entrancelogs

Aziraphale is seated at a table with a book, a glass of wine, and the bottle as well. He looks up when he feels the presence of another holy being and then glares daggers at him when he realizes who it is. He still thinks Michael is a closed-minded idiot, entirely closed to the possibility that things might be different where Aziraphale is from and he's still angry about the last time they spoke.

Michael can acknowledge that things are different where Aziraphale's from - he's sure the nature of their demons and Heavenly hierarchy aren't the only noteworthy points - but no difference could be great enough to justify an angel turning their back on God and Heaven in favour of Lucifer and Hell. That makes the variety of demon Aziraphale is familiar with a great deal worse than the ones Michael deals with. Actively seeking one out and enjoying the company of a fallen angel, insisting that they're good people - well.

That's heresy.

Despite a vicious temper and a habit of resolving disagreements through violence, Michael makes no move towards Aziraphale. He sits at his table and lifts a questioning eyebrow at him. What's your problem?

You. You're his problem, Michael. You're a jerk. And yes, demons can be decent beings. Crowley is proof of that. And if He really had a problem with Aziraphale and Crowley interacting He would have put a stop to it, wouldn't he?

He pointedly returns to his book.

Nonsense: Aziraphale's problem, clearly, is that he hangs out with demons in his free time. An angel would have to make a real effort to pick worse company. Crowley himself isn't proof of anything other than his own failure to follow Heaven's guidelines. There are no "good" demons.

Michael is as glad to ignore Aziraphale as Aziraphale is glad to ignore him. He does, however, spread his wings - intangible and invisible to most, but another holy creature should be able to spot them easily enough - in a distinctly pompous manner.

Aziraphale really doesn't see that as a problem. Especially if it's true, Crowley's theory that it's going to be humans against the forces of Heaven and Hell next. But then, Crowley has always been the exception for the angel. He always makes Aziraphale think and while they disagree with each other fundamentally, they always respect each other's opinions. It is a true and deep friendship they have and it is a shame Michael is so blinded by his prejudices to see beyond titles.

He is sorely tempted to let his own wings loose in response to Michael's little display but he likes this shirt and doesn't want to tear the back open. Rest assured, he shoots another glare Michael's way.

Now, generally, Susan kept to herself when she drank. Apart from the obvious benefits of drinking without company¹, Susan disliked how Curious she became when inebriated. The urge to meddle in the affairs of others was one that haunted her on a daily basis. Alcohol, to her great displeasure, always managed to lower her resistance to that peculiar urge and, unless she caught herself, she became Aggressively Helpful. Drinking alone usually managed to solve this problem, but, today, something Abnormal caught her attention.

Of course, Wonderland was a Magical pocket dimension filled with talking animals, crazed titled women, and an abundance of nonsense, so something had to be really and truly Odd to stand out. A man suddenly appearing in a bar wasn't that odd, not in and of itself. Even the fact that he was an Angel didn't really make him that unique or curious. The fact that he remained seated, politely, and just went about being flagrantly...Sober?

Well, that was, given recent circumstances, just odd enough to qualify.

Susan, who was three drinks in², spent a long few minutes just staring at Michael. When he failed to move at all, she decided to indulge and meddle a bit. With her standard disregard for personal boundaries, especially those of casual acquaintances, Susan strode up and promptly took the seat across the table from him.

"Alright," Susan started, in the traditional manner of drunken interrogations everywhere, "What's all this then?"

She motioned with her drink hand to him and the empty table in front of him. The gesture was vague and largely unhelpful when it came to defining what she was talking about.

"If you're depressed and here for a pint, you've forgotten the pint."

1 - Namely not having to pay for anyone else's beverages, make polite conversation, or back anyone up at one of the numerous and inevitable bar fights that Ankh-Morpork always had to offer.
2 - Which was to say she was actually five drinks in. Susan, unfortunately, was one of the few and pitiable people who were just naturally more sober than the rest of the world. It took two stiff drinks just for her to catch up to everyone else.

Michael, meanwhile, was more often caught in the trap of being simply aggressive. Whether drinking strengthened or weakened that tendency was something he'd never explored, though given the high probability of the former it was probably in the best interests of Wonderland's residents that he had no intention of finding out.

In any case, Susan hadn't yet been anything but blunt and straightforward with him, if a little unusual - and that small fault was almost certainly a consequence of being from a foreign universe. Of the personality quirks that tended to draw his ire - and there were many of them - those two didn't rate a spot on the list.

