Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Michael strides down the pearly halls, feeling the slick machinations of the Host working away at the back of his mind and the freedom of nothing overly pressing requiring his attention.

His languid last few days have seen him in a good mood. The political winds of the Realms are always oscillating to and fro like the tidal flow, and even though the waters are relatively murky, Michael's been topping off his optimism. 

Even Adam's commented on it, and he shouldn't be able to pick up on such nuances. Perhaps Michael's more transparent as he'd like to appear, or maybe the child just knows him so well he doesn't need to be one with him to see. Michael smiles at the thought of the human and makes a note to go see him later; he should be lurking around the barracks if the Host is whispering correctly.

He stops at his own office for a few minutes to check over any developments, and a newly materialized update from Ishim pulls his attention to his work desk. He checks over it, judging a few locations to be worth scouting out for demonic presence, and sends the information to the next garrison that can add it to their round.

Dumah's Voice lightly pokes his grace, and he hums back in acknowledgement.

'Lieutenant, Hell's latest reply has arrived. They demand a higher maximum number of attendees.'

Michael internally sighs. 'What are the signups?'

'Well, most of the lords want to attend, and most of them demand extra guard and entourage. Current number of comers is thirteen hundred and eighty-seven.'

Michael rubs his temples.

'This number will likely rise exponentially until the summit,' Dumah adds.

Michael pulls their defence manager into their conversation with a light tug. 'Ophaniel, what is the maximum number of attacking demons our current summit warding can safely withstand? Assume all demons are at least level three threats.'

Ophaniel calculates for a moment. 'Around one hundred. We'd need to augment for more.'

'Well, I have no intention of hosting that many fussy lords. Dumah, share this info to Lucifer when his break ends and request that he write back as soon as possible.'

Dumah sends her affirmation immediately. 'Any content suggestions?'

Michael thinks for a moment. 'We will limit our own numbers and add preventative divine emission warding if they limit their own numbers down to a few dozen. And tell him he can be as condescending as he likes.'

'Right away, sir.'

She hangs around for a moment still. ‘Anything else?’ Michael prompts.

‘I’m sure Ishim will notify you soon, but our wards in the south have been disturbed,’ she says after a pause, ‘It’s nothing concrete, so he’s sending scouts, but he’s fairly sure it’s a leviathan.’

Michael brightens up. ‘Finally. We’ve had a cold streak for two weeks now. It seemed like the remaining ones went underground.’

‘Perhaps without a concrete leader their communication has weakened somewhat. This is a continent off from the last location, and it was solitary.’

‘You might be correct,’ Michael considers, ‘Or this one is just sloppy.’ But the species is a bit too old to make dumb mistakes like those. Then again, if two insistent humans could kill their leader with enough help, they’ve gotten a lot less spry. Given how easy it’s been to pick them off, more must have happened than just Father giving them a humorous, convenient weakness.

Not that archangels have been killing leviathan. Part of the recent Purge, although held off until Raphael returned, was targeted towards returning them to Purgatory, as per their Aunt’s wishes, and was executed in a more inconspicuous manner. They also spoke with a few of the older ones about the coming times. Leviathan weren’t a very active or influential force in their realm, but they were powerful, and their choices of action might change now that their true creator had returned. While Amara hadn’t approached them yet, Michael was positive she would at some point, and making a better second impression on the old beasts suddenly became quite important.

Michael thanks and dismisses his sister and sets the report he’d been looking at down into his discard drawer. Checking up on Luci seems like a nice thought.

He leaves his office, greets a sister he passes in the corridor and swerves twice, then takes the stairs up where the lower-most sphere of heaven is stretched thin enough to do so, into upper quarters. He walks past his own private room, as of yet rarely used, and then past Gabriel's—the youngest is the one currently on-duty, but Michael's not here for him anyway.

He looks around needlessly before knocking on the door in a funky rhythm he makes up on the spot and slips inside, wings folding close. 

Despite Michael's suggestion to get a bed in here, taking into consideration that Lucifer requires sleep, the latter couldn't resist some inherent archivistic instinct and reworked ninety percent of his space into a personal research station: the corporeal edition, or as he recently nicknamed it, The Laboratory. Raphael loved the idea so much that she bridged her own rooms to it, their shared library extending through the wide archway in a line of top to bottom shelves. It's scarily academic and efficiently fantastic.

Michael looks to the right, where the room lengthens into Luci's science table island with an adjacent experiment chamber, closed to view by a warded door; the eldest hopes there isn't anything dubious going on in there at the moment. The sibling in question is tinkering with something, eyes locked downwards and oblivious to Michael's presence.

Reminded of how stormy a reaction Lucifer has to something getting knocked over, he folds his wings tightly together and walks over, leaning close in interest to see what he's poking at. He thinks he sees tissue matter, so worked over with grace the cells should be in tatters. Lucifer hums, and without turning his head around, his chilly Light nudges against Michael's in a flimsy hello.

Michael glances over the desk and the large contraption integrated at the end of it that Lucifer's explained is the electron microscope. He's received an explanation on why it's useful to have despite superior angelic vision, but he didn't understand the terms well enough to grasp it and Adam wasn't there to explain it to him, even though he certainly could have. It had something to do with printing out scans, but Michael isn't caught up on brand new technological terminology.

“You've been working on this for months, now,” he comments, “Any notable progress?”

“Some,” Lucifer murmurs, “I'm preparing for another experiment we'll do with Onafiel. I think the new clip-off method will work better.”

Michael blinks. Over the course of this project, he and Raphael have started using random abbreviations and nicknames for things, and he needs a second to think of whether he's been given a rambled off explanation yet. “For… separating the grace and soul bonds?”

“Uh-uh,” Lucifer confirms, “Last one backfired. Not saying that any of Gary’s insights were useless, but the way they go about possession is too different from us. At best he could take an educated guess.”

“It’s not really possession though, what they do,” Michael notes. “It works on a different principle.”

What leviathan did to bodies they actively took, as opposed to duplicated, was… beyond polite description. What they could do with a few mere cells though, was fascinating. Taking such a small brick of the complex architecture of a sentient creature and managing to gain access to even the contents of the mind, was an incredible power and skill honed over hundreds of millions of years.

On the side, it also made leviathan the most proficient beings in the universe at manipulating biological matter.

“Fair enough,” Lucifer responds distantly. “I can figure it out on my own, he helped me enough. Although It’s made me regret not putting more emphasis on organic composition. I mean, remember what they looked like when we fought them in the early days. They’ve come a long way since being black sludge life approximations.”

Michael nods, curiously peeking at a black and white snapshot of a pair of chromosomes beside Lucifer, coloured in parts with markers, edges of the page filled with tiny notes.

“And how far along are you?” He asks.

“In the scope of the end goal, not far at all,” comes the answer, and Lucifer finally spins around on the backless office chair. “It's one of the most precision oriented projects I've ever taken on,” he says in excitement, “there's so much to consider and so many curveballs that keep cropping up. But we're having so much fun.”

Michael smiles at him, and compulsively reaches over to touch his wings as Lucifer gestures to the plethora of papers and sticky notes posted in orderly rows all over the wall above the table. “DNA is so vast and complex. It's taking time and effort.”

“Yes,” Michael nods, smoothing out an array of coverts. The fact that there was even something to fix up is a testament to how distracted Luci gets with things like these.

He listens to his excited rambling about their work process until it tapers off and then starts looking through their slapped-up disclaimers, reminders, and carefully written pages. Once it's all finished, Lucifer will probably write a full paper, bind it into a book to put on the shelves, and then create a proper record as well, for the Archives.

Michael remembers hundreds of other projects he's tackled like this, and smiles to himself as he remembers Lucifer's and Raphael's invention of blue feathers on earthly birds. It was a result of a brilliant nanostructural optical illusion, when they couldn't achieve blue with a natural pigment.

Lucifer had attacked this idea with typical ferocity, but after the initial days of excited grabbing for source material and sketching up drafts, he’d ran into several walls, which exposed the project he’d embarked on as a long, gruelling journey. These new angles obviously made it an even bigger prize to conquer for the Lightbringer.

Michael’s nestmate admittedly had a knack for cracking endlessly complex problems, whether it took days or decades. He’d go to mind numbing lengths to solve an equation – the utterly exhausted, but seemingly blissful satisfaction Michael once saw in his eyes after he figured out what Father had so vaguely but fervently described and Lucifer calculated and reinvented as what became the refraction of light, made Michael somewhat understand where he got the fuel for all that patience from.

In this newest case, Lucifer first ransacked everything the cupids’ sector had ever recorded on vessel lineage and DNA, then raided several Earthly libraries and research facilities, stole life experience from scientists while also nabbing an electron microscope, suggested speeding up an alliance to gain faster access to Morgan the Fifth’s archives, and lastly, cultivated a closer relationship with Aunt Amara in order to rope a leviathan into his studies.

Despite everyone’s expectations, Lucifer’s initially selfish step at befriending their aunt had worked out and rapidly became genuine - given how much of Lucifer's life fell to ruin because of her, this was almost concerning.

He’d come to ask permission to collaborate with and, if it came to that, force one of her creations to work with him on his current fixation. Amara gave him the go-ahead, and afterwards showed some interest in what he was working on. She’d known that Lucifer, back in the day, was an analytically curious and pedantic little nerd, but this was the first time she got to see him gnawing at a project like this. It had sparked conversation, a strange bond between them, and now, a familial sort of friendship. They got along, starkly obvious by the fact that they did so without Father’s prompting. Michael, for his part, was amicable but never even considered going out of his way to see the Primordial Darkness outside closed family events. Lucifer did, which truly boggled the mind.

The only thing different about this particular self-imposed assignment that Michael doesn't approve of is that it's been shoved onto Lucifer's already over-full plate. “You know, it wouldn't be a crime to put this on hold,” Michael decides to voice, “Maybe finish this in a couple decades. Given how long it might take, and how much we’re currently busy with.”

“Why? We can finally test how far we can push, and it's not like Father objects to this. Besides, it's nice to keep busy in between work.”

“More like too busy to even breathe,” Michael frowns. “I can see your timetable, you know. You aren't supposed to schedule sleep. Or talks with Dean. Or time with me.”

Lucifer squints up at him, smirking. “Are you feeling neglected?”

“No,” Michael snorts to cover up his concern, even though his brother can tell what he's feeling.

After so many millenia of crushing responsibility, Michael found this much work impossibly exhausting, and oftentimes all he yearned for was a long break of nothing but spending time with his nestmates. Lucifer, on the other end, had developed an aversion to idle time, and his way of handling boredom was a grueling schedule that perfectly dictated almost every moment of his life.

Including the extra project work he's doing now, when he should be on break. “Why is this so important, anyhow?” Michael asks. “I don't see that many practical reasons for it. Perhaps battle,” he adds. Maybe it could play a part in politics. “Human forms aren’t that bad of a conduit. They suffice.”

“I made a list of pros, it's to your left,” Lucifer answers in annoyance, and starts fiddling with equipment again.

Michael sighs and leans over his shoulder, sliding his primaries against Lucifer's. The latter's grace flows with colour like an oil spill, murky underneath, and his uncertainty sparks against Michael's feathers. “It's always something deeper with you.”

Lucifer isn't just curious. It's not that a chunk of his past endeavours wasn’t executed just because of his nosiness, but this seems like a new flavour of personal. Along with every other pastime thing Lucifer's taken on, it's probably taking well-placed miracles to make time for them all.

Lucifer pulls a small petri dish with a drop of blood and bits of tissue in it out of the assortment of twenty other samples he has on the stand and marks it off with something.

Father planned out vessels mainly pragmatically. Despite being a little lacking from a non-anthropoid perspective, no other species was ever adapted to carry angels.

Lucifer's always taken offense with all that importance, although Michael didn't expect he'd launch a project seemingly just to rectify this law. His feelings on the matter have become more involved, and Michael would drill into the whies of it with interest if he didn't fear his brother would delve into details about his old humanity and present him with new, incomprehensible information. 

Lucifer briefly inhales a larger than normal amount of air and exhales it in a loud manner. “Mikha, I can almost hear you thinking. You don't have to dissect everything I do.”

“I'm not dissecting. Just thinking.”

“Very loudly and deeply, yes.”

Michael shakes his head and straightens. “You know, there's a rather big chance this is impossible.”

“If Dad could do it, so can I.”

Ah, the tried and trusted method. “Dad was working on a loophole.”

“And I can use the same loophole for a different thing,” Lucifer shoots back stubbornly.

Michael puts on his tired big brother face. “You need to get over this fixation with vessels you've got. Dad gave me this one on a different principle. The soul patterns are just a duplicate of Dean's.”

“And? That changes nothing,” Lucifer scoffs, an undertone of smartassery evident in his voice. “I just know for sure now, that bonds can be replicated. All I need to figure out is how to attach them to nonhuman DNA, and how to recraft them out of something other than soul material.”

“I know what you're trying to do,” Michael placates, gently entwining his fingers in white feathers. “And I'm just pointing out that these two are naturally incompatible.”

“So?” Lucifer bites back, grace roiling in irritation and hurt at the fact that Michael's being discouraging. His wings twitch out of his grasp.

“So, it defeats the point. Even if you find a way to attach possession carrying bonds to some other species, they need to come from somewhere first. You can’t cut the human out of the equation.” Honestly, Michael doesn't want to kill his motivation. It's just that Lucifer is shooting uncomfortably high again with his goals.

“You think so,” Lucifer turns away to wave at his research. “I have a better understanding of soul and grace entanglement. In fact, we've been working on a way to predict the makeup of a soulbond a sibling would need on a body, and I think I'm getting closer to a workable formula. If I can do that, I can do everything else.”

Michael blinks in genuine surprise. “Since when?”

Lucifer turns around to level him with a decidedly poisonous look. “This is what you get for nodding along to what I tell you, instead of just paying attention.”

Michael returns a hurt look, ready to excuse himself, but Lucifer pushes out from the table, chair rolling along to the other end of the table, where it’s decidedly less cluttered. The glass surface lights up under his fingers. “Listen now,” Lucifer orders with an undertone of ‘I can’t believe I share my nest with you.’

He taps his fingertips on the surface almost faster than Michael can follow, pulling up projections of angelic grace scans; clearly done on vessels. He spins the glass surface to Michael, almost hitting him in the face with it. “The reason we couldn’t have done this fifty thousand years ago, is we didn’t have reference material,” Lucifer enunciates, “We were feeling out what a specimen needed to be more compatible and nudging the right people to copulate to make small steps towards the right combination. But now, we have true vessels. We can see what a soul and its body’s DNA need to look like in order to work for an angel.”

With a press of his fingers, he pulls up a luminescent scan of what’s most certainly Michael’s grace pattern and Dean’s inert soul bonds. “I’m working out a sequence that will accurately predict a perfect vessel, no matter if it exists, by comparing these in depth. Not just us four, although we’ve been the most useful, but all our siblings, too. It’s not perfected yet, but the way is clear.”

“Oh,” Michael mouths. “So in time, you think you can... bypass lineage? You think you'll be able to just create a hypothetical true vessel?”

This almost upsets him. Michael hadn't thought of advancing this specific branch in Lucifer's intelligence division… then again, they didn’t have anything to draw conclusions from. But this will essentially get rid of angelkind’s dependence on humanity. He never managed something like that.

“That would be the goal.”

“How close do you think you are?” Michael asks.

“Now you're interested,” Lucifer sniffs, annoying his older brother somewhat. Something must have put him in a bad mood, or else he wouldn't be this snappy whenever Michael demonstrates he doesn't in fact share his brain. “We're still picking at a wall.”

He pushes the transparent panel away and fishes out another paper to point at a particular circled segment. Underneath is a sketch of soul pattern facets attached to DNA pairs, which Michael assumes is symbolic. “So,” he asks slowly, “You can't attach even an existing bond to anything other than its original genetic material. Am I getting it?”

“Yes,” Lucifer hisses in scientific outrage. “They just won't. Do it. Do we need an adapter for it? Some sort of middle agent? I refuse to go around remodeling a body and leaving it's genome the same. I'm not some mediocre witch. I'm the damn Keeper of Knowledge! Who am I if I can't figure this out?”

Michael gives him a blank stare.

Lucifer just sighs and rubs at his temples, slumping forward in what could be exhaustion. His grace buzzes under his skin like a swarm of demented wasps, unbelievably frustrated.

It's not really the project Lucifer is irked with. It's his achievements and resulting validation that fuel an unhealthy portion of his self esteem, and whenever he isn't immediately good at something, he irrationally begins to doubt his capabilities. 

Michael knows this has gotten both better and worse: on one hand, Lucifer's impacted focus and mental state have improved considerably since his damaged mind fused with Sam's healthier one. On the other hand, he again has all the capacity to nit-pick where his abilities deteriorated and haven't yet recovered. He's overly aware of his shortened attention span, or his sometimes-unreliable precision work; his emotional issues excluded.

“It's that bad?” Michael asks carefully. 

“I've been staring at this for hours, is all,” Lucifer shrugs. “It's just a free time project. It's not important.”

Right.

“Do you want to continue ranting, or...” Michael lets the sentence hang.

Lucifer leans his head backwards to catch his eyes. “I'm not getting your mood down, am I?”

Michael snorts. “No, not really.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You don’t have to pretend you’re interested, I know it’s not your thing.”

“I forgive you. Although to me, this all seems…” Michael searches for a good word. “A little bonkers?”

Lucifer snorts and mutters Gabriel’s name under his breath. “Just... stand there and be impressed,” he groans. “I'm discovering a way for us to shapeshift. I'm doing the impossible, I'm giving us a non-human body option.”

“Of course, I'm impressed,” Michael comforts him, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “It's all very impressive.”

Michael can understand him about as much as he understands Adam's Twix cravings sometimes.

Maybe he's just too neutral about his own vessel, he decides. It's never been important to him, and he was never overly mindful even of his true appearance. 

His new vessel doesn't resemble the hunter, thanks to Father's artistic messing around. It follows his original wishes--Michael requested beauty and the colour of nature, the first one for himself, the second one as flattery to his Father's creation. He does quite like his new eyes, though. They're a greenish, muddled hue, and Michael finds the aesthetic highly acceptable. Even more so than Dean's eyes, they remind him of a light-dappled forest stream, or mossy overgrown stones. Adam's praised the overall darker tone of his vessel as complimentary to his russet wings as well, so that's another thing he's satisfied with.

Although he supposes he wouldn't mind at all if he had an option of having a winged body, or perhaps just generally something sturdier.

“Do you have a different route planned in case you can't go further this way?” He asks. “If you can’t make an… adapter… I mean.”

Lucifer scratches at his chin. “Even if I can’t move out of the confines of human form, it’s still an achievement; we no longer need consent, because we can make our own bodies. If nothing else, I can experiment to see how much we can push the starting material to adapt the body a little. Change some features. Gene expression can be pushed to a certain point before the soul ejects itself.”

“I don't think anyone but a human would still be interested in that,” Michael says thoughtfully. “If a body works, it works.”

“We’re about to become even more public, and most species put a lot of weight on appearance. Our impressions will be affected by our vessels, because nobody can see what we actually look like. Vessels will be very, very important in coming centuries, Mike.”

Michael frowns and nods. “You’re right about that. We could task Gabriel to work this issue out with other siblings. He’d know best.”

Lucifer hums in agreement, thoughtfully looking away. His foot is twitching oddly. Michael looks at him curiously. “Do you plan to apply that on your own vessel?”

“Eh?” Lucifer grimaces, glancing away. “Probably not. I mean, I’m happy with this one.”

He seems a little shifty for Michael’s tastes. “If you want to try a different one, you could always go and find it on Earth,” he reminds after a moment. 

He gets a dirty look in return. “I don't fancy feeling stifled again. I have my true vessel, I want it to be perfect in every way I want. I'm not downgrading.”

“If you want anything to be changed,” Michael asks in confusion, “Why don't you just ask Dad? He'll certainly give it to you.”

“No,” Lucifer rebukes, and turns away, “Asking Dad would defeat the point of searching. Maybe I just want to push my precision skills, Mike.” He turns away and busies his hands by moving a few papers. Michael squints for effect and presses a finger to one of the chromosome arrays on the wall. Luce will probably invent a new syndrome before he gets another species.

“I planned to go a step further than eye colour at some point. The really base stuff, like race and gender,” Luce tells him as soon as he sees him looking, the sarcasm of Michael's thoughts flying over his head.

“If you reverse engineered the colour spectrum,” Michael chuckles, “Than you probably can, oh prince of Light. Although,” he puts in offhandedly, “I suggest you don't manoeuvre yourself into a female vessel. Or another ethnic group.”

“Don't parrot Dad's old warnings at me,” Lucifer sighs.

“They're true. And in any case, I was somewhat glad I chose male,” Michael replies constructively. “Human bigotry is already hard to swallow when you observe it, but I've had to lecture so many siblings who'd gone around killing the mortals. And you're not very patient these days,” he reminds his brother, “You barely managed to refrain from smiting that man who called you effeminate and implied you were homosexual based on your appearance.”

“He used far different phrasing,” Lucifer mutters angrily.

Raphael chooses that moment to finally glide around the corner, smiling brightly when she makes eye contact with him. “Hello, Michael,” she addresses, and Michael stretches a wing out for her to meet.

She detaches her feathers from his quickly and leans towards Lucifer, pushing a paper under his nose. “I was testing verse twenty seven out, and I'm going to change the order in this row,” she points at something, and Michael walks over to the glass pane of the experimental chamber, sliding the metal sheet back to see inside. There's nothing weird in there, so he closes it back up with a disappointed sigh and stalks over to the reading table, or the non-science island that mainly houses books and some papers.

“Going backwards, I think it would be smoother,” Raphael speculates, and Lucifer starts agreeing with her by comparing enochian sigils. 

Michael makes his rounds over the space and then circles back to them when they've finished talking about whatever it is.

“You've kept this quite tidy,” he muses at the table. Neat stacks, pens put into amusingly designed coffee cups, perfectly lined up samples. Someone should take a photo, Adam might say.

Lucifer makes a face at him, and Raphael turns around with an even more intense version of it. “Well you'd be impressed,” she says.

“Oh?” Michael grouches. “You better not be insinuating something there, Rapha.”

“You know exactly what,” Lucifer turns his pointy nose up.

Michael crosses his arms and looks down at his siblings. “One day, when you're as old as I am, you'll see how temporary tidiness is. Used items are always in flux anyway. I am the first lieutenant, the whole Host looks up to me. How organized I keep my personal spaces therefore hardly matters.”

“Great commander of Heaven, older than all,” Raphael drawls under her breath, “Doesn't tidy, just sweeps to the side.”

Lucifer giggles. Michael hums angrily at them both. “I am the pinnacle of angelic virtue,” he tells them gravelly, much to their amusement. Luckily, Michael isn't at all bothered by his lack of a disturbingly common trait among the celestial kind. “I like my rooms the way they are. Father doesn't even get angry about it, because it'd be hypocritical. Have you seen his office?” He asks in a scandalised tone. “On that hand, maybe I'm the most like him, and every angel should strive to keep their spaces disorganized.”

It's gotten them laughing, and Michael leans on the edge of the table to gaze at them fondly while Lucifer jokingly aligns the notes into formation.

“Oh, would you like to hear what we've been figuring out?” Raphael exclaims, holding up what she brought with her in a way almost ominous to Michael. A folder.

“Er-”

“Of course you do,” Raphael nods, cutting him off. “There's so much we have to tell you as well, you'll be fascinated.”

“Yes, Michael, you'll be fascinated,” Lucifer parrots, spinning in his chair a little.

“We've been methodical,” Raphael puts in. “In the many ways to approach this new idea.”

Michael exhales, moving to the side to half sit, half lean on the edge of the worktable. “If you both plan to drone on at me, at least tell me something I'll find interesting.”

Raphael looks sceptically at him. “It hasn't been very exciting. Except when we tested on Onafiel with a magic based spell to change their MC1R gene.”

“We didn't do it correctly,” Lucifer puts in. “The soul fell out like a rock and the body went all bleh.” He casts a grossed out glance at the closed experiment chamber. Michael worries over Onafiel for a moment, but the cherub's mind seems perfectly sound in the Host. 

“Oh, and we ran into something else,” Raphael interrupts, “When we looked at Luce's DNA. About the difference between his current vessel and the way he looked like when he was Samuel.” 

“If we want to work with my vessel, we'll have to add hands-on remodeling,” Lucifer says grumpily. “Because it's my old DNA. If we took it and grew a body, it would look the way I used to Before. Same thing with you, Mike. Anything goes wrong and you'd end up looking like a Dean replica. Yet another reason to finish this.”

“Huh,” Michael says, “Interesting.”

“So now we have to be extra careful with what we modify,” Lucifer complains, “We took some useful samples from people to compare, but DNA is not easy to tamper with. It could end up with dozens of genetic defects,” he sighs, reaching for a pen to tap around anxiously.

