Chapter Text
Michael fumes. How dare Father banish him from Earth? Does he really have to go? Sam rebelled, he got a Kingdom. He stopped doing his job as King of Hell, he got a Miracle. He mutilated Michael’s face, and now he’s apparently got Dad’s full attention.
It’s the final straw. Michael is done being the obedient son for no reward…for no acknowledgement even. Done with Samael’s snottiness, Amenadiel’s holier-than-thouness (oldest just means you’re the first draft, shithead). Done with the entire flock of asshole angels that are supposed to be his family and never have his back, ever.
So, in a much quieter and surlier version of his twin’s original rebellion, Michael flips Dad a metaphorical bird and ignores his banishment. He doesn’t know if there is any other way he should mark the grand moment. No fucking way is he cutting off his wings like his idiot brother did. They may be the rattiest, ugliest wings in the Host but they still get him around, and they can still slice through anyone who dares to cross him like soft cheese.
Michael’s grand non-gesture of ignoring Dad does raise the question of where he should go. He’s staying on earth, sure, but getting out of LA seems wise. No need to risk getting tangled in any of Sam’s affairs (ha ha not that kind either). His literally-damned twin seems to have deals with, or has had sex with, about three quarters of Los Angeles.
Decision made to leave (even with no clear destination yet), Michael does pay Sam’s penthouse one final visit, after watching for Sam to leave in his fancy car. Landing on the balcony after Sam drives off, Michael proceeds to toss the place for loose cash, which turns out to be surprisingly abundant. How many fancy little money clips does one idiot need anyway? All pre-loaded with wads of cash. He had found a few of them back when he was pretending to be his twin, but had paid little attention at the time.
“He probably coordinates them with his stupid cufflinks,” Michael mutters to himself as he tosses a little diamond-studded monstrosity back into a drawer after pulling the cash out of it. Poking through a selection of thin wallets he finds one with a driver’s license in it and pockets that. He rejects the couple of credit cards he finds. He doesn’t want Sam’s police friends tracking him. Thought why would they? Everyone is likely to say ‘good riddance’ and be forget about him anyway.
Satchel filled with an unreasonable amount of money that Sam will probably never even notice is missing, Michael looks around the penthouse and clamps down on an urge to do something incredibly petty. Like untune Sam’s most recently replaced piano. Or spit in every damn decanter of whisky. Instead, Michael grabs a bottle of vodka, crams that in with the cash and stalks back out onto the balcony. Without another look back, he unfurls and takes to the sky.
***
New York suits Michael much better than LA. Less bullshit, less flakiness. People talk faster and say more. There is way less random smiling. More people just going about their business.
Michael just wishes he knew what to do with himself now that he’s supposedly shed his yoke of obedience to his father. He keeps expecting to feel different somehow. He checks his wings a little obsessively, worried that he’ll start losing feathers, going down the path Amenadiel did when he “fell.” Michael knows Amenadiel did that to himself and so it doesn’t have to happen to him. Michael also knows Dad could do just about anything to him if he doesn’t self-actualize a punishment of his own. So he’s sort of looking over his shoulder (the bad one) for Dad coming to drag him home, and practicing how he’ll try to refuse. (“Fuck off, Dad” is pithy and direct and he’s not quite sure he has the guts for that.)
Michael is certainly not going to follow Sam’s example of what to do with newfound freedom, which was to screw anyone and everyone who glanced his way. He doesn’t mind sampling other aspects of human culture, and has been visiting museums and attending performances and the like… but he feels at loose ends and is not sure how to deal with that. Going from keeping Heaven running smoothly while plotting against his twin to… nothing, really… has made Michael realize he does not really know how to relax. Like all his siblings, Michael was made to have a function. He might reject the one he had, but he’ll probably need to substitute one of his own choosing or go mad with idleness.