He cocked his head to one side, giving her a somewhat avian look of curiosity.

"Angels aren't often given to experiencing strong emotions. If I were experiencing that degree of sadness, this wouldn't be my first choice of refuges. Is that why you're here?"

Susan hadn't struck him as the overemotional type, but Michael was all too familiar with the disappointment of discovering someone was not what he had first taken them for.

His answer was, frankly, rather run of the mill given what he was. He looked human enough, at least from the one angle, so it took a bit of doing to remember that he really wasn't. Fortunately he was neither the first nor the last creature with limited emotional range that she'd ever dealt with. She'd learned long ago how to handle these sorts of conversations and, when dealing with said creatures, being straightforward and Literal was always the solution.

"Not directly," Susan answered his personal question with the casual ease of someone who'd had a few. "I find drinking is an effective distraction and, when the situation calls for something a bit heavier, helps clear the mind of all those pesky nagging hypotheticals."

Now that she'd dealt with that business, Susan easily jumped backward in their conversation to her first question. It had been vague and followed up with implication, so it wasn't entirely shocking that he'd opted to ignore it. Religious sorts usually understood and appreciated vague implications, assuming you got the Religion right and Implied things in the proper fashion, but she'd hardly done either and knew less about his particular Religion than she did about the alcohol currently in her glass¹. Best to just be blunt, then.

"So...why are you sitting here if you're not drinking?"

1 - Which, given that it was her fifth glass consisted mainly of: the shape of the bottle it came in, the color of the label, and whether or not it was a good idea to let it rest on the tongue a bit before swallowing.
(˙oN puɐ 'ʞɔɐlq 'ǝɹɐnbS)

In technical terms, Michael more than looked human: his packaging was human. John Winchester was human through and through, purebred from the species' finest lines available. Heaven had seen to it. At this age, John had barely even made contact with the various unsavoury, inhuman monsters that existed on Earth. It was appropriate and expected, then, that Michael looked the part even if he rarely acted it.

(He would have been outed the moment someone with the means to see it caught sight of his halo, so he'd never seen the point in trying to pass himself off as anything other than what he was. His ego wouldn't have tolerated it, either.)

He accepted Susan's reason for being there with a light nod. The sum total of Michael's past, direct experiences with alcohol was precisely zero, so it sounded as reasonable as any other explanation she could have offered.

"I'd like to have a word with someone who frequents this bar. Otherwise, I'd be happy to leave it to Gabriel and his like."

"Oh, I see," Susan said reflexively and inclined her head. "You've arranged a date."

The term was somewhat more innocuous on the Disc than it was on Earth and was regularly applied to non-romantic and, daresay, unpleasant appointments. He hadn't said it with any sort of dread but, then again, he had informed her that Angels weren't often subject to the more severe emotions.

"Normally I'd suggest having a pint on hand, if only for appearances," Susan continued in an idly informative manner. "But given the number of non-humans who frequent this particular bar, I doubt it's necessary."

Susan took a long, unconcerned drink off her glass and then settled it on the table again. On a normal person, downing several shots of straight, nameless liquor would be something of note. Susan, unfortunately, seemed to have reached the limit of how drunk she was capable of being and, as a result, was more dull, monotonous, and Deathly than usual.

"I can't say I'd put much thought to it, but Gabriel does seem like the sort of Person who would go in for copious amounts of alcohol." Indeed, he was just a brightly colored drink with a tiny umbrella away from being God of Ill Advised Partying material. "Do you know him well?"

Susan's choice of words was just odd enough to prompt a pair of raised eyebrows from Michael. While a date wasn't ncessarily a romantic affair, given the location - well, he wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea about his intentions. Besides which, he was pretty sure that either variety of date involved a mutually agreed-upon time and place.

He hadn't bothered to let Dean know he was coming. It was customary among the angels to show up without warning.

"Not exactly. He's not aware that I'm here. Given that I'm wearing his father, I'm also sure Dean would object to that particular term."

For all the jokes one could make about Michael wanting to get inside him, Michael's interest in Dean held nothing in common with Castiel's. He wanted to borrow his body and wear it out in the least romantic sense possible.

He hadn't expected someone like Susan to be familiar with the likes of Gabriel, but he supposed it wasn't completely absurd. Gabriel could be gregarious when he settled down. Still, at first he only answered the question with a non-committal hmm. His family in general was a complicated subject, and Gabriel in particular even more so. Eventually, he settled for a brief but more helpful explanation.