“Just ask Dad,” Michael mumbles.

“I don't want to.”

“Stubborn mule,” Michael fake coughs.

Lucifer ignores him, and Raphael shares a kindred look with the commander.

“Gabriel's going to help, by the way,” Lucifer says offhandedly, “He hopped on this train as soon as I presented the whole concept. He thinks this is a super rad idea, and he's expressed the wish to design multiple forms for himself.”

“Of course,” Michael sighs. “Honestly, this entire thing is something I would have expected from him more than you.”

Lucifer shrugs.

“To be frank,” Raphael decides to say, “We're set on this for the academic value too. It's a tough nut to crack, but that's what makes it compelling. Besides. We already have the recipe for 99.9 percent of human genome, since it’s the same, we just have to figure out the rest. And, uh…” she squints, “The leviathan Steve-Gary-Barry-Methuselah-Barbara or whatever else helped us defeat the initial challenges.”

Michael cracks a smile and glances at Lucifer. “Well I think you just want an extra reason to spend time together.”

“And?” Lucifer snorts. “Not a crime. You could join,” he offers with raised eyebrows.

“My ways of bonding are not,” Michael pauses to squint at The Laboratory. “Like this.”

Raphael snorts at him before she sits down on another chair, hesitantly unfurling a wing far enough for her more intellectually fascinated brother to touch. Michael's noticed that; she always pauses before letting Lucifer near her wings, despite their seemingly good relationship. Lucifer slips his hands between her feathers.

“Speaking of bonding activities,” Michael pipes up, “I wanted to ask if you'd come spar.”

“Spar?” Lucifer says in interest, while Raphael hums. “I have to meet with Ophaniel and Gabriel about the faerie summit,” she mentions, “I should be going soon. Maybe I can come by later.”

Michael nods and looks at Lucifer questioningly. The latter cards his fingers through Raphael's royal blue feathers. “Or we could look at Ishim's latest updates,” Michael suggests, laying the eyebrows on real thick, “And fly Down together.”

Lucifer gives him a contemplative look, and his brother can catch the slight aversion he has to the last suggestion. Technically, their garrisons are periodically going over the Earth with a fine comb, searching out demons that escaped the Second purge, so there's no need for their involvement. Archangels took over larger congregations ages ago. 

“That would... be boring,” Lucifer avoids. 

“Then come spar with me,” Michael pushes, gently punching his arm. Raphael snorts and pulls her wing away to stand up. “I'm going. I might join you later, depends on how long it all takes.”

Michael beams at her when she walks away, and as soon as she's off he turns back to his brother. Lucifer rolls his eyes, gets up, and wordlessly starts walking to the door.

“Thought so,” Michael says as they walk down into the hallway.

Lucifer grins, and they meander in the direction of the barracks. “Up, or here?” He asks.

“Up,” Michael states. “Obviously. Why train in vessels?”

“Because I'm better at it than you,” Lucifer says immediately, the little tall shit, “I'll beat you and you'll get embarrassed.”

Michael glowers. “I'm fantastic at fighting in a vessel.”

He's not. Angelic strength and smiting is a great cover up, but Michael's never had to fight inside a wingless, squishy puppet. He has never considered the possibility that his brother, who never even practiced running in a bipedal, flesh and blood form, would suddenly turn into a professional fighter and make him look utterly incompetent.

“No you're not,” Lucifer leers. “I think you want to go Up so you can avoid shaming our family name.”

“You wish to goad me, so that you can humiliate me in combat,” Michael accuses in the same overly pompous tone, “But you will fail.”

Lucifer considers him for a moment. “I bet you're too chickenshit to fight me down here.” 

Michael stares at him in helpless outrage. “You can't do that,” he says, “That's not allowed.”

“So I win the bet?” Lucifer ignores him and starts looking smug. “I win? I win either way?”

Michael groans and rakes a hand against the grain of Luci's feathers. He shrieks, but he doesn't wipe that stupid, dumb, insufferable look off his face. “Fine,” Michael groans. “You terrible, evil thing.”

“Ha!”

They keep on walking towards the training grounds. Michael can tell there's a trio of angels practising, and two others present in the spot. Oh well, his fighting dignity doesn't stand a chance against Luci's better moods anyway.

It's custom that soldiers observe them, as they could always learn from the experienced archangels, and the latter don't mind having an audience. However, it's become obvious that when they fight on this sphere, that's not the case. Soldiers still use the same excuse to watch them, but it's more so for the amusement of watching Michael learn while Lucifer runs circles around him.

It would be more thrilling to go on a search-and-destroy hunt as they've done before, Michael mourns privately. He understands why Luci has a new dislike for what used to be a brilliant source of fun and camaraderie, but it doesn't change the fact that hunting with him has always been special. Fighting alongside a sibling he trusts to catch every blow he skips, singing comments to each other... These past couple billions of years, the opportunities to have an actual fight have been tragically dwindling.

Lucifer's gotten reluctant to go on exterminations with Michael. He knows why; he still has remnants of the Mark's bloodlust, a dark red streak interwoven with his temper. Michael's seen him get carried away on an expedition to Earth a year prior, and he's been shifty about it ever since. Michael told him he didn't judge him. Lucifer, of course, privately thought Michael was just being nice.

When is Michael ever just being nice? He's blunt, has never seen the point in sugar coating. If he thought Luci needed to get his tendency to slaughter under control, he would have said it. Clearly, if Lucifer thought it was bad and got all sheepish about the guts between the floorboards, then it wasn't that terrible. Michael can't throw stones in that department.

He enters the large training chamber and looks around, eyes flying past the heavy equipment.

“Selaphiel!” Michael greets when he spots his sister chaperoning the trainees and souls. “Fighting dirty today, it would seem,” he comments when he gets a better look at the latter.

“Yes,” the seraph nods, as Elim punches his brother in the jaw and then trips him up and to the floor. “As the demons do. We just finished practicing with additional tools as well.”

Lucifer appraises them critically. “It's about time they tried this on Earth. Things up here are too predictable and sterile.” He purses his lips. “I'm sure we could pick up some stray demons for them to practice on, too.”

“We're here to spar,” Michael tells her, pointing at the other end, “You may continue, we'll take our own corner.”

Selaphiel perks up, and the two angels on the ground look up in curiosity. “Of course, lieutenants,” she says.

Lucifer turns back to give Michael one of his more insufferable faces and beckons him to follow. He does so, shrugging his wings out in preparation. Lucifer pulls his jacket off on his way and drops it, standing there only in his jaywalk&loiter t-shirt and jeans. “We should challenge your footwork,” he suggests cheerfully.

“Footwork,” Michael mumbles, and rolls his sleeves up the way he's seen people do on television when they're about to fight. “I'll kick your ass. Then you'll see footwork.”

“Gotta get a clear shot first,” Lucifer cackles. “I can stay still for you?”

“Oh, shut it,” Michael laughs, and starts swinging.

* * *

“The first one was better.”

“You don't gotta crap on the movie the minute we step out,” Dean retorts, punching Sam in the shoulder, “I thought it was awesome. Right Gabe?”

“Yes,” Gabriel immediately agrees, “Except the whole evil dad part, because that was weird.”

“But the music was awesome,” Dean points out, silently agreeing with the dad part.

“The music was awesome,” Gabriel nods.

“Your standards,” Sam tells them eloquently, “Are low.”

Dean snorts and takes the steps down from the cinema's entrance, deeply inhaling that city smell of smoke, distant food and evening air. “You just have a vendetta against fantasy and scifi.”

“Yes, and you make me watch it anyway,” Sam whines.

“But you liked the first movie,” Dean exclaims, much to Sam's immediate offended look.

“Luci, you have to just enjoy the experience,” Gabriel stresses in amusement, “Don't think about politics or world building or plot holes. Just sit back and relax and stare at Chris Pratt.”

Dean lets out another deep, leisurely breath and stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. The purple sky is lit up with the street lights, neon signs and blinking windows, and the glam of it is strangely comforting. Gabriel and Sam have started discussing the movie, a mix of praise and heavy criticism that meshes into familiar background noise.

Sam's been taking him places, tourist spots and nature locations almost every week, as often as they can make time. It's made Dean somewhat uncomfortable, and he confessed to Sam that he feels like he's getting pampered.

It's easy to talk to Sam about this now that the dude's had both Dean's shitty childhood, and an objectively happy, fulfilled one. His opinion was that Dean wouldn't be feeling like he's living in excess if he hadn't been deprived of luxury his whole life. Luckily Sam no longer shares this depressing view - no shit, he has a palace wing to himself in Heaven for his Dad's sake - and would like it if Dean lived a little. His wings cover any travelling expenses nicely.

“We need to go watch the Greatest Showman when it comes out,” Dean mentions as he spots the same poster for the nth time.

“Would you watch anything that has Hugh Jackman in it?” Sam asks.

“Damn straight,” Dean nods.

“Even musicals?” 

Oops, Dean forgot that. But with that cast, it should reach hunter-worty with ease. Besides, Jackman. “Don't throw stones, you have a soft spot for them,” Dean retorts easily, “Didn't you and Gabe go watch Beauty and the Beast a while back?”

“So?”

“So, it was romance. I thought you didn't support it, oh evil one,” Dean laments, and cracks a smile when he sees Gabriel giggling.

“I never said that. I think love is a vital part of a meaningful existence,” Sam states seriously, “I merely criticize the excessive sex you guys are having. You know,” he points out, “Belle's pure, compassionate love comes before the lust.”

“Well obviously. I think otherwise it'd be a furry movie,” Dean nods.

“You've missed my point.”

Dean snorts and retreats from the conversation to watch the two argue about the plot with angelic rationalisation. Arguably, it's funnier to listen to.

He lets his thoughts drift for a while when they walk down the city centre streets, observing the burgeoning nightlife. He's removed from life's noise in the bunker except on the occasion they have people over. Not that angels don't count as noise or contact, but if Dean doesn't get to see other people like himself in too long, he gets a little lonely. Not that it happens much since Sam's been encouraging their odd outings and frequent meetups with their old friends.

Dean stops suddenly when he realises he's walking alone and turns around in confusion. 

He retraces his path when he spots the two overgrown birds a few steps back and joins them at the crosswalk where they impatiently wait for the light to switch.

“I can smell it from here,” Gabriel whispers deviously, and Dean squints over the cars to see what they're both set on. 

There's a Lush store on the other side. Figures.

“Now!” Gabriel exclaims unnecessarily once the light turns green, and proceeds to traipse over entirely inappropriately for an older than dirt entity. Sam sashays over in a more dignified manner and Dean trails after them both, given in, a victim of fate.

Sam hums ominously as he steps into the store, subtly spreading a cold spot in the comfortably warm air already. Dean takes a deep breath of the mixing aromas and slowly circles around shelves until he makes his way to the bath bombs.

He's tried them a few times: once during his time with Lisa, memorably a kinky experience, and after his thirty eighth birthday, when Sam got him a stash of bathroom products before Dean even got to breakfast: gifted along with the words that a man deserves to treat himself when he's middle aged. Asshole.

Dean smiles to himself a little, glancing at where they're examining soap. Sam's would've-been birthday passed with less awkwardness than he would've expected; maybe precisely because Sam had so obviously commemorated Dean's.

The first edition copy of the Inkheart series he bought him for childhood nostalgia took planning, but Dean had aimed for a genuine remembrance of Sam Winchester, not their usual meagre prank gifts. A few weeks later, on the 25th, Dean gave him a box with the words 'Happy rebirthday! You are 2 years old!' on it in sharpie.

In the box were platform converse shoes, a nasty throwback to the phase in SamLucifer's early style-discovery journey during which he wore All Stars. Dean still saved photos of it to humiliate him; and he simply splurged too much on that footwear for Sam to just stash them away where the sun can't find them.

It was painful for Dean to celebrate the whole fusion thing, even now. But the fact that Sam cried when he hugged him made up for any regret or hesitation he might've felt.

(Michael suggested getting his younger, prettier brother some high-end lingerie. He was advised to abandon the plans when Lucifer implied he'd gladly wear it around Heaven for him. Given Sam's recent shameless fashion diving and overall lack of care about conformity, Dean took his statement 100% seriously.

Anyway, Dean figured out Adam set the whole thing up. Michael didn't know what lingerie was and probably assumed it was a sort of French filing cabinet.)

He meanders over to the two angels, shooting a glance at the cashier. She awkwardly looks away, caught looking at their slightly abnormal group. “Are you gonna buy anything or just touch things?” He asks.

Sam sets the hand cream down. “Maybe. Some of these are non-biological creature friendly.” He lifts a spray bottle up. “Like these fragrances, mayhap? You can now smell like,” he looks down. “Like 4:20pm.” He lifts the spray up, curious to find out what it's like.

Dean squints. “There is no difference between this and a perfume.”

“That's what you think,” Sam turns his nose up, pulling the bottle away. “I could just get a shampoo. I like those.”

Dean shrugs. “Whatever, girl.”

The spray bottle is put away, the contents hopefully not frozen by Sam's hands, and the latter starts snooping around on the lower shelf.

“Any important plans this week?” Dean asks casually.

“Mhm,” Sam confirms, standing up after another moment and giving Dean a pleased look. “Actually, we'll have an aldi again soon.”

Dean thinks for a second. “Mini gatherings?” He asks, and Sam grins like an excited puppy when he remembers the random term.

Well, purposely remembered. Things concerning Lucifer's division are almost adorably important to him, so Dean's memorized a few easier ones. Besides, intelligence get-togethers happen every month now; Lucifer only gets hyped for them out of habit, as they used to be once a century colossal events for his entire branch of angels. Nowadays they just file together to talk progress and socialize afterwards.

“There's actually politics happening,” Gabriel cuts in, almost startling Dean, “Boring stuff. Not as cool.”

“Important,” Sam mumbles, poking his smaller brother. “You're part of the negotiations, Gabby.”

“I'm super responsible,” Gabriel tells him, mock offended. “When time need be.”

“That's highly debatable. Can we finish up?” Dean asks. “I think we're near closing time.”

Gabriel sighs and evidently starts compiling the things he's picked, and Sam starts preparing to tell him how many he's realistically allowed to take.

Dean discreetly picks out two bath bombs and carries them to the counter. After all, he did like his birthday last time. Why order them on Amazon if he's standing in the middle of a bathroom products store? He's man enough.

The cashier girl from earlier wraps them up for him and gives him a mischievous look over the bag. “Enjoy your purchase, sir,” she winks.

The tips of Dean's ears turn hot. He's not man enough after all. “They're for my wife,” he tells her.

Sam sidles up to him with two colourful bottles. “Weird thing to call your own ass,” he hums, pulling 'his wallet' out.

Dean turns to him, mortified, and grabs the bag to escape outside with it. In the distance, Gabriel's snickering sounds like the edited audio of braying.

He waits for them out of view of the display window, still irritated. Sam grins when he sees him, and Dean gives him a dirty look.

“Do we wanna explore some more?” Gabriel asks, gesturing at the city, “Or home? Dean, your call. I don't know when your bedtime is.”

Dean makes a skeptical sound. “Dunno if anything's open. But it'd be nice to get something to eat before we fly back.” Definitely with a half hour break between eating and flying. Dean learned the hard way a while back that wings right after food didn't mix.

“Sounds good,” Gabriel agrees, and takes off in their initial direction. “What haven't you tried yet?”

Dean hums in thought. “Nothing comes to mind. We got thai last time. Just point if you see something open.”

They sit down in a small Turkish restaurant at a remote table and resume their movie review for half a minute before they slip into spaceship design, then arcade games.

Dean happily munches on his pide while Gabriel eats baklava and Sam holds himself a buttlength away from them both. “Save me one,” Dean asks, pointing at one of Gabriel's pieces. Gabriel gives him a sticky thumbs up.

“We should go somewhere quiet next time,” Sam hums, mostly to himself. “It's been populated places now for two weeks. And somewhere colder, as well. That'd be nice.”

“So long as it's not freezing,” Dean shrugs, calmly polishing his food off to set a good example for God's Messenger next to him.

“I'll pick,” Gabriel chirps.

“Sure you won't order like a tea or something?” Dean asks Sam. The archangel resolutely shakes his head. Dean snatches a piece from Gabriel's plate. “Well, better for my wallet then,” he jokes.

Sam frowns at him, missing the attempt at making him comfortable. “Are you short on money? You should tell me. No stress.”

Gabriel snorts. “Luci, you're broke. What are you gonna do about it.” He turns to Dean smugly. “Just tell me if your scams stop working out. You can't even fathom how loaded I am.”

“I've seen, and most of your saved currency is outdated and useless,” Sam tells him. “It helps nobody if you were a millionaire equivalent before the Persian empire.”

Gabriel pouts. “I have valuables.”

“Save them as trinkets. I'll make money.”

For a silly second, Dean thinks Sam means getting a job before he remembers he can create it via miracles. He glimpses a mental image of Lucifer in a waiter apron and chuckles to himself.

“Thanks for offering, but I'm doing fine,” he tells Gabriel.

Gabriel shrugs. “Offer stands.”

They pick up their stuff and Dean pays for the food, leaving a generous tip behind. The air's gotten colder and he shivers in his too-thin jacket. They walk for a while longer, chatting lightheartedly, before Gabriel says goodbye to fly back to the Attic and Sam grips Dean tight to take him to the bunker.

He deposits him gently; Dean's perfected his flight feelers by now, and he can tell Sam took his time (relative) to get him back with his guts intact.

Fork chitters when Dean turns the kitchen light on, happy to see him, and the hunter feeds him a single olive while Sam sits in the chair picking at his inner-side feathers. 

“What if we moved,” Sam says suddenly.

Dean looks quizzically at him. “Huh?”

“Out of the bunker,” Sam adds. Before Dean can ask why, he waves his hand around. “We've been here for years, but. It's isolated. It'd be nice to be closer to people, and to have some sunlight.”

Dean sighs. It's not the first time Sam's said something like this. “Can't this wait until tomorrow? I'm beat.”

“Right, sorry. I've just noticed that you... brighten up, when we go out. You do that more when there's people around.”

Dean frowns. Honestly, he's barely noticed it himself. Sam must've been snooping on his soul again. “The bunker's great for work.”

“Yes,” Sam nods, “But that doesn't mean a new house can't have a library with some of the best books here, or a secure room.”

“You want to buy a house?” Dean's eyebrows go up, incredulous.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Okay, monsieur. New bunker then? Apartment? Castle?”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Wouldn't it be nice to live closer to Jody? Closer to other people in general?”

“You hate people,” Dean reminds him with a sigh.

Sam gives an exasperated look. “It's not about me. I want...” he shrugs. “I want you to have other humans. Not just me and my flock. You should have other people.”

Sam thinks Dean's lonely.

“And is this just an idea, or...” Dean trails off.

Sam shrugs again, smooths the down he was picking at and looks away. “If we did do it, it'd be a big project. Picking what to take, getting the house, moving everything...”

“But you'd want to?” Dean asks.

“Sure.” His eyes glaze over with imagination. “We'd both have a room, you'd have a nice kitchen... obviously a guestroom. A work room, we could have a small library. I could have a garden, always wanted one...”

“Okay, mister domestic,” Dean tells him, chasing away sunlit mental images he's painting up. “I'm gonna go to bed. Tomorrow, if you still think it could work, tell me about your potential garden.”

“Maybe you could have a relationship?” Sam suggests tenderly, “It's not too late for that, you know.”

“Goodnight, Sam,” Dean calls back from the hallway, already on his way to sleep.

He brushes his shower to tomorrow and rolls over to his back on the bed, kicking his pants off over the edge. A house, huh.

It doesn't sound too shabby. Not a very Winchester concept, getting a mortgage. Not a very realistic concept in these times, either, but archangels can navigate through a struggling society enough to weasel him out of debt.

Sam would sink his teeth into a prospect like this if Dean so much as nodded; it's always been a dream of his, and he cherishes the idea of it even if he no longer wants it for himself.

Dean's never allowed himself to consider it. But what's the bunker if not settling down? A sunnier location would only make it feel more official. He could invite Jody over for tea on weekends.

Dean sighs. Sleep first. Think later.

Chapter Text

Magda turns a page of her book, the words barely registering. She’s waiting for aunt Elizabeth to call her downstairs, and by the usual routine, it should be in the next few minutes.

Liz, as she’s insisted Magda call her, has been sticking to the schedule as hard as Magda’s psychiatrist told her to, as it will supposedly provide her with a stable environment. Magda learned about all the pointers her new guardian received, not from her aunt’s mind, but the checklist she’s posted on the inside of her bedroom door that Magda saw when she explored the house some more. If Liz didn’t want her to see it, she should have put it somewhere else.

The muted noise of the horses bumps against her window and she looks through to catch a glimpse of them in the barn.

“Magda?” Aunt’s voice comes from downstairs. “Come down, sweetie.”

Magda closes the book, grabs the woollen jacket off the chair, and pads down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. It was Liz’s turn to wash the breakfast dishes today, and they’re tidily sorted out to dry.

“What are we doing today?” Magda asks in advance.

Liz again lays out the usual plan. The ranch requires regular maintenance, and Liz doesn’t like to hire too many workers. She’s got them for the sparse tourism, but prefers to work the everyday stuff herself. Since arriving, Magda’s taken on a number of easier responsibilities, her favourite being the care of horses.

She steps into the morning dew wearing the knee high rain boots and makes her way to the stables, greeting the horses back. She starts by refilling the hay and grain, patting some of them between the ears when they start their own breakfast, then makes another long round to refill every water bucket.

In the meantime, Liz mucks out the manure, something Magda isn’t strong enough to do yet (and she’s a little glad for that), then goes around to check the horses’ hooves.

“Hmm, we’ll switch the bedding on Friday,” Liz nods, and smiles at Magda. “We were fast today, eh?"

Magda agrees with a hum, watching Poppy work away at the hay. She feels a random flick of Liz’s thoughts against her side, but it’s indecipherable. “Can I ride today?”

“Sure. Bumble could use some exercise,” Liz squints.

Magda smiles at the gelding in question. She likes Bumblebee; he’s easy to lead and almost never gets stubborn with her. Speckled with a mostly grey behind, he’s appropriately and adorably named.

They lead them out to pasture together and Magda makes a detour to say hi to the small chicken coup they keep for eggs. Liz gets up at dawn to check the nests and feed the ladies, as well as milk her two cows, all of which Magda usually sleeps through.

With a rap against the cage door, Magda makes her way back to the house to do some light chores. Her arms ache after the buckets, and she angrily shakes them out.

Liz has her own work to finish, so she has time to think by herself. Silence surrounds her.

Magda had gotten used to the disconnected murmur of her family almost always whispering into her head. Usually, their minds would make it to her in the form of confused static; random blurred words, glimpses of feeling, pricks of what they experienced. She’d once felt her father smash his toe against the table leg, and the vague sensation stayed with her for hours.

Rarely could she decipher anything, and she didn’t attempt to get better at it. Nothing felt dirtier than her mind’s eye intercepting what everyone else thought was private, violating them without their knowledge. Even her secret practice moving objects was a rotten shame on her conscience.

Now that it’s just her aunt, surrounded by fields and corn, she can shut herself off easier. At most, she catches glimpses of concern when she doesn’t reciprocate her aunt’s tireless positivity. Liz still walks on eggshells around her, gently coaxing her into talking and nudging her to go out on walks.

Once Magda’s done, she returns to her new room and sits down at the scratched up desk.

There’s nothing for her to really do besides occasionally see her aunt bustling below in her work clothes. She has books, but has trouble focusing, and she doesn’t like to use the phone tucked away in her drawer. Her next therapy appointment is in three days, so it’s not even something to stress about yet.

She’ll start studying up again if she means to finish home schooling and get higher education, but that’s a work in progress. Getting her life somewhat back on track has been a process too mentally exhausting for Magda to do alone, and those kinds of plans will have to wait a while. With a sigh, she gets out a sketchbook and doodles.

Once lunchtime finally arrives, Magda is sent to the garden for some radishes and lettuce while Liz prepares other food. They make small talk and comment on their cats curiously stalking around the chicken fence.

Magda could always leave; nothing’s keeping her at the table. Nothing’s keeping her in the house.

“Hey, I’ll let you have an hour after lunch before we go ride, alright?” Liz suggests. “Don’t want you to get sick.”

“Sure,” Magda agrees. “I’m thinking I’ll take a walk. Or go read outside.”

“Whatever you feel like doing,” Liz allows with a smile. “I’ll need to talk to Boris about the ordered fertiliser. By the way,” she adds, “Would you like to watch a movie tonight? I should make a grocery run anyway, and I can pick up some chips for us.”

“Oh, yeah,” Magda says, “That’d be great.”

Liz grins, and picks the emptied plates up. Magda does the washing, handing the plates to her aunt to dry and set back into the cupboard.

