Archive of Our Own ^beta

His footsteps sounded loud to his ears, echoed of the ceiling when Michael strode from one side of his office to the other one. The parquet was painted by the light the setting sun poured through the window panes. It was disrupted by his shadow, a dynamic block of black against warm brown. Since he had returned from the States an urgency had taken hold of him that he couldn’t shake. When he came home on Amenadiel’s call, it had seemed as if his father’s days had been counted, his health descending in a spiral. The last six months had rendered God non-verbal, the disease having silenced him by petrifying his tongue. From there on the progression of his illness had been rapid. Unable to walk, unable to speak, unable to control his body’s functions. Only his eyes had been alive, alive with a sense of dread and anger and revolt the rest of his being couldn’t follow. Amenadiel had been the one who sat with him, played him music and changed from National Geographics to the news. Meanwhile Michael scurried by, only hastily sparing an hour or a half of it if he so wanted under the pretence of meetings and negotiations. Once it had gotten close, Michael had sat at his father’s bedside waiting without knowing what the outcome was he hoped for. He recovered, miraculously. That bastard clung to life like a tick to one’s leg and Michael was sick with relief that felt like defeat.

His heritage was more of a pro forma affair than an actual obstacle. All that was missing was a death certificate, before the rest of Caelum would have to accept his reign. Most of them followed him regardless, accepted his little reforms paving the way for a regime that wouldn’t be built on the exploit of its soldiers as law. Uriel of course, that mule-headed prick, still held on to his blind loyalty to Michael’s father. Pathetic and gut churning in his quaint opinion. Michael stopped in his pacing, tapped his fingers against the edge of his desk as he circled it, jotted down a note to remind his own cohort he was going to check in within the week on the training of the new recruits. His wings itched as if to remind him of his place, reminded him that even as an archangel climbing the ranks he would soon hold the power of a God. He was fairly certain he did not have the capacity to handle this much influence. With his father at the top even if only on paper there was a certain responsibility that fell to another party. There was for margin for error. Once that margin was removed, approximated and reduced to nothing, bone grinding on bone then … well then, he would have to get creative as to how cover up his mistakes.

Heels hurried along the hallway in front of his office and Michael looked up before the door had even opened. When a knock did sound, he called the woman in. The blonde head pushed through the gap belonged to Cecilia and Michael’s heart dropped to his stomach.

“Sir”, she said, struggling for breath. Running in heels was quite tiresome activity. Straightening herself out she gathered herself. More collected she continued, voice grave, “Sir. I’m afraid he is gone.”

Asphyxiated in his sleep, right next to his nurse. As expected.

For a beat Michael stared at her, waiting to feel. He didn’t. He didn’t do anything. Only when Cecilia shifted uncertainly in her white turtleneck as if she was in a hurry, he startled himself out of his trance.

“Let’s go”, he said, set himself into motion and held the door open for Cecilia to lead the way. There was no reason for urgency. He was dead already, what good did it do to hasten?

The entrance hall, the nexus of the headquarters and the family’s private wings was alive with antsy members rushing from A to B. The veil of grief that was supposed to curtain the atmosphere was broken by shock, like an echoing and haunted scream spiking in a vacuum. Why it would be a surprise that the man who had been sick for the last four years would die, he couldn’t fathom. God dying was a big deal for the organisation he was vital to. Crossing the wide room, the hushed voices quite suddenly quietened down and Michael nearly turned to see why. Which. Right.

His gaze climbed up the stair to his home – what had been his home. Now it lay empty save for Amenadiel’s room for when he dropped by and the space they had created for his father to vegetate to death. Maybe Michael should think about letting Azrael and her husband and soon to be born kid have the premises, look for something that was his. Only his. Because subtracting the world’s fourth largest crime syndicate – following the Bratva, Yamaguchi and ‘Ndarangheta – from the list, there was little that was only his. Maybe that was why he had been so drawn to Eve and the sense of belonging she had symbolized.

At the top of the stairs, Amenadiel’s body didn’t rise in the usually so unmovable tower, but in a hunch of defeat. Of devastation. Michael should feel like this but didn’t. He had been playing this game for too long. He had adapted, had moulded himself into a leader, into God’s rightful successor. And to this version of Michael there was only sleek surface and calculated demeanour - the epitome of strength he very much wasn’t. His father had done too much harm to him, to Sam – Lucifer – to his mother, to Eve. To the Angels he had to break until there was nothing left so he could create them in his own image. There was no one to pity. The death certificate to Michael’s reign delivered on a silver platter and a silence to last for the years to come.

When Michael reached Amenadiel, his arm shot out to steady the man.

“Michael”, he rasped, dark eyes glistening with grief. They squinted up at him as if they tried to fathom his composure.  

“Have you seen him yet?”, Michael leaned close enough to murmur the question towards Amenadiel and the latter shook his head, swallowing. “Alright. Then let’s do that, hm?”

Like talking to a shell shocked child, Michael supported the man’s arm and quickened pace to meet Cecilia at the beginning of the hallway, pushing open the old doors. Dutifully, the woman who had looked after his father nodded at them, greeted Amenadiel with a gentle, respectful, Sir he barely acknowledged.

Once at his father’s room, Cecilia opened the door and Michael stepped forward into the room. On the bed, sunken and much smaller than he appeared in life, his father lay. Michael had seen plenty of corpses in his life, but none of them had looked as peaceful as him. Hair grey and sparse, face in deep lines. The white blanket covering him was draped with care, tucked in at the sides. The bastard didn’t deserve peace. However, Michael sent a grateful look to Cecilia, gaze drawn from the blanket to her. She acknowledged the unspoken thanks with a tiny, dimmed smile.

A choked off sound next to him broke the calm. Amenadiel stumbled forward to the bed, reached for his father’s hand. Watching the man struggle with his emotions, Michael was surprised when Amenadiel stepped back quickly, wiped his eyes.

“I apologize”, he said and Michael looked at him in confusion, “I… he is your father after all. It’s not… It’s not my place.”

“Quit apologizing.”

Michael’s eyes strayed back to his father’s dead body.

“Of course, it is. He was your father as he was mine.”  If not more.