One step at a time. Michael has discovered a pleasant way to start his days… reading the humans’ daily news, and sometimes a book on top of that, while drinking coffee at a coffeeshop he very much likes in Greenwich Village. It is a dim, funky space, not like the bright chain coffeeshops filled with busy people rushing through on their way to work. It is filled with slightly ratty mismatched furniture, couches and armchairs and low tables. It might serve the same sort of elaborate and overpriced concoctions Sam’s Detective is fond of. Michael wouldn’t know. He drinks small cups of intense, dark, bitter espresso. Just like my soul, he thought the first time he ordered it.
Michael mostly ignores the humans who come and go. Occasionally one will catch his interest…usually someone awash in fear so intense he can’t ignore it, and he will sip at that fear just as he sips his coffee, savoring its unique flavor. He has been approached a number of times by humans with what he presumes are romantic interests. Very friendly overtures, at any rate. Depending on his mood, Michael drives them off with polite dismissal, indifference, or by letting a bit of his darkness loose. The last tends to not only send the interested human hurrying toward the exit but clears the chairs around Michael as well.
Today, Michael is in only a moderately grumpy mood, just baseline really, so when someone sits in the chair next to his, he doesn’t prickle automatically.
“It is good to start the day with coffee as black as one’s heart, yes?”
Startled by the smooth rumble of the voice, Michael looks up at the man who has taken the seat beside him. He smirks despite himself at what he has to admit is the best opening line he’s heard yet.
“Black and bitter,” he agrees, taking in the other’s appearance. He has a vaguely Middle Eastern look, with rich amber skin, long black hair tied back from his face, and an extended goatee, thicker and far more neatly trimmed than Michael’s scruff.
Unlike his twin, Michael has never had any real interest in humans as sex partners, though his time taking over Sam’s life certainly helped him recognize that some few humans could be quite enjoyable company. Now that he is committing to staying on earth (at least as long as Dad lets him get away with it and doesn’t just smite him for disobedience or something), Michael recognizes that he should probably make an effort to interact with more humans. So far, he hasn’t.
But something about this man captivates him. He wears gold jewelry, and that damn guyliner like Sam sometimes uses. Between that, and his chiseled features, he would be almost irritatingly pretty, but there is a familiar darkness around him that attracts Michael immediately. He is sipping espresso as well, regarding Michael over the rim of his cup with a disconcertingly direct…almost hungry look. With a boldness that humans rarely show around the Angel of Fear.
Michael deliberately suppresses his Gift, trying to not ooze Fear and Dark. He surprises himself by taking the plunge and offering his name. “I’m Michael.”
The other man’s eyes flicker with amusement, as if he already knows Michael’s name… or maybe Michael has misjudged the other’s interest. Angel or not, Michael’s scruffy, scarred appearance is probably not up to the standards this beautiful man commands. He certainly shows no fear as he looks directly into Michael’s eyes.
“I’m Seth,” he says, his lips curving into a smile with a distinct edge. He speaks with a slight accent Michael can’t place. “I’ve seen you here a few times now. Do you live nearby?”
Michael raises his eyebrows. That’s direct. He’s not about to admit that he’s actually staying in a high-rise apartment that he’s accessed (read: broken into] from its small balcony. He’s discovered that by watching for windows that don’t light up at night, he can find apartments whose owners are away. He finally lucked into a place that had covered furniture, emptied refrigerator, and no houseplants in need of care, suggesting it would be undisturbed for some time. He’s not about to spend his still-abundant but finite cash on the outrageous lodging costs of this city.
“I like this coffeeshop,” he replies with a shrug, bypassing the actual question with a Sam-style evasion. “They actually make their coffee strong enough,” without charging an insane price for it, “and it’s quiet enough to actually think and read here.”
“New York is an odd choice if it is peace and quiet you seek,” Seth says. Again, he seems to find something entertaining about Michael, but he smiles as if they are sharing a joke, not as if he is laughing at him, and Michael is not too offended by it.
Michael snorts. “Just because I like a quiet morning coffee doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy plenty of less peaceful options,” he replies, maybe a little defensively.