Once done, Liz toes on her shoes and goes to speak to the worker, and Magda changes out of her too warm pullover into a t-shirt. The scabs on her back catch on the fabric and she tugs it up and down a few times.

Considering what to do, she decides on a short walk around the property and a search for either of their cats. Just as she makes her way down the stairs, the doorbell rings.

It could be Boris, but Magda tastes tobacco on her tongue whenever he comes inside. Another worker then, as Liz would just open the unlocked door. Frowning, she pads to the door and opens it.

He’s just standing there on their tiny porch, facing the stables. The memory of that night rushes to the forefront of Magda’s mind and she blinks in shock. Even afterward, he’s still there.

His head turns, and he smiles at her. “Hello, Magda,” he says politely, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I wished to see if you were up for a talk?”

Magda stares at him, her thoughts running scattered over who or what he’s even supposed to be. “Are you the devil?” She blurts finally, tongue knocking against her teeth.

His mouth twists, and he’s certainly making an expression of some sort, but Magda is too stunned to comprehend it. “Er, well,” he says, “I don’t really have the occupation or living arrangements that term implies. Or the kind of relationship with God, really. I’m an angel.”

He looks down at her, seemingly realizing she can barely hear him. “But I do go by the name Lucifer. Frankly.”

“Oh,” Magda murmurs, “Uh-huh.”

Her legs walk a step back by themselves and the door slams shut, covering up the tall man standing there so that technically, he’s not even real if Magda can’t see him.

She walks down the short, tiled hall in a daze and turns to the stairs to go back to her bedroom. Then, right before she can take the steps, she turns around, steps across the corridor to the toilet, and violently dispels her earlier lunch, and likely the eggs on toast she had for breakfast.

She heaves a few more times, then moves to the sink to rinse out her mouth.

Then she stares at the ceramic for a while, and gets up and walks back to the front door.

There’s a big chance he’s not really there, she considers, head in a haze. She’ll open the door, start her walk, then go ride Bumble.

She fiddles shakily with the handle and then hurriedly pulls the door open.

He turns back around, looks almost confused when he sees her there. “Ah, you came back out. I figured I’d... wait a minute,” he excuses.

Magda’s heart is going insane and her back is cold with sweat. “Why are you here,” she mumbles.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he offers again. “There’s, well, there’s a lot of psychics in the world who never receive an explanation on anything. I know it’s confusing. And you’ve been misled on the source of what you might’ve been born with. I thought I could...” he lifts a hand and spins it around in the air. “Clear up things?” He suggests slowly.

Magda sticks her eyes to his face and stares as if he’s an inanimate object that can’t be bothered by this level of intense gazing.

There’s nothing she can pick up from him, no thoughts or murmurs or feelings or anything. Like he doesn’t even exist.

If it were only that, Magda might easily convince herself that he’s a figment of her imagination. That he isn’t real, and her mother’s beliefs have finally wormed into the cracks in her mind to crack it open like an egg.

But she can’t have imagined him. He seems overly real, the presence of five people crammed into the space of one, so deeply rooted in reality that he’s left an imprint in the air.

It’s turned cold for late spring and has begun smelling of winter.

“W-what?” She stutters.

He frowns slightly, brow furrowing. “You didn’t hear? I can repeat. I figured I could inform you of wh-”

“No, no,” Magda cuts in, almost giving herself a heart attack. “I, I heard.”

He’s staring at her in what could be concern.

“What did you want to tell me,” Magda stumbles.

“Oh! Well, could we sit down?” He suggests. “It might not be a short talk. If you’re even up for it, of course,” he adds, “I can leave if you’d like me to.”

The world around Magda has reached a dreamlike quality, and somewhere inside, a mini her sees this as a weird dream in which she’s offered to embark on a fantastical quest.

Whatever she’s doing, she has no idea why. If this courage (or stupidity) comes from her mother’s disapproval, from shock, or the persisting belief that she’s hallucinating, she doesn’t know. She mutely points behind him at the apple tree in their backyard, giving shade to a wobbly old table.

“Of course,” The devilangelthing nods, turning around in easy acceptance that she doesn’t want him in the house.

Magda leaves the door open to see him practically glide to the rickety chairs, taking a careful seat, while she toes on her sneakers. She almost falls on the wooden step out of the house, and then tries her best to walk normally over.

Then she takes a seat at the table and gets another look at him. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone who could simultaneously look so uncanny and so arresting.

Even sitting he’s much taller than her, posed with an exaggerated sort of elegance. Everything on him is lithe and sharp; even his purplish dress shirt lacks wrinkles. The bridge of his nose is so unusually straight that it's almost a perfect triangle. His fine-boned face doesn’t properly read male, hair pinned up in an elaborate hairstyle, and his eyes might as well be made of dark glass. He seems like he'd have the texture of dry plastic if she touched him.

Whatever Magda had imagined whenever someone mentioned the devil, this wasn’t it. She doesn’t think anyone could picture this being without seeing him first.

“Well,” he starts slowly, “Are there any questions you’d like to start off with?”

“Erm,” Magda responds, flitting her eyes up and down.

“You can call me Sam,” he says quickly.

“Is that... a fake name?” She asks.

“No,” he answers. “It’s mine. Short for Samuel, I had it while I was human.”

Magda tries to compute. “You were... human?”

“For a time. It’s a long story.” He pauses, considering. “Are you doing alright here?”

She needs a moment. “...Yes. I have my cousin’s old room.”

She doesn’t know why that piece of information was necessary. Elizabeth used to have a husband and two sons. The latter passed away years ago and the two kids have grown up, moved to the city for a better, more interesting life.

“I’m going to live with her until I finish my education,” she says, “But then I’m moving out, I think.”

He nods, waiting to see if she’ll say anything else.

“That’s good,” he says eventually. “I told you why I came. I really didn’t mean for you to be scared.”

“I am,” Magda admits, watching him carefully. He can probably tell, right?

“I didn’t expect anything else. And if the devil you were taught about did show up for you, it’d be the smart thing to do,” he smiles reassuringly. If that was his intent, though, he missed his mark by a mile. Magda tenses up more.

“You said you wanted to talk about... my, uhm. My psychic abilities,” Magda words. They still don’t feel real in that sense. They’ve always been something else to her, and she doesn’t think she can redefine them.

“Well, yes,” Lucifer or Samuel says. “I thought it would help you to know their origin, or how they work.”

“Origin?” Magda asks, eyes flitting to her hand to count her fingers. It looks normal, so she can’t be dreaming.

“Where they come from, how they might have gotten there.”

Magda frowns at him. “How did mine get here?”

“That I can’t tell without investigation,” he answers. “I can tell, though, that they stem from your soul. They’re yours, nobody put them there on purpose.”

Magda’s breath catches in her throat. “My soul?”

“Yes,” he frowns, as if she’s a dim child that just made an obvious observation. “Every person has one. Imagine they’re... closed buds. Some of them open a little, see the extra layer the world has, and these people are psychic. Some of them, with a lot of watering, become bloomed roses.”

Magda blinks. “My soul is a bloomed rose?”

“No,” he says simply, a smile pulling at one corner of his thin mouth. “But it could be.”

Magda opens and closes her mouth like a fish. “What, with practice?”

“And enlightenment, supposedly,” he answers. “As for why you have them, could you pinpoint when they appeared?”

“I... I guess I might’ve... had an outburst,” Magda rasps, “A few years ago.”

“A telekinetic one?” He asks.

Magda nods. The car crash replays in her mind. Her mother’s screams before her head hit the glass and she fainted.

“Telekinesis can appear later on,” he confirms. “And I can tell it’s a little more refined with you. But you’re oriented inwards as well. Did you ever feel what others were thinking when you were little?”

Magda blanks out.

For a second she only hears the distant speech of her aunt, the chickens.

“Were you ever described as a particularly empathetic child, perhaps?” The devil prods carefully.

“W-wait,” she croaks, “Wait. I, I need to know more about you.”

He stops and leans further away from her. “Of course. What would you like to know?”

Are you real? Have you come here to trick me? Are you a demon? Are you pretending to be nice? What do you want from me? Magda tries hard to breathe, but what was finally easier is getting harder again.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realised this would be hard for you.”

He thinks for a moment, fingers tracing the wood patterns of the darkened, mossy table. “Would it help if you met one of my siblings? I fear my word doesn’t really count for anything. My name comes with a reputation for lying.”

“I can’t... siblings?”

“Other angels,” Lucifer tells her.

Magda could never even put into words how small and unworthy she feels just at the idea of meeting angels.

“You could meet Gabriel,” he murmurs thoughtfully, and Magda thinks of a glowing man telling Virgin Mary about the birth of Jesus. “Michael’s a bit of a stickler when it comes to humans, and I’m not sure how Raphael is...” he scratches at his chin in thought, eyes looking strangely troubled.

Magda can’t even consider those names. She desperately reaches elsewhere. “I, so. You were... You were never there?”

He looks at her with something approaching sympathy. “No, Magda. If Dean hadn’t called me, we likely never would’ve met.”

Magda wipes at her eyes. “You healed Elijah?”

He nods. “Yes. It’s something all angels can do.”

“Tha-thank you,” she stutters.

He just nods at her again.

Magda sniffles a few times, taking a while to regather herself. The whole encounter feels like it’s straining her psyche.

Most of the implications haven’t even hit her.

He shifts in his seat a little, making her look at him again. “I’ll leave,” he tells her. “I might be back, and if I am, I promise you you’ll know.”

He waits for her nod, and then slowly reaches down, pulls out a book and sets it on the table before her. Magda hadn’t noticed it before.

“This was written by Milosh Drobný in 1951 before a man of letters translated it,” he says needlessly, as Magda’s mainly focused on the pebbled cloth hardcover, the title likely hidden inside.

“Some of the things aren’t accurate, especially his theories on the origin of power. I suggest you skip those parts. But there’s real accounts and personal experiences of psychic people, and practices you can do. I marked those pages so you can find them more easily.”

Magda hesitates before reaching for the book. It seems old and strangely light in her hands.

“Just remember,” he adds slowly, “That you’re not alone. Not just other psychics. Your aunt seems okay, you could talk to her about this.”

Magda looks at him. “She’ll think I’m crazy,” she says. If she finds out, she’ll think my mother was right, she thinks.

He shrugs. “That’s normal.”

Magda almost laughs.

“It would help to see your powers as a part of you,” he says, back tensing in what’s likely preparation to stand up and leave. “Not something evil or something that was put there. Whether you inherited these from a relative or if you were just born in a specific place and time, they’re yours. Part of Magda Peterson.”

Magda feels like she might cry. She isn’t sure why; words of validation on something she always begged to hear shouldn’t touch her when they’re said by something like him. But apparently it doesn’t matter where they come from, just that they were given shape.

He gets up, the movements made awkward by his height until he can stand upright. It’s almost jarring to see, as Magda had assumed he only ever moved with an innate gracefulness that couldn’t be broken by accidentally bumping one’s knee against the table.

He rights his sleeves and smiles at her. “Take care of yourself,” he says, then turns around and walks out of their yard.

Magda watches him leave until he rounds a corner and disappears. Whether he reappears on the other side or vanishes she can’t know, but it doesn’t seem likely that he kept standing behind the stables.

She takes the book and walks back into the house and up to her room, where she puts the gift away into a drawer. Then she sits on the bed and wonders if there’s anything else to do but cry until Liz comes to check on her.

* * *

Sam wings it back to Heaven just in time to see Michael ready and waiting in the Great Hall. He lands and briefly shakes out his wings, checking them for any misaligned feathers.

Things with the girl could’ve gone better, but given her past, also could’ve gone much worse. He hopes she can recover and think over what he’s said; it would be a tragedy to see such a bright soul sink into self-hatred.

There’s potential there for truly great things. While he couldn’t examine her soul and isn’t sure what her capabilities will be, he thinks being an oneiromancer or seer are both out of the question. Her focus is rooted outward and towards  people and objects, not slippery, elusive things like the future or the subconscious.

Perhaps he could have one of his malakhim sniff out her lineage in the Archives, to get a little insight into what her ancestry might have to do with her talents.

Michael raises his head towards him once he’s closer, beckoning him near. Lucifer stops at the edge with him, the Hall’s side colonnades giving them a far reaching view of Heaven’s gates as they let souls pass far below them.

“You’re early,” he notes.

Lucifer looks sideways at him. “When am I not?”

“Quite a lot, lately. Why do you schedule your visits to Earth right before important events? Jehoel wanted to brief the plan with you one more time.”

“There was no need. We’ll do fine.”

Michael hums, lost in thought. His wings are tense with anxiety. “Formal decor, please,” he comments suddenly. “It’s not a fashion show.”

Like Michael knows dick about fashion, having walked around in Adam’s loose jeans and onion layered shirts for years. Lucifer already met with Hell’s council wearing what Mike would deem inappropriate garb, and nobody batted an eye.

Lucifer searches his memory for a suit to adjust and tailor to himself, forgoing the waistcoat and tie—some vendettas from human times stick around forever. He snaps his fingers and hangs the necklace with the symbol of Heaven’s Viceroy around his neck.

He adjusts the sleeves, looking up to see Michael squinting at him. “What now?”

Michael steps in front of him and unbuttons the jacket. His fingers trace over the dress shirt, and with a minimal flex of his grace his ensemble turns a warm, somewhat light brown. “There,” Michael hums, “Colour of coffee. You’re fond of it.” He straightens the open jacket one more time.

Lucifer blinks at him. “... You’re breaking tradition,” he murmurs in confusion. High ranks are supposed to be dressed in pure white. Mike is wearing white, too.

“Yes, but white doesn’t look good on you,” Michael says simply, “Much too pale. This livens you up. And nobody cares about tradition anyway.”

Lucifer’s almost entirely sure he heard Adam say the phrase to him at some point. He gives him a smile anyway. Michael shares the odd moment with a nod, and then tilts his head. “Jehoel’s gathering the others, he should join us shortly.”

Lucifer heard the same announcement, but hums in acknowledgement anyway. He turns his eyes back towards the Gates, stepping further between the columns to observe.

Michael seems stressed about the coming summit as well—he wouldn’t have been here so early otherwise. Bright orange embers spark between his feathers when he awkwardly shuffles his wings. Lucifer’s just about to start reassuring him when their chosen flight for this mission lands close by.

“Good, just in time,” Michael nods. “We should leave at once.”

Jehoel agrees with a single whistle over the Host, and Michael takes off downward towards the Gates before more words can be exchanged.

Lucifer launches after him with a hurried flap, aware of others falling into a loose formation behind them. They pierce through the Veil quickly enough and circle down, touching soil still warmed from the day’s sun.

Lucifer looks back, looking over Michael’s second in command and to the four other seraphim they’ve taken with them. Seven, an appropriately, blatantly traditional number.

There’s human conversation going on a street away, Australian accents affected with drunkenness. Michael’s grace washes over their formal, suited group, making sure nobody will mind them walking around at night.

“We won’t have to walk,” Lucifer says quietly, nodding upwards towards the close-by building representing their chosen middle ground. “Wards aren’t up.”

He waits for the curt nod and then slips back onto the celestial plane, briefly taking off and landing in a dark, tiled lobby. The quiet patter of shoes behind him signals his siblings as well.

The place is pitch dark, wholly underground, insulated but placed directly below a nightclub, crowded at this time. The vice unfolding up there will cover up some of the demonic influence, along with the warding inside of the layered walls.

Someone switches on the lights, and they come on with a slight flicker, illuminating the mixture of stainless steel, white walls and tyrian tile.

When it was built, Gabriel oversaw the place’s structure, visual design and defence mechanisms, and they’ll prevent any sort of disaster that might come with a gathering of infernal royalty popping up on Earth.

Michael has already stationed himself beside the artificial portal, checking if the mechanisms work properly.

The twelve reapers who arrived early come out of the facility to give confirmation that everything is up and running for the initial socialising.

“Take your places,” Lucifer tells the others. “128 seconds left.”

Michael turns around and lets Jehoel take his place. The reapers, uneasy about the coming summit, slink against the walls and watch the proceedings in silence.

The seraph commander slides the portal’s activation sigil in place, clicking into the outer frame, and steps back as it begins to waver with energy. The metal floor of it visibly heats up, and Lucifer carefully reaches in to take care of the slight, unexpected problem before the gateway fully opens.

The first figure is smallish in presence, clearly the guinea pig for the portal’s functionality, and other silhouettes appear out of the blurred scene soon after it.

The portal doesn’t start powering down until it’s carried at least thirty members, when the lines of it finally crackle and fade.

Araqiel, tasked with monitoring the warding, reports the casual testing of the parameters.

In their passive-aggressive correspondence, Hell added several addendums to Heaven’s original summit terms. Since regardless of Heaven’s attending members, they could freely communicate as they wished, Hell had to be allowed more attendees. It was mainly an appeasement of its confused aristocracy, which had an unfortunately overlarge number of titles, and almost every lordling would’ve thrown a tantrum had they been left out of the meeting.

Their warding plans had to be adjusted so that no demon would suffer inhibitions to their powers, only to be confined inside the building for the duration of the summit; Lucifer had to select exclusively seraphim because of it, and their grace emission had to be stifled. Apparently, his first visit in Hell caused radiation damage to the palace grounds.

The royalty quickly organizes itself into an orderly formation of sorts, envesseled and decorated demons falling behind into rank-based places. Their true forms are contorted inside the bodies in varying degrees of fit, a few larger ones erupting through the skin to angelic eyes.

Dagon is the first to step down the short stairs from the teleporter, leather-clad torso boasting simplistic, sigiled jewellery. Like most of the arrivals, she’s displaying herself through her eyes. The two white eyed demons by her side are a generation of Lilith’s direct descendants Lucifer did not get to know.

One of the reapers stations himself between where Michael and Lucifer are standing side by side and where Dagon leads the procession. Heaven’s been working with Death’s Children quite a bit since Amara’s return, and both realms accept them as a neutral party. A few low ranking ones they ‘hired’ for bartending.

“Announcing her majesty, Dagon,” he announces loudly, “Queen of Hell, crown successor by birth right and prince of the damned.”

‘Birth right,’ Lucifer whispers to Michael over the Host, keeping his face entirely still so as to not smile. Michael swats him away.

The reaper points with his arm vaguely to Dagon’s left. He doesn’t particularly look like he wants to be there, but is taking this relatively seriously. “Aym of the first Lilim, Great Duke of Hell. Murmux of the first Lilim, Great Duke of Hell.”

Lucifer notes in amusement that Dagon’s formerly revered title ‘of the first Generals’ has been skipped. Interestingly enough, none of Dagon’s other likely titles have been mentioned.

He keeps listening to the names, pairing them with each demon; he recognises a few from the last meeting. The titles don’t go further down than to marquis.

Once they’re all presented, the reaper turns to them, announces first Michael, the First Lieutenant, Commander of the Host, and then Lucifer immediately after, making sure he mentions his Viceroy title and skips any infernal ones. At this point, most demons pretend not to pay attention, so the reaper just lists the names and rankings of their seraphim and leaves it alone.

Once he’s done, Lucifer steps forward, spreading his arms and then clasping them in front of himself. “We welcome you, queen Dagon, and Hell’s royalty to Earth with hospitality. Heaven shares your hope for amenity in our future engagements, and so we’ve done our best to accommodate to your satisfaction.” He gestures to Dagon as he continues. “We congratulate queen Dagon on her ascension to the throne and would wish her a long lasting, successful reign.”

In the pause he makes, he can catch the word ‘traitor’ repeated twice, and a hissed ‘nepotism’ from a more brazen duke. They say it quietly, but clearly with the knowledge that they’re being heard. Lucifer decides to ignore it all in order to keep a lid on it.

“As said, we’d like to invite you for a time of socialising before we move on to talk of politics. We hope to build a comfortable ambiance, and have provided refreshments for this purpose as well.”

It’s a tradition coming from Earth that Hell copies; always before the actual talking in order to appease angrier attendants. The atmosphere will get right horrible by the time the summit is over and they’ll have to threateningly escort the demons right back downstairs, so there’ll be no option of showing hospitality via drinks and socialising at that point.

Dagon copies his pose, and Lucifer feels strangely proud of the obvious new confidence and authority she’s adapted for herself. “We thank you for this welcome,” she says, an undertone of sarcasm present in everything she’s saying, “And of course, share your hopes of building a better future for both our realms. Hell congratulates you,” she responds to his earlier words, “On your safe return to your rightful place of residence. Now, I’m sure everyone would like to begin the initial festivities after our journey here, before we settle our matters.”

“Of course,” Lucifer smiles, and gestures for the angels and reapers to get a move on.

They migrate in a tense procession over to the main part of the facility, designed just for the socialising they’re meant to do.

Gabriel had contemplated the use of background music for a while, and eventually settled on a calm, faerie ensemble already prerecorded. It was meant for this kind of event, and doesn’t seem too out of place. The area isn’t that small, providing possible personal space as they all file in. The structure’s oval shape is masked by the two support beams holding up the loft looking down at the rest of the bottom floor.

Unlike the strongly illuminated downstairs, the upper part was meant to be a touch more quiet, and Lucifer plans to spend most of the first hours up there, after he’s done the initial mingling.

Doing that, he stations himself in an approachable location near the tables, instead of with a group of siblings.

Some of the demons partake in the drinks and tastefully placed snacks the reapers took from the club’s reserves, some talk amongst themselves, and others try and strike up potentially useful conversations with the angels. It’s obvious soon that even Michael is more likely to be approached; if there’s anything most of these royals seem to have in common it’s a seething, hateful disrespect for Lucifer’s mere existence.

Lucifer watches as his siblings try their hardest to follow his orders, to varying degrees of success; broken up conversations and exchanged pleasantries filling the air alongside the strange music.

He’d meant to strike up a conversation with a more amiable looking duke, but realizes that however harmless, the interaction will create unnecessary tension. Even if the lord doesn’t want to, they’ll place a remark aiming at Lucifer’s supposed desertion just to keep their public image in front of other demons. Lucifer will have to respond to it, which will lead to a fight.

He shares this thought with Michael and receives back assurance that he should retreat to an out of the way spot. Honestly, Gabriel should’ve come instead of him, but his relatively recent experience in Hell wouldn’t permit him peace of mind. In the eyes of Hell, Gabe is a laughing stock.

He slinks up the stairs to the plateau, where he decides to casually lean on the counter and observe the happenings while playing with a daiquiri he won’t drink. The reaper acting as a bartender gives him a look that is equal parts pity, scepticism and boredom.

At least he can be happy about Dagon’s new position, if nothing else, quite pleased with her taking up the mantle.

Giving up his right to Hell was admittedly a blow to his pride, as he liked a claim on the realm whether he ruled it or not. Lucifer only let it go after Hell’s continued insistence and because having someone on the throne he picked himself compensated nicely.

He’s surprised then to see her make her way upstairs, joining him at the bar and tersely ordering a random drink from the menu. There’s a scattering of demons on the other end of the loft, keeping a safe distance from the archangel, and he watches them and the talking below them while Dagon tries the drink.

She’s wearing what could pass as a crown, but is more of a mix between a circlet and a diadem, made of dark metal and polished obsidian. It matches the rest of her leather attire and her loose black hair. She’s kept the same middle aged Asian woman as her vessel, and Lucifer suspects it’s difficult to get a well-fitting one with her measure of power and size. She’d been a formidable seraph, once.

Dagon cautiously reaches for a taco. She chews thoughtfully for a while, hides an intrigued expression and then reaches over to snatch the whole bowl away.

“We have a good working relationship,” she says suddenly. “Do we not?”

“I suppose we do,” he answers, with equal carefulness. “And of course, these kinds of better relationships don’t have to be overly public,” he adds slowly, meaning their current spot, “The riffraff wouldn’t keel over if they weren’t let in on the necessary nuances.”

Dagon’s read between the lines and hums in agreement, absent-mindedly testing how much guacamole she can fit on one chip. “Public rivalry is a point of pride for the lesser,” she agrees, “But we needn’t lower ourselves to their level.”

“Of course,” Lucifer nods seriously.

Hopefully, this means Heaven can have a working, tolerable relationship with Hell’s aristocracy. Which was Lucifer’s plan from the very start and what he hoped to manipulate Dagon into, much to Heaven’s displeasure and grudging commendation.

“It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Dagon says slowly, twirls a taco for added mood. “Not one just every ruler would agree to.”

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. What does she hope to get, a reward cookie? “Hell can be grateful to have you as queen, then,” he says simply.

He has the suspicion that Dagon’s giving him a don’t-shit-me look over the rim of the cosmopolitan at her lips and looks over to see Michael engaged with count Eligos in a condescending, passive-aggressive verbal spat while him and Dagon are at the bar talking out of their assholes to each other.

Dagon chooses that moment to stop doing just that. She leans closer, and he feels her twisted, corrupt grace muffle what they’re doing and saying to the other demons. He wordlessly takes over her fiddling and makes the spell more elaborate and less noticeable.