"Yes and no. Gabriel is my brother, but we rarely see eye to eye."

Shorthand for I hadn't expected to see him again.

At first, Susan wasn't certain she'd heard him correctly. Unfortunately, Michael enunciated very clearly and chose his words with precision. Drunk as she was (and thus grimly sober as well), Susan had a hard time moving past his first statement in order to deal with the second.

Of course, it was a bit surprising that Gabriel had a brother, let alone one this Stoic, but that paled in sheer oddness when compared to the phrase "wearing his father."

Susan peered at him for a long, silent moment and then lifted both her eyebrows.

"I can see how that might make someone fairly uncomfortable," Susan responded evenly. She had very little contact with the concept of possession, at least very little compared to Michael, so her first instinct was to assume it was a turn of phrase. She'd heard stranger idioms...but not many.

"Perhaps you should order a drink, if only for him whenever he arrives."

Susan eyed her glass.

"Hard alcohol would probably be preferable to beer, in this case," she added nonchalantly. "If only because it can't go flat."

Michael would have disagreed with her assessment. Taking a vessel was perfectly normal. How else would a wavelength of celestial intent interact with physical beings, if not by inhabiting one of them? Gabriel, though, was definitely the odd one out and the black sheep of the family. Along with Lucifer. And Anna. And Castiel...

All told, he would much rather discuss his occupancy of the elder member of the Winchester clan than his own family.

"I can guarantee you that he wouldn't accept anything I offered him. However, if it makes you more comfortable..."

Maybe sitting in bars without eating or drinking was a bigger faux-pas than he realized. Managing human souls and the space they occupied in Heaven was his specialty, not the intricacies of their daily interactions and social codes. They had specialists for that.

"What would you suggest? Specifically."

In her current state, Susan couldn't be made much more or less comfortable, but Susan was from Ankh-Morpork and being that she was from Ankh-Morpork she knew the sound of someone offering to order drinks for the table when she heard it. Like all people who made this offer, Michael likely didn't realize he'd done it and, like all people who heard such an offer, Susan wasn't about to point it out. After all, just because she couldn't get more drunk than she already was didn't mean she had to abandon the attempt altogether.

"That depends entirely on What he is, What you are, and just how drunk you'd like to get," Susan said easily. "Personally I've always been partial to Scumble, but I'm told it tends to make most creatures blind."

Susan regarded her glass and tried to recall what the label had said. It was less of a challenge than it should have been which was, in and of itself, annoying.

"I've found the local Scotch to be an acceptable middle-ground, albeit with an after-taste of magic to it. When ordering scotch, it's usually best to have the bottle on hand."

"He's perfectly human, but I doubt he'd be willing to get drunk around me. I'm an archangel, so getting drunk myself is more trouble than it's worth."

And then there was Susan, who seemed mostly human but whom Michael wouldn't have been prepared to call completely human. Apart from her unnatural (if admirable) degree of calm and sense, something felt ever so slightly off about her. He hadn't quite figured out what it was, but it was there.

Still, he was ready to make good on his offer - which hadn't been to order the drinks so much as it had been to make them. It was both quicker and cheaper. Michael snapped his fingers, and a half dozen bottles copied from the bar's stock appeared on the table.

"I've never heard of Scumble, but one of those should be drinkable."

"It's something of a Discworld delicacy¹," Susan replied easily and left it at that. It was, generally speaking, the only thing that could get her Grandfather drunk. Susan had never found it entirely effective, but that was probably her stubborn desire to keep on living. She couldn't vouch for it where Michael was concerned, unfortunately, and instead turned her attention to the bottles he'd brought into being.

"Manifesting alcohol, you must be very popular at parties." The sentiment was out before Susan could consider who she was talking to. She looked from the bottles at Michael.

"That was a joke," she added in perfect deadpan.

After a beat she finished her glass and eyed the array of colored glass and fancy labels. The bottle nearest to her was something called Vodka and Susan frowned idly before picking it up and refilling her glass.

"If you've ever got the desire for a bit of oblivion, do let me know, I'll bring by some Scumble," Susan said as she smoothly recapped the bottle. "If it can inebriate a personification, it's possible it could overcome archangel related sobriety."

1 - In all fairness, the very last word one would apply to Scumble was 'delicate' or any variation thereof. 'Tender', of course, could be applied but only to the state of one's liver and body after consuming and (hopefully) recovering from consumption.