His father had plucked Amenadiel from the orphanage at 12 years old. Had taken him from a country he had fled from and another country that rejected and belittled him and given him influence and control. Had raised him into the man he was today. Had made the remainder of Heaven respect him as his right hand, the enforcer responsible for Caelum’s ranks themselves.

“Right”, Amenadiel sniffled, controlling his very un-manly display of feelings. As if the death of a father-figure didn’t classify as an occasion that justified tears.

Falling into the chair waiting next to the bed, Amenadiel sat down heavily as if someone cut the strings holding him up, reached for God’s hand again. Michael regarded the man again, mildly interested. He really looked very little like the man he remembered. Harmless compared to all the harm he had done.

Another moment, then he patted Amenadiel’s shoulder, gave him the space to grief and stepped outside himself. In the hallways he took a deep breath, reached for his phone. Then – after staring at it for a beat – he dialled his mum’s number.  With the second ring she picked up.

“Mika, darling? Is it urgent?”

Despite himself he had to chuckle. It reminded him of the time he had been home with Sam and desperately needed to figure out how to deactivate the lock on the stove. Is it urgent?, she always asked, because in case it was, she would drop her life to come to his rescue.

“Hello to you too, Mum”, he mused, waited for her snort – a silent, get on with it child of mine - before he settled on a more serious note, “He’s gone. Died in his sleep.”

A sharp intake of air. Voices chittering in the background as the static gave a near indiscernible hum. Seconds dragged on and for a moment Michael thought she was too struck to answer.

“Lucky bastard”, she eventually said. A faint tremor pulled at her voice, asked – always caring about him, “How are you holding up?”

“Don’t you worry about me”, he said gently. Paced a little in the hallway, eyes stubbornly avoiding to look at the door.

“Did you tell your…Did you tell your brother already?”

Michael let his gaze drop to his shoes, shining leather brushing along the floor as he released a tight breath.

“He takes these things harder than you”, she spoke his mind with that.

Michael already dreaded that phone call. For some reason their father stayed in Sam’s mind, not only with the contempt that was expected from their strenuous relationship but a regard for his well-being that puzzled him. Why would he give a shit about that bastard? What father tortured his sons and said it built character? For all he cared, he could suffer in hell.

“I know”, he said, finally threw a glance over his shoulder to the door behind which Amenadiel was grieving, “I know. I’ll call him right after. Just thought you would want to know.”

“Thank you, Michael. That’s very considerate of you.”

“Right”, he said, nodded, “Then, Mum… I don’t want to hold you off any longer. I have to call…”, he cleared his throat, eyes jumping along the empty corridor, “I have to call him.”

“Right”, she repeated, “Take care, Mika. Thanks again for calling.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you.”

With last words he hung up and dropped his head into his neck.

What time was it anyhow in New York? Twelve? What marvellous news to announce during lunch. Searching for Sam’s number he phoned him. A bout of bitterness clung to Michael’s tongue as he swallowed. It was typical. That he got stuck as the messenger. That he had gotten stuck with a crime syndicate and messes to clean up. Other people inherited a property, he inherited a kingdom he didn’t particularily want in the first place. But what other choice did he have when all he cared for hung on by a thread only he could hold? A few rings, that mechanic beep, beeeep, beeep before the line was opened.

“Michael?”, in the background cars rushed by, but couldn’t drown out Samael’s worried voice,  “what is it?”

Bless his twin to know exactly he wouldn’t call if it wasn’t for bad news. There was no easy way to say it, was there? Nothing but the truth.

“It’s…Dad is dead”, Samael he wanted to add but didn’t. The line was busy with noise, that only broke with his brother’s long exhale.

“I see”, another long pause Michael didn’t know how to interpret, before Sam cleared his throat, asked, “Was it…did he suffer?”

 I wished he did, the words burned on Michael’s tongue, detached and full of vengeance.

“No”, he said instead, voice even, “he died in his sleep. Might not even have noticed.”

Whatever helped him sleep at night – and apparently knowing that father did not receive the punishment he so karmatically deserved eased his mind.

“Right”, Sam whispered and Michael noticed it was a family thing they did, “are you alright, brother?”

Worry-warts, all of them.

“Don’t worry about me”, he repeated, then said because his twin liked to finagle with the truth, “I am fine.”

“Right then”, Sam cleared his throat, a breathless cough, “Thank you, Mika.”

“Don’t mention it”, Michael had little opportunity to talk to his brother, neither in mails nor in phone calls, so when the possibility presented itself, he latched onto it, “How’s life treating you?”

If he was surprised by the line of questioning, he didn’t let it show, “I’m doing quite well, come to think of it. If you ignore the fact that I need a bloody smoke…”

“You quit smoking?”, surprise coloured Michael’s voice. Sam had smoked since he was fifteen years old, by eighteen he had been caught in the cycle already so for him to stop smoking at thirty-eight really came unexpectedly.

“I did, I did. Can’t believe it myself if I let myself think about it. But the urchin struck a deal I couldn’t refuse.”

“Oh?”, the interested sound hung in the hallway and gave life to the dead air, “Do tell?”

“Well”, his brother grew sheepish at the price he had paid for restless energy and blinding headaches, “I received a lovely bracelet.”

“She made it herself”, he added defiantly as Michael started to laugh. Unfitting for the occasion, but bloody hell, his brother ladies and gents.

“You’ll see”, he said once cleared his throat, “You’ll see, the child will get you to buy that dog she so desperately wants.”

“She most certainly will not!”

“Whatever you say”, Sammy, “Whatever you say.”

“Michael… I’ll hang up, I swear.”

“You do that”, Michael chuckled, “Take care of yourself if you do. I must get going anyhow.”

“Heavenly kingdom to rule and all?”

A scoff and Michael’s gaze dropped to his fingers, scarred and exposed, “Kingdom to rule and all.”

“Farewell then, brother”, Sam made even the goodbyes sound easy and light. Maybe this time it could be, knowing they might see each other again, “Take care.”

“You too”, Michael gave back and with that the call ended in an aborted sound, leaving Michael with the empty hallway and the corpse of his father a door behind him.

Gathering himself, he straightened his shoulders, fingers feeling for the fabric of the sleeves of his suit jacket. Then, once he was finished with the wall he drew up from the inside, had patted it down for cracks and holes to eliminate them, he turned, made it out of his family’s quarters and down through the hall. In his strides Raguel’s figure joined him falling into step.

