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“You haven’t sang in a while,” Michael comments, one day, while Adam’s stirring a pan of chicken and rice on the kitchen stove, the heat on low. The archangel’s leaning up against the counter, a few away feet from Adam, eyes idly following the movement of Adam’s hand. The stirrer in question pauses at the statement.
“I mean,” he begins, mouth tugging itself into a contemplative frown. “Huh. Guess not.”
“Do you not enjoy it any longer?”
Adam’s used to odd questions, especially since they’re topside now and the nuances of human life often hit a snag in Michael’s mind, and Adam gets that. The guy spent his whole life as—essentially—heavenly royalty, and now he’s trying to navigate the world that, not ten years ago (of Earth time, anyways), he viewed as nothing but a speck of dirt in the universe. Adam can roll with that, and he tries to guide him the best he can; though he’s often found that giving Michael a basic rundown and letting him figure out the rest for himself is good for both exercising a little of his newfound free will and allowing Michael to retain what dignity he has left, after his revelation that he was "blindly" and "idiotically" following a distant and uncaring father instead of a righteous God.
...Adam’s been trying to help him understand that it wasn’t entirely his fault he was being manipulated, and it’s been working. Slowly. For now, though, Michael’s just going to berate himself, and they’re both just going to have to take it one step at a time.
But, anyway, he digresses. His point is, Michael asks a lot of questions, but normally Adam can understand where he’s coming from—right now, though, he’s got no idea what’s prompting Michael to ask about his singing.
“Well—no, that’s not it,” Adam says, slowly, trying to figure out exactly what Michael’s curious about this for. “I guess...I don’t really know. Maybe I just don’t feel the need to, anymore? I started doing it while we were in Hell because, y’know, it was always so quiet, and…” he trails off. There’s no need to get into details when they both remember it clearly enough for the rest of their lives.
“There’s noise up here,” he finishes lamely, waving the spoon in his hand around like it’ll somehow organize his thoughts into something coherent. Michael gives a hum of acknowledgement, and they fall back into a companionable quietude for a few minutes, the hiss of the simmering food on the pan filling the warm air before Adam speaks up again.
“Why? You miss my amazing vocals, halo?” he looks up, shooting Michael a smile and letting an eyebrow arch upwards with intended playfulness, which he fully expects Michael to reciprocate, because he (mostly) always does, allowing Adam to guide most of their idle conversations and simply being content with listening and adding his own little anecdotes now and again.
Only, this time, he doesn't get the reaction he was expecting.
This time the archangel stares him dead in the eye with that look Adam often catches on his face when he's staring at him—the one that makes Adam feel like nothing in the world could touch them and their little slice of peace and contentment, and says, very softly, "Maybe I do."
And Adam's mind goes entirely blank, because, fuck, what's he supposed to say to that? All he can do is stare back at the Prince of Heaven like the human he is. He wonders, dimly, if Michael's accidentally uncapped a little bit of his power, because swears he can feel the thrum of electricity in the air; a crackling in the space between them that makes the hair on his arms stand up and his heartbeat flutter like a graceless bird. Michael's control is too good for that, though—he's known as Heaven's most terrifying weapon for a reason—and that means that, whatever Adam's feeling, it's all him.
Or, well, he thinks it is.
Michael's still staring, too, with a look that makes Adam think that he's not so alone in this after all.
Then—a moment later, or eternity, after Adam's lost all sense of time and space—Michael breaks the eye contact and looks back down.
"Your food is burning."
Adam, also looking down by pure instinct, refocuses his attention on his chicken and rice.
"Wh—shit! "
Later, when the world around them is dark and still, Adam finds himself splayed out on the couch with Michael taking up only a single cushion at the end of it. There's a movie playing on the TV, some comedy film that Adam's only half-focused on—most of his attention is on Michael.
Specifically, Michael's true form.
Even more specifically, his wings, because Adam had learned long ago that the position of Michael's wings could often point to minute changes in his mood that he didn't always release over their bond—they do have their privacy, after all.
Right now, the eyes of Michael's apparition are gazing forward; presumably, at the TV. But Adam knows better, can see and feel that Michael's attention is focused inwards on his own thoughts from the whirlwind on the other side of their bond. He doesn't even notice Adam's blatant glancing at him, which is a massive testament to how distracted he is. His wings, though—his wings are tucked around him tightly like a defensive shield, looking almost like someone clutching onto a shock blanket.
If Adam had to make a guess, he'd place his bets on Michael thinking about Lucifer, God, or both.
Sometimes, he'd share his pain openly with Adam, and sometimes he'd simply sit there, lost in thought and sorting through whatever particular internal dilemma he was going through as needed. During those times, Adam would normally find himself reaching out to him, curling his soul around his grace as an I'm here, you will be okay, an act of unity that they had done for each other so, so many times in the Cage.
Now, however, he thought of their conversation from earlier, came to a decision, and reached for the remote to turn the TV off.
And then he began to sing.
Adam could pinpoint the exact moment Michael's attention snapped to him—when the whirlwind came to a screeching halt and Michael's focus shifted onto his voice, instead.
He wasn't singing anything special, just something that he'd heard the other day on the radio, which meant that he'd forgotten a few of the words and had to end up humming some parts that were unclear. But he sang, and, when one song ended, he'd instantly move onto another, rotating from old rock songs his mother had loved to generic, catchy pop songs that always got stuck in his brain. And, gradually, Adam watches from his peripheral as Michael's wings relax from their tense stance around his apparition, instead coming to rest in an easier position by his back.
He's halfway through his own little rendition of Dream On by Aerosmith when he feels one of Michael's wings snake around his shoulders, an invitation to come closer that Adam's certainly not going to deny.
Angel wings have an odd feeling, especially out of the Cage—the feathers don't feel feathery, not really. They feel more like extensions of Michael's grace in the shape of feathers, and although Adam knows the feeling of Michael's grace like the back of his hand, it's never not going to send a spark of wonder through him when he feels the mix of both gentle softness and sheer power that thrums through Michael's wings; wings that anyone with half a brain and the ability to see true forms could tell clearly belonged to a fighter, a warrior. It was indescribable.
So he scoots and shifts until he's against Michael's side, letting the archangel envelop them both in an embrace that seemed to serve as a shield from the outside world, and it's not the tense, defensive posture from earlier—it's just a little bubble, something that allows for the two of them to simply exist in a shared space together in a way that's grown comforting, over the years.
Adam finds his hand reaching for Michael's, and he gives it a gentle squeeze, a physical reminder instead of his usual mental one. It feels important, somehow. Sacred, almost.
All the while, he never stops singing.
Michael, after a moment, squeezes back.