“A collaboration would benefit both of us,” Dagon states more than asks. “I thought it fair that as much as I allow you to make decisions in our rule, through my loyalty to you, you should also make accommodations for Hell’s desires. Especially after that half-assed treaty you forced on us.”

He tilts his head at her and wonders where this is going. “And what desires would you have in mind?”

Dagon leans away. “You must be aware of how much freedom Heaven has taken right after Hell gained it. This system might be looser and more forgiving, but your forceful demands and slaughter of demonkind on Earth has left consequences.”

“We are restoring the old order in the only way Hell understands,” Lucifer says.

“You think that’s how it works,” Dagon answers, “But it doesn’t.”

“Enlighten me,” he retorts ironically, dropping some of the easy tone.

Dagon turns fully toward him and sets the half-full bowl of tacos down. “I will,” she intones. “I did what you asked. I took control of Hell, I culled the aristocracy according to your needs. I established a more stable rule by doing whatever I needed to do.

“What I am facing, responsibility that you don’t concern yourself with, is trying to both suppress the constant revolts, urges to battle against your terrorism, and yet not seem like a coward. And if it were obvious that I’m serving both Hell and Heaven, the horde would tear me apart,” she snaps. “You told me to become the queen because if you can’t be on the throne, you want someone there who you can control for the benefit of Heaven. I do not begrudge you for that,” she states, “but it’s causing trouble for me.”

She takes a strained breath through her nose to gather herself. Lucifer doesn’t say anything, just nods for her to go on.

“I can’t keep shutting down preparations that Hell’s people are organizing by themselves for much longer,” she says, calmer now. “You know from your garrisons that I can’t stop the consistent escape attempts and riots at the borders. There’s nobody close to the crown that I can trust with my motives.”

She glances around and tests the spell hiding their incriminating conversation within plain sight. “I have informants all over Hell, and allegations about my alliances are becoming louder. Some of the Lords are considering overthrowing me, and if that happens, they’ll have enough power to launch a full-population rebellion against you. You,” she looks at him, “do not have enough angels to stop this. Hell will invade Earth again, and they’ll be twice as angry. You’ll have an unplanned Apocalypse to stop, unless the archangels step into the war yourselves.”

“We won’t risk a single sibling, no,” Lucifer states. “But since we can’t let Hell have access to Earth again, us four will take action. If that happens, Dagon, we can stop Hell.”

“And exterminate the entire demonic race?” Dagon asks stiffly. “That’s what you’ll be forced to do. And I don’t want us all to die.”

He thinks of what to say, but she gestures for him to wait. “I might be the only ruling candidate that is willing to cooperate with the enemy. The only reason I’m still on the throne is because of my power and blood right. I’m the last yellow eyed demon, so I’m expected to be the next Azazel.”

“I understand what you’re trying to tell me,” Lucifer replies. “The situation is dire. But I can’t mess with your system. Unless what you think will help is an attack in which I kill whatever Lord or Baron that’s planning a coup.”

“No,” Dagon says. “In the long run, killing them before they attack me will only signify that I’m against the war. It will cause more outbreaks.”

“So what would I do?” Lucifer sighs. “What do you want?”

“I have a plan,” Dagon says. “But it will require a complete overhaul of Hell’s morals and values.”

“Well, I’d love to hear it.”

Dagon gives him the stink eye. “You don’t get to dislike this. You thought you could shut the gates and let us ‘sort it out.’ It’s about to blow up on your doorstep.”

He rolls his eyes, even though she’s right in this scenario. “I wonder when I let you talk to me this way.”

“Since I was your sister,” she snaps. “And I had the right to tell you when you were wrong.”

He looks at her stormy expression for a moment and then begrudgingly nods. “What was your plan?”

“What the demons want is Earth, because to us, it’s paradise. They will never stop wanting it, not as long as Hell is this terrible a place.”

It’s meant to be, Lucifer thinks, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

“If Hell offered anything, anything at all, in the way of possibility, of a better existence, or of ambition,” Dagon states roughly, “Then maybe. Maybe if I could make my realm into something more, demons wouldn’t want to abandon it as much.”

“You want to better the living conditions?” Lucifer asks sceptically.

“I want to create a working economy. A fairer one. I want to make a society that isn’t just a giant slaughterhouse. There is nothing there for them,” she stresses, head nodding at the demons.

Lucifer’s lips thin into a line. “What exactly do you want to do?”

“Reform Hell.” Dagon states in exhausted determination. “In a way, in Earth’s image. A working society. Less power to the nobles and more options for the lowest classes. Expand the cities, make more space. Organize. Set rules, laws, punishments. The list is infinite.”

“You can’t do that by yourself,” Lucifer tells her seriously. “Not against billions of demons.”

“I don’t plan to. I need to convince as many influentials that fighting Heaven is futile, and that Hell’s future can lie within it. Then I will partition it into regions, and spread my new... philosophy through my associates. Or rather, I’ll whip and beat the chaos out of the riffraff.”

Lucifer slowly nods, thinking this idea through. It’s a far fetched, ridiculously long term plan. To him, it sounds like a wishy-washy dream. No doubt there have been demons trying to create order before, as the corrupt aristocracy they have must have come from somewhere, and Hell already has a dystopian society. But what Dagon wants is different.

“How would you have me help with that?” He asks.

Dagon relaxes as she looks at him. “Eventually, I’ll need outside sources to add to what I’m trying to build. Right now, Hell is based on the idea of taking. The masses claw for what they need, they create and destroy partnerships to get there, and their only goal is temporary pleasure. I want an orderly system where these goods flow between the population peacefully. Producer, buyer; without the bloodshed. A working class in which they receive chances in return for cooperation. I want to bring culture. I need you,” she starts, falters, sighs. “I need you to allow us open trade with the other realms once I establish this. Then afterwards, grant us limited leave for the higher positions.”

He stares at her for a few long seconds. “Even if that were possible,” he says slowly. “Dagon. I’m less than a month away from signing an alliance with the Afallach fae territory. For the unified defence against Hell. And we have a treaty with some of Purgatory’s clans in our plans as soon as we can work out a deal with Eve.”

Dagon closes her eyes for a moment and exhales. “Lucifer, I am the only thing standing between Hell’s full revolt and Heaven. Me, and the gates,” she says. “Whatever resources you’re pooling together to secure Heaven’s position need to allow for Hell’s growth. Even if I keep it inside.”

Lucifer looks over the club, thoughts rolling like a loud avalanche over the music. “Could we meet?” He asks, glances obviously over the crowd. “This isn’t viable.”

“Neither is meeting in private,” Dagon retorts. “I told you, suspicion regarding me is rising. I might have informants, but so do others. I know I’m under supervision.”

He sighs sharply through his nose. “So what now?”

“In the meeting, I’m going to bring this up. I’ll point out Earth being one barred territory, as opposed to Hell being sealed shut. I’ll demand open, free political relations with Purgatory, the Faerie, and some of the Pantheons.” She looks at him imploringly. “Make a show of discussing it with Michael over the Host, I don’t care. But you have to make it clear that you’ll permit it, if not right away, in the future.”

He gives her a dark look.

“With all due respect, my Prince,” Dagon snaps at him, “If you want a future, it’s going to include us. You think you’re the only one Eve will cut a deal with? She’s more likely to ally with Hell. You think any of the pantheons prefer you to us?”

He scoffs. “Fine, you make a good point. I’ll see it gets done. We’ll work out the exact details of this during the next Summit, in public. And if you have any more requests by then, try and ask nicely.”

Dagon lets out a sigh. “Well, thank fuck you’re sensible.”

“Hard to be, handling all this drama,” he murmurs, holding his glass up to inhale the scent of fruity alcohol before putting it down again.

He glances at the closest demon group eyeing them, catching sight of one who’s true form is about forty percent mouth and who’s looking at him the most maliciously. As soon as he stares back, the gazes swivel away.

Lucifer looks derisively at Dagon where people can see him and makes a mild show of sauntering away from the bar, leaving his drink with the queen and gliding down the stairs to his siblings.

He stands next to Araqiel and lets the new information leak over his connection to the Host. Gabriel’s and Raphael’s attention is pulled in immediately.

‘It’s... not unreasonable,’ Michael says sceptically. ‘We need to speak to her more extensively.’

‘We shouldn’t get involved right away,’ Raphael chimes in. ‘Do as she requested for now, but be careful not to make any promises. Don’t talk yourselves into a corner.’

‘Leave it open for now, yes,’ Gabriel agrees, ‘Just not overly ambiguous. They won’t like that. Act begrudgingly intrigued. This might benefit us and all that.’

‘Very specific,’ Lucifer comments with an attached mental eye roll. ‘Okay. We’ll do our best.’

‘Yes,’ Gabriel answers with playful sarcasm. ‘This is huge. No fuckups, I know it’s hard without me.’

They close up the open link and pay attention to the proceedings. Lucifer judges that the pre-summit activities will only last for a few short hours.

He sighs, and straps in for a gruelling conversation. Given that they don’t have an easy way to leave, Hell will drag this meeting out into a veritable marathon of torture.

Chapter Text

“Which one of you lays eggs,” Dean mutters to himself. “Not you. You, maybe?” 

He flips a page, skimming down to the reproduction habits. “No, too green. Yellow eggs, I need yellow...” He grabs both the books he was looking at and walks back to the table to look at them more thoroughly.

Chapter Text

Lucifer checks the book bag one more time, glancing over the new chosen titles, and continues her exceptionally slow flight over the Atlantic. Removed from the terrestrial realm, she easily drops in altitude and glides between the gates of Gibraltar, skilfully dodging a few ships she could've breezed through.

Slowing down once the vaguely familiar copse of trees is in sight, Lucifer beats her wings twice and gracefully lands on the beaten path. A single look back provides a lovely view of the Mediterranean sea, as tragically polluted as it is nowadays.

Sighing, she turns back around and walks up to the cozy house, past the unusually empty veranda. The door, as it often is, has been left unlocked. As if anyone could ever steal from the particular entity inhabiting the place, Lucifer muses.

“Auntie?” She calls, poking her head into the living room. “I brought stuff.”

Amara looks up from the kitchen counter and smiles pleasantly. “Ah, lovely. Though I haven't finished the last...collection you got me.”

“Oh,” Lucifer acknowledges, whisking away her shoes and stepping into the house proper. “I might've gone overboard with the genre. But I have a new set for you.”

Amara squints at the smaller than last time stack of books on the kitchen coffee table. She hinted on one of their visits that she enjoyed the horror aspect of some of the classics' works from before, and Lucifer took it as subtle initiative to gather a number of books from the adjacent genres. Murder mysteries, horror novels, surrealism that she'd particularly enjoyed as a teenaged human, and a few of Lovecraft's works thrown in for fun.

She'd ended up with a few more than originally anticipated, but other than a confused frown, Amara didn't express any disapproval.

To Lucifer's renewed surprise, she and Amara have a few more things in common than she expected. For one, the archangel can appreciate her penchant for order. The Darkness enjoys taking things more slowly, unlike Father who's always rushing somewhere, and she takes time to discuss things with her niece simply because that's her approach. Lucifer feels more like an equal talking with her because of this than with Father, whereas she always feels a little like she's being indulged.

Amara, once her original drive to hastily explore the entire universe faded, started with a more meticulous approach to experience. She'd discovered reading and found that it was both enjoyable and pointed out things she hadn't tried out yet, words of which meanings weren't yet known to her.

She wasn't a ravenous reader, drinking in new stories, but took her time instead. Experienced what the works fortuitously introduced her to. Regardless, her interest delighted the Archivist.

“Why don't you set them down beside the others? I'll get to them,” Amara suggests, “But I'm yet to finish Perfume.”

“Sure,” Lucifer says awkwardly, taking her bag to the unread stack. Amara stands up to briefly return to the kitchen.

Lucifer started her with the basics first. Fair Folk poetry, famous tales hailing from Purgatory's forests and a plethora or Heaven's works. At first, most of the stuff she picked was checked not to have been written by humans; after, she went over what came from Earth. Older works of Greeks and Romans she limited before moving on to world classics like Orwell, Wilde, Tolstoy, Dickens, Woolf, Austen and everything she'd considered necessary as a base for Amara's perception of literary evolution and styles through popular history.

She admittedly brought her Le Petit Prince just to see how she would interpret some of it, and later on El Alquimista, all non translated. Rarely did the author's personal choice of words and a hidden glimpse of their personality come from anywhere but the original. Lucifer disliked translations.

She introduced her to some existential Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre later on when she hoped it wouldn't skew her view of humanity Father's trying to nurture. Kafka seemed to fascinate her, and she asked Lucifer for all his best works to be brought to her.

She hasn't particularly asked since then, and Lucifer was embarrassed by the obvious fact she could become a little unmanageable when set on something. But she couldn't help feeling an almost physical pain at the thought of Amara missing out on books Lucifer knew she might like... she can't wait to get to her more esoteric favourites, or less famous, priceless works mainstream media won't show her Aunt.

“How are things in Heaven?” Amara asks politely as she sits back down and Lucifer mournfully puts The Wasp Factory, The God of Small Things and Sarajevski Marlboro down on the sad pile.

“They're well,” she answers, joining her aunt on the couch. “Collaborations with Death are still going smoothly.”

“Ah, good,” Amara responds, looking through the window. “I do wish he would visit more often.”

“Has he?” Lucifer asks, curious.

“Only twice.”

Lucifer nods in acknowledgement. She too thought Death would take more time to spend with his sister, but perhaps he's just too exhausted from watching all their drama.

“Have you spoken with him?” Amara asks, somewhat hopefully.

Lucifer blinks, torn on how to present her complicated relationship with her uncle in a simple way. “We don't really talk. We asked him for help, obviously, but most of it was through his head reapers.” She frowns. “I try not to bother him too often. I think he finds me irritating.”

Amara nods, gaze thoughtfully stuck on the sea.

Lucifer sees she likely won't talk about the books--when she does, she starts the discussion herself in excitement. She doesn't seem to be in the best of moods today.

“Aunt,” she starts again, making Amara's attention refocus. “We'll be having the tournaments again in the near future,” she informs. “It's been a long anticipated event. I wished to invite you.”

Amara hums in intrigue. “Competitive games?”

“Yes. Some team sports, duels and competitions. Father will be there to watch, and you're welcome to come with as well.”

“I haven't visited Brother's realm in a while,” Amara says pensively, “I suppose I'd like to come.”

“Great,” Lucifer says cheerfully, and quickly sends her affirmation to Gabriel. They should have a special spot reserved.

She departs from her Aunt's current house soon after, leaving the Darkness to her tea with a goodbye and a hope that they'll be able to discuss her literature on their next visit.

There's no time like the present to get some work done, especially as it's on her schedule.

Lucifer lands near the Gates where she can observe the souls as she walks, fixing her sleeves and retucking her shirt. After a glance at her wings she adjusts a deep blue feather that had fluttered out of place during her landing and uncovered a thin scar. Wouldn't be appropriate to prance around anything but perfect.

She spots a few very familiar graces nearby and takes a turn towards the Square. It had evolved out of the large chamber that once stood in front of the infirmary and became their communal space, and has since gained even more significance.

A few siblings greet her as she approaches, and she answers with a bright smile. The warmth of being welcome and wanted still hasn't lost its shine.

“Hello, Nadiel,” she calls when she finds the malakhim angel sending away a healer.

“Lucifer,” she smiles, wings lifting slightly and resettling again. “How are things? Gabriel's just announced Aunt's presence in the tournament.”

“Yes, I invited her,” she nods. “Father's encouraged us to be more welcoming. And I'd certainly like to see whether she'll feel competitive on behalf of the teams.”

She smiles inwardly, imagining Amara getting into the festivities and loudly rooting for her chosen angels. Would she partake in their feather paints and cheering?

“Now that you've said it, I'm looking forward to that as well,” Nadiel snorts, likely sharing the mental image.

Lucifer agrees, eyes roaming the small crowd of siblings. She suddenly spots Castiel sitting with Akriel at one of the corner benches and impulsively reaches over the Host to poke him. It's been too long since they've had an actual discussion on anything.

Castiel looks up and excuses himself to his brother and colleague before standing to meander over to the pair. His grace is calm and laps at the edges of his nervous system in gentle yellow-green waves.

“Hey, you,” Lucifer greets him in amusement, “How's your break going?”

“Well,” Castiel blinks. “Everyone's talking about Amara.”

“Next big thing,” Lucifer agrees. “And I bet they'll cool it after an hour.”

Castiel hums. “I like how these are the kind of 'big things' we deal with nowadays,” he tells Sam, using air quotes and adding a personal undertone that lets her know this is an inside comment.

She smiles. “Yeah, definitely.”

Nadiel squints at them both, catching the thing only they share and shrugging it off. “In an hour they'll be back to gossiping about the fae.” She gives a light shudder. “I'm a little worried about it as well.”

“No need,” Lucifer reassures her confidently, “Gabriel and I will make sure it goes smoothly.” She frowns. “If anything, we should be concerned about the pantheons.”

There's nobody they can be entrusted to. They view Gabriel as a betrayer, Lucifer as a brutal murderer, and Michael and Raphael as cruel exterminators. They'll be hard to form an alliance with, it might require cutting a steep deal.

Perhaps they could force the small gods to approach them first by keeping silent; once they form strong alliances elsewhere, the gods might reach out themselves, Lucifer thinks.

“How is your apprenticeship going?” Sam asks Castiel, diverting the subject.

“Quite well,” Castiel responds, “I was following Raphael today. It was very educational,” he says, unironically. 

Nadiel smirks, kindly. “Must be nice shadowing siblings as opposed to working Upstairs with the others.”

“I wouldn't oppose it,” Castiel retorts.

Sam snorts at them.

Since the Cherubim have been thoroughly reserved for defence, the intelligence division is up to their throats in politics and data, and soldiers are busy soldiering, the healers have been assigned a double function soon after Heaven medically recovered and have been moonlighting as builders and repairers.

They're not overly upset about it, but they have a running joke about being haugty and insulted with this demeaning duty. On the contrary, Castiel spends most of his time learning.

Nadiel pokes him back good-naturedly, and their conversation takes off into a more healer-oriented direction. Sam decides she should stop by her office before the coming meeting, and backs out of their little circle. She wanted to tell Castiel about Magda (he'd approve of his sort of thing), but moves it to a later time.

She takes off to her office to see if one of Dumah's subordinates dropped off any files for her to gloss over. Lucifer gets the info about any completed assignments or large scale duties over the Host, but having everything noted down makes sure the information doesn't jumble together, as well as provide future records if they need to look at something in hindsight.

Regardless, she's glad for how the tasks delegate among all siblings. It could be considered unfair that she gets to work less in the grand scheme--a moot point due to Lucifer's lengthy lifetime, during which she's done quite a bit--but the standard difference between archangels and their lesser siblings can't be equally matched. She shouldered more of the workload upon her return, because her significant power was required; with the added lack of leadership after Raphael's temporary death, Heaven was also grossly disorganized. The four year interregnum ended when she set foot in Heaven, but it took months for the order to snap back into proper function. 

There's a manilla folder set down on her desk, so she flops down on the chair to turn it towards herself and flip it open.

The usual report consisted of multiple manifested notes, and a sweep of her senses can tell her which angels contributed which part. The individual papers went to Dumah first, and she would notify the archangel if anything particularly worthy of her personal attention popped up. Even so, the entire thing made its way to her desk anyway.

She hums idly, leafing through the information on newest souls and usual archived additions on realm surveillance and stopping to check up on the sitrep from Hell's guard rotations. Any breakouts would be proclaimed over the Host, but still. 

1st astel/8th oanio a.r.d., c. report 22

Usual resistance at innermost gates. No complications between guard switches. No security breaches.

Seeing the no-nonsense, short line proving their continuous success in brisk enochian letters gives her a feeling of calmness. *

Lucifer hopes she and Dagon can establish a secure form of correspondence, as well. At the last summit she was too preoccupied by their mild scheming to consider a way to communicate outside of the chthonic occasions and share it. Perhaps a way to encode enochian; the prince is surely still fluent.

She flips two pages to see if Ophaniel has added anything on the Vault's restoration since it's been broken into, but he hasn't. With their low workforce, rebuilding both the old armory and the safe took significantly longer.

Seeing nothing else important, she reaches out into the Host to see where the angels who plan to attend the same meeting are currently located. The time for these things is not always set; whoever calls the get-together usually pulls the siblings together like sheaves when they need to.

Gabriel senses her subtle impatience and sighs over the Host at her before stretching out and doing the equivalent of a shoulder tap on a number of other angels. 

Lucifer, satisfied, promptly leaves her office and walks further from the square, human heavens slipping around rapidly under her feet. She grabs a secretary on the way and catches up with Ophaniel and Araqiel close to their chosen spot and exchanges a few pleasantries before everyone else shows up.

Given that the office meeting room looks like an actual representative of its kind on earth and isn't sternly white, it's clearly the Messenger's. Lucifer takes a seat at one end of the elongated table, gesturing for Liwet to sit down next to her. The intelligence angel should document the made plans and jot down anything important for later.

Gabriel, still doing what she calls a test run of her female form and wearing a predictably bohemian outfit, shows up almost late and takes her place at the head of the table. 

“Everyone here?” She asks needlessly, before snapping her fingers without further ado and unravelling a political map of the fae lands over the tabletop and placing a few papers on the surface before her.

“Nothing spectacular has happened since we scheduled the fae summit,” she announces, “But there have been developments.” She leans forward to point at two of the southeastern Faerie territories.

“Zuriel's rotation has caught wind of Gwlɨblann and Hwexlloir lands forming an alliance. Wouldn't be weird on it's own, but coblynau and gwyllon don't usually like each other and they signed on it just nine days after Affalach let out the news that they'll discuss allying with Heaven.”

She looks at the mentioned cherub, who swiftly takes over the talking. “I've speculated that monarch Lloɨrkann nudged this alliance together out of fear. Our sudden actions and change-making right after the war has caused great unrest. Faerie seems to have woken up to the situation, and other territories might consider Affalach's decision threatening.”

“This gist is,” Ophaniel cuts in, “Affalach is already the leading nation, and we fear they might back out of the deal if the others rally against them. Their trade routes are an important source of income.”

“This kind of reaction seems too hasty for fairies,” Gabriel comments critically. “They don't usually do this, but then again, we've been unpredictable as well. These two rulers might not be the only ones. Our information is patchy. We don't have the old net.”

Lucifer sighs. Their stormy situations have had an impact throughout the Realms; the vacuum left in their wake was a breeding ground for fear. Heaven's decline caused panic as the balance was damaged and other inhabitants of the world were left with the dreadful option of destruction if they were to genuinely fall and Hell took over the Universe.

Heaven was quickly gaining back power, and the news of their planned alliance with the royals of the greatest fae nation were garnering a lot of attention. They'd needed to; a number of Hell gates were located primarily in their territory. Heaven could neither invade to guard those, nor could it spare the resources. If they could however convince their people of the danger Hell still posed with their brittle, lawless aristocracy, the riots and possible escape attempts in the near future, they wouldn't have to guard the gates at all. Fae could do it instead.

One doesn't, however, just do something like that without backlash. The possible shared power given to the nation is sending the heads of other lands into panic. The biggest territory aligning with the magnanimous, presumably unbeatable force that is Heaven, is disconcerting.

“While this doesn't seem probable, I believe we can put those suspicions to rest with the correct additions to our speech,” Lucifer points out calmly. “The main point I'm currently set on is allying against a shared enemy and mutual help. I can easily move the emphasis on the new era of connectivity and of improving our system, and can extend our hand to the Fair Folk as a whole, not just one nation.” She waves a hand around, hearing the tap of Liwet's automated pen. “Promotion of peace, wellfare, friendship. Some positivity.”

“What I fear,” Ophaniel responds, “Is that these seemingly harmless alliances will lead into disagreements. If not for us, for Affalach, and all sorts of hasty mistakes might get made. I don't realistically believe that any of their leaders would try and hold a Hell mouth against us, but smaller inconveniences are likely.”

“It's not realistic,” Gabriel interrupts them both. “Won't happen. Even if Lucifer's speech isn't as rousing as usual, the fair folk doesn't react that way. I didn't call the meeting to discuss preventative measures with you, but because I have some long-term plans for solid relations in the next few centuries.”

Lucifer leans back in her chair and nods for her to continue, trusting the archangel with more experience.

Gabriel grips the papers she brought with her and gestures with them around the room. “Alright, Lucifer's suggestion is good, and you should do that,” she starts, “I'll look it over. Now, before I pitch this, you need to think in the right frame of reference.”

She points at the map. “Don't think of them as humans. You've just considered the option of a fae revolt like there's a chance it'll happen. It's slimmer than slim. They don't make the same mistakes, their high society or their crime and vice is nothing like the corrupted frosting on Earth.”

“They're mortal,” Araqiel suddenly comments, frowning.