“Sir”, she said - he realised the question in it - curt and to the point as his right hand tended to be. She had been the archangel’s second, but now? Now Michael was released from the shackles that had held him down, had assumed power and raised himself into the position of a God.

“To the office, commander”, he said and blessed her professionalism she didn’t let her surprise show at the promotion, safe for the smallest of falters in her walk.

“We have work to do.”

oOo

The period of decay and impermanence Michael spent it in tense vigilance. He had torn and ripped at Heaven’s foundation, had brought walls to fall and pillars of moral to collapse, carried the edifice of a syndicate on his shoulders and enforced its power within the ranks as he did outside of them. On the wreckage, a barren field of mistrust and upheaval he had begun to build new, build better. Without the help of his archangels, the four heavenly commanders overseeing the legions, the missions, Caelum would have crumbled to dust. Lesser than dust, really. The lack of a strong foundation left them all hanging. The older angels, those raised and created by his father and even his father’s father more so than other. Not even the platitudes Michael stated, not even the incentives and reassurances to keep Heaven’s core, Heaven’s soul conserved helped to smooth out the ripples. From ripples could grow waves and at that time, Caelum wouldn’t have withstood even the faintest ebb and flow.

Michael had ripped the recruitment from its angles, had reformed the application and final trials of it. No more torture - at least not one that would leave lasting damage. No torture the state itself wouldn’t allow as a constituent of Resistance to Interrogation training. Even if Michael despised those as well. No more moulding and branding.

One thing his father had never understood, was that loyalty born from a sense of belonging and home and love meant more, lasted more deeply than the one breed with pain. There was only so much devastation the human mind could take before it either broke or became rebellious. Michael would have done anything to protect his brother. United in front of the common enemy. That common enemy would be the forces attempting to destroy the kingdom, the home Heaven provided. His father had laid basis for his soldier’s families, had created funds that ensured their education and well-being. He had created borders in which to operate and Michael would build the infrastructure that made Caelum flourish. He wanted his people loyal and smart and ready to drop what they were doing to protect the kingdom they had found refuge in. By whatever means necessary. 

Azrael had returned from maternity leave to consult, had used her charms on the older generation. Rebuilding had not been peaceful. Examples were made and blood shed - Michael had overseen it himself – but his era would not succeed, Caelum not thrive if he let those live that sabotaged the system. Attempts on his life, they were anything but sparse, but he had been a commander for a reason. He did not need a weapon to kill somebody but give him one and the poor sap was dead faster than he could say “Fallen”.

In September, a week after Michael had announced and presented the reform for the recruitment, Uriel had stormed into his office, furious and flanked by two of his highest ranking Lieutenants.

“How dare you?”, spittingly furious he waltzed through his office’s door - would it kill him to knock? – and Raquel with whom Michael was just having a civil and quite lovely conversation with straightened up and planted herself next to the desk, like the archangel – provoked archangel – that she was.

Uriel carried on, “How dare you rebel against God’s will?”

Unimpressed, Michael looked up, “Taking on Amenadiel’s job, are we Uriel?”

The man blinked at him, hand running through tousled and matte hair. He screwed his face up even further so contempt dripped from it.

“I am not sure you got on with the program but as of a month or so – I am God”, Michael closed the button of his suit jacket, “defying his will – well, my will… that’s news to me.”

Glancing at his most formidable soldier, he saw the slightest twitch of Raquel’s lips before he directed his focus to the problem child of the family. At least the problem child since Samuel left. For a second Michael nearly pitied Uriel, with his hands shaking and the righteous fury that seemed to drive him. He had taken his father’s death worse than any of them.

“You will never be a God. You are unworthy of that title”, he ranted, pacing. His posture screamed with agitation as he pointed at Michael, “You’re weak. And yet in your hybris you can’t see how you are set up to fail. You’re gonna run the Kingdom into the ground and we’ll be watching and see it burn. God would have never allowed this!”

A pause stretched the room and time in length, before Michael cleared his throat, “Hm” – tell me how you really feel, Uriel – “See, Uriel. That’s just the crux of the matter, isn’t it? My father made me God. He very much allowed this, encouraged it even. Quite a contradictory situation we find us in.”

Arguing with Uriel was always like arguing with a broken record. It screams no, then one offers an insightful argument with a solid, fact backed basis and it rewinds and screams no again.

“It’s always been like this”, Uriel spat the accusation on the floor right in front of Michael, “You and your brother, defying God, defying the man who gave you everything-“

Anger spiking, Michael swallowed a growl, then swallowed the sarcastic Oh, yes. The trust issues and mangled hands. How could I forget? How dare he? How dare that piece of shit remind him of Sam?

“Don’t confuse me and you, Uriel!”, he managed to speak over the commander in front of him, voices at war with each other, both aiming to drown the other out, “- you have learned nothing of the past! God’s rule is what’s right. He knew best. He always knew best! At least Samael got what he had coming.”

The violent scrape of Michael’s chair followed him rising up to his feet.

“Don’t you dare speak of my brother.”

Uriel’s mouth snapped shut at the warning, a distant thunder that pulsated with fury.

“This isn’t right”, in a hiss Uriel exhaled the words, strode forwards, hands planted on the pristine mahogany surface, “you are destroying everything your father built! I will not allow it!”

The crazed glint in his eyes resembled a fanatic’s. Someone who had everything only to be left with nothing at all. All lost. His eyes had once been hollowed out and then refilled with an ideology, but this ideology seemed to be based on a person rather than Caelum itself and that was the crux of the matter. This loyalty to his saviour, to God as he was Michael’s father removed Uriel from all tethers of reality. It was what drove him to order a hit on Eve. It was the deadly calculation he showed as a leader and a soldier. Uriel was smart and if he wasn’t so blinded by faith into a dead soul, he would be one of the most resourceful and feared angels amongst his ranks.

“What are you gonna do, Uriel?”, Michael cocked his head, “Become a martyr for a dead God instead of serving Heaven?”

The Lieutenants in the background were of two opposite minds. One full of conviction, shoulders broad and proud and the other insecure in the way he shifted.

