to create the arpeggios stagged on a score purely in his own mind, ever so slow, not nearly strong or competent enough. How much does he mean or want to summon passion through the music he spins? Lucifer breaks passage only to reach for the drink, knocking back a mouthful of rum, and setting it right back on the coaster for Lux. Taking up where he ended is a quick matter, something Michael doesn't really interrupt either. "Where have you been?" Not so much what are you up to. Some Aboriginal languages are like that. You ask which direction a person travels because there's no way to ask 'how are you' or 'hello.'

*

"Rolling in moon dust," he says, easily. "I was feeling sort of off and overheated, feathers heavy. But now I'm better, and I got it all off, so I wouldn't track it in," And Mike displays both primaries and boots - no silvery, powdery dust to get ground into the carpeting. He settles on a lounge, still looking at Lucian, pleasantly.

*

"Overheated? Only if you stayed on the bright side. The dark tends to be cooler." By a couple hundred degrees, of course, that lightless atmosphere great for that sort of thing. Lucifer clicks another of the keys and then the song ceases, no longer in action, maintained in a steady clamour right up to the bitter edge as silence rushes into the void. His own wings are absent; why reveal them, when the expose on part of Michael is sufficient? "I thought about wandering into a service. Tell them the truth. See what light rises in their eyes when they learn there's nothing there, and it might well be their own fault for that. Seems appropriate, but you never know."

*

He shrugs, the pinions rippling with dawn-glow. "The dark is much cooler," he agrees, with a sigh. "And perhaps. Mortals are what they are, they can't hold what truth they're given." He rises, comes over to lay a hand on Lucian's shoulder, if the Morningstar will bear it. The prospect of all of it doesn't seem to bother him.

*

"Yes, but naturally darker. Surprisingly poorly explored, but the front face — the bright one — is invariably more interesting. Better mares." Lucifer clasps the glass and peers down at its contents. Not nearly enough of that stormcloud in a bottle to satisfy his palate, but then one cannot drink down the dark sugar and deep fruits of a tropical island incessantly without consequences, like running out and then being forced to trade for an island so he has a personal distillery there. The hand landing upon his shoulder will find him unusually warm, a result of the energy he's absorbed at length. Not difficult to appreciate the tension drawn in every line, every muscle quivering under each finger. "Perhaps. Always worth reminding them their faith is built on a story. A bad one at that."

*

"So true," he says, in a sort of 'all of the above' way. Then he's ducking his head to rest it on that shoulder, for a moment. Trying to soothe that tension out of him, the pinion drawing around them loosely, as if to shield them from sight. Let their Father look away awhile.

*

It's Easter. The day when death and resurrection feature heavily in the calendar. No escaping all the signs of their father lying here, there, everywhere, lies celebrated by the ignorant masses. Lucifer does better than break the glass — he'd have to buy another, and to Hell with that. Comfort is something he wears terribly. What comfort are there in the underworld, ones not forged by himself? He grits his teeth, tipping his head slightly. Not enough to really see Michael but those ruddy-gold curls need to be combed through anything. "What do you seek, anyways? You seem unbothered."

*

"Your comfort, love," he says, gravely. "Let me distract you. Take it out on me, if it pleases you. Do what you would." Long fingers in those curls, a gentle caress, as if Lucifer were in pain. Poised and easy, his other wing drooping.

*

"Comfort." Michael's tone earns that sharp-eyed look from the summer-sky eyes burning hot as twin flames. His mouth films a smirk, not even fully realized. How many people pray tonight, they're absolutely bombarding him with their disdain, their pain, and their rage. Dark emotions that quibble hardly at all. "Taking it out on you wouldn't serve any purpose. Why would I punish you for what He did? For how ignorant, foolish, and self-absorbed they have become, dripping with their own failings?" Words rendered in diamond sharpness upon his brother, how is that fair?

*

"It might," Michael says, a little drily, "Make you feel better. You're far more reasonable than most. And I'm here, and a convenient target." He cups that long jaw in slender fingers, tips it up, the better to meet those deep blue eyes with his own pale gaze.

*

Lucifer tips his head back and scrapes his fingers through the rusty curls again, as though their displacement is a matter of state secrecy and international importance, the way he approaches it. "Splitting open your skin? Lashing that faulted tongue until it bleeds? I've done all that. Punishment earned." Name not the things he has performed as Hell's minister. "You are not a target worthy of that, Michael, and if I wanted to creatively undo a few of them, I would walk through the Vatican or find the men in cassocks trying to gape ten-year-old arses, and teach them what future really awaits them on the path of their vile hubris. Such things were never meant to instill correction." He could bite Michael's fingers as much as shrug him off, but does not, moodily tilting his gaze skyward to find the offending deity in the sky among the stars or possibly because the stardust on the feathers are prone to making him sneeze. If he had to sneeze. That nose wrinkle is priceless.

Who has met his gaze in ten billion bloody years? Mazikeen. Ana. Sam. Not so many others. Not one of his ilk, at any rate, still endowed and invested with a purpose even if it shattered. His gaze slowly trails back, meaningfully down. Then what? Arrested, held, and those profound sins and truths laid bare?

*

Just looked at, with that patient tenderness. Still held, so lightly. "Very well," Michael agrees, before stooping to kiss Lucian on the brow, solemn. Wings arched, spread, as if he'd take flight from there… nevermind that it'd bash him through the figured ceiling.

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