Chapter Text
Michael had lost count of how many glasses he had shot back.
The barkeeper was already looking at him, like he was considering cutting him off or giving him water instead of booze. Being a Greater Archangel, Michael would've noticed that, but he wasn't going to tell that to the barkeeper, who was just doing his job.
Especially when alcohol consumption was considered a vice among Angels more so than among humans.
Oh, what would the others say?, he wondered.
Uriel would probably chew him out like no tomorrow.
Gabriel would be pissed, but that little coffee junkie had no room to judge him.
Raziel would probably say nothing, because she was the Angel of Secrets and telling the dirty secrets of others was “beneath her”, as she often claimed.
Phanuel might smack him some and tell him to repent.
Azrael would probably pull him aside in private and gently implore him to stop drinking.
And Raphael … Raphael …
Michael sighed and shot back another glass.
The outcome of his and the others' visit to the exiled Archangel was burned fresh in his mind.
Raphael's accusation of betrayal and Asmodeus' accusations of cowardice had cut deep. So much so that they still hurt even six months later.
I didn't mean to betray him … I really didn't! I just wanted to protect him!
Instead all he had accomplished was estrange the Archangel of Healing.
Michael couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that Asmodeus had been right: none of the other Archangels had been willing to tell Raphael, that his first love was now his enemy; because they had known it would break his heart.
Of course the Archangel Raphael wasn't some tender, too-good-for-this-sinful-world child, who couldn't harm a fly (even though Michael sometimes felt that he was), quite the contrary: he very much could and would, given a reason.
But still.
Raphael was one of Michael's dearest friends. He had hailed from a higher Choir than Michael (he was a Virtue, while Michael was a Power) and thus was older, yet he had never held that over Michael's head and had treated him as an equal from the moment they had first met. The last thing he had wanted was to break his best friend's heart. But now he wished he had told him anyway – even if only to spare him from the pain of learning it from someone as cruel and vicious as Asmodeus.
It was a bit confusing to the Warrior Archangel, how someone with such a fiery temper could have such a chilling aura. But then again, xe was one of Lucifer's dearest siblings, judging by how he had fretted over xyr that day and showered xyr with affection (much to xyr obvious embarrassment).
And yet … Michael couldn't help but envy Asmodeus just a little bit. Xe was so intimate with Raphael and obviously understood him in ways no one else did, save the Almighty.
Because Michael had seen it during that fateful visit, as he had watched Raphael and Asmodeus interact. The mutual loathing, bitterness and merciless banter; but also the genuine sympathy, care and respect. The way they goaded and angered one another, held grudges, got into physical fights and hurt each other without hesitation, yet supported and stood up for each other, when it came down to it.
Like a disfunctional married couple, Michael thought.
With yet another groan, he tried to focus on his drink.
He shouldn't be so riled up about it.
Raphael had been in the right to be upset. As long as he didn't criticise The Lord, of course.
Asmodeus had been in the right to kick everyone out of xyr flat in the end (Michael was still impressed xe had been patient enough to entertain them at all). And even then, despite clearly telling him to never come back, xe had allowed him to call xyr, should he want to see Raphael.
He took that offer regularly, but every time he got the same answer: “He doesn't want to talk to you right now. Try again in a week.”
And Asmodeus hadn't sounded like xe was lying, oh no. Xe had sounded, like xe was fucking pitying him.
Michael liked to think that he wasn't prideful, but the very idea of a Demon King pitying him made him sick.
He was the commander-in-chief of the Heavenly Host, a warrior and a leader. He was strong. The Lord Himself had told him so.
He wasn't pitiful. He wasn't! He was … oh, who was he kidding. He was pathetic.
He was getting drunk in a bar and wallowing in self-pity. If Lucifer saw him like this, he'd probably laugh his wicked arse off.
He deserved Raphael's anger. Hell, if The Lord stripped him of his position, he would absolutely deserve that too. For being such a giant disappointment.
Maybe he should just disappear.
But he couldn't do that. He had to keep trying. For humanity, for the Angels and for The Lord.
He had to keep going. Even when the burden very nearly crushed him, even when the pain inside almost suffocated him.
But he really, really wanted to …
And Heaven could do without a drunkard like him, couldn't it?
Suddenly, the most dulcet tones tore him from his depressed thoughts.
“She only smiles,
he only tells her,
that she's the flowers, the wind and spring.
In all her splendour sweetly surrender
the love that innocence brings …”
Michael recognised that voice – how could he possibly not? – and the ichor froze in his veins.
He straightened and turned to the stage.