“I am serving Caelum by serving him”, Uriel said, quiet as if he meant it. His gaze never strayed from Michael’s.

He sat down, unbothered poise in the way he let his shoulders relax a playful edge to his words, “Well, my commander. How do we proceed from there on? Quite a precarious predicament we find ourselves in, isn’t it?”

Uriel halted in his looming posture, before he fell back, standing, hands propped up at the hips. His Sacco flared out like a bat, fingers just above the waistband of his slacks. Inching towards the back. The air stood still and in its stillness it forgot to breathe. Uriel’s finger moved, inched forward. He wouldn’t be this thick, would he? Did he think his Lieutenants were enough to pave the way? Assassination to become a ruler and preserve what the God before him had built? That was his solution?

A motion, fast and if executed deadly. Uriel had gotten the gun out of the waistband of his trousers, from where it must’ve been digging into his back, had gotten it around his torso – a gunshot rung out, right next to Michael’s ear and the sound provided a low tone that dimmed the world around him. Uriel fell backwards, slumped and the impact with his precious parquet the man was now bleeding on did only register in the vibration of the floor and the fraction of a thump. Uriel’s soldiers stood frozen while Michael turned to his right. Raquel’s hand extended, gun in it she looked back. Raised her brow, perfectly manicured and dark as her hair as if to say I always have to save your arse.

“No silencer?”, he asked, quiet on purpose as his hand came up to massage his ear, “Seriously?”

Her mouth twitched apologetically and into a smile. He had to read her lips to capture all of her words, “My apologies, Sir. Next time I prevent an assassination I will remember to bring it.”

Christ, he appreciated that dry humour.

“Marvellous”, he said. Clapped his hands, “Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?”

The addressed soldiers he had turned back to had grown pale, shook their heads. The one stared at his commander’s corpse, clearly shaken.

“Well, then… I will send you on your merry way”, a shooing gesture. The two hastened, just shy of being too fast for it to be respectful, towards the door.

“Oh, and”, he called out. They froze and looked back ready to take an order, “inform clean up about this…”, a glance at Uriel, “situation, will you?”

oOo

“So”, the sheets around Michael rustled as he turned over to his side, eyes following the head of dark hair that peeked out of the clean white layers, “What now, Raguel?”

Being a little pest as not only his Mum or Samael insisted, needled at the woman in front of him and what could Michael say? He did love getting under people’s skin. Pun maybe intended. Her eyes narrowed down in a squint, pale skin still flushed from their previous activities. The little moles dotting her skin - his fingers reached for the one on her shoulder, right next to a long healed scar - sprayed along her face like paint that the sun refreshed in periodic cycles.

“You know my real name, Michael”, her accent laid it on thick when she relaxed. Liverpool through and through. Her hand came up to pat his fingers as if to approve his touch, then she wound out of the tangle of sheets and snuck over to her clothes. Clad in black panties and nothing else, Michael leaned back to take in her figure in the dim light of a cloudy September. The sun did not favour them today.

Muscles sculpting her upper back down to her waist, shoulders sharp and toned and freckled. Her spine reached down to her bottom in a long sweep, hugged by the dimples on her lower back. He loved to run his fingers along her back to end up there, lay kisses to the dimples which then would travel lower, along her bum and down her thighs and sneak between them to lap at her centre.

“Hm, very well, Elena”, he rubbed along his nose to hide the flush that travelled along his face. Holy mother Mary, was she a sight, “As you know mine.”

She’d just shimmied into her jeans as she turned around, breasts on full display that took Michael’s attention for a minute.

“What?”, she snorted, pulling a sports bra over her head and hiding her chest from view, “Mikael?”

Her lips twitched violently, nearly as if she was indulging him.

He shook his head, grinning, “I was thinking more along the lines of The creator of the universe, all father and such…”, he trailed off with a laugh and Elena barked a laugh.

“You wish, honey.”

Michael propped himself up, playing pretend in his offence, “Look at you being all sassy and defiant.”

Her pullover swallowed her arms and only released her hands again, the same hands that pulled the tips of her hair from the knit’s neck as she raised her brows at him, “Look at you being a dimwit.”

With the words she drew closer, one knee on the mattress as she leaned over into his face. Michael had thought he had felt things with Eve in his desperate pining. This however, nothing had ever held a candle to. Elena’s nose nudged his as she pressed a quick peck to his lips, one that he slowed - his hand reaching for her nape - and drew into a soft kiss.

“Such colourful language, commander”, he admonished gently once they separated. All Elena did was to laugh at him, press another kiss to where his forehead ended and his hair began, before she drew back.

Back to work she went, pulling her socks on and gathering her phone and wallet. The last few weeks had felt like a piece of someone else’s life. From drunken, stolen kisses at the pub downtown and playing pool, a quickie in a restroom stall. From late nights and early breakfasts together. It didn’t feel real and the moments it did, Michael would be gripped by terror, because what if he lost this too.

“Hey, honey”, Elena had made it to the bedroom’s door, gaze chiding him as if she knew he was drifting into unsteady waters, “stop thinking so hard. You’re going to hurt your pretty little head.”

Laughter crinkled the lines around her eyes, that extended their path a little further than they had a few years back.

“Ouch”, he drew a grimace, secretly loved how easily she read him. Elena was capable, competent, could take care of herself. He ought not worry, “tell me how you really feel.”

Another chuckle that made her throw her head back, before she said, “Hey-”

He turned again, sheets slipping down his torso and smugness was mirrored in his expression as her eyes got stuck at his muscles.

“Yes?”

“See you tonight?”, from the commode next to the door she plucked her lipstick and let it run in a practiced motion along her lips, pressed them together, pursed them, smacked them once, twice. Then the all too familiar smile of berry red lips greeted him like it had over years in the hallways.