Seth’s smile widens into a savage grin. “Yes, that I understand. I didn’t think a battle-scarred warrior like you would spend his entire day in quiet reflection.” His eyes trace Michael’s scar. He finishes his coffee and stands. “I do live around here, so perhaps I will see you again, Michael.”
Michael just nods, struck again by the sensation that the other man knows him somehow. Maybe it’s just his particular charm, this easy familiarity is how he shows interest… because Michael is quite sure Seth’s last statement was more promise than possibility. He watches as Seth winds his way through the mismatched furniture, moving with grace and restrained power, Michael understands why Seth called him a warrior: like recognizing like. Pretty as he may be, Seth’s muscled form reflects real use and not just the decorative appearance humans seek in gyms.
Seth opens the door to go out, and Michael sees a large black dog seated outside. The animal—a German Shepard, maybe—stands when Seth exits. It has no leash, just a gold collar, and must be well-trained. Seth glances back, smiling when he sees Michael watching him, and lifts a hand before disappearing into the bright sunlight.
The Archangel Michael, once the Sword of God and Commander of the Heavenly Host, is certainly notspending extra time over his morning coffee today just in the hope that he will run into Seth. If he was, he surely would have tried to tame his hair, tried to not be his usual slovenly self. But he has not done anything of the sort. He is just spending a bit of extra time in his favorite spot. And if he is a little more attentive whenever the door opens, it is because he made himself promise to try to interact with humans a bit more.
Michael snorts. His Oh-no-I-never-lie idiot twin routinely feeds himself equally unbelievable lines. The difference is that Sam actually manages to believe his own bullshit, whereas Michael knows crap when he smells it. Even his own.
The fact of the matter is, Michael very much wants to encounter Seth again. He doesn’t know what it is about the other man that has snagged his interest so thoroughly, but there is no denying something marks him as truly distinct from the mobs of other humans around here.
Michael is not even sure what he is hoping for if they do encounter one another again. What is he looking for? Interesting conversation? Hardly one of Michael’s strengths, though he can hold his own on some topics… art, and science, and war. The pointless exchanges humans call ‘small talk’ mystify him.
Is it sexual appeal? Michael is still too woefully inexperienced to navigate his own interests in that domain, much less pretend to understand or even reliably recognize someone else’s possible attraction to him.
Maybe… maybe it’s just company. Still forcing himself to be honest, to not hide from himself, Michael reluctantly admits that he is lonely. He’s always been an introvert, has always enjoyed time alone… but there was always someone there. At first it was Sam, for so long it was Sam. Micheal pushes aside the pang of regret. It has not been Sam for a long time. His relationships with other siblings waxed and waned over the years, never anything like Sam. But after Sam, Gabriel was the sibling he was closest to, and now the only one he would actually miss.
He can hardly expect a human to take the place of either of the two archangels he truly bonded with, can he? He thinks of Ella Lopez, her quick mind and curiosity, and thinks perhaps a rare human might be a true companion. During their brief lifespan…
Michael scowls. Maybe it’s all idiocy. Maybe he totally misread Seth’s intent or interest. He stares at his empty espresso cup as if it has personally betrayed him somehow. He hears the door open and lifts his annoyed glare toward whatever dull human is darkening the door currently. And meets Seth’s eyes.
Michael’s scowl fades. He’s not sure what expression he is wearing in its place, but hopefully it’s closer to conveying welcome than to dumbfounded idiocy.
Seth comes directly over to him, smiling. “Michael. I’m glad to find you here again. I was planning to get my coffee to go and walk my dog. Care to join me?”
Michael blinks. And it’s that easy. “Sure,” he says, and stands up. By the time he has packed up and moved to the door, Seth has gotten two double espressos in to-go cups and casually hands one to Michael, nodding when Michael thanks him.
They step outside into a mild, early autumn day. The black dog Michael had glimpsed previously is waiting outside the door again, and it turns intelligent-looking brown eyes on Michael when he emerges with Seth.
“Michael, this is Esmaa.”