“Sort of,” Gabriel sighs. “You equal mortals with humans and you assume they have the same level of self-absorbance. Humans would start fights because they have no perspective of their own place in the Universe. Fae don't have that problem,” she enunciates, “They consider themselves crème de la crème of aristocracy, but they don't think they're powerful. They've got a very good idea of where they sit.

“If this is mutually beneficial, everyone will do it. There'll be no rebellious rogue groups. They won't fight each other, either. These two made this alliance,” she adds, tapping the map, “Because they're worried Affalach will be passive aggressive about their special ally and people will increase trade with them. And they're wary of our violent, vengeful ways.”

“I see,” Ophaniel nods slowly. “I suppose we shouldn't underestimate their capabilities and understanding. What is your suggestion?”

“I want to extend my plan on dealing with Purgatory to the Faerie, and I want to improve on it,” Gabriel says decisively. “We need more social connections, more involvement in everyone else's society. And by that I mean, we should lower ourselves further. We should connect outside of Heaven deeper than alliances with other figureheads. And I have a number of ways to approach this.”

“What would that do, other than destroy the image we've been maintaining for millennia?” Zuriel asks in slight confusion. “By remaining removed and unknown, we also had the reputation of being untouchable and too alien to consider being hostile against. We've had no problems.”

“We could afford all that and keep it up because we were actually untouchable,” Gabriel responds. “We don't have the strength to be isolated anymore.”

“But at least the scope of our damage has been kept relatively secret,” Ophaniel points out. “What would the other Realms do if it was public knowledge?”

“Most of them, nothing,” Gabriel says, putting an emphasis on the last word. “We're assuming people are a lot more daft than they are. Sure, most pantheons hate us. But if Heaven falls, the other Realms would fall too. We're the ones keeping the order intact,” she points out, “Anyone with self-preservation would root for us when it comes down to it.”

They consider what she's said for a moment, and Lucifer slowly points around the fae map. “So what you're suggesting is a further overhaul of our current plans on future engagements. You'd like Heaven to be known and 'approachable.'”

“Yes,” Gabriel nods, “We already have a deal with the reapers, we're about to ally ourselves with the fae and we have Purgatory's head clans in the works. But we should look at the old religions, Eve's first children. They have a network on Earth, they could help us keep it in check.”

Lucifer thinks back to the vampire Alpha; he was reasonable and would likely agree to an alliance if he got something out of it as well. If they could get him on their side, they could then go directly to Eve herself as one of the Leaders in Purgatory.

The fae will be remarkably easy to work with, she realises, especially in comparison to what dealing with the monsters might look like. The fae races have one of the most stable, refined social systems. Their population has a numerus clausus that varies by fifty lives at most, thanks to their longevity and sacred status of children; there's likely only about fifteen of them in the entire Affalach region.

Humans have started countless wars for comparatively pointless reasons in the past millennia. Fae, as differently inclined creatures of a differently given Will, have had just about twenty mild spats, excluding a civil war in Affalach over equality, when the revolution saw a switch from a triarchy to a fourarchy. Fae didn't fight by killing each other, and murder was an offence that was punished with sentences the likes of permanent banishment from the realm.

Gabriel is right.

“Well, we knew our system would go through many drastic changes,” Lucifer says, dropping a hand back to the table. “Gabriel's judgement is the most reliable, and how she handles our external policies is her choice as ambassador.” She nods at her youngest nestmate. “If you think this is how Heaven should start operating, than we'll change our laws. And I'm sure everyone would like to learn how this will eventually look like in practice.”

Gabriel gives her a light smile before looking thoughtfully at the table. “Social involvement includes a lot of cooperation. How we will contribute to each greater force we join up with will depend on them to an extent. For fae, they'll likely demand insight into matters of Universal state and protection in case of Hell's attack. First, we'll extend our line of defense to include the Faerie; they'll guard the mouths for us. We'll provide them with some sturdy divine wards.”

She claps her hands together. “Now, this is just the start. This past month, I've been drafting up a plan for the next two centuries! I want to establish new bridging between realms in order to make them accessible, excluding the terrestrial plane.”

She picks up the papers she brought and unravels them into an improbable size over the table. Lucifer stares at the intricate plans and terms with a mixture of awe and unease.

“We will propose the idea of a universal union. Think better EU style, new realm connectivity. No more isolated worlds. We'll first build heavily regulated gateways in order to create trade, share culture and work together, and eventually make it more widely available. We will bring the borders closer to each other.”

She points to one of the areas in her masterplan in thinly veiled excitement. “This will grow and evolve with the Universe as Father and Aunt will slowly rebuild and reshape it into balanced Light and Dark. We already know he's helping her plan out her own Realm, and we'll align Heaven with it. Our worlds will soon be facing new, never before seen species, ideas, and improvements! This information should be out there, and leaders choosing to join with us get a front seat.”

Lucifer leans forward, memorizing the words she reads. “How would Hell fit into this union?”

“Glad you asked!” Gabriel exclaims. “We've really scored a jackpot with Dagon. We'll put aside time to help her execute her own overhaul, and have her line up with our own plans. Dagon will probably be making long term plans for it with us in no time.”

She raises a finger, curls bouncing. “Even reformed, Hell can still fulfil its current function. It's a giant beast of a realm, and depressingly empty for all its space. Besides,” she points out, “We won't be fighting over humanity forever. Looking at their recent path, their time as a species is coming to a close. Whether in the next few centuries or next few years doesn't make a big difference.”

“Unless the new balance affects them as well,” Lucifer reminds. “New energy filtering, and their usual soul responses to the Universe's situation, they might stabilise. Their capacity for Good and Evil might change with Father and Darkness united.”

“If they do, they're still a wildcard, and we can't jeopardize everyone by including them in this. They're a too xenophobic species,” Gabriel shrugs. “Unless the monster world and humanity naturally merge like they haven't managed so far, they should be kept in the dark. But given their track record, this won't happen.”

She's met with agreement. Humanity was too disorganized to repair even its own problems. Humans were more civilised than Hell or Purgatory, but they showed a lot more bigotry amongst themselves where other worlds didn't tend to. Their oppression of the supernatural demonstrated well enough how they react to something as alien as a different sapient species, and their conviction that it somehow doesn't exist was a show of incredible self-deception. From a rational point of view, the way anything Other functions on Earth is absolutely mental.

If humans were given access even just to political opinion, they'd bring their usual corruption into Universal politics as well. Wars would break out the moment the Outside would introduce itself as they'd start fighting each other, and then everyone else as well. It would be pure chaos.

Perhaps they can one day remove the Earth's monsters from the planet entirely, return them to their own realm and seal humanity off from everything supernatural. It would create what most humans already believe to be a normal world. No magic, no strangeness. Lucifer frowns slightly in thought. If they recreate and better Purgatory as they plan to, the Earth alphas might even demand something like this.

If Purgatory becomes the proverbial Israel for the species living in the brutal underworld of Earth, they might collectively choose to live in what would be considered their own place, instead of plowing through life oppressed and hiding until they're killed.

In fact, Heaven might just go along and suggest this to Eve. She'd be delighted to see a better future in store for her children.

Lucifer packs the idea up and sends it to Gabriel while Ophaniel talks. She's met with intrigue and immediate rushing of thoughts from the Messenger.

Lucifer leans back and listens as Gabriel further explains the building of gateways and implementation of new policy, and even whips out a detailed sketch of what an 'inbetween place' might look like. The amount of new structure that would be necessary, reshuffling of their current underlying world foundations and expansive planmaking is startling.

It's the most extreme change Lucifer has seen since Father first created the planes of existence.

Then again, this is Gabriel, after forty millennia of jumping through worlds and absorbing their culture like a sponge. If anyone can help them pull it off...

She follows along for the whole thing and then begrudgingly excuses herself towards the end, when Gabriel would want feedback, ideas and comments before creating a final presentation to broadcast to the whole Host.

'Where you gotta go?' Gabriel asks her as she stands up, in a series of short notes.

'Dean and I are meeting someone from way back,' Sam smiles, slipping through the door.

'Mysterious,' Gabriel comments. 'Well, have fun. Unless this isn't a fun thing.'

'We'll see.'

* 

“There you are,” Dean grumbles when Sam finally lands in the war room. “Dude, I told you to be here way earlier.”

Sam shrugs. “Work. I'll go back soon after we're done, too. You just picked a day like it, I barely have time as it is.”

Dean sighs and nods. At least he's the only one who needs to get ready for this kind of stuff, Sam just has to appear. But he doesn't want to be late for Missouri; she'd probably wipe the floor with them if they failed to show up when they promised they would.

“Alright. Now, no offense,” he says, pointing at Sam, “But I'm not taking the time to explain to her why you don't have a dick, so change back before we leave.”

Sam makes a face, partway offense. “I don't need a dick to talk to her.”

“It's extra confusion, and you look even more... non-Sam like. And it's freaky.”

“It's not,” Sam protests.

“Okay.” Dean frowns at him, “Are you so attached to gender that you'll argue some liberal shit at me right now? If we're going to talk to Missouri you'll be a dude.”

Sam works his jaw at him for a good few seconds before scoffing. “Fine. Asshole. I'll be mad at you for this later, now let's go. You better not be thinking about anything embarrassing while we're there, by the way.”

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs his wallet and phone. Just before he can go up the stairs he turns around, morbidly curious to see what it looks like when Sam switches teams.

He expected a longer transition, but he almost misses everything when it happens in a matter of seconds; if he wasn't Dean, he might just think he saw wrong. There's no accompanying bone crunching sound or pop; Sam simply gets taller, structure subtly morphing like a smooth animation.

Dean lets out a whistle as Sam grouchily adjusts the length of his clothes. Girly clothes, still. Dean will bring it up on the way.

“Yeah, yeah,” he hears him grumble as he moves past him so that Dean can lock the bunker door.

“Fly us in on the street somewhere, and we'll walk some of the way,” Dean tells him, adjusting his jacket in mental preparation.

“Fine,” Sam nods in agreement. “By the way. I don't know Missouri's exact range, just that it reaches out into her backyard. We'll walk a few blocks.”

He wraps a hand around Dean's bicep and extends his wings, the lowest pair reaching around Dean's waist. Dean inhales and holds his breath, and Sam flaps.

The world blacks out, Dean's skin tightens and his organs tense up in alphabetical order, and he blinks his eyes open to a foggy street. He leans out from behind the telephone booth, checking if anyone saw them.

Sam walks out onto the sidewalk, decidedly out-of-place looking with his ethereal wings folding onto his back. Dean can recognise where they are by the bitterly familiar houses and walks past him to the right. “She can't read your mind, right?”

“Nope. Maybe she'll catch echoes of colour, if she's that strong. I've never fully seen her before.”

Dean nods. Sam can't shield him because it'd be a huge red flag for the woman, but it's good his angelically Voiced thoughts can't fry her. “And please, make your blouse thing into something manlier,” he adds when Sam falls into step beside him. “Remember this is an older lady.”

“Remember Dean is an older straight guy,” Sam mouths at him. “And can't handle rosewood #9e4244.”

Dean just groans, conceding that this is a lost battle. They walk down the block until Missouri's house comes into view and he wipes away nervous sweat. The mind reader already knows they're here, and as usual, she'll likely pick the last five years out of Dean's head by the time they get to the front door.

He presses the doorbell once they're on the porch, and he settles back to wait. Sam silently stands beside him, squinting at the flower decorations.

Missouri doesn't come out for about five minutes. She looks almost the same as Dean remembers her when she opens the door, same stern, but not unkind eyes, with a woollen cardigan wrapped around her frame. 

“Hey,” Dean greets her suspicious eyes, “Hope we're on time.”

Missouri looks at him for a moment, lips in a line. “Now gimme just a minute,” she mumbles, and closes the door on them.

Dean stares at the wood as the neighbourhood goes silent. He does so for a minute or two, then sighs. “Well... okay. We knew it would happen eventually. Let's not push it.” He resigns, looking backwards and away from the porch.

He turns halfway around to leave before Sam gently stops him by the shoulder. “Wait,” he says.

Dean exhales and turns back around. 

The lock clicks and Missouri opens again with a face of steel.

“You changed your mind,” Dean says in surprise.

“You're a tad stupid, boy,” Missouri tells him, squinting, glancing at Sam. “But not that stupid.”

Dean nods in confusion. Missouri opens the door wider and points inside. “Come in. And if he touches any of my china, you go right back out.”

Dean awkwardly shuffles inside, turning around to see Sam stepping into the house with a long, equally hesitant step with a wide berth around the old psychic, immediately giving the impression that Missouri's authority extends past ascension to Heaven.

He toes off his shoes and leaves his jacket on the hanger, then obediently puts his feet into his assigned slippers before sliding over to her cozy living room. He waits for Sam to join him on the couch, seeing that he's nonetheless rejected slippers in favor of being barefoot, and waits for the lady to sit down opposite them. 

She does so with a heavy sigh, and clasps her hands in front of herself. Dean almost imagines a rosary there out of pure concern for how this will go, but the only religious piece he can spot in the room is the wall crucifix.

“It's been a while,” Dean says, trying to break the ice.

“Certainly has been,” Missouri agrees, and Dean's guilty to see that she's a little shaken. Her attitude, though, is as sturdy as ever. Missouri nods her head at Sam. “Does he talk?” She asks Dean, probably sarcastically.

“Yes, all the time,” Sam answers.

Dean hopes to God this doesn't go to shit. Make it not go to shit, he prays.

Missouri gives Sam a long look. “So. You'd be the devil?”

Sam frowns. “...I guess.”

Technically, Dagon is, now, but Lucifer's reputation is too deeply rooted into a large part of the world for this to change. Even if he's on Hell's Most Hated list at the moment, congrats to him.

Missouri nods resolutely. “Well. You're as white as I thought you'd be.”

If she'd served them tea, Dean would be spraying it all over the table, but instead he just desperately holds in snickers.

Sam blinks at her in equal parts amusement and befuddlement. “... Fair enough,” he says.

“About this psychic we found two months back,” Dean starts, collecting himself, “Magda.”

Missouri squints at Sam for another moment and then looks back to Dean, clearly disgruntled that she's expected to just roll with an archangel in her living room with no lengthy explanation for how he's there. “How old is she?”

“Just turned eighteen,” Sam says, which is good because Dean forgot.

Missouri hums. “That changes the picture a little. Our abilities, and how they can be shaped, depend on how old we are.”

“She's unusual in that regard,” Sam nods, “Hers only appeared some three years ago, at least in this measure.”

Missouri's face wrinkles a little more in thought. “Rare thing. Something must've pushed her, then. Things so strong never just appear outta thin air.”

“Something supernatural?” Dean asks quickly. It was like that for Sam; it might show Magda's powers as something trickier, and maybe sinister.

“Not necessarily,” Missouri shakes her head. “Can be a big life change, or something traumatic that happened. It's not always magic, Dean. I'd advise you boys don't push her to tell you.”

“That's alright,” Sam agrees. “To get down to it, it's not primarily practice she needs. That's not why we emailed you.”

“It would be amazing, if you were up for it,” Dean cuts in, “But. We know it's shitty if we come here after a decade asking you to take a student.”

“You just want her to meet me,” Missouri guesses.

“Yes,” Sam says hesitantly. “Magda has a... poor view of her abilities. She has some control, but she's receiving too much stimuli to handle safely. And she doesn't actually know this is an option yet. I wanted to make sure it is before I tell her, because I think meeting another psychic and seeing that she's not alone would help her more. More than... just seeing me,” he adds awkwardly.

Dean grimaces. From Magda's perspective, she's been told she's the devil, freed suddenly from actual torture, and now the supposed devil has just pushed into her life like an enthusiastic battering ram. Nevermind that Lucifer's trying to help in his nowadays usual sasquatch way. There's a chance he's doing more damage on accident.

Missouri is the only psychic he could think of to help her; the rest are dead, sadly. Pamela could've stepped in, Dean remembers guiltily. 

“I'll present this idea next time I'm there. If you're up for it, of course,” Sam finishes, gesturing at Missouri.

“But don't push with this,” Dean suddenly says to him. “You were there once, she needs to settle down. She might not be up to do this.”

“It would just be a meeting,” Sam says skeptically. “No commitments. Just to see being psychic is... a thing.”

“Not about Missouri,” Dean shakes his head. “You. She doesn't know you well enough, she's going to need more time to adjust, and you just appeared out of nowhere trying to do all this for her. I know how you feel about her psychic situation and about the whole devil shtick they put her through. But she doesn't understand the personal stuff you pinned to this.”

Sam winces, eyes flitting towards Missouri for a split second, and Dean regrets saying this now instead of in private. This has to do with Sam trying to reconcile his own trauma, prove both to himself and Magda that he's not a bad person, a decidedly personal thing. Dean's a huge factor in said trauma. He tries not to think about it, remembering that Missouri's a mind reader.

“Good point,” Sam finally decides to say, then turns away from Dean and the topic to address Missouri. “So, uh, would you give us a call, if you decide to help?”

Missouri leans back in the recliner. “I ain't gotta decide nothing,” she says firmly, and for a second Dean is sure she's about to throw them out of the house. “The girl you're thinking of is hurting. You're asking for her, not yourself, and I ain't petty. I'd love to help her.”

Sam releases a relieved breath. “That's great, thank you.”

“But I'm mad at you two,” Missouri suddenly says, narrowing her gaze at them, “I don't hear anything from you in years, and the next time I see you, you want something from me. And no telling me about this one, either,” she huffs, pointing at Sam.

Sam shrugs. “You can imagine people around here don't tend to have a positive reaction. You were a Catholic one.”

“Sorry we didn't keep in contact,” Dean apologises.

Missouri simply nods to Dean, eyes on Sam, a stiff hand at the hem of her clothes. “I've always been a believer. I see, though, I might have to reevaluate some things. Seeing as the scene is quite different than I might've thought.”

Sam gives her a look of discontent, mildly apologetic. “Talking to us and keeping your faith as just a belief sadly isn't mutually exclusive. You're in the know, now.”

Dean startles inwardly a little, not even having considered that they'd broken the woman's faith.

Missouri gives the archangel a hesitant nod. “It's a gift. That's how I'll see it.”

“If you need a question answered, you can send us an email,” Lucifer offers her after a pause.

“I might take you up on that.” She stands up. “Now, I'm going to make some tea, and we'll talk something other than business. You've got a lot to tell me. I can't be expected to pick everything out from Dean's head.”

Dean awkwardly smiles at her, and leaves her to make tea on her own. Everyone they've met took this kind of break in conversation to collect themselves, and she needs a minute, too.

They end up staying for an hour until Missouri gets a client, during which Dean talks more than Sam, telling her about their recent years and asking about her life, when she's willing to share. He skips over some things, but she likely sniffs out what was left. Like always, she doesn't point it all out, unless it's lighthearted and safe.

Given that Sam corrects his sleeves every five minutes or so, he's a little uncomfortable, and doesn't particularly cling to the room when two women show up for a reading.

They leave with a final thanks, and Dean directs them to walk around the neighbourhood for a while longer.

It feels like a lifetime since they've been here, and Dean's thoughts are cast back to the old days of searching for dad, when Azazel was the biggest bad they faced. Nothing can really touch them now, and their past selves seem like children.

Sam is decidedly quiet while Dean is reminiscing, and he can sense the angel's fuming about something. It doesn't take him long to open his mouth about it.

“So what was that about me being insecure and pushy?” Sam asks pointedly.

“I didn't say that,” Dean retorts.

“That's what it sounded like and that's what Missouri heard,” Sam shoots back.

“I meant,” Dean enunciates, “That Magda has religious trauma. And with you there, there's a big chance she thinks she's gone crazy. If you didn't show up again, in a week she'd be sure you were a fever dream she thought up to deal with the abuse.”

Sam works his jaw. “That's not all you meant.”

“No,” Dean agrees. 

Sam looks to the side, the joints of his wings pressed close and slightly forward. Dean's learned a lot about wing body language in the last year, so he can tell what Sam's feeling. He decides some light brotherly banter is in order. “Besides, you look weird as hell,” he mutters.

“Sorry?” Sam says, even though he heard him just fine with those angelic ears.

“Meh, you know,” Dean meanders dismissively. “You're not showcasing a lot of material with those clothes, weedy. If you lifted weights every once in a while-”

“That makes no sense. I don't change.” Sam pouts, glaring even more pointedly at the street and freaking out a passerby on a bike. 

“Mhm,” Dean hums teasingly. “But you still look weird.”

“This body was recrafted by the Lord, I look beautiful,” Sam retorts. “There is nothing on me that isn't perfect.”

Dean snickers noisily, which Sam ignores, and he lets silence reign for a few long moments. “And now you're butthurt.”

“I'm not butthurt.”

“Sure you aren't.”

Sam glares daggers at the Kansas windows, and Dean reaches over to mess up his hair. Sam swats him away with a displeased sniff, his unfurled wings ruffling. He angrily smooths the coverts down, slightly conspicuous to the few people who might see him petting empty air.

Dean watches him go back to looking polished, and sighs as they round a corner. “I don't want you doing this for the wrong reasons,” he tells him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” Dean says, “It's what I meant before. You're going out of your way to help this girl. And I know you, I can connect the dots. She's a hurt psychic, religious, she thinks you're a villain... all the boxes are checked.”

Sam works his jaw. “So?”

Dean sighs. Sam's really going to be obstinate, just when Dean's the one choosing to poke at deep stuff for once. The archangel in him often underestimates just how much Dean understands him.

Magda is just a hurt girl, a coincidental bystander that Lucifer inexplicably wants to redeem himself to. Not redeem, perhaps, but prove that he isn't what the world thinks of him, and through her, and her repaired view of him, to humanity. It's a lot of pressure to put on her, and he's already knees deep in it.

“Just that you don't have to prove anything,” Dean shrugs.

Sam exhales, manifesting a jacket between two steps and sticking his hands into the pockets. Dean makes a cursory check to see if anyone's noticed.

“I just want her to have a better life than I had,” Sam mumbles, “As... just. They used my name to hurt her.”

“I know,” Dean says softly. “I'm sorry. I just meant that you should help her for her. Not for your own insecurity.”

Sam sniffs as Dean says this, easily offended. “Ah, of course. My elitist, speciesist self would never help this human if my issues weren't involved.”

“That's not- you're putting words in my mouth, I didn't mean it like that,” Dean snaps.

“Sure you didn't,” Sam grumbles immaturely.

“Yeah. I wasn't trying to attack you,” Dean rolls his eyes. “But since we went there, if you put a little more time of what you spend on vanity projects on some therapy for that, maybe people wouldn't have to assume you're an entitled prick.”

He takes a few more steps before turning back, seeing that Sam's stopped on the sidewalk. Just seeing his expression makes Dean immediately regret what he just blurted.

“You think that.” Sam states blankly.

“That was too harsh,” Dean says quickly. “I was angry, it just came out, I'm sorry. It's fine, Sam.”

Sam presses his lips into a line. “Sure.”

“I mean it. C'mon.”

He gets an eyeroll in return. “Whatever. I'm glad to know your opinion.”

Dean makes a frustrated groan. If he escalates this he doesn't want to be left stranded in this town without a car. “I'm not fighting with you. If you want, we'll talk about it. Or not.”

Sam exhales an angry hiss at him, and Dean can see him mentally wringing his hands as he moves back to continue walking together.

“I don't want you thinking I'm shallow,” Sam mumbles discontentedly.

“I don't think that,” Dean says. “I didn't say shallow.”

“It's what you meant.”

“You're so fucking bull-headed,” Dean tells him. “Christ. Get over it.” Sam looks away out of sheer stubbornness. If Dean's words didn't hit something or ring a little true, though, he wouldn't be acting this way. Sam's the digger of his own grave most days.

Dean's never thought of him as a shallow person, because Sam could never be described that way. Lucifer's strange vanity is a whole other ballpark.

They walk half a block more together.

“I do feel real sympathy for her,” Sam mutters, unable to bear the thought of Dean thinking badly of him.

“I know. I can tell.” Dean reaches over to pat his arm. 

Sam gives him a sideways glance. But he doesn't say anything.

The tension lets up, and Sam grabs onto Dean's bicep to fly him back home. Then he leaves to return to his never-ending work. Dean feels sometimes like Sam has more of it every week, like he's busier, and time he spends with Dean narrows into breaktime gaps.

He hopes it's really just the mounting things Heaven is planning out, and not Sam distancing himself.

In any case, Dean might as well go back to work, himself.

Chapter Text

Gabriel takes a sip of her sweetened coffee and rolls the molecules around on her tongue. Not half bad, although she'd had better in Greece. They might be bankrupt these days, but their food still slaps.

“It's getting somewhat uncomfortable,” her friend laments with a look over the veranda. “Gas prices rising. Everything getting more expensive. It's not that bad here, I suppose, but I like my living comfortable and easy. I like the work I'm doing,” she gestures outside with her head, even though her flower shop isn't visible from the café.