“Most certainly”, he hurried to say, cleared his throat as if that would remedy the urgency in his words. Elena just grinned knowingly, sent him an imaginary kiss, before she headed out through the door. Michael followed the pad of her feet through the living room and towards the door. Then the pads became thuds as she pulled her boots on and the door opened, fell shut again. Michael plummeted back into the sheets, gaze stuck at the ceiling as he let out a long breath. Sam was right. He couldn’t play it cool to save his life.

oOo

Speaking of Samael - the very same week Michael had discovered an affinity for dodging assassinations, Samael had travelled to Wales to visit their father’s grave. Between his new free time occupation and a blossoming relationship, Michael had needed to pull all the strings he had currently in one hand to stay low and not alert any of his own syndicate’s soldiers surveilling air travel. Eventually though, the day had come and the private quarters of Caelum been cleared out. The weather was indeed very British today. Windy, clouds with the faintest bit of sun shining through. Michael had made himself a home in the living room, wide windows that lay to the garden’s feet that stretched wide to the edge of their property, before the forest’s hegemony began. Sometimes he missed the days when thing were simple. When the worst that could happen was Sam and him being trapped inside, forbidden to go out.

It took an hour or two - longer than Michael had expected, because really, what could you say to a corpse in a coffin? – before steps reverberated through the hallways, long and leisurely like a Sunday driver taking in the landscape. (Which would be green hills, the occasional stone wall and forest and even more green hills.)

“Brother?”, Sam – should Michael call him Lucifer? It felt odd, to say the least – called from the kitchen, separated from the living room by a door of frosted glass.

“In here!”, he called back, relaxed in his posture like he was a teenager again instead of the head of Caelum.

His twin weaselled through the door, gaze going up to the squeaky bolt for a second, before he entered the living room, turned around his own axis as he shed his coat.

“I haven’t been here in ages”, he mumbled and Michael could see his eyes were red. From the crying or the wind. Michael liked to pretend it was the latter. He couldn’t understand how his father was deserving of any tears.

“Well”, Michael cleared his throat as he waited patiently for Sam to round the couches and stare into the garden as if would he stare hard enough, a fragment of his past would reveal itself to him. His fingers danced along the frame stretching over the middle of the glass and the awkward silence continued before he eventually spoke up.

“Do tell, who on earth chose that awful inscription? I haven’t seen anything more ridiculous in my entire life.”

Sam turned back, frowning at Michael.

“Heaven awaits?”, Michael snorted, rolling his eyes, “That would be Amenadiel.”

“Oh, of course, Amenadiel did.”

Again, silence thrived of the space between them and for once Michael wished for Samael’s incapability of keeping his mouth shut. It would do wonders for their rapport. Another wistful sigh escaped his twin, before he turned back to Michael, let himself fall onto the couch next to him. Tugging his slacks up by the knees he made himself comfortable, leaned back, one leg crossed above the other.

“So. Do tell, how have you been, oh brother mine? How’s the kingdom treating you? Actually”, he continued before Michael could even open his mouth and was exposed to a critical once over, “you do look tired.”

“Well”, Michael rubbed at his eyes, scared hands rubbing the burning from them, “I dodged the third attempt on my life this week, so I am doing considerably well for the circumstances, I dare say.”

Next to him, Sammy shifted in his shock, in his outrage and eventually offence.

“What – chrm”, he made rubbing the bridge of his nose, “Are you telling me – you absolute prick – that you’ve been nearly assassinated, thrice, may I add -“

“ – oh, and that’s only this week”, Michael found a vague sense of amusement in tipping his brother’s sense of ease and laxity from its so precariously balanced scale.

The glare Sam sent him was deadly at best.

“So, just – just so I get this clear”, an exaggerated gesture of his hand let the stone of his ring glisten in the faint light, “you’ve been nearly murder on multiple accounts over an elongated period of time and have not thought, for a minute, to tell me about it?”

Michael cleared his throat and let his fingers play with his shirt’s cuffs.

“Right, if you’re putting it like that - “

“ – what other way is there to put it?”

“ – but to be fair, when and how was I supposed to tell you? In our more than casual and censored conversations.”

“Really?”, Sam stared at him like a lorry, before he clapped his thighs, “Right, no. Let me demonstrate.”

Oh no. Not this again. Exasperated, Michael groaned, his face behind his hand.

“Do we have to?”

“Absolutely!”, what outrage, what ridicule. Shaking his head and murmuring under his breath, Samael shifted, hand volleying at him, “Come on. Into position.”

Michael heaved a sigh, then turned towards his twin and raised his brows at him, “Well?”

He had always taken this part of his re-enaction very seriously, so Michael followed his instructions with the exact measure of annoyance and indulgence Sammy deserved.

“Let’s say you are me and I am you, alright?”

Michael nodded, lips pressed together,r “Right.”

“Now, you call me”, he held his hand up to his ear like an old telephone, imitating a ringing sound that gave Michael the cringe of second-hand embarrassment.

“Hello, brother”, Michael followed his queue, Sam’s eyes torn wide open and the insistent pat on his knee.

“Ah, Sam, hello”, he drawled and bloody hell, Michael did not sound like that.

“I don’t –“ “ – shhshhh!”

Sam cleared his throat, continued as if Michael had never interrupted him, “Yes, how are you? How’s the detective?”

“Fine. We’re all fine.”

“Yes, marvellous and the child?”

“Samael”, Michael glared at him and with a dramatic eye roll Samael continued, “No dedication to the cause. Preposterous. Now it’s your turn”, he stage whispered, kicked at Michael’s shin like the child he was.

“Right”, Michael pursed his lips, shook his head, “How are you, Michael?”

“Right, right”, Sam laughed a breathy, fake arse thing, “Funny thing now that you mentioned it, I almost got murdered this week!”

With another side glare that could actually have killed – and he was complaining about people trying to assassinate Michael? – he jumped to his feet and paced an irritated circle in the living room. Hands on his hips he did remind Michael of Mrs. Maplewood, shooing them down the street.

“I need a bloody smoke, for heaven’s sake. This week, I swear.”

“It’s the worst”, Michael said, tone earnest.

“Oh, fuck you, brother. All high and mighty.”

“I mean I am -“ God, he wanted to finish, but Sam cut him off, “How do I get a smoke around here?”

“You don’t”, Michael said, “how else would you honour the child’s token? The bracelet to honour the deal?”

From the blank facade Michael’s chuckle finally spilled through the cracks at his twin’s outraged mimical rollercoaster.

“Well, well, well, look who found his sense of humour. Did only take forty years, did it?”

Following how the tension dropped from his brother’s shoulders and how he eventually plummeted down on the couch again, Michael exhaled a sigh.