For once, Michael didn't need the clarification, though he didn't mind it. He insisted on taking the statement at face value anyway.

"Parties are more my brother's realm. Heaven has little reason to celebrate of late."

Where "of late" meant "the last few thousand years." A few millennia wasn't really all that long a span of time, bearing in mind the potential lifespan of an angel. Heaven had been at peace longer than it had been troubled. Perhaps, once the Apocalypse was over and done with, they might have reason to rejoice again.

The younger angels, anyway. Not Michael, of course, but he knew that Raphael at the very least craved rest. He would enjoy paradise.

"If it was oblivion I wanted, I think I'd rather fall on my sword. I don't believe drunkenness is a desirable state in an archangel."

He had no idea what it looked like, really. He wondered for a moment if Gabriel had ever put the effort into achieving it, if he might know - and just as quickly decided that if it were something Gabriel had ever pursued that it wasn't something he wanted anything to do with.

"That's a touch permanent," Susan commented and took a sip of the clear alcohol she'd just poured. It was stronger than what she'd been drinking, but considerably less flavorful.

"But I can't say you don't have a point." Susan inclined her head slightly as she lowered her glass. "Drunkedness is hardly ever a desirable state for anyone, and the more Myffic one is the less desirable it becomes."

While Susan wasn't often wont to tell family stories, this was a perfect segue into one and, being that she was as drunk as she was likely to become, she was just chatty enough to spontaneously tell it. In a move that was popular among drunks no matter what universe they happened to occupy, Susan pointed to Michael and cocked a brow.

"Honestly, have you ever seen Personifications get drunk? It's dreadfully embarrassing," Susan began. "It takes days, of course, and they all start reminiscing about old times--which, of course, ends up being the entire span of Time--and when they finally start to feel it they chatter among themselves until they're all but sober and have to start from the beginning again."

Crowley's at the opposite end of the bar, partaking in some alone-time and a well-deserved bottle of red wine. He's in a good enough mood; event's over, and he's put some distance between himself and that whole kerfuffle with him and Aziraphale and the network. He and Aziraphale have even made up, and it didn't even take a hundred years this time. That's progress, that is. Crowley's in a pretty good mood, all things considered.

Then a goddamned (haha) archangel appears out of thin air like a lightning strike. Except in almost total-silence instead of with accompanying roll of thunder and hornblasts, which is really not fair and shouldn't be allowed. Something that grand shouldn't be able to be so damned--blessed--quiet.

A lesser demon might soil himself, but Crowley is better than that. All he does is shatter his wineglass. And curse loudly.

He miracles the broken glass and wine away automatically before scrambling to his feet.

"Bloody Manchester, could you not--"

He snaps his mouth shut when he sees which archangel it is.

True to habit, Michael arrives in his full, arrogant, heavenly glory to remind Crowley of the network incident and ruin his day.

Michael senses Crowley the moment he arrives in the bar; now, there's the slightest sound of feathers rustling as he rearranges his wings. Though they're not physical like Aziraphale's and Crowley's, his first instinct is to spread them wide and smite the stain that is Crowley's presence. He resists, if only because making a scene would be inconvenient for him. He hates changing his plans.

"You were expecting Gabriel?"

He doesn't doubt that his little brother makes a reasonably frequent apperance in the bar, even if it's of the regular variety and not a dessert bar. Drunk people get into more trouble than sober ones do, and that's right up Gabriel's alley.

"You really should learn to tell the difference between my brothers and I. They're much friendlier towards fallen angels."

Michael gives Crowley a clearly disapproving once-over. Yes, he understands that you're not a former human. No, that doesn't make you any better than the demons from his world - it makes Crowley worse, in fact.

Crowley just hasn't been around either archangel enough to recognize their...grace...signatures? Whatever. Angels are so rare on Earth back home that Crowley never really needs to have his angel radar on that high; it's enough to just sense where the nearest angel is and then go over there and ask if he wants to do the Ritz for lunch.

Welp. Time to fix that oversight. Next time he feels a presence like this, it's time to get the hell out of Dodge.

"Wasn't expecting..." He trails off uselessly and starts fidgeting with his tie. He knows better than Aziraphale, certainly; it's just not worth even talking to this guy. It's like trying to convince a boulder to move out of your way.