“You're old enough to deserve it,” Gabriel agrees.

Vasja tsks her tongue at the angel. “I'm sorry. Not all of us seem to be getting younger.”

For being almost three hundred, she's holding up well, Gabriel muses. Demigods rarely lived eternal lives, especially not before a human murked them.

Gabriel shrugs, twining her fingers cheekily into caramel curls before leaning forward. “Go on.”

“I asked my counsellor about a long term real estate plan with how things are looking. I'm thinking, I spend most of my time here, except when I drive to Pula to see Lili, and she's almost done with college. I like the modest setup I've got here, and I'm not using most of my property, discounting what I rent out. I'm selling my west lodge to this young couple, and I'm passing my house in Makarska to Lili. She'll probably sell it a few years down the line. Wants to move up north.”

“Aw, it was a nice place,” Gabriel frowns, “But I get it. Not worth hiring a cleaner if you use it once every few years.”

“Exactly.” Vasja leans back in the chair with a heavy sigh. “I'll have to clean out the basement. Been putting it off for too long.”

“Not giving it to your girl? Some of the knickknacks you've kept have to be valuable. Even I liked to keep a gold ring.” *

“I keep her out of these things. Best she doesn't get involved with my old life.”

“So nothing ever sprung up with her?” Gabriel frowns. She supposes it makes sense. Quarter gods didn't tend to stick out; nothing dilutes deities quite like human blood. Since Vesna's passing, even her daughter's meagre abilities have abraded with time.

“No. I thought it might, but the chances something will emerge are too low now. It's not a bad thing.”

Gabriel thinks it's sad. But sharing the fate most gods suffer is sadder. She understands.

“I'll drive over next weekend and clean it up. Damjan will help me.” Vasja sets her cup down and smiles. “Want to come over then? He makes a great Moscow mule.”

Gabriel hums. “Sure. I'll see if I can make it.” She taps her nails on the wood. “You know, a sibling of mine would be very interested in sifting through your basement.”

“Which one? I haven't met any of your first family before.”

“Lucifer,” Gabriel says. At Vasja's shift in discomfort, she waves a hand away. “The name comes with teeth these days, but he doesn't bite. I think you two would get along.”

And Lucifer would benefit from more contact outside their direct family. It's been going on half a million years since he's bothered to make friends outside his flock, and his remaining acquaintances died during his imprisonment, if nothing else, from old age.

Outside of Sam's old friends, most of which deserted the brothers when his new identity leaked, he hasn't even tried to meet people. Gabriel's a witness to him becoming a voluntary shut-in without realising (again), and perhaps meeting some of Gabriel's pals might encourage him to get some for himself.

It's a strange role for a younger sister to play, but if her siblings express motivation to go along with the Messenger's Grand Future Plans, they should get some practice.

“If you say so,” Vasja nods slowly, “I suppose it depends on which lens I'm looking through.” She snorts. “Excuse me, friend. The Christians have gotten to me.”

Gabriel laughs. “How terrible! And here I am, the picture of angelic innocence, I'm probably making it harder for you.”

The florist barks out a laugh. She's never been one of Gabriel's groupies from her pagan times, the mere thought seems inappropriate. Sure, the archangel had been with Vasja's mother a few times, but it'd always been closer to a friendship. When Vasja was born, she'd been more of an estranged uncle.

She sobers up and gives Gabriel a look. “I'm not the mainstream kind, but some things do echo far. Doesn't your brother hate Earth's pantheons? I don't think my 'half-breed status' makes it sweeter.”

“He'd never hurt a friend of mine. You might find him to be more open minded these days.”

Vasja hums in consideration. “If you say so. I'll trust your judgement on this.”

“Literally my job,” Gabriel shrugs with a smirk. So what if the judicial system's been in shambles since Lucifer took a tumble.

Vasja gives her a look. The angel blinks slowly, knowing the appraising gaze as her friend weighs her over in her mind again. She didn't feel particularly betrayed that Gabriel lied to her about her origins; she'd never been as much of a Loki around her either. It made the lie seem lighter.

“I'm happy you've reconnected, my friend,” Vasja tells her. “You were silent for quite a while.”

Gabriel tugs down the biker jacket she's wearing over her crop top. “I felt the need to take a break after I returned home. Like I pulled the plug on everything I built on Earth. I took me a while to see I didn't need to 'move on,' at least not from things that weren't harmful.” She picks up her frappe to take a thoughtful sip. 

“And your family supports you?” Vasja asks, a note of concern in her voice. “You'd allude sometimes to difficult bonds in our old talks. Perhaps it wasn't a guise.”

Gabriel smiles. “Nice to see you listen to the stuff I say. Nah, it was true. It's a complicated family, but we've been healing. I like my folks. I just can't stand it when they don't get along.”

“That's good to hear. You don't seem as troubled.”

“That's the new face,” Gabriel jokes.

“Of course. The lack of eye bags.”

“I really am doing well. Especially now that I'm rebuilding some links down here. I've enjoyed allowing myself to have the best of both worlds.”

Vasja smiles and nods. They pay for their drinks and step down the street, taking a stroll back to the shop. 

Gabriel's glad to still have somebody down here. Few of her old friends wanted anything to do with her after her secret identity was out of the bag.

Vasja at least came without strings, the result of a surprising shared history, and didn't mind her feathers so long as their talks stayed the same.

She escorts her right up to her front door and takes one last whiff of the vibrant bouquets and flowerpots before saying goodbye and taking off back towards Heaven with an assortment of Vasja's bright dahlias and blazing stars.

Fluttering up to her room, she slips inside and spins to close the door.

“Hullo,” she greets Lucifer, sprawled on her bed, and throws her jacket over a chair.

“Hi,” grumbles Lucifer, turning a page of a thick, old looking tome.

Gabriel empties the old flowers from her favourite vase with a snap and carefully drops in the new bouquet.

It smells like grass and oranges today.

Unlike Lucifer, who used his chambers to cater to studious pursuits with The Laboratory, Gabriel dedicated them to what she deemed to be the correct, obvious purpose: her hobbies. Not to discredit the fact that Lucifer very much considers his projects to be free-time activities, but Gabriel's interests outside work are vastly different.

If Gabriel dared to guess, she'd say Father compensated for the lion's share of creativity that was accidentally lost on the first two archangels by placing most of it onto her petite shoulders. 

In accordance, her rooms are an artistic catastrophe.

The place is the unconventional, colourful atelier de peinture one would expect if they ever witnessed what Gabriel did to her rooms in the palace. It's almost a workshop: glass and ceramic experiments mixed with spellwork and runestones; expressionism, abstract and Monet pastiche reflected in Gabriel's various paintings hung on the soft mint walls to spruce them up further.

It feels like the viewer's attention ought to be pulled in enough directions to make them cross eyed, or at the least, dazzle them into drooling.

Lucifer's laid down on the plush, round bed, hosting eight pillows (the rest she had to put on the couch). It's somewhat ironic that Gabriel is the one who "invested" in a bed, when Lucifer's technically the one who should install it, but the Lightbringer seems happy enough that there's something gloriously comfy he can crash on whenever he fancies a visit to Gabriel's Chamber of Wonders.

They've got nineteen more hours until they leave for Avalon, and Ophaniel has taken over the very last of relevant tasks, which gives them just enough time to prepare mentally for the coming pretentiousness. 

They're starting off a new political life by first dealing with the largest, most famous nation in the Elphyne: both because they own most of the Hell gates, and because they have by far the biggest influence over the other territories. If the coming summit is successful, they have a chance of soon entering alliances with the other governments.

They've been fussing over the details of how to act and look in front of the faerie court, how big the entourage should be, what gifts to offer in goodwill, which fae to make connections with… Still, despite the turbulent post-war political situation among the faeries, Lucifer is far more worried about Hell, and consequently so is everyone else.

“Whatcha readin?” she quips, rearranging the stems for a perfect fit.

Lucifer silently angles the book for her to glance over and see. Ynys Afallach: history and culture, revised. Gabriel is familiar, but has never made it through the whole thing, not that it's inaccurate. She just much preferred to learn by sneaking into the kingdom and nabbing their fine wine.

“You're not worried, are you?” Gabriel asks. “Your speeches are outlined to perfection, the route is sketched out. The royals have been really chill about this through the letters.”

She can't remember the last time Lucifer had ever expressed nervousness about his stage performance, but then again, it's been over forty millennia since he's done anything close to mass public speaking, or even facing a crowd of these proportions.

“It's the... court mannerisms and a very different set of social rules that concern me,” Lucifer says slowly, and Gabriel hops onto the bed next to him, shaking her wings out and setting off her porcelain wind chimes. “We'll come across as careless and ignorant if we don't adjust to the expected behaviour. And this is our most important impression. They've never seen us in vessels.”

“Communication has never been easier, or more complex,” Gabriel sings, flopping down on the bed to look at his book.

Lucifer flips again to page 167, proper conversational gestures, and skims over the part with advice about personal space. “If only they weren't such nit-pickers,” he murmurs.

“Mmh,” Gabriel mumbles. They're the two who are going; Lucifer as the Viceroy and most politically proficient, a badge he had to earn back these past weeks by cramming history of the Realms whenever he could, and Gabriel as Heaven's ambassador; the most approachable and communicative archangel. Not to mention her experience out in the field.

Gabriel rolls into a starfish position and pokes him. “You already studied this. Don't do it now. It's icky.”

Lucifer sighs and drops his forehead onto the page.

Gabriel repositions herself to comfortably observe her brother. “Is it just me, and it’s not, but have you been in a bad mood this week?”

She receives the stink eye, which quickly melts away at her slightly concerned expression. “Maybe. It’s not the negotiations or anything, or you.”

Take a wild guess, Gabriel snorts inwardly. Being so familiar with other people’s schedules and rhythm is quite the tool. “I thought you'd be with Dean right now,” she quips. “Get some time together before we leave for Avalon. We might be there for a good while.”

Summits with fairies are never fast paced; they might be there for over a month. It's not going to be anything like their bite sized, barking sessions with Hell meant to hold a fragile alliance together, and they have a great deal to discuss.

Lucifer makes a noncommittal grumble and squints at her. Of course, she’s right. “He knows.” He sniffs, frowning. “We've been off kilter again lately. I don’t want us to get into an argument before I leave for Dad knows how long.”

Gabriel is so good at this, seriously, it should be her job. “Is it the usual stuff?”

Shrug. “I think he's pretty used to any weirdness that crops up, especially the sketchy stuff, ‘cause he expects it. Me gender swapping myself is somehow the hardest thing he's had to get over in a while.”

Gabriel snorts. “I can see how that's true.” Dean is forty, after all, and has only heard of queerness in passing; which is what the equivalent in this case is, whether Lucifer perceives it like that or no.

“Well. I said it, he's okay with pretty much anything I also see as a given.”

“Thank fuck, then. It's been two years.”

“Yeah.”

Gabriel nods her head around a few times, waiting to see if he’ll say anything else. Now that he’s shared a little, she can tell there’s something he wants to open up about. Little waves of irritation disturb the calm lakes of his wings, and he’s fingering the pages of the book without reading any of the calligraphy.

He and Dean have a decidedly strange relationship nowadays, where they get along in the way a married couple does after twenty years of very difficult marriage. They try to be good friends, and they do so admirably most of the time (Gabriel’s certainly noticed they’re getting better at it every month), but it takes exorbitant amounts of energy to keep it up. They still lack communication, because due to how Dean especially was reared, the only time they really get anything done is after a massive argument. So instead, a lot of the time when an issue comes up, they sweep it under the rug.

“I feel tired of it, is all,” Lucifer finally says, brow knitted together.

“Of?” Gabriel prompts. This anger clearly isn’t directed at her.

“I've hated myself for so long,” Lucifer says, closing the book.

“I know,” Gabriel nods.

“I've coped in every way possible. And I'm tired of my mind constantly throwing criticisms at everything I do. I'm sick of overachieving and being perfectionist and pining for everybody's approval and feeling like I'm not enough. I'm over it, I'm genuinely happy.”

“I get that,” Gabriel says.

“I really am, I love my life, everything is going well. So I don't understand,” he says furiously, “why I can't quit it. Why can't I just master a healthy self-esteem, or whatever it is? Why is it so, so hard?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says in sympathy, “Maybe it just takes time.”

Lucifer stares at a wall for a good half minute, unblinking, letting dust particles land on his corneas. “It doesn’t feel right,” he complains. “Things are too good for me to still feel like this.”

That doesn’t sound like the right way to think about it to Gabriel. But he knows that, already. “And this is what you’ve been brooding over?”

Lucifer sighs. “Yeah. And then last week, Dean might’ve implied I should go to therapy. Not in a nice way.”

“What’d he say?” Gabriel snorts. “Get ye some therapy, poor traumatised shmuck?”

Lucifer works his jaw for a moment. “I act like an arrogant prick, apparently, because my self-esteem is fragile, and the genome project is just vanity.”

“Damn,” Gabriel blinks, “Ouch.”

The archivist rubs at his eyes. “It feels so gross to complain about him to you. He apologised. But I’m mad because he’s right about the first part. And maybe he’s right about the rest, too.”

Gabriel makes a face. “We all know you’re working on it. Nobody’s perfect, but you’ve put the most effort into self-improvement.”

The whole DNA thing… yes, most people can tell Lucifer’s trying to prove himself. Gabriel's very good at sniffing out little human quirks, so she noticed before the rest of the flock did, that Lucifer isn’t getting rid of humanity’s vessel purpose just to help Heaven. Nobody can tell more about human subtleties enrooted in Lucifer’s head (not even Lucifer) than Gabriel, who’s had a fun front seat to him figuring himself out for almost two years now.

Lucifer's relationship with the ensouled species is complicated in a way nobody's ever had it. He resents it, and he's unavoidably attached to it. The automatic compliance with human social norms, the way he breaches their taboo subjects, his new moral code when it comes to killing them, and the way his treatment of his own vessel moves slightly beyond just that are only the tip of the iceberg. He thinks of it as himself, to an extent, another form instead of a medium. Perhaps he's trying to break that link, prove that his intelligence goes beyond Heaven's need for humans; perhaps he’s doing it to expand himself past a container that keeps him entangled with a species he genuinely still does not like.

The latest private soap opera of his has been testing whether or not gender is somewhat important to him, and Gabriel sniffing out that it is. Human socialisation (specifically, John’s sexist upbringing) have messed with Sam just enough that he’ll argue with himself about it. It’s a little funny, a little concerning, and a little sad.

Should she poke about it? Maybe he’ll breach into private territory if provoked, but Gabriel doubts Lucifer’s inwardly sorted this out yet.

Therapy, though. That’s an interesting, even wise, thing for Dean to bring up. Especially given the hunter’s poor view of therapists.

“Have you given therapy any thought?” She asks slowly.

Lucifer looks at her as if she’s gone crazy. “What?”

“Yes, yes, blah blah, who would give therapy to an angel, blah. But have you considered getting any help for any of your problems?”

“Why?” Lucifer asks, genuinely confused. “For lack of confidence? Anxiety?”

Gabriel is the one who sighs this time. She’s just going to have to be blunt and brutal. “Sure. But also to talk through your fusion stuff, if you need to, the Mark, and to maybe work through Cage trauma.”

“But I don’t have any issues because of the Cage.”

Gabriel stares into Lucifer’s earnest gaze and needs a moment to realise he’s being perfectly serious with her. “Luci, I love you,” she says, discombobulated, “But look at my face, and repeat that one more time.”

Lucifer, who can somehow be both perceptive and blind, both honest and a master of self-deception, looks at her with his big sparkly grey eyes and thinks for a second. “I just meant, it doesn’t interfere with my life all that much. Perks of how Dad made us, y’know. I function just fine.”

Gabriel doesn’t know what to say. She hasn’t been this taken aback by her brother since… not even when he decided to keep his soul. That was somewhat predictable.

She’s seen him take care to handle his issues when they come around. He retreats when company is too overwhelming, he tries to hold back when he can’t handle loneliness and clings too tightly. He never locks doors, he’s removed them from his rooms in the palace. He overcrams his days to avoid boredom, he always has to sleep near someone. The evidence of his cage time psychosis litters his entire form, regardless of his attempts at hiding it, and Gabriel could in time figure out how many times her brother has tried to die by cataloguing the deepest scars and their age.

She could list every one of these things and continue with every struggle she can see to confront him. She won’t, but it’s momentarily tempting to do so. “How can you say that?” She asks after she’s gathered her thoughts.

Lucifer looks away and shrugs. “You didn’t see me when I got out of the Cage as a human. It was much worse. Dean had to have me committed. It was really bad back then. This just feels like normal life.”

“Oh,” Gabriel blinks. “I get why you didn’t say anything, then.” That’s a little horrifying. Of course, he didn’t seek help. He and Dean probably never discussed the Cage in the first place. Don’t be a dumbass, Gabby.

Lucifer shrugs again, clearly feeling lost in the conversation.

“Well, even just keeping a journal might be good,” Gabriel suggests, steering the topic forward. “Just because you’re better doesn’t mean you’re perfectly okay.”

“I’ve considered that. Might do it.”

Gabriel messes with her curls, thinking of how to lighten the theme and set them back into a more positive territory. “So, is Dean’s opinion why you’ve given up on your girl body already?” she asks light-heartedly.

“I didn’t say I gave up on it. I can switch when I want to.”

Hm, no dice. “Do you want to be male throughout the negotiations?” She asks. “I’m not asking just because. I need to know the clothing size.”

Lucifer blinks. “Why?”

Gabriel grins, rolls off the bed and almost drags him off by the elbow. Lucifer stumbles a little as he stands, watching Gabriel traipse over the room like a colourful butterfly.

“Leave your book and come here, nerd,” Gabriel calls over, moving her canvas from in front of the wooden closet door. Yes, she has a walk-in closet, there’s barely any space to fit her whole wardrobe.

“I thought only people on TV had these,” Lucifer comments, looking in behind her. Gabriel steps in and pushes a rack apart, revealing another small workroom behind it.

“What are you doing?” Lucifer asks, incredulous, as Gabriel starts rifling through fabric, trying to get to her mini home project through the result of her bad habit of throwing stuff around. The room is a distracting collage of clothing from every era, and the archangel is aware a historic fashionista would faint seeing it.

“Where did you even bring so much stuff from?”

“Many centuries of fashion and arts&crafts. Hold up,” Gabriel sighs, extending her grace and rearranging everything into its proper place, dressing two of her sewing mannequins into what she’s been working on.

Lucifer blinks multiple times at the clothing. “What’s this?”

“Still unfinished. But basically, I had free time, so I experimented combining flowy fae fashion with human clothing. They’re not technically robes.”

Lucifer circles the mannequins once, then takes a look again at the elaborate sowing over the shoulders and front. The silky fabric flows down to the knees, and in the back to the ankles; cinched at the waist where the chest and headwear can be more easily displayed. The fabric is patterned and embroidered where it needs to be, but overall simplistic; given how complex the cut is, she didn’t want the whole piece to be too busy. It’s appropriately loose and decorated to look royal.

“I didn’t know you were this knowledgeable about fashion,” Lucifer says in awe, carefully touching fabric, “Or this skilled at sewing.”

Gabriel rolls her eyes with a smile. “You've no idea of all the things I've put on while I was on Earth. Of all the Universal cultures, they change their fashion the fastest, and it's so diverse.” She snorts, for a moment succumbing to reminiscence. “I've had hair two meters long, I've kept a shaved head for a few years, I've worn so much jewellery it was hard to move, and I've danced naked with more tattoos than bare skin. I've been everything and everyone.” She frowns a little, sadly. “Wish you hadn't missed all of it.” 

Lucifer nods, his own little frown gracing his features. “These are gorgeous, Gabe.”

Gabriel looks away, flustered. “Thanks.”

“Did you mean for us to wear these during the negotiations?”

“Kinda. I planned to finish them now, and then make everyone put them on an hour before we leave, when nobody can say no.” Maybe. “I know fairies, they put a lot of weight on style. And similarities to their traditional court clothing are going to make them feel all honoured and flattered.”

“Huh.” Lucifer takes a closer look at the second design. “So that’s why you need to know my size.”

“Just for adjusting. I sew with grace, trust me, I’m lightning fast. Also,” she says pompously, “I trust that you’ll soon give us vessels with real wings. And I trust myself that I’m going to create angelic fashion around whatever design we agree on, and it’ll be fantastic and cool and beautiful.”

Lucifer snorts. “Deal. Prepare though, putting wings on bipedal apes is difficult.”

But Gabriel knows he’s planned it. She’s seen a sketch of grace wings overlapping (or rather possessing) ones of flesh and bone. Even if the skeleton will need drastic adjustments to make it functional, he’ll make it work. She gives him a thumbs up.

He smiles and looks thoughtfully at the clothing. “Fae tend to favour females, no?”

Women are the ones bearing children, which, morbidly, have great value in the fae realm. A woman will be more careful around strangers, and it's lead to an opinion that men are easier to trick, clear shown by the sheer number of men fairies lead astray or mess with.

Gabriel had spent so much time swamped in humanity's patriarchy that experiencing a species that lacked that was refreshing; like stepping into a spring day after spending hours in a stale, sweaty room and feeling like warm gunk caked on a kitchen sink filter.

However, the likelihood of Lucifer’s decision sparking discussions after the conferences is little, especially because fae didn't develop the social construct of gender the way humans did, and haven’t assigned them to angels. “They do, but it won’t have any impact here,” Gabriel answers, “How you present would only be a big deal on Earth.”

Lucifer hums. “The Avalonians are short.”

“Yep.”

Being a territory with little tolerance for minorities from other places, they mainly foster one species. Their notion of race and sex overlap, synonymous similarly to how being the same species equals being siblings in angelic culture. The particular kind they'll be dealing with has four races, distinct in appearance and all owning some set of cultural norms reserved for them. And all of them are in fact similarly tiny.

Lucifer scratches at his chin for a moment, then nods. “That’s two reasons already,” he says, and without further ado morphs smoothly into her newer form.

They don’t look a smidge more related than they just did, sadly. Lucifer always looks svelte and willowy, straight-haired and symmetrical and put together. They could not be more different if they tried, in looks, vessels and personality. Gabriel will always look up to the Lightbringer, despite her flaws and mistakes, but she hasn’t tried to copy her in billions of years.

At least the height difference is slightly less jarring. Gabriel enjoys being small, and designed her female body to be barely an inch over five feet. Lucifer is not her tallest brother, but her head not even reaching to his shoulders is sometimes irritating. Being that close to the door frame top must be a terrible existence, but height is the saving grace of intimidation for the Lightbringer, who’s dressing more and more as if nobody should ever ask manual labour of him, or Father forbid, ask him to lift something heavy.

Lucifer blinks sweetly. “You want to do the adjustments?”

Getting the left cut onto her is easy enough, and Gabriel does a little subtle reality warping to adjust the colours. She planned for them both to share a lovely shade of teal, and finding good complimentary tones is easy on someone like Luci. Gabriel likes to bring out the eyes, too, and Lucifer’s tilt towards whatever tone she’s wearing.

“If this goes as well as I’m hoping, we won’t have to juggle demons and fae at the same time,” Lucifer murmurs while Gabriel ponders footwear. “The sooner we wrap up, the sooner we can start pooling resources into helping Dagon.”

“And the sooner we can go to Purgatory,” Gabriel comments happily, “That’ll be fun. You and Eve will get along nicely I should think.”

“How so?”

Gabriel lightly kicks her with a foot, so she would lift a leg and put on some shoes. “You can bond over humans screwing up your families. You talk about that in a similar way. It’s why we’re tasking you with swaying her over to our side, edgelord.”

Lucifer sniffs. “Thank fuck not everyone who strolls past can tell who I am by my soul. Did you know Dean and I destroyed her corporeal body when she came to avenge her first children?”

“I did know that, Dean told me. And some of our sibs, it was a huge deal. Or somewhat of a big deal, whatever. I’m excited for Purgatory. They’re very fluid, we’ll probably get to see them go through a massive reform. Fae are too rigid to change like that.”

She steps back and admires her work. She’s damn good at what she does, for sure.

“It’s very nice,” Lucifer praises again, and Gabriel excitedly claps her hands together. “Yes! I’ll do your hair, too. It’ll look so sweet. As soon as I get my hands on the crew, too…”

“Be gentle,” Lucifer snorts. She glances back at the main room again, suddenly grimacing. “They don't still have those mandatory dances every single time there's a royalty meeting, don’t they?”

“Hm,” Gabriel scratches at her chin. “Pretty sure they do.”

Lucifer lets out a strained wail. “I don't have to dance, hopefully? Can't we just say I died under mysterious circumstances and sadly can't attend the festivities?”

“They wouldn’t expect that,” Gabriel comforts, even though the mental image is hilarious.