“Well, it’s been a week.”

Concern made itself a home in Sam’s face. It was still a confusing expression to see directed at him by his own face.

“How are you really doing, Mika?”

“It’s been fine. More stressful than normal. With Uriel’s death”, and yes, Michael had in fact informed Sam about that one, “things got slightly out of hand, but it’s been fine. Don’t you worry.”

“Have you been weeding out the ranks appropriately?”

The sliver of anxiety taking root in his chest, Michael shook his head, “I have not.” Nervous fingers cracked their knuckles, before he continued, “I know. I know. I must tend to it.”

Silence filled the too big room again, before Sam straightened his posture, “Well, where do you need me, commander?”

He was no commander anymore but didn’t bother to correct Sam as he fixed him with a stern glare, “Samael, you are not one of my angels, nor are you under my reign. You haven’t been in years.”

Sam’s tongue poked at his cheek, ran along his teeth as he considered. Then he said, elegantly even, “You are correct, brother. I am no angel.”

Oh? He agreed with -

“I am the devil”, his tone turned sharp and dark and Michael didn’t like it one bit, “So whose arse do I have to kick?”

His twin’s eyes caught Michael’s, held them, before he said, “That’s all lovely and dramatic and such. But no.”

“What do you mean no?”

Michael frowned, cocked his head, “Well, what do you normally understand as the word no?”

“Don’t be a little shit, Michael.”

“So American, look at you”, he needled further as his brother’s accent slipped. He became serious again. Outside the window the wind had picked up and swayed the tree tops in the wind. He didn’t want to see the confused hurt in his twin’s face.

“Mika.”

A long sigh, then Michael said, “That promise you made me, what was it again?”

“Not to come looking for you if I heard of difficulties, but brother”, Sam came across unbelievably smug, “I am here already.”

Michael nodded, shook his head with an aching smile, “Exploited the loopholes again, didn’t you?” His forehead creased in regretting lines, “Samael, think of the life you have built. Do you really think I would allow you to risk that?”

For a moment Sam floundered as if he had not expected that answer, opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Come now“, he tried but Michael remained unmoved.

“No, Sam. I will not explain to Chloe why on earth you came home covered in bruises and justify to Mazikeen why your eyes look so much like they did back in South Africa.”

The mention of the more than capable demon, the hit woman who had made their soldiers pale in comparison seemed to shake him out of his stupidity.

“You wouldn’t –“ “ – she really would not enjoy hearing how you –“ “ – telling her might be the cruellest thing you ever did to me brother and –“ “ – self sabotaged everything you worked so hard for! How would you look your child in the eye?”

Samael’s mouth closed into a thin line. “She isn’t …”, he said quietly.

“Oh, please brother. Stop pretending. Of course, she is”, irritated Michael waved at him, “Anyhow the answer is no.”

The girl might’ve been a low blow, yet it made Sam double over just enough to yield. And yield he did, however petulant the way he crossed his legs and leaned back was.

“Right, all right. Fine”, a soothing hand, “fine.”

Shaking his head, he looked for words, while his fingers danced restlessly along the couch’s backrest, “What else is new then?”

Michael hummed a vague sound, thought about Elena napping in his bed when he left. It must’Ve have shown on his face, as mentioned, Michael had no chill what so ever.

“I see”, like a hound that had scented blood, his twin leaned forward again, “who has got you smiling like that? Oh, don’t say it!”

Pursing his lips Michael attempted to get his grin under control, wipe it off with a motion of his hands.

“Who could it be?”, above the whisper he asked, “Do I know her?”

“Uhm”, Michael cleared his throat, “yes. You do actually. She has been around for a long while.”

Staring off into the distance, eyes jumping along the bookshelves at the other end of the room. it took a good minute, a minute of Michael yawning and his fingers tapping along his thighs and forearms just to see if he really was still there. Sleep deprivation did weird thing with one’s psyche.

“No”, Sam suddenly exclaimed and Michael felt put on the spot as he flinched, then  tried for inconspicuousness, “ – you don’t say! Raquel? Really?”

Michael felt a blush coming on, hot and furious, yet he kept his facade, “Yes, indeed.”

Sam, filling some divine inspiration, chose not to comment on it.

“My, my”, he made, eyes twinkling, “she still a hard arse?”

“Only the best hard arse”, Michael grinned at the insinuation. She did have a lovely arse. Firm buttocks to run his hands along… Michael rubbed his hand across his face to wipe that smile off it and the thoughts from his mind.

Sam however glowed with glee as if nothing made him happier than his brother finding a partner.

They talked for a while. About the child, about Chloe. Eve, even. It left a bitter tang in Michael’s mind, saturated the memories of Saint Petersburg. Sam latched onto any news about Azrael, his eyes growing sad as he thought about her. Michael knew he missed her. It looked the same from Azrael’s angle. With her firm belief Samael was alive, the firm belief that only cracked once she made her way to the hill next to the cemetery, the willow, into which she had carved a cross protected by wings.

“What will you do then?”, Michael asked once they ran out of things to say, “Take a look around town before you head home?”

“You know what”, Sam raised his brows in thought, eyes fixed in nowhere, before they drop down to his attire, “I might. Maybe try and look a little less… well, like me. Or you, for that matter. Roam around see what changed.”

Things had changed, and Michael thought of something to say, a need rising in him to warn, but how could he? Samael didn’t even know, Michael knew about him in the first place. Not that he had ever been very good at sneaking around, especially not when he was younger. And now that he was back -

“Right”, Michael said, leaned back against the couch’s cushions, “Just as a heads up - you might run into someone you know.”

oOo

The air tasted like wind and rain and nostalgia, when Lucifer made his way down the street, dressed like a bum. He didn’t do casual wear except for the calm Sundays when all he did was to laze on the couch with the urchin and Chloe when they were lucky and she didn’t get called away for a case. He missed her already, not being used to being away from her like this. Even if they spent time apart, it was only a matter of minutes for them to meet should they desire to. Lucifer wondered whether this already qualified as co-dependency. He didn’t think it did.