That tone of Michael's voice is especially concerning. How did he even find out that Crowley isn't like the demons in his own world? Either he can sense it or, well, Aziraphale told him. Idiot angel. Crowley sort of wondered whether Michael would hate him more or less if he knew that Crowley was an angel once, and now it looks like he has his answer. Joy.

"Yes, well. Won't make that mistake again. Good thing I was just leaving."

He grabs the wine bottle and downs about half of it to try and still his nerves, then gets to his feet. Unfortunately he has to walk past Michael to get out of here and he's not especially keen on getting anywhere near him. So he just kind of hovers there, wondering if there's some kind of back way out of here.

Differentiating Michael and Gabriel is a simple enough task. (At least, Michael would have insisted it is: his Grace isn't slathered in pagan taint, for one thing.) Even predicting which one will arrive is an uncomplicated matter: if it's the worst possible moment for a Heavenly being to show their face, you're probably going to get Michael at your back.

"No, you weren't."

With a snap of his fingers, Michael sets up a chair across from him. He motions between it and Crowley, his expectations clear. Sit, demon.

"Last time we spoke, you were - concerned about relative authority. Let's not put it off any longer."

Crowley wouldn't know a thing about pagan taint. An archangel is like an atom bomb constantly exploding near your face. You notice the heat and energy and the fact that your skin is dissolving, not whether or not it smells funny.

"What?" Suddenly there's a chair waiting for him. Crowley winces. Instinct tells him to let his wings out and run/fly as fast as he can; common sense keeps them winched in. He has noticed that the angels here have wings, but that they somehow manage to keep them on a different plane of existence. Clever, that. Means they can't be harmed. It wasn't that long ago that Crowley got a few feathers ripped out, and it's not an experience he wants to repeat.

"Ngk. That's not really necessary. I mean. Scarcely matters, it's Wonderland, Wonderland is the real authority here..."

He's definitely not sitting down but he's also not leaving.

For his part, Michael doesn't understand how oppressive his own presence actually is. Being the eldest of the flying, celestial atom bombs tends to skew his perspective: his younger siblings look more like firecrackers than nukes from his spot in the hierarchy.

There's a little flutter as Michael shifts his wings, annoyed that Crowley's eager to face him over the network but less so in person. Keeping his wings in is as much a benefit to everyone in his vicinity as it is to Michael himself. Angels in their true form tend to have unfortunate side effects on the decor. (Though if he ever has a need to offend a good chunk of the mansion's population all at once, rattling the bar to pieces with his mere presence would certainly be one way to do it.)

"And? If Wonderland is in first place, there's still second and third to work out. Sit."

He's not inclined to give Crowley another chance to refuse. When the General of Heaven gives an order, he expects to be obeyed. He motions towards the chair again, and this time there's an insistent telekinetic drag - okay, so maybe it's more of an indelicate attempt to slam Crowley into place - to go with it.

"I hear you used to be an angel."

As far as Crowley's concerned, they're all nukes, and Michael isn't even one of those nice tactical missiles with precision navigation and all that fancy technology. No, he's the sort that just kind of goes off and turns whole nations into dust.

It's extremely stressful.

But seriously, Michael, you're really going to blame him for taking pot shots over the network but not in person? Demons are cowards, you should know that.

"Oh, well, I don't--"

Suddenly he's rather bodily yanked into the chair, wincing at the none-too-gentle impact. The mere feeling of Michael's will taking hold of him so easily isn't exactly a pleasant sensation, either. As if Crowley needed another reminder of Michael's absolute dominance.

He folds his hands in his lap and swallows hard, reasonably certain that he's going to die in the next few minutes. He hopes Aziraphale won't be too upset. Actually, he fully expects Aziraphale to get furious, but he just hopes the idiot angel doesn't do anything stupid. Like try to fight Michael or something. Aziraphale is a sight to behold when he gets really angry, but it also makes him stupid. Their relationship only makes the angel that much stupider.

Crowley isn't expecting the question, and he blinks behind his glasses and doesn't answer for a moment.

"...Yes? Right, I, er, suppose that must sound strange--I've heard about your world and all, and, er--but it's normal where I'm from. Or, uh, not normal, just--that's how demons are created. That's what all of us are. Were. So I'm not special or anything. Not special at all."

He gives a short, hysterical little chuckle.

Michael would be offended at the suggestion that he isn't tactical or precise. As he sees it, he has one goal, the Apocalypse, and he's directly on target.

It's just that there's going to be an unfortunate amount of collateral damage.