“They better never start,” Lucifer intones, shaking her arms slightly to move the fabric, and taking one last lengthy look at the outfit. “Get yours on, do the touch-ups, and we’re ready to make some allies.”

Chapter Text

Raphael carefully observes the restoration of Peleh’s arching bridges through Elim’s eyes, satisfied when the reconstructed lining falls back into place after years of dilapidation. The other team is diligently working on Heaven’s grand arena to make it appropriately operational for the coming matches, and the speed they’re working at is proof of how eagerly they await them.

She pulls away from her sibling’s mind and reconnects with her vessel. Overseeing reparations and directing her divisions into such tasks isn’t something she’s done in a while. This would’ve been Gabriel’s job, but he’s preoccupied with his role as ambassador and defence manager. Raphael doesn’t mind, and neither do her malakhim. Even if those are structures and not living beings, repairment is a role that comes naturally.

The coming celebrations have made quite the stir. Raphael and Michael hadn’t felt that such fun would be appropriate after the Fall, and it somehow fell out of tradition entirely. Angels weren’t allowed to let loose in joy and competitiveness, so this has been long awaited, and their successful negotiations are a perfect opportunity.

Raphael’s a little concerned over how it will go. Michael had gotten it into his head that the archangels participating in the activities would be a marvellous idea, and he was so excited about it that Raphael didn’t dare decline. Upsetting him now that he’s so unburdened and positive seems like a crime.

She looks out of the window of her office and into the red desert heaven outside. The family it belongs to is hidden out of view, but Raphael is getting bored of the scenery. She’ll switch it around sometime soon, perhaps for a nice pine forest.

The main hall is calmer than it usually is when Raphael passes through there, most siblings occupied with some task or other. She has her own work to do, most of it supervision, and she doesn’t mind some of the noise to be absent today.

Raphael has less to do nowadays, or at least it feels like it. Not only are the other lieutenants back, but they’re trusting their younger siblings with more responsibility. In the days where Raphael micromanaged, she felt worn down and exhausted, and the unethical things she did in secrecy when she wasn’t controlling everything left her constantly paranoid. Michael’s taken back some of the control she weaselled away from his hands and now functions like a different person, leaving her disoriented.

Letting him do his work without having a say in it feels… distressing. After the fall, Michael had been distant, and Raphael grew frustrated with his frazzled, frequent fuckups. He let her take the weight off his shoulders, and was apathetic when she took even more. Michael really couldn’t care less in his depression, so seeing him do his job is a sort of shock.

Gabriel, since coming back home, has taken on a lot of duties as well, most of their allying and outside communication managed by him, not to mention all the planning he does in-between. He’s working more than Raphael had ever seen him do. Everyone is.

The safes she walks to are predictably gloomy, despite the harsh lighting, and Raphael meets with Zuriel to check over the inventory. She barely manages to get her mind off things before Lucifer sticks his head through the steel warded, circular doors and prances over to her. Raphael puts on her best smile. “Hi, Luce. Everything going okay with Dumah?”

Lucifer nods distractedly, clearly uninterested in the work talk. His wings are oddly saturated with greens. “Like always. How is the inventory?”

“Nothing special,” Raphael murmurs noncommittally, and he doesn’t care to inquire further.

 “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?” Raphael blinks, setting the glass globe back with the rest of the items and nodding to Zuriel that he can mark it down.

“Well,” he smiles now, a little lopsided in a manner more befitting Gabriel. “The games are coming up, and I wanted to see if you’d come up to race the side trail with me.” He laughs, almost nervously. “I’m a little rusty, and it’d be fun to train together.”

Raphael almost asks why he can’t just do it by himself, but that’s rude. “You want to brush up on acrobatics?” It’s understandable. Nobody has said it to Lucifer’s face, but his flying skills aren’t what they once were. Raphael assumed he stopped due to injuries and only actively used his wings again in the recent years.

“Why not?” Lucifer shrugs. “Besides… I’ve, eh. Noticed you don’t like to spar with us. There’s nothing wrong with that,” he quickly adds when she winces, “I just thought it would be fun. Either way I’ll probably get my ass handed to me.”

“Sure, let’s do it,” Raphael agrees hesitantly, ignoring the last, nonsensical thing he said, knowing that’s just how he sometimes talks these days. “Not that there’s shame in losing to Gabriel.”

Lucifer huffs a short laugh. “Fair enough. I’ll call you later when you have time, okay?”

Raphael nods, and he turns around to hurry back out of the safe. It’s quite cramped and warded, so it falls into the category of places he can barely stand; but this is still the sort of interaction they always follow when another of their flock members isn’t present.

It always feels just this side of stressful to hang out with the Lightbringer with no buffer between them, even though they both try their absolute hardest to create authentically friendly conversations. Raphael finds her comfort zone in work topics and projects, which are also Lucifer’s safe zones, and their talking will flow smoothly as long as they faithfully stick to them. Helping Lucifer work on biomanipulation was Raphael’s way of improving their crumbled bond, but pushing it into deeper personal waters has so far been impossible.

Michael likes to imagine they get along perfectly well and paired them up for the tournaments. They’re going to participate in mel-f malprg, one of the most popular team-based games, and Michael has combined teams of two archangels and three seraphim. Despite logic commanding he pairs the best and worst flier together to even the scales, he suggested the healer join up with their long-lost sibling for old time camaraderie.

Raphael can easily handle work conversation with Lucifer. She’s made it through several family talks meant to resolve trauma in which she welcomed her big brother back into their nest and lives; ridiculous, as Lucifer returned first and singlehandedly started saving their realm from impending doom, so they probably should’ve been thanking him. Raphael’s been trying hard to compensate for old mistakes by choosing to spend time with him. But stuff like sparring has been just a smidge too violent for her to look him in the eyes and not think of a time she hoped he would just finally die and the whole apocalypse thing would be over.

Gabriel’s been encouraging her to talk about things more often, and it’s true that communication has so far been the key to improving their relationships. But Raphael would… rather not. Better not break things that work. Trying to be the Healer she once was is already taking all her strength and willpower—reaching the persona she once had, before she amassed her fair share of issues, was a Sisyphean task at times. Being warm, nurturing and compassionate is doing wonders for her self-image, but Father knows it’s difficult to get over everything.

She sighs to herself a little, earning a concerned look from the guard helping her, which she half-heartedly waves off. Instead, she picks up the next of the marked suspicious items and continues her inspection.

*

Raphael watches Lucifer dive between the sea stack part of the high trail, narrowly avoiding hitting the cliffsides with his primaries.

The younger archangel flaps a few times to keep her elevated vantage point above the difficult racing challenge the Host trained older angels on. Heaven was an expansive realm with many spheres, and this one, the most geographically diverse, also contained a lengthy flight path of obstacles and dives. This side led between the cliffs and stacks jutting out of a cloudy sea and demanded fast reactions and good manoeuvring.

They started the race together, but as soon as they were out of the stoop and encountered the first rapids, Lucifer fell behind and called for her to wait before Raphael could take a dive for the tunnels. Since then, Raphael soared on winds above the trail and made observations on Lucifer’s faulty techniques.

After a gruelling time of watching him struggle, Lucifer finally lands on one of the bigger ridges and aggressively shakes his wings out. The frustration is all hidden by the time Raphael lands nearby. ‘Any criticism?’ Lucifer asks, song strained and wobbly.

Raphael ruffles her feathers. ‘Your swerves are slow. You need to improve your reaction time.’

Anxiety twists inside her; should the critique have been lighter? Had a compliment? A joke surely wouldn’t have been appropriate with something so important to Lucifer’s self-esteem. She waits for any sign of annoyance from Lucifer, but it does not come.

‘I will try. Practice makes progress, I should put more time into it.’  

A few of Raphael’s eyes trace down the bends of Lucifer’s blinding wings. When she first saw him again, she naturally noticed the new colours first, the melted ice and the undulating ocean they shift into. Sometimes, a feather or two will match Raphael’s cobalt and royal blue tones perfectly. They’ve freely mentioned this before as Father redesigned this aspect of Lucifer’s form with full permission from the Lightbringer. But they’re also just slightly different in shape; primaries with wider slotting, broader secondaries. Lucifer is scarred enough that it’s even harder to notice, but with enough looking one can see that a lot of his features have changed in the subtlest of ways, even the shape of his faces.

Apparently, that’s a having-a-soul thing, so nobody brings it up. Alas, sometimes it’s necessary. ‘Get more used to the air flow between your tips if you want to utilize it to its full extent.’

Lucifer unfurls a wing and lets out a strange, disgruntled sound. ‘I know, I know.’

Raphael shrugs. ‘You will not make that much progress by the time the match starts. Set some time aside in the future to get familiar with flight again. Gavrīʾēl is the best at it, they might be able to help you more.’

‘I do not want to embarrass myself in front of all our siblings. Already everyone can see my injuries. They might think I am less competent.’ Lucifer seems bitter and angry, saying this. The sudden introduction of a sensitive topic catches Raphael off-guard.

‘Our siblings would not think that. They trust you with their lives.’

Lucifer doesn’t say anything back, letting the silence become stilted and heavy.

‘You could step out of the match,’ Raphael suggests slowly, ‘Or we could switch teams. You could be paired with Gavrīʾēl instead.’

He scoffs slightly. ‘Stepping away would make it worse. And I will not drag anyone down, least of all Bri.’

Raphael has nothing to sing to that, so she turns away to look at the Trail beneath them.

‘You should return, Rəp̄āʾēl,’ Lucifer thrills soon. ‘I will continue on my own. I am sure you have work to do.’

Raphael is relieved to be let go, and wishes her sibling luck before flying off.

Any one of the flock understands Lucifer better than she does. Gabriel has become a brilliant listener and has lent an ear to all of them, Raphael included. He would know exactly what to say, and wouldn’t skirt around past mistakes. Michael, despite being awkward with words, is a comforting presence with wings always open to embrace.

Raphael feels like a stranger amongst them. Her nestmates had time to fix their grudges, and time spent with Father, all without the Healer. Not that Raphael wasn’t given the same, but she felt too late to it. She might not struggle with their duties or abilities, but her inner turmoil feels like it’s not noticed or shared by any of their nestmates. Climbing out of the spiral her life had ended in feels like it will go on forever.

Gabriel’s advice to deal with Lucifer has been to ‘talk to Lucifer’, and so has Father’s. Perhaps she should manage it sometime in the near future.

*

Raphael looks down upon the arena from their designated eyrie, raised and positioned for the best view of the contestants. The skies are loud with Song, a choir of cherubim chirping out excited exaltations, some to Father, some to the archangels, some to Joy, and even a few to their Aunt. The platforms are all decorated with colours, blooming flowers and ribbons of light, and Raphael sees Gabriel picking at one closest to him in nervous energy.

She’s picked seating next to Michael and has been generally sticking with the commander since everyone started gathering. Father has naturally picked the head spot with his Sister, and Lucifer is on their right, chatting up the darkness like they’re old friends with Gabriel on the ledge next to him. Raphael hasn’t spoken much with the Darkness, but Michael hasn’t either, so she hasn’t felt obligated to do so.

All their angels gather, and seeing them together puts into painful perspective yet again how few of them are left. The sea of vibrant, flashing wings should seem endless, true forms should be blurring together into an abstract painting of Light. Father leans over, great Hands encompassing their small family, and gives a celebratory speech, praising Heaven’s new successes and blessing their future, even commenting on their numbers rising one day in a new generation. He opens the tournaments and Gabriel momentarily takes to the skies above the grand arena.

They start off with a team of cupids performing a traditional skydance before moving on to sparring and manoeuvre games. Two competing pairs of seraphim climb the in-game ranks and create an especially heated cheering rave. Raphael doesn’t feel like being loud, but Michael and Gabriel are both cheering and so is Amara, attention rapt on quick angels. Father is clearly having fun as well, although his amusement comes from his Sister’s reactions rather than the angels vying for a win.

Halfway in, the cupid stationed behind their eyrie prompts the archangels to go get ready. Lucifer meets her eyes and smiles as they glide downwards, away from the main area, to meet up with their teams. Raphael looks back as Michael separates from her and hurries after an electrified Gabriel, feeling a little lost after the angel she’s been using as a comfort pillar has wandered off.

‘Come,’ Lucifer calls, already with Selaphiel and Castiel, and Raphael recentres herself. She lets Amabiel help her put on the scant ceremonial armour pieces more concerned with differentiating teams, rather than offering real protection, and the cupid carefully dyes the tips of her wings a vibrant green, doing the same for Lucifer.

Selaphiel furiously flaps their wings nearby to warm up, as do the other seraphim. Raphael was apprehensive of letting Castiel compete, but he was a good flier and fit the seraph criteria, and the Host objected less than expected. They were too tightly knit for gossip to turn wild, and he’d been proving himself admirably.

‘Don’t forget your role, everyone,’ Lucifer reminds, keeping his voice encouraging and optimistic.

Raphael nods, stretching. ‘Block Mīkhāʼēl as often as possible, I’ll try and slow down Gavrīʾēl. They’re our biggest problem, once they have a bolt, they’re unstoppable.’

‘Will do,’ Lucifer affirms.

They station themselves behind the wide-set entrance near the floor of the arena, listening as Father announces the next game. The gate swings open and Raphael takes off after Lucifer, circling clockwise around the concentrically erected pillars. Michael’s team flies out on the other side, wings painted red. Raphael tracks Gabriel’s movements and he turns one of his faces towards hers, smirking.

The game is usually played with two large arrow-like bolts released into the air at the start. An angel will catch it, and attempt to get to one of the six pillars. Each of them carries a bow-like contraption: a massive rib spinning atop of its dais with a string attached. The angel has to aim and fire the arrow towards the centre target on the ground. If the arrow reaches it uninterrupted, it will ricochet off it into the air back into the game and the team will earn a hit.

Whoever has shot more successful bolts before the time is up earns a win, and the opposing angels will do anything to get the bolt, keep the bolt, and make sure nobody intercepts it before it hits.

They scatter across the airspace, all drafts silent for now, and a guard aims a bolt into the air before releasing it. Six separate angels immediately dive after it.

It’s fast paced, exhilarating, and just shy of violent. The arrow isn’t small and has dragging rings attached for an easier steal. Gabriel’s team catches it first, but Araqiel tears the arrow from them and Lucifer shields him long enough that he can place and set it off without losing it.

Raphael gets a hold of it the moment it bounces, and Gabriel nimbly steals it from her before she can even think of passing it to Castiel. The messenger has the bowstring going off a second later, and Raphael cheers when Selaphiel intercepts the bolt halfway in flight, laughing at Gabriel’s immediate angered screech.

The first match continues, and they do quite well in terms of play; Lucifer tasks himself mainly with hindering Gabriel into being less of a threat, although he gets past him more often than not, switching smoothly between his ravenlike wings for quick somersaults, corkscrew dives and rolls, and his falcon wings for unimaginably fast stoops.

Raphael would still describe their loss as honourable. They lose the next match as well, and win the last one only because Gabriel and Michael switch their roles of chaser and warden, something clearly done to go easy on them. Lucifer is not pleased with the pity, his glowering practically setting the clouds on fire, but Gabriel ignores them.

They leave the field defeated, but proud of the way they flew, and Raphael abandons her idea of chatting with Lucifer about the match when she sees him doing so with Castiel already. They depart from their team to fly back to Father and Aunt, the dye still staining their feathers.

Amara gushes about Gabriel’s skills and one of Araqiel’s most prominent moves, and Father praises them for their efforts. It feels familial, comforting. Her Aunt had never been like this in the early days, bitter and enraged when Father chose to make a third archangel, but she seems almost like a different person. Then again, she gets to share in Creation now, and a rightful half of Future belongs to her as well. That is frightening to Raphael, who can’t imagine it very well, but Father approves it, so it must be right.

The games continue for quite some time, matches of different brands playing out until over half the angels have competed already. That’s not traditional, but it’s somehow more fun, especially as they diverge from fighting or racing competitions into stranger categories. The end of the tournaments sees all the winners honoured, and angels start filing out of the arena to go socialize on Peleh’s grounds, buzzing loudly about how things went.

The capital is not far, and the way there is fun. The cupids prepared the palace courtyard to be welcoming and just as celebratory as the arena, and Raphael finds a few resting spots to share with Michael. ‘Is the company overwhelming?’ he asks, able to tell that Raphael has again glued herself to him.

‘It is not too bad,’ Raphael assures him, but she’d prefer he did stay with her, even though he wants to be in the thick of it with the noise.

Michael stays with her for a while, and siblings that want to talk come up to them. Heaven’s skies have grown dark into a blue, crystalline dome, and fiery little winged beasts chase each other across it, leaving bright orange imprints in the air.

Raphael’s anxiety is a little better, and Michael slips off to socialise, so she watches the ongoings alone. The song is calmer now, but musical laughter still fills the space. Father and Aunt have retreated somewhere on their own. Raphael spots Lucifer hanging back as well, having similarly decided that the crowd is too much for him tonight, and Raphael gets up from her spot and flaps over. He’s picked one of the garden’s great trees to be his hiding spot, and he flicks his tails at her when she nears. ‘Do you want to come wash this dye off?’ Raphael asks.

Lucifer scrunches a face up, glancing at their siblings, and nods, uncurling from a branch and leaping off. Raphael pads away, and the sound grows comfortably muted as they move further into the palace gardens. A fountain burbles in the distance, and Raphael orients towards it.

‘This was very fun,’ Raphael says, dipping her primaries into the water and watching the paint flake off. ‘I hope we can do this more often.’

‘That would be nice,’ Lucifer agrees. He begins washing the green off as well.

Raphael focuses on her own wings for a moment, dragging her clay talons between feathers to dry them faster.

She watches as Lucifer finishes up and shakes off, feathers pristine again.

‘You know,’ she says hesitantly. ‘I really did miss you quite a bit.’

Lucifer looks at her in surprise, faces cocking to the side in different directions, before he understands and tries to laugh it off. ‘I sure hope so, Rəp̄ā.’

Raphael looks away, focusing on the distant sounds: song, chirps and thrills, and far behind them, the steady spinning of Heaven’s spheres. Lucifer picks at the feathers on one of his limbs, ordering them neatly over an old cut.

‘But it feels like I have been missing you for far longer than that,’ Raphael starts again, looking over to him with a frown, forcing him to attention. ‘Even when you were still here.' She pauses. 'I think I left you first. When things started going wrong. I left first, then Michael, then Gabriel.’

Raphael had started mourning him before he even fell. She'd thought she had moved on, and yet now he's here again, so long after Raphael came to terms with his eventual death. It's confusing, filling her with guilt. She's ashamed of the times she tried to help Michael move on, believing it was healthier. She must seem like a horrible sister.

Lucifer works at his notes for a while before answering. ‘I suppose.’

‘It was... unfair.’

Lucifer shrugs.

Raphael watches the imprints in the sky that mimic stars as they fade out and new ones are created. Heaven didn’t change much in all these millennia.

‘You should join us for an overflight in the faerie next oanio,’ Raphael says.

‘Sure. That sounds fun.’

They get up then to make it back to the others. They’re meant to talk to everyone, meant to connect more. Raphael is supposed to practice laughing alongside her siblings again, and should get on that.

Gabriel has joined in singing, and Michael is roughhousing with a few seraphim, much to the amusement and excitement of everyone playing spectator.

Raphael had hoped Lucifer would stick with her, but he leaves soon to be with his chosen crowd, and she decides to search out one for herself. Today isn’t a day to feel lonely.

Chapter Text

Out of everything he thought he’d be doing, sitting under an old apple tree—cue the metaphor—and encouraging a human girl trying to move a pebble wasn’t what Lucifer imagined his future to hold. Then again, he hasn’t been checking the future very often. He got out of the habit of doing so when it soured for him. Nowadays it might be worth gazing at more often, as he knows it’s brightened considerably.

“Don’t rush, there’s no time limit,” he chuckles, as Magda’s tempo speeds up unfavourably. She sniffs in irritation at the table and the offending rock, before trying to refocus.

It's wonderful to be teaching again, even something simple. He hasn't had an apprentice in millions of years, technically hasn't taught a class since the last seraphim group that studied advanced manipulation of probability. *

Guiding her mind into these practices sparks an old joy inside his chest and he can't wait to feel proud once he sees her succeed.

Magda's concentration has frayed significantly during this exercise, and he's distantly irritated by the fact that she's sweated through her deodorant. The tiny garden pebble she's supposed to move down the drawn lines on paper has begun to erratically move by inches at most.

Her mind's hold disappears, and she sighs. “This felt so much easier before. I don't have this much precision skill.”

“When you moved things before, you used your emotions and brute force,” he says. “Anger can be a powerful tool, but it should be used sparingly. It's unreliable.”

“It can throw a rock, but can't write with a pen,” Magda mumbles.

“You need a stronger grip,” he tells her. “You're uncertain because your hold is slippery. Keep the rock anchored in your mind.”

“But it's like I have the pebble on the end of a really long stick,” Magda says in exasperation.

“It'll be easier if you don't have to keep picking it up. Try again.”

Magda clasps her hands together under the table and stares intently at and seemingly through the stone. Lucifer carefully observes the tired workings of her mind and the pulsing of her soul in the back of her head, knowing Magda can't sense his snooping.

She encompasses the rock in a half-assed grip and manages to drag it a centimetre before her hold slips again. She blinks a few times as her eyes dry out and water.

“Stop, Magda,” Lucifer sighs, “You're tired. Stretch out a little, it should help.”

Magda exhales in relief and tries to close her eyes, ending up squinting with one; keeping him in his periphery in favour of doing the exercise efficiently.

Her hold loosens, and instead of focusing stubbornly on the little pebble her mind tries to open up to the world. Lucifer watches her feebly poking at her surroundings, getting stuck for a moment on the tree's foliage. She visualises it as having a dozen tiny extra hands, which is an amusing mental image.

Skilfully watching her mind’s eye, he can see himself reflected back like a mirror of her developing senses. People perceive him differently, and he's usually both intrigued and put off by how Magda seems to view him.

He lets her swim around in the world's shallows for a while until her pent-up energy unwinds a little.

Her aunt is on a grocery run as far as he knows, and it's a constant source of nervousness at the back of her head. She's so anxious around him that it sometimes even makes Lucifer nervous.

“Better?” He asks when Magda seems to pull back.

She nods. “Yeah. I'll try again.”

“Try and zone in on the gravity. Imagine yourself as a counter force and base the strength you put behind your strokes on the pebble's weight.”

Magda does so, and he watches her painstakingly but determinedly drag the pebble along the lines. “Could I lift a house that way?” Magda suddenly asks.

“No. The psychic force you can push with rarely exceeds the force you can exert with your physical body.”

Magda makes a face. “That's what the book said as well.”

Lucifer watches as a farm cat they likely keep around to control their rodent population stalks close to their table. It's harbouring a burning curiosity, and without a trace of cowardice jumps onto the bench he's seated on to sniff him.

“Go away, Lady,” Magda hisses, trying to shoo the feline away without waving a hand too close to the archangel.

“That's alright,” he murmurs, and lifts a hand for the cat to examine. It's satisfied, and bumps its nose into his fingers in an invitation. He scratches at the soft, white fur on its neck and its head tilts to the side to present the humming throat better.

It's a shame Dean would never allow a cat in the bunker. Low maintenance, affectionate pets with personality traits he can fully respect, and yet the hunter wouldn't even let him remove the allergy.

Magda tries to continue the practice, but the uneasy emotions in her head are growing. The cat in his lap looks towards her as well, tail lashing in nervousness as it can feel Magda’s doubts rising. Her intrusive thoughts are especially loud, shaped like her mother’s religious rambles, and he can feel some rather vile stuff about himself bouncing around in her head. It’s understandable and not the girl’s fault, and it’s easy to forgive when he can tell she’s beating them back with the mental image of her aunt’s rake.

“Why are you helping me?” She asks suddenly, after a minute of staring into space.

His hand slows. For a while, he watches the purring cat as she curls into his lap, kneading his pants until he stops her from fraying the fabric.

“I was psychic, when I was a human.” He responds, serious and tentative.

Magda considers this. “Were you a strong psychic? Did you move things too?”

He finally looks up, tilting his head at her. “I had the potential to be, but I never practiced. In my old life it wasn't considered... good, to be different,” he adds slowly, “Especially because I had something messing with my powers. They seemed to be an accident waiting to happen. But I had the gift of clairvoyance.”

Magda blinks in surprise and awe. “You could see the future?”

“I had visions. A one-time burst of telekinesis. I could have built it into something. But, like I said, it never happened, and it's too late for me to pursue those talents now.” He can tell Magda doesn't understand without context, but he chooses not to sate that curiosity. It's too personal.

“So is that why you keep trying to teach me things? Because you relate?”

“A big reason, yes.” He doesn't want her to grow up and live a life hating a fundamental part of herself. To squander a part of her soul that could be beautiful for a reason so unfair.