The cobblestone must’ve been renovated down at the town square. The stones never quite lay symmetrical like this. It looked good, even if it was a pity the witnesses of Michael’s first black out drunk adventure had gotten erased. The corner store next to Elsie’s Bookshop had closed up, leaving the empty shell of glass behind. A greying paper stuck to the window from the inside read FOR SALE. Mrs. Maplewood had died years ago, but she’d loaded her groceries up into her lilac trolley she’d drag behind her every Saturday morning, newspaper tucked under her arm. Well. It was a shame. If not for the company, then for the memories.

Lucifer let the town he’d grown up in imprint on him. For heaven’s sake, he even let his hand brush along the stone wall overgrown with ivy while he headed down the alley to the pub. It seemed ridiculous and like a stereotype but the pub had been the one refuge he could maintain during and after the recruitment. Playing pool and darts and getting drunk. The wind picked up, made Lucifer grumble and drag the hood of his pullover further into his face. He had not missed the weather. However, the clouds got dragged away from the gust and allowed the sun to stretch its limbs. When he made it out of the alley, to his right the pub smiled at him as if greeting a friend you hadn’t seen in a long time. A friend who had been lost and angry and desperate only to come back with a sober mind and hope in his eyes.

“Well”, he murmured looking up at NightLight’s Pub, “rebranding, are we?”

What had been wrong with good old Lux he didn’t know. He thought the name had been quite fitting, actually. For a moment Lucifer thought about going in, hand hovering over the door’s handle before he remembered it wasn’t open on Wednesdays. Which admittedly came a bit as a hit in the gut. Lucifer should’ve remembered, how could he have forgotten? Even if it had been years. Wednesday was the day they had finally recovered from the weekend and Amenadiel’s tirades on responsible alcohol consumption and wanted to head down to Lux to get fries dripping in grease only to remember -

“Papaaa”, Lucifer just so managed to look up before a little body collided with his legs. Instinct made him spread his palms wide to keep the child that had just crashed into him from toppling over. Really, he had develop better skills at dodging overexcited children.

“Oh”, the girl looked up at him, brown eyes wide and wet, tight curls gathered in buns at the sides of her head, “Sorry!”

“Not your father”, he said helplessly and the little pout disappeared from her face as did the starting tears. She rolled her eyes, “Duh.”

“Oh?”, he made, indulgently watching her extract herself from his personal space, then she pointed ahead with excitement on her features, “That’s my Papa.”

Children were quite extraordinarily good at switching from deep despair to absolute elation. It was quite impressive if you thought about it. Lucifer followed her finger, frowned to himself. The only other person present was leaning against the lamp post, staring into his phone. That was very unlikely to be her Dad. She was too dark to have a white father.

“Who?”, he asked, on edge as he moved with the little girl that bounded straight ahead. Better safe than sorry. For all he knew she was his step-daughter. However, quelling the protectiveness that surged in him was an impossible task.

“Papa!”, she called ahead again, Lucifer’s hand zipping out to hold her back by her shoulder before she could cross the street.

“Ah! Ah!”, he said, “Both sides”, even though the street was devoid of traffic except for the lone car coming by every four hours. The man on the other side of the street looked up and both their gazes stuck on the girl. Bless the child that she dutifully looked both ways before she crossed the street with Lucifer following at her heels.

“Liza”, the man spoke, a little bit scolding and Lucifer nearly froze in the middle of the street. When he lifted his gaze and found Raj brushing across the girl’s head, it came as a punch into his chest. Stride slowing, he stepped onto the sidewalk.

“What did I tell you about watching where you step?”

“Yes, Papa”, she quipped with the cheek of a child, “But if I watch my steps, of course I’m going to hit someone. I’m looking at the floor.”

A groan and Raj’s lips twitched as he tried to maintain his strict expression, “You don’t get that lip from me, let me tell you.”

The girl - Liza? – giggled, then she snuggled into Raj’s side, pressing her face into his hip, while his hand rested on her head.

“Thanks and I apolo-“, Raj looked over to Lucifer and the words got lost on the way, “Michael?”

There was no comeback Lucifer could think of as he drank in the sight of him. Raj had aged well. Beard fuller than he had ever seen it, his entire posture struck as confident, comfortable. As if his body had finally caught up with his personality – greater than life and its little inconveniences. His hair had grown out a bit, was cut well. Crow’s feet lined his eyes when he looked at the girl - his daughter. Dear Lord, he had a daughter - but wrinkles had smoothed out as he took Lucifer in. Michael. He thought he was Michael and it hurt. It was expected, because Lucifer had wiped his existence from the continent’s surface when he had escaped to the US, but it hurt like a broken rib curving into your flesh. How could he not … didn’t he recognise him under it all?

His thoughts, they all must’ve shown on his face and Raj must’ve found the contradiction to Lucifer’s twin, because the breathless, tentative disbelief hung palpably between them.

“Sama?”

Neither the blinding smile that crept onto his face nor the goosebumps that rose along his arms was something he could control. He hadn’t heard that name in decades.

“Hello, Raj”, he said and they both just stood there, not knowing what to say. It was as if you could watch time unfold right in front of you. As if words were mere figments passed between two people.

You’re here. How are you here?

I am. I am.

What the hell. What the hell?

“Jesus”, Raj said and it was an aborted breath as his other hand came up to cover his mouth, “I don’t … I don’t know what to say.“

“Ditto”, Lucifer said, brushed the hood off his head.

Another beat of silence.

“I’m Elizabeth!”, the girl suddenly piped up, unfolded herself from her place at Raj’s leg and held out her hand for Lucifer to shake.

He gave Raj a quick smile – a grimace? – before he crouched down to the girl’s level, shook her small hand.

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance”, Lucifer said earnestly, “I’m…I’m Samael.”

Claiming his past title felt odd and if it wasn’t Raj right in front of him, he would’ve rejected it and went with Lucifer. But it was Raj right in front of him and Lucifer had never felt more like Samael – like Sama – then when he was with him.

The man looked down at him. The hand wiping across his face was shaking and if it was Lucifer’s place he would’ve risen to his feet and enveloped him in a hug. But it wasn’t. Raj hadn’t been his in ages and Lucifer hadn’t been Raj’s Sama for even longer. Not only time had built a monument between them, no. Hazed out nights ending in arguments had dug an insurmountable valley between them. So had the furious Leave me alone’s and Are you high right now? and the desperate tears, the heart break that came with I can’t watch you kill yourself. If you love me, don’t demand it from me and please, please, Sama. Don’t do this. I don’t want to leave. I don’t –

“So, Elizabeth”, Lucifer shook himself, tilted his head. Named after the queen. Of course, she was named after the bloody queen, “how old are you?”

