Chapter Text
The strip lights of The Thrifty Fox hummed with a low budget buzz that usually helped Ella relax. Today, however, the hum was drowned out by the sound of her own heart thumping against her ribs.
Standing in the Home Goods aisle, which was really just a collection of chipped mugs and dented pots, was a man who shouldn’t have been there. Michael. The posture was still stiff, the right shoulder still held at that awkward, defensive angle, but the turtle neck and tweed blazer was gone. In its place was a threadbare apron tucked into a backpack an old shirt and a pair of jeans that had seen better decades.
Ella clutched a cartoon Save the Turtles tee to her chest. Her first instinct was to run, but her stubborn faith had rooted her to the spot.
“Michael?” she said, her voice a mix of a question and a warning.
Michael flinched, nearly dropping a heavy cast iron skillet. He turned slowly. The scar on his face looked sharper under the harsh store lights, but his eyes were tired. Not plotting to take over the universe tired. Just exhausted.
“Ella Lopez,” he said, his voice like gravel. He didn’t move toward her. He stayed behind the safety of a shelf of mismatched glassware. “I see you’re hunting for... whatever it is you do here?”
“I’m thrifting,” Ella said, taking a cautious step forward, her eyes darting to his back. No wings. Not even a bulge under his shirt. “I didn’t know you were back on Earth. Or that you shopped at places like this.”
Michael looked down at the items in his plastic shopping basket. “Lucifer’s idea of a joke. He decided that since I spent so much time looking down on humanity, I should spend some time serving them. Literally.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “I work at The Grinding Bean down the street. It’s a hipster coffee shop. Apparently, I have the disagreeable temperament required for the brand. And the owner owed him a favour.”
Ella blinked. “You’re a barista?”
“I am a Beverage Architect, if you listen to that idiot Kyle who wears a beanie in ninety-degree weather,” Michael snapped, though there was no real heat in it. “Lucifer calls it Phase One. He has a whole list of punishments. For the minute, it’s making oat milk lattes for people who don’t know what they want. Next, he says he might move me to the DMV.”
“Ooof. The DMV? That’s cold. Even for him.” Ella felt a tiny, traitorous spark of sympathy. She looked at his basket. A faded navy button down, two heavy pans, and three plates - one floral, one striped, and one plain white. “Starting from scratch?”
“I have a one bedroom apartment that has orange shagpile carpet from the 1970s and a beat up vehicle called a Rav Four that makes a screaming sound when I turn left,” Michael said, his lip curling. “And the kitchen in my dwelling was stocked with exactly one plastic fork. It was... unacceptable.”
He picked up a heavy copper bottomed pot, inspecting it with a surprisingly keen eye. “This is actually a decent pot. If I polish it, the heat distribution should be even enough for a proper reduction.”
“You cook?” Ella asked, her wariness giving way to genuine surprise.
“It’s chemistry, Ella. Precision. It’s the only thing in this miserable existence that follows a set of rules.” He looked at her then, and for a second, the bravado dropped. He looked small. “I’m just buying a shirt. I... spilled espresso on my only other one.” He gestured towards a dark stain she hadn’t noticed before.
Ella looked at the navy shirt in his basket. It was polyester and would itch him to death. Before she could stop herself, she reached out and pulled a soft, charcoal grey cotton shirt from a nearby rack and tossed it into his basket.
“That one’s better. It’s a blend, won’t shrink,” she said. She offered a small, tentative smile, the kind she usually reserved for nervous witnesses. “And Michael? Check the pans for cracks.”
Michael looked at the shirt, then at her. He didn’t say thank you, he probably didn’t know how, but he didn’t put the shirt back.
“I’ll see you around, Ella,” he murmured, turning back to the plates.
“Yeah,” Ella said, backing away toward the registers. “Might see you at the Bean, Michael.”
xxxx
For the first few days, Ella tried to convince herself she had just been friendly. But by day eight, the secret was burning a hole in her pocket. She hadn’t mentioned the encounter to Lucifer or Chloe, partly because she wasn’t ready for the lecture, and partly because she wanted to see if Michael would actually last a week without smiting a customer.
The Grinding Bean was exactly the kind of place Lucifer would pick for a punishment. The music was an aggressive indie folk loop, the seating was intentionally uncomfortable reclaimed wood, and the menu used words like “curated” and “botanical.”
Ella pushed open the door. The shop was packed. Behind the counter, amidst the steam of a high end espresso machine, was Michael.
He looked ridiculous. He was wearing the charcoal shirt she’d picked out for him, but over it was the threadbare apron with “Mike” written on a piece of masking tape, apparently, they hadn’t bothered to make him his own name tag yet.
“I told you, we are out of the Madagascar vanilla,” Michael’s voice rang out, sharp and impatient. He was staring down a teenager in yoga pants. “I can offer you a simple syrup I made myself this morning with toasted cardamom, or you can go to the gas station across the street and enjoy their flavoured chemicals. Decide. Now.”
The teenager blinked, intimidated, and stammered, “I’ll...I’ll try the cardamom?”
“A wise choice,” Michael muttered, his hands moving with a fluid, surgical precision as he pulled a shot of espresso.
Ella stepped up to the Order Here sign just as he finished. He didn’t look up at first, busy wiping the steam wand with a ferocity that suggested he was imagining it was Lucifer’s neck.
“Hey, Beverage Architect,” Ella chirped.
Michael froze. He looked up, his gaze landing on Ella. His expression was a complex cocktail of annoyance and something that looked suspiciously like relief.
“Ella. Back for more second hand polyester, or just here to witness my fall from grace in high definition?”
“Just checking if you’ve set the place on fire yet,” Ella leaned on the counter, peering at his station. It was spotless. Most baristas had milk splatters and coffee grounds everywhere but Michael’s area looked like an operating room. “That cardamom syrup smells amazing, by the way. You really made that?”
“Yes. The store bought version was an insult to the palate,” Michael said, sliding a cup toward the teenager without looking at her. He turned his attention back to Ella, his voice dropping an octave. “I assume Lucifer doesn’t know you’re here? I haven’t been struck by lightning or fired yet.”
“Nope. Just me,” Ella said, her voice dropping too. “I haven’t told him. I figured...everyone deserves a few days to adjust to a new gig without their brother hovering.”
Michael studied her for a long beat. “He’ll find out. He has a way of ruining things. It’s his only real talent.”
“Well, until he does, how’s the RAV4? Still screaming at you?”
“I’ve named it The Beast,” Michael said, and for a split second, the corner of his mouth almost, almost, twitched upward. “I changed the power steering fluid. It no longer screams, instead it merely whimpers. And the pans work. I made a Coq au Vin last night that was...acceptable.”
“Acceptable? High praise from an archangel,” Ella teased. She pointed to a chalkboard menu. “Give me a black coffee, Michael. And maybe one of those muffins that looks like it has twigs in it.”
“The bran muffin? Don’t. It’s sawdust,” Michael whispered, leaning in closer. “Wait five minutes. I have a batch of lemon and thyme scones coming out of the small oven in the back. I brought the thyme myself.”
Ella grinned, feeling that familiar warmth of a new friendship, even if this friend happened to be a former celestial war criminal. “I’ll wait. But if Lucifer walks in, I’m hiding in the bathroom.”
“Fair enough,” Michael said, turning back to the espresso machine. “So am I.”