“...You have other reasons.” Magda states warily.

He smiles. “I also just really miss teaching.” Well, sort of. Magda doesn't need to know his personal baggage. He strokes the cat’s soft pelt again; it’s weird how hard it is to resist bothering a sleepy cat, but luckily it doesn’t mind. “I won't be able to guide you. My experience and current skillset can’t relate to yours. However,” he says meaningfully, “I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Another psychic, Missouri Moseley. She's older and more experienced. And she's a very kind person.”

Magda thinks for a while. It would be incredible to meet someone like herself. Affirming and grounding. “How do you know her?” She asks. “Is she another psychic you helped?”

“Oh, no,” he laughs, “No, sort of the opposite. I knew her way back. She was a believer as well.” Sam frowns in brief realisation. “Back then I actually asked her if she believed in the devil. Funny enough, I wasn’t sure if I believed in the devil back then.”

He's said a few confusing things, and Magda attempts in vain to understand everything.

They're quiet for a while, enough that satisfied purrs can be heard above the table, mixing with the animal noises of the farm.

“Um,” Magda says hesitantly, and knits her fingers together on the tabletop. “I, er. I'm not. I'm not really sure about trusting you,” she says, watching his every reaction carefully. He nods for her to continue.

“I keep thinking... I don't know. That you might be lying, or that this might be a, a ploy to get my soul or something.” Magda stutters a little, glancing away and back to him. “Or that these powers are bad and you're tricking me. It's just so much...”

“That's alright,” he says quietly. “I understand. And I know I'm probably a little overwhelming.” He pauses to think for a moment. “I suggested meeting one of my siblings last time. The offer still stands.”

It would be just as difficult to take in, but it would place him next to someone perceived as 'the good guys.' It would be reassuring.

Magda works her jaw. “Who? Who would I meet?”

“I can call Gabriel,” Lucifer tells her. It's the best and in a way the only viable choice.

Magda rubs at her face and breathes for a while, then gives a shaky nod of agreement.

Lucifer reaches over the Host and pokes his sister. 'Gavrīʾēl, do you have a moment?'

'What is it?' Gabriel responds breezily. 'And yes I do, lucky.'

Lucifer binds the basic information into a song and sends it to the messenger to listen to. She hums and vibrates in thought. 'I'll be there soon. Give her a few extra minutes. I'll be gentle.'

'Thank you.'

'No problem. I like this mushy new side of you.'

'Screw off.'

He nods at Magda. “There. She'll be here soon.”

Magda blinks in surprise at the (lack of) communication but hugs her arms around herself and doesn’t mention it.

She’s visibly nervous, even more so than she was during their little lesson together, even though they’re about to be joined by a known well-mannered angel. Still, it makes some measure of sense.

“Why are you so cold?” Magda asks quietly.

“Is it too cold for you?” He thought he was careful.

“No, I’m okay. I was just wondering.”

He smiles conspiratorially. “Do you think Lady would want to sit on me if I were cold?”

No, Magda thinks at him, cats like warm spots, but she frowns a little at him for the non-answer.

“Have you have noticed that the moment I leave, the cold goes away?” Sam asks.

He can feel her spark of recognition, but she's clearly been too busy overthinking other things to notice such a detail. “So, it isn’t real?” She blinks.

“It is real, sort of,” Lucifer answers, smiling. “C'mon, this one you'll figure out yourself. You're smart.”

Magda shifts in discomfort, mind whirring to reach a theory. “Am I feeling something else? Because I'm psychic?”

“All humans can feel this. You included.” He tilts his head and gestures to Lady, purring in his lap with her head on his knee. “What's the difference between you and the cat?”

Magda is quiet for a moment.

She gets an immediate sting of panic whenever he casually uses the word 'human.' It's so alienating, so immediately affirming of his otherness. It sets him apart from her, Magda being lumped into a group of countless ant-sized humans and him standing away on the other side of a gaping chasm. “...I have a soul. Do cats have them?”

“Souls are complex, immortal constructs,” Sam shakes his head. “She has the spark of Life. Not a soul.”

“So I'm feeling the cold with my soul,” Magda says, shuddering.

Sam snorts. “My grace, actually. Your body translates it into cold. But you came to the right conclusion. Well done.”

Oftentimes, his grace does manifest as low temperature, but he isn't feeling very emotional right now, nor is he skimping on control. Michael does the opposite, as his incidents standing close to bushes prove.

Magda frowns. “Then your body is just a normal body?”

“Well, no,” he says slowly. “It's frozen, but not literally. It's more of an... object. It doesn't age, and if it's damaged, I simply repair it. It doesn’t need sustenance.” He doesn’t plan to reveal to her that it’s a vessel. She wouldn’t take possession well.

“Seems handy,” Magda says, a bit awed.

With a loud flutter of wings, Gabriel lands a few paces from the picnic table, hair swept all over her face. Magda jumps a little, mouth agape.

“Hello,” she sing-songs, strolling to the table and stopping next to her brother. “You must be Magda. It’s lovely to meet you.” She leans over the table to offer the girl a handshake.

Magda needs a moment to react, struck by the arrived angel’s warm demeanour. The playful freckles stretch over her face like twinkling stars when she smiles, a dimple denting one of her cheeks.

“Hello,” she stutters, face red. “It’s, it’s an honour to meet you.”

Gabriel snorts and plops into place down next to Lucifer, who’s looking at her with a particularly soft smile Magda’s never received. “You make me feel like a celebrity. No need to be so polite.”

Magda nods, flustered, and clearly doesn’t know what to say. She obviously didn’t expect the Messenger to be so different from the Lightbringer--there’s no rigidness to how she behaves, and her bright whiskey eyes are ten levels more playful and transparently kind.

“Well, I’m just here to meet you,” Gabriel continues, “I see you’ve been hanging out with my pole of a brother.” Lucifer purses his lips, and she waves him off, keeping her gaze on the girl. “I don’t know how’s it going so far, but he’s always been our best teacher.”

Magda looks between them. “He’s done this before?” She winces, realising she could’ve directed the question towards Lucifer. “I mean, you have?”

Gabriel smiles more widely at her, clearly amused by how awkward and adorable she is. “Of course. Luci here is Heaven’s Archivist, and the leader of our intelligence division. In another way, he’s also in charge of education for our youngest angels.” Which they currently don’t have, but they will. Soon.

“Well,” Lucifer corrects, “Think of it more as a university professor and headmaster. If you’re already set on this metaphor.”

Magda makes a few surprised noises.

“And, what has he taught you?” Gabriel asks. “Only the cool psychic stuff?”

“Some exercises. And he gave me a book on it,” Magda replies.

“Of course he did.” Gabriel fixes a strand of runaway curl behind her ear. “And you’re doing awesome, I hope.”

“I’m doing my best,” Magda assures.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Gabriel says, giving her a thumbs up. Magda feels that’s true, as though the angel is somehow already emotionally invested in her improvement.

“How long will you be here?” Magda asks.

“Not long,” Gabriel hums, “Is there anything you want to ask? From experience, you guys absolutely have to know everything the moment your eyes are opened. Just please, steer clear of the Big questions. You know which ones,” she adds.

Magda forms a small oh with her mouth, biting her lips right after in thought. Gabriel finally notices the cat in Lucifer’s lap and squeals, a hand pressed into its fur before anyone can blink.

“What is it like to live forever?” Magda asks after she’s petted it for a while.

She’s scared to ask about Heaven or the afterlife, and she doesn’t want to ask about their lives, Lucifer muses. They wouldn’t be offended.

“Huh,” Gabriel frowns. “I don't know. It's just how we are. Personally, I thought it was a wild concept when mortality was invented,” she admits lightly. “Knowing you'll die of age, and not even knowing when? And so little time.”

“And they're breakable,” Lucifer reminds. “Technically, it could happen any day.”

“I know,” Gabriel says, a little mortified. “By the weirdest stuff. Like water. Or a car.”

Magda shrugs: there’s nothing to really add.

Gabriel considers her again. “How are your first angel impressions?”

“Uhm,” Magda thinks, “Well, it's a lot...”

“Must be,” Gabriel nods in sympathy. “We weren't what you expected, huh?”

“I thought you'd both be guys,” Magda blurts, and flushes in embarrassment. “I, I mean—"

Gabriel bursts out in a fit of giggles. She laughs in a carefree, unrestrained manner, body shaking with sound, and Magda is briefly enraptured by it. “Well, I was a guy last month! I'm sorry you missed it,” the angel tells her, voice interrupted by unabashed snorting.

“We don't really,” Lucifer begins explaining, pushing on his sister's shoulder when she's still entertained by Magda's slipup, “We were made before sexes were a thing so to say.”

Gabriel wipes at her eyes. “Ahh, so precious.”

“Your aunt will come outside to get you in a minute,” Lucifer suddenly says. “We can let her notice us, or we can not. Which would you prefer?”

Magda goes wide eyed. “Oh! I, I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about it, she doesn’t know…”

“It’d be better if she doesn’t,” Gabriel gently cuts in. “I understand if that’s harder for you, but we won’t be here long. Might as well let her be. It’s a lot for a person, so you might want to consider telling her at length.”

The girl nods at her a few times, hands in tight fists. Lucifer regrets not bringing it up faster, but he had to warn her. Going unnoticed by her aunt might make her doubt their presence.

“Magda!” A woman's voice calls from the door, and they see a middle-aged woman stepping down the front porch to come over. “There you are,” she smiles. “I thought you’d be up in your room. I’m making dinner.”

Magda looks from Liz to the angels. “Right, I’ll come help.”

Liz looks at the angels too, not a smidge of surprise on her face, and Magda flinches, expecting her to say something. But her aunt looks at them as if they’re part of the scenery. Like them being there is the most natural thing in the world.

She turns around towards the house. “I’ll start on some soup. Be inside in five, sweetie.”

“Okay,” Magda responds. She turns back to the angels as if waiting for her cue to leave.

Lucifer shrugs and stands. “Take this before you leave,” he says, and materialises a paper with Missouri’s contact info. Magda carefully takes it from him. “Shoot an email, unless she does it first. And keep practicing.”

Magda thanks him and says her goodbyes before returning inside. Gabriel squints after her when she disappears into the house. “Huh. Interesting girl you found.”

“Dean did,” Sam answers, turning around to walk out the yard. “I was there coincidentally.”

“And she tugged on your heartstrings,” Gabriel coos, bouncing after him. “She’s cute. But fragile like glass inside. We put a lot of pressure on her.”

“True. It’s why I’m introducing her to Moseley.” Gabriel’s read the dogshit gospels, he doesn’t need to elaborate. Ugh. She knows every one of his dumb hookups.

Gabriel hums, joining his side. “D’you wanna come snow flying with me, Ophani and Zuriel?”

Hmm. “When?”

“About now, Zuriel’s rotation’s ending.”

“Can’t. Conference with Dumah and Mike.”

“Skip it,” Gabriel pouts, flapping once to hang herself on his shoulder and put her mouth up to his ear. “Skip it, you deserve it, you deserve a little break…”

Lucifer snorts and bends forward until she falls off. “No, seducer. Important.”

“I know,” Gabriel whines, “Boring, so boring you are.”

Lucifer snorts and shakes his wings out. “I’ll be there next time.”

***

Sam lands inconspicuously in front of Missouri’s house again, four hours after dropping Magda off there. It was oddly difficult to make time for it today, and he would’ve just asked Castiel if it were anyone else. As it is, he’d just nicely squeezed in time to talk to Dumah about Eve’s ideas for their metropolis. Her correspondence was chaotic, some of it done through her children, but always plentiful, straightforward and detailed. There was nothing to decipher or analyse the way they did with fae.

He waits there for less than two minutes. It’s almost nice when people are a little afraid of him; he’s never left to wait. Not that it makes up for all the shit Christians say about him. Magda comes out the door, and he languidly waves at Missouri when he sees her leaning on the front door. He doesn’t have time to come inside, nor does he particularly feel like it, so he slowly starts walking down the street.

“How did it go?” he asks Magda as she awkwardly falls into step with him. Her soul is shimmering at the edges, colours brighter and saturated. She’s exhausted, but in a good mood.

“It was very nice,” she responds, a little rushed. He smiles, thinking of how she probably lost track of time and scrambled for the front door. “I like Missouri. She understood everything I said even before I explained it. It was weird.”

“Well, she is a mind reader,” he hums.

“Yeah.” She checks her handbag suddenly, then puts it back on her shoulder. “She says you're cool to be around.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Paraphrased?”

“Your… brother doesn't think you're that bad. She thinks you’re okay.”

“Hmh. High praise coming from Missouri.”

Magda shrugs a little with one shoulder. “She gave me a lot of great advice. We’re very different. She can read minds and energies, but she can't move things. She says that while she's 'inside oriented', I'm mostly the opposite.”

 “I see.”

“She explained how psychic energy can manifest in different ways, at different levels,” Magda keeps talking almost excitedly, “Missouri’s so in control of herself. She has a touch for the auras of other people and their surface thoughts, but she’s so good at it, she can pinpoint general energy. Like if something really good or bad happened; and she talks about it like echoes, or imprints that stay around instead of sounding out the way most things do.”

He nods, smiling a little. Missouri’s already a role model it seems.

Magda looks up at him, squinting in the harsh sun. “She also said I’m more hooked up to the solid world, and it’s actually rarer. It doesn’t make much sense to me yet.”

Lucifer stops for a second before crossing on a green light that is mostly unnecessary for this small a road. “...Want ice cream?” He asks lightly as they walk a little ways down the street and he sees the glass panes. “Won’t stay warm enough for it forever.”

Magda seems confused. “Sure.”

He pulls some change out of his pocket and hands it to her, and she takes it with a bewildered look before standing behind a mom and two kids already waiting in front. Then he waits for her while she picks out the ice cream and walks further down, away from the people. The parlour had tables, but he can tell by the buzzing in Magda’s head that she’s not used to crowds yet. Thankfully, because neither is he.

He blinks at the flecked light green hue. “Mint?”

“Yeah, it's my favourite flavour,” Magda says.

“Ah,” Sam nods in acknowledgement. She occupies herself with the ice cream for a minute while they aimlessly walk. There’s something about the nostalgia of a town so viscerally connected to his old life, Sam thinks. It feels like what stepping into a childhood bedroom must feel like. He feels out of place, wistful, in a way the bunker just doesn’t hit.

“Do you have a favourite flavour? Or had?” Magda adds, who hasn’t commented on their little walk yet.

Strange she'd ask this, Sam thinks. He remembers the more bitter to sour tastes he preferred when Dean and he would stop at parlours on hot summer days when John was out of town, and they had money left over. “I never liked too much sugar. And I don't eat anymore.” He thinks for a moment. “But I do have a certain fondness for fancy soaps,” he admits after a moment. “I don't own any. I just think they're enjoyable to look at.”

“Huh,” is the only thing Magda can say to that. Other than the mindfuck it is to hear the entity say he likes carefully shaped soap, she's never had much exposure to the soap industry.

“You want to sit?” Sam offers when they pass a park, noticing the benches spotted around.

“No, thank you,” she responds, “The sunshine isn't that bad anymore. I'd like to walk.” She nibbles on the cone for a few seconds. “I brought the book, too. But Missouri seems a lot more... spiritual. She said this is too academic, and I need to focus on what I feel, too. I should meditate to get in touch with my abilities.”

Sam tried that a few times when he was training with Ruby, before the blood. After, his mind was too messy and loud for it. “School should be starting soon, no? Are you enrolling?”

Magda shakes her head. “Not yet.”

She doesn’t say more, so he doesn’t ask. She works on her cone and mulls over something, and he focuses on their surroundings, lost in thought.

If only his family were less hateful towards anything supernatural when he’d shown psychic talents, and he might not have pushed them all down. Even Ruby had known it was his own mindset at fault; ‘dumbo didn’t need a feather to fly’. If he’d had the courage to explore that part of himself without judging it so harshly…

“Um, I don’t know what I can ask and what I can’t,” Magda says, snapping him out of only slightly depressing thoughts, “There might be rules about it. There’s just… some stuff I want to know.” Something sad and angry twists inside her. “When she visited, Gabriel said…” She trails off.

“To steer clear of big questions. They aren’t always sufficient, or clear cut, Magda. And they don’t always bring closure.” He looks down at her with knowing eyes. “Is it that kind of question?”

Magda worries her lip. “It’s just… I always wondered this, I always wanted to know. I know I’m not important, I know nothing revolves around me. I’m just a girl. But it always seemed so unfair.”

“I understand.”

“I,” she shuts her eyes. “I don’t think you do. I’m just, I’m just a girl.”

Lucifer suspects he knows where this is going, and it’s like watching a car crash on TV, suspenseful music playing in the background before the vehicles collide.

“I didn’t understand why anyone would let these things happen. Why they had to happen to me, why nobody stopped it, why they kept going on…” she wrings her hands, too afraid to word it all properly.

“That’s a big question, Magda.”

“Was anybody ever even watching?” Magda asks, a smidge of desperation when she looks into the archangel’s eyes. Invisible to her sight, his wings arch over them, feathers ruffled and darkened into a grey, stormy sea. His soul, distorted as it is, gives a pulse of discomfort at being reminded of a familiar, righteous old ache.

Sam looks at her sadly for a long moment. “The answer to this question won’t comfort you. And it’s long, and takes time to answer, and longer to understand. It’s not simple.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Magda sighs, rubbing at her eyes. “It’s not like I’m complaining just about myself. Worse things have happened to people. Bad things happen to people every day. I just want to know why.” She tries very, very hard not to let accusation slip into her voice. It’s nice to see she doesn’t blame the Outside for humanity’s problems, but it’s clear she wants to. It’s easy to do.

“Knowing why won’t make you feel better. It won’t help. Sadly, I don’t have a good answer for you that you would want to hear.”

“It seems clear to me that you don’t help every teen who’s locked in a basement,” Magda tells him. “I think, I might be first.”

Lucifer doesn’t let her trip him up and doesn’t respond, looking down at her with tired eyes.

Magda waits for any sort of answer, but he doesn’t give it. She might as well come to conclusions that put all the blame on angels and demons. He won’t explain to her the double-edged sword of free will, the noose humanity was given and signed for, or Heaven’s silent indifference. It’s clinical and brutal and won’t help her sleep any better at night.

She finally realises the lines of disrespect she’s crossed and flinches, fear filling her eyes. “I, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. That was too far, I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

He nods at her and gestures to her ice cream. “That’s alright. Finish it, or the bottom will be soggy.”

She listens and wipes her fingers with a tissue. He lets her throw it into a trash can and holds out an arm for her. Magda isn’t cozy holding on to him as required, but they did this to fly here in the first place, so it’s just a matter of repeating the exercise.

He gently lands in front of her house before her eyes have time to register the in-between.

“Thank you,” Magda says, bent over slightly. She slowly straightens up, hands on her bag.

He smiles. “Make sure you skype call your guru. I can’t ferry you every time.”

“I will.”

Sam turns around and takes off, without going through the trouble of walking off anywhere.

He barely skirts the veil before landing on the cool tiles of the bunker.

The last time he took a nap was almost two weeks ago, and even his flying feels flimsy. He vaults over the couch to snuggle into the bend, folding his wings to make it appear as if they're draped over the armrest, and reaches for a ratty, soft blanket, and a fae-written novel from the time of the triarchy.

Magda’s need of him is slowly coming to an end—her life is all set. She has the psychic support she needs, and her aunt will do her best to provide her with a future in America’s failing economy. It’s not Lucifer’s responsibility to get her better options. It’s not even fair, really.

Staying is a toss between improving or worsening the situation. He’s done his self-appointed job of swooping in and fixing up a few things, he’s just a breaker of her reality and a disturber now, one that keeps her confronting the extended fact of heaven and hell. He’s already overstayed the welcome, transformed from a magnanimous, mystifying entity to a peek into a flawed reality, becoming an exception that proves the rule that nobody cares. Magda’s slowly seeing past a pretty, helpful angel, and has begun thinking too hard about it.

It would be best for him to leave her be. Perhaps he’ll check up on her once more, make sure she’s on the better path.

Right now, his priority is melting into this comfy couch and getting some rest before he goes back to work.

Dean’s slippers slide loudly around the hallways as he makes his way to their rec room (deancave, whatever), and lumbers in eventually. “Hey, you’re back,” he greets.

Sam looks at him. Dean’s not just his strongest tie to Earth, he’s the only human who knows him well enough for his preconceptions to have fallen away; the constant feeling of having to either play into the fear or fake an overly kind, pacifist demeanour is never there with him. Lucifer hasn’t had to play the bad guy with him in ages, or pretend his temper is better than it is. It’s freedom. “You know,” he says, “I’m glad you never saw me as some divine, hotshot angel. Your way has its own problems, but I preferred getting to earn your respect. Like two people.”

Dean snorts, walking past him to take a soda out of the mini fridge. “Sometimes, you say stuff, and I think, is he a little bit neurodivergent? Is he? And then I remember that’s just how you are.”

“I’m just a weirdo.”

“Yep.” He uncaps the bottle and lets the fizz go. “Any duties, meetings or fairy negotiations?”

“Nope,” Sam hums. “You know I don’t babysit heaven through everything.”

“Cool, cool,” Dean nods, and sits down on the recliner. “You're not a girl today, I see?”

“Didn't want to confuse Magda.” He smirks. “Did you want me to be?”

Dean snorts. “Dream, loser.”

Sam huffs. “I see you. You've got more of a problem with my tits than the fact we're a different species.”

Dean makes a show of looking at his wings in shock. “No. You're not human? This is news to me.”

Sam looks at him sympathetically. “I'm truly sorry. I hope this is a hurdle we can work through together.”

Dean snorts.

He’ll probably use the female form on and off, especially once he perfects it. Gabriel's sketched out species he should focus on, and he already knows he wants to figure out at least one bird, so the rest takes precedence, but... Sam had expected more strings to come attached with the body, but it only made a difference on Earth. There are certain pros to it, like his fashion experimentation attracting fewer judgemental stares (his threatening aura tends to take care of other would-be comments). He doesn't care for human criticism, but it was less unpleasant, and he'd truly come to the opinion that people should be judging him for more impactful things instead.

He also has a sneaking suspicion that Michael prefers him in a shorter vessel. He'd received an odd number of squeezed embraces and a pleased comment that he was finally the right height. Lucifer's usually happy being taller, but it was nice for Mikha's arms and wings to engulf him like a warm, safe blanket, like in their true forms.

Not that he’ll say it to Mike.

“Did you eat all the stuff I got you?” He asks Dean.

Sam brought Dean a few of the artistic trinkets he was gifted and a stash of (humanly edible) fae sweets. Most of them, Dean claimed tasted the way girl deodorant smelled like, but others he couldn't pinpoint. He liked them, though.

Dean makes a face. “Well, I didn't want them to go bad.”

“I told you twice that they wouldn't.”

“Ah,” Dean acknowledges, “I guess so. Well, anyway. When's the next time you're going?”

“I won't be bringing you snacks next time,” Sam grumbles.

Dean sighs, shaking his head in disappointment. “What's the point of being a winged immortal if you're not bringing me weird snacks?”

“The cool boss fights.”

“Fair enough. Anything interesting happen recently?”

Sam squints at the ceiling. “You know pretty much everything just from my rants.”

“Okay, but not work related.”

“Mph.” He thinks for a moment and then sighs. “Gabriel can be really smart when he sets his mind on something really stupid.”

Dean laughs. “What'd he do?”

Sam sighs again. “Sneaked into The Lab and used my corporeal coalescer equipment and my gland samples to turn emotions into injectable liquids.”

“…In practice?”

“He made love flavoured pasta.”

Dean considers this. “Can I try it?”

“If it's safe. Ask him first, and then show it to me before you do.”

“Great,” Dean nods.

Sam leisurely stretches over the couch, happy they got one that can fit more people and doesn’t constrict ones with long legs. “I’m taking a nap. Then I have to work. But,” he says meaningfully, “The day after tomorrow, I think, I’ll be free for a while.”

“Where’d you wanna go?”

Sam hums. “What do you feel like?”

Dean shifts around a little, takes a sip of his soda. “We could check out Jody’s neighbourhood, and the ones around. See if there’s a good spot for us.”

Sam turns his head around in surprise, ignoring that he accidentally dislodged a few pins in his hair. “Yeah?”

“Sure. Let’s see if there’s a house we can move in or renovate first. Either South Dakota or near it.”

Sam looks up at the ceiling and smiles. “It’d be very nice to have real windows.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, yeah. Maybe we’ll find something just slightly remote. Wouldn’t want to be smack in the city. We can be that weird house at the end of the street.”

Sam hums and rolls over, bundling tighter in the blanket. It serves no purpose except comfort, and turning the heater on would be a good idea if Dean will stay in the room. “We can hide it with some trees.”

“Sure. And your garden, bud.”

Sam closes his eyes and smiles.