Michael holds out a hand to the dog. Esmaa—a female, he now sees—delicately sniffs his hand and sweeps her tail across the sidewalk in a single wag. Michael realizes the dog’s collar looks like Egyptian jewelry and matches that of her master. He snorts. That’s the kind of conceit he would expect from Sam… if Sam could ever conceive of having a pet.
“Come,” Seth says, and it could be directed at either Michael or the dog. It hardly matters, Michael thinks, amused, as he and the dog both follow.
“So, you said you live nearby?” Michael asks, after casting around for something to say, since Seth seems content to just stroll and sip his coffee. He realizes now that he is walking beside him that Seth is as tall as he is, maybe even a bit taller.
The other man throws him a wide grin, exposing white teeth and rather pronounced canines. “Why, Michael, are you inviting yourself to my place already?” The wolfish grin and innuendo make Michael think of Sam again, though it seems less annoying coming from Seth. When Michael stammers awkwardly, Seth laughs.
“Only joking,” Seth says. “I live in SoHo.” He gestures back the way they had come. “Hopefully I can show it to you sometime. Today I thought I’d walk up to the park.”
‘The park’ can only be Central Park, which is a good 4 miles from where they are…at least 80 blocks as the locals measure travel. Michael is a little surprised but pleased that Seth has invited him on a real walk. It will feel good to move, to cover distance. “That sounds good to me.”
They walk in silence for a while, their long strides matching well, the dog maintaining a steady slow trot alongside them. Eventually Seth glances at Michael and says, “You haven’t been here in New York for long, Michael. Where were you before this?”
Michael frowns. How could Seth tell he was new to the area? “Los Angeles,” he answers, which for some reason elicits a laugh from the other.
“That fits,” Seth says. “And before that?”
Michael shrugs. “Here and there.” Mostly in the Silver City. Before Seth can dig deeper, he asks, “What about you?
“New York has been my primary home for a few years now. Most of my life I have lived in and around Egypt.”
“Ah, I was trying to place your accent.”
“And now you have.” Seth smiles again. He seems like a cheerful guy. Michael used to find cheerfulness irritating, tolerable only in Gabby, but then Miss Ella had started to shift his opinion. As long as someone not him is the cheerful one, it’s not so bad.
“So why did you come here, Michael? Are you planning to stay awhile?”
“Mostly to get away from my family,” Michael answers without thinking, then realizes it may not have been the most charming reply. How is he supposed to make conversation without just scaring this guy off?
Fortunately, Seth laughs in response. “Well, that’s why I came here too. To get away from my brother, mostly.”
That makes Michael laugh too. “My brother—one of my brothers in particular—is the absolute worst.”
They continue to walk, Seth pointing things out as a bit of an impromptu tour guide, and sharing a wandering conversation that includes travel—Michael mentioning time spent in Egypt in the past (distant past, but whatever), each of them confirming prior ‘military service,’ more complaints about irritating family members.
By the time they reach Central Park, Michael is feeling surprisingly comfortable with Seth. He feels an affinity with him that he didn’t think was possible for with a human. He is also rather amazed that Seth is so relaxed around him. Even though Michael is making an effort to keep his Fear and Darkness buried deep, he knows it leaks sometimes. He notices it when gaps briefly open in the human crowds around him. But Seth seems utterly calm around him.
“Esmaa, hunt,” Seth says as they pass one of the parts of the park with denser foliage, and the dog vanishes silently into the brush. “Come, Michael, let us sit.” Seth gestures to a park bench and they both sit.
“So what is she hunting?” Michael asks.
Seth grins. “She is allowed to take rats, squirrels, or pigeons,” he says. “Nothing else.”
“Good dog.”
They sit in companionable quiet for a time. Then Seth speaks, and his voice has a hesitation for the first time. “May I ask you something, Michael?”
Michael nods. “Sure…”
“Why have you not tried to draw out my fears?”
Michael stiffens, turning to stare at Seth, who is looking back calmly, quizzically. “What do you mean?” Michael demands, sure he must have heard wrong.
“You have not probed my fears. You have taken no measure of my soul. Are you trying to keep from frightening those around you?”