“I’m six”, she said, proud.

“Six”, he repeated in gentle awe. He wondered how long Raj had been her Dad for. Since the very beginning? Had he adopted her as she had grown older?

“It was my birthday last week. Dad and Papa got me a puppy! Her name’s Alice.”

“Did he?”, Lucifer said, amused and bemused. Would he ever be free of the signs telling him to get a dog?

“We didn’t get her just for your birthday”, Raj butted in, gently correcting as he did, “We just were able to take Alice home that weekend.”

“Yeah, yeah”, Elizabeth waved dismissively at him. Snark fitted her gloriously well.

“Well”, Lucifer said, heart in his throat, “I better not let my child hear this. She’s been insufferable with her power point presentations and all. Why dogs are important for a kid’s development.”

“You have a daughter?”, the odd tone to his voice cracked the question wide open, right there in the middle. Lifting his eyes, Lucifer’s insides trembled, turned inside out and in a blink of time the metaphorical distance between them had vanished. In that blink they were young again and Lucifer stood in front of Raj’s door, trembling, in tears, voice breaking after the recruitment. After …

“Right. No. She’s my step-daughter more so”, a swallow and a dismissive gesture, “you know.” Michael was right.  She was his child in a way.

Raj nodded. Hand rubbing over the short hair at the back of his head, “I see.”

Elizabeth clearly had gotten something had changed the air between them and returned to her father’s side, fingers playing with the belt loops of his slacks. Which he filled out perfectly. But that was another topic all together.

“So, you’re…”, now it was Raj’s turn to swallow as something terribly vulnerable crept along his features, “so you’re okay?”

Lucifer wished for something simpler, to not be reminded, to not remember, but the past remained unchanged no matter how much he wished it morphed around his desires. Addiction primed him and recovery made him into the man he was now. He quite liked who he had become. He just wished less people would’ve gotten wounded by his streak of destruction.

“I’ve been clean for eleven years now”, he said, voice low and gentle.

Tension seeped out of Raj’s posture as if he had been holding it for decades, “Yeah?”

That hopeful expression struck right at his diaphragm and made him struggle for air. As if he had nearly betrayed, disappointed another person just a few months ago. Heroin, spoon and syringe leaving a thump on the table. Chloe backing up. Dark hotel rooms and his Mum’s voice at his ear.

“Yeah”, he said anyhow.

Raj’s face morphed into pride and in a beat Samael was eighteen again, turning his head towards the boy laying in bed with him.

“I don’t think I want to be a soldier”, he had told him and Raj’s face had broken up as if the sun was peaking through blinds. Crinkling eyes and faint smile and such, such true pride.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So”, Lucifer said, shoving his hands into the jeans’ pockets, “how are you doing? Child? Dog? Husband, I presume?”

Gay marriage had been legalized a few years back, a quite recent development, but watching Raj’s face light up told Lucifer that said husband was not a recent development at all.

“Yeah”, Raj said, face warm and loving, “Linus and I, we got to the courthouse so fast after they made it official.”

“Spring wedding?”, Lucifer asked.

Raj laughed, “It was. Not a cloud in the sky. Windy, but the weather was celebrating with us.”

“So, a beautiful spring wedding”, he said and Raj nodded, “Most beautiful spring wedding.”

“You are doing well, I take it?”, Lucifer’s heart felt three sizes too big for his chest as he asked.

Raj looked down at his daughter, his little girl with a love that electrified. “I couldn’t ask for any better life”, Raj said and Lucifer scoffed an affirmative sound.

“Me neither”, he said, thought of Chloe and the urchin at home. Thought of a reconciled relationship with his brother. Thought of heart ache and a road paved with more death and cruelty than he had ever wanted to bear and pushed through anyhow.

Raj’s phone buzzed in his hand and with a quick glance onto it, he cringed.

“What is it?”, Elizabeth asked, looking up with big eyes.

“Your Dad is getting impatient. Liza”, Raj said, glancing over to Lucifer, “say goodbye to Samael, will you?”

The girl perked up, waved at him with a grin, “Bye Samael. It was nice meeting you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, young lady”, he smiled, nodded at her, “Be good for your Papa, yes?”

“Of course”, she said, puffed out her chest, “I am the always the best.”

The laugh was startled from him and Raj shook his head, grinning.

“You sure are, princess”, then he turned to Lucifer, “I will see you around?”

Raj’s face fell with Lucifer’s when he shook his head.

“Afraid not. Just visiting the old man, the beloved twin.”

“Okay”, Raj said after a pause and the word was stuck helplessly in the air. He hovered as if he was unsure what to do with that particular piece of information. Then he seemed to make up his mind, stepped forward. Once, twice. Wrapped his arms around Lucifer’s neck and drew him in close. Lucifer reciprocated the hug quicker than he would ever admit.

Raj had changed his perfume and his body felt stronger. Lucifer didn’t bury his head in his neck, protected by his jacket’s collar. It was not his place anymore.

Raj squeezed him tighter, whispered right next to his ear, “You’re a bloody bastard.” His voice was choking up as he no longer had to censor himself for his child. Holding on for dear life, he said “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry”, Lucifer said, blinking as he looked over to the house across the street, not even seeing it. His mind was tangled in Raj and his words, “I’m not.”

Raj pushed away from him, hands holding onto Lucifer’s shoulders, before one of them found the side of his face. Held it. Lucifer leaned into the touch, smiled a tremulous thing before he said, “I wanted to thank you.”

Confusion drew lines onto Raj’s forehead and he leaned back as if backing up could make him see clearer. He didn’t let go.

“What for, Sama?”

He looked at his past lover, his once confidante and best friend, took his face in. Older, wiser, happier. The boy he had lost his first kiss and first time to and the young man he had disappointed enough times for them to break. Standing in the town he grew up in, his heart was too heavy and too small for all the too big feelings.

“For loving me”, Lucifer said, “Even when I was at my most unlovable.”