And sure enough: a tall, handsome man with chin-length black hair was playing the piano and singing a hit song by Randy Crawford.
The previously chatting, rowdy drunkards at the bar had all fallen silent and were listening in awe, as the performer crooned into the microphone.
“Almaz, pure and simple;
born in a world,
where love survives.
Now men will want her,
'cause life don't haunt her,
Almaz; you lucky, lucky thing!”
The barkeeper noticed Michael staring and addressed him: “Beau'iful voice, ay? That's Dorian Morgenstern. 'E sings 'ere once a month. I've talked to 'im a few times. Good manners. Tips 'andsomely. Kinda full of 'imself though.”
Dorian Morgenstern? That was his human name?! Very subtle, truly!
“Now I watch closely,
and I watch wholely,
I can't imagine love so rare.
She's young and tender,
but will life bend her?
I look around, is she everywhere?”
Michael cursed his own luck.
Of course, he had to be here at the same time and place as him.
In his tipsy mind he wondered, if this was punishment for drinking in the first place. Karma, humans would call this, if he wasn't mistaken.
“Almaz, pure and simple;
born in a world,
where love survives.
Now men will want her,
'cause life don't haunt her,
Almaz; you lucky, lucky thing!”
The singer seemed completely engrossed in his performance.
Michael was completely engrossed in planning how to handle this situation, only to find that the alcohol in his system made strategising pretty damn hard.
“He throws her kisses,
she shares his wishes.
I'm sure he's keen, without a doubt.
With love so captive,
so sorely captive,
I ask if I can play the part.”
Eventually he just gave up and ordered more drinks.
He didn't want to listen to the music.
He didn't want to watch the man singing to the crowd.
He didn't want to feel the things that heavenly voice made him feel.
He just wanted to get more drunk.
By the time the singer finished the chorus, Michael had already shot back five more glasses.
“Almaz, pure and simple;
born in a world,
where love survives.
Now men will want her,
'cause life don't haunt her,
Almaz; you lucky, lucky thing!
Almaz; you lucky, lucky thing.
Almaz; you lucky, lucky thing.”
The last notes were played and after a few seconds of silence the crowd erupted in roaring applause.
Meanwhile Michael downed yet another glass of absinth, after which the barkeeper seemed to finally have enough.
“Oi! Tha's 'nuff, lad! Yer drinking more than ye can pay!”
“Money's no issue”, the Archangel retorted. Only now did he notice how slurred his speech was. Huh. Maybe he was more drunk than he'd thought. But surely it wasn't that bad, since he could still think coherently enough to take out his wallet to pay his tab and tip the barkeeper.
The barkeeper took the payment, but seemed to have none of the Archangel's other claims. “And 'ow will ye get 'ome? Can y'even walk? Or call a cab to tike ye? Friends? Family?”
Michael shrugged.
He had no home in London. Nor could he call the other Archangels to pick him up from a bar.
He'd just have to join a few homeless people until morning and then return to Heaven with a massive hangover.
It was okay though.
Michael's mercy wasn't exclusive and despite his great power he felt closer to the homeless than to the high and mighty, who named gilded churches and other institutions after him.
Of course he wasn't going to tell the barkeeper any of that. Nor that he wasn't human and could just teleport himself away.
Suddenly a voice said: “Excuse me? I can take him home.”
Michael felt the ichor freeze in his veins yet again.
There stood Mr. Morgenstern, in the process of putting on his jacket and looking concerned, as if he really was some normal guy wanting to help out an acquaintance.
Still, not all the booze in the world would make Michael drunk enough to fall for this fake ass show of concern from this lying bastard!
The barkeeper began: “Oh, good-”, but paused, when Michael vehemently and desperately shook his head. Visibly suspicious, he changed his mind: “Second thought, I'll call a cab.”
Before the Archangel could breathe a sigh of relief and thank the man, Mr. Morgenstern spoke again: “Sir, I understand your caution, but I really just want to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. This man is self-destructive, I know him. I'll drop him off at his friend's, the guy's a doctor.”
To Michael's horror, this story was enough to reassure the barkeeper, who entrusted the drunk Archangel to Mr. Morgenstern.
The redhead shook his head and insisted he didn't need an escort. Unfortunately his own body betrayed him, as his legs gave away the moment he tried to stand up.
Right then and there.
In front of him.
Stupid human meatsuit.
Mr. Morgenstern arched an eyebrow. “Yyyyeah, you're not going anywhere by yourself, Michael.” Helped him up, hoisted one of his arms over his shoulder and – after bidding the barkeeper goodnight – half carried him out of the bar into the cold winter evening.