Shocked, Michael reaches out with his power, feeling for Seth’s fears exactly as he has been consciously avoiding doing and is immediately aware that he has been ignoring something of great significance. He does not encounter the fragility of a human soul and the easy access to the deepest wells of fear. Instead, he finds a slickness, a resistance to his questing power. It is a little like the sensation of deliberating using his power on a sibling, though that feels more like trying to force the same poles of two magnets together. This is more like scrabbling on a barrier of smooth glass. And he knows that he likely could smash this barrier, but he does not try. He doesn’t need to.
It is enough to know that Seth is a god.
They end up going out for lunch together, Seth suggesting Korean food and Michael agreeing, still rather stunned by the revelation. He barely pays attention to where they are as Seth leads the way to a small restaurant, tells the dog to wait outside, and steers Michael to a dim booth in the back.
A server approaches, sees Seth, and pauses with raised eyebrows. Seth flips his fingers casually and the server nods and disappears. So. A regular here, Michael supposes. The server delivers water and tea and vanishes gains.
Seth leans back in the booth and sips his tea. “So.”
“So,” Michael repeats, then huffs, shaking his head. “Set.”
“I prefer Seth, but yes. The last time I saw you, I think you were going by Mikhā’el.” He gives the middle consonant a raspy sound, not the harder ‘k’ in the version of his name Michael had actually gone by, but Michael rather likes the sound of it and does not correct him.
“I’m surprised to find you here,” Michael says. He’s a little embarrassed that he had his senses locked down so tightly he didn’t register he was taking a walk in the park with another non-human, but Seth is certainly keeping his own celestial signature well-masked. Michael can be forgiven for not paying attention, maybe.
“What, in New York?” Seth laughs, a deep, rich sound. “I know you mean on earth.” He shrugs. “I enjoy the chaos of humanity. Much like your twin. And your mighty Father seems less inclined toward indiscriminate smiting these days. I am hardly the only one to be spending more time on this plane of late.”
Michael snorts at the smiting remark. Guess that’s true. Otherwise I would probably be a sooty smudge at this point. “So did you recognize me right away?” he asks. Oddly, he feels like it will be a disappointment if the answer is yes, but he doesn’t know why.
“Remarkably, no,” Seth answers. “Imagine not knowing a son of Yahweh instantly. Perhaps the unexpectedness was a factor…and I have never seen you in anything but armor. You also…” he pauses before continuing delicately, “appear injured.” Seth is looking at Michael’s face, and he assumes he means his scar, but the other’s eyes then drop to his shoulder.
Michael tenses slightly. Seth is a war god… once a mighty opponent back when the Army of Heaven was tasked with putting the lesser gods in their places. It is instinctive to hide weakness, to respond with aggressive strength.
The server arrives with half a dozen small plates of food they didn’t even order, and Michael relaxes, letting the moment pass. He is no longer the Commander of the Host of Heaven. He’s just a busted-up archangel trying to keep a low profile. “When did you figure it out?”
Seth laughs again. He seems to laugh easily. “The moment I got close enough to sit down next to you I felt it.” He picks up his chopsticks and lifts some delicacy to his mouth. Michael is fairly sure at least some of this food is not on the regular menu.
Michael frowns. “But you spoke to me anyway?” He feels a little unbalanced. If Seth didn’t recognize him, why did he approach? When he did recognize him, why did he stay? Have I understood any his intentions?
Seth gives him a surprised smile, and speaks plainly, though what he says leaves Michael more confused, not less.
“Of course I spoke to you. I went over planning to ask you out.” He chuckles at what is surely a dumbfounded expression on Michael’s face. “I wasn’t sure if you really didn’t recognize me, or if you were just playing a game… but you seemed interested…” He shrugs and meets Michael’s eyes. “Are you?”
Michael remembers that one of the human meanings for the name of the god sitting across from him is “Instigator of Confusion” and it certainly fits. He opens his mouth, not sure how to express the complex morass of emotions sitting in his chest right now.
What comes out is: “Yes.”