If it's any comfort (hah), Crowley might be assured that the feel of a demon in his grasp is equally repulsive from Michael's end. Nothing angelic should ever feel so very, well, demonic. It's like picking a fruit and feeling his fingers slide through an unseen patch of rot.

The archangel cocks his head to one side. The cowardly nature in person and the insistence that he is an unremarkable fellow up to absolutely nothing of interest may be exactly what Michael expects to hear from any intelligent demon - insults and threats don't fly far even with the kinder members of his kin - but that doesn't make it any less irritating. If he wants answers, he expects to have them delivered.

"Believe me, I don't consider you special. Aziraphale, though - he's quite insistent that you're unique among demons. Why did you fall?"

One of the few commonalities between their worlds is that falling is most definitely the result of doing that which angels are not meant to do: they must choose to leave the fold.

(Unless you're Lucifer, kicked out against his will, though Michael would argue that his brother's fall was still the result of making a very poor choice.)

Crowley would argue that there's nothing tactical about the Apocalypse. Or collateral damage in general. Tactical is supposed to minimize casualties, at least as far as he understands it.

It occurs to Crowley rather suddenly that this is what it's like to be captured by an angel. It's actually never happened to him. He was always clever enough to avoid any angels that happened to be around Earth except for Aziraphale, and in the early days Aziraphale was mostly interested in thwarting or generally discorporating Crowley. Not capture, certainly. It was always a bit of a danger, though, getting yourself caught and interrogated and eventually smote.

Not that his side was ever any better. They're sort of worse by definition.

Crowley can't stop himself from fidgeting and feeling eternally thankful that Michael doesn't consider him special. That means less attention. Maybe. At least it means less of a guided effort to destroy Crowley, which is always nice.

He also can't stop himself from bristling at the question, because that's not something you just ask. Even the angels back home know better. No one is ever interested in the hows and whys anyway; you're the Enemy and that's all there really is to it. And neither side likes to think of the war in Heaven much, as it was a fairly miserable time.

Crowley's smart enough not to snap that it's none of the archangel's bloody business why he Fell, though.

"Hung out with the wrong crowd."

As far as Michael's concerned, tactics just means successfully maneuvering his forces in such a way as to get what he wants. Or what God wants, rather; what Michael wants has never really factored into the whole equation.

Unfortunately for humanity, that means a few billions dead in the process. There's no way for two archangels to have a throwdown on Earth without wrecking the decor any more than it's possible to host a bullfight in an antiques shop without taking out a few shelves. Michael might be inclined to argue about how "unfortunate" the death of a humans would be, however. The death of Lucifer would bring about Paradise, and for those who did die -

Well, he's rather fond of Heaven, himself.

Crowley's answer draws something of a twitch from the archangel. Michael's never been captured before, but he's been on this side of the fence plenty of times. Lucifer had fallen alone but he hadn't been the only rebellious angel in Heaven. No matter how many younger angels they'd had to drag in and interrogate, he's never developed a patience for half-answers.

"The wrong crowd who just so happened to be aligned with Lucifer? Falling is never an accident: it's a choice."

Michael doesn't care to be reminded of the "war" in Heaven much, either, but it had been different in his world. Lucifer had stood alone, and most of the angels they'd lost had been long after he'd fallen.

He hisses under his breath, looking away as he tries hard not to let Michael rile him. He's had this debate before, with himself and with Aziraphale. It's been six thousand years since then; that's plenty of time to think about it all and plenty of time to get well and truly over it.

But it's still not something he likes thinking about. He might not have meant to Fall, but he doesn't regret it. Heaven was boring, and Falling eventually landed him on Earth, so really, he can't be too upset about it.

It's infuriating, though, to hear Michael put it in such horribly oversimplified terms.

"Choice? Funny, that, seeing as everyone tells us our kind don't have free will." Probably shouldn't have used the word our, but it's too late now. "And a 'choice' implies that we had all the information necessary to actually make one. We didn't."

No one expected Lucifer to take things that far. No one knew a war was coming, though even that wasn't really a "war" in the mortal sense. No one even knew there was a place called Hell. Really, Crowley just hung around with some fellow angels who had similar opinions about how maybe upper management wasn't right about everything, about how Heaven could stand a change or two, and what exactly was the deal with those two weird creatures running around down in the Garden, like, what is the Big Guy even planning?

There is a new smell in the bar! New smell! NEW SMELL! YAY! He will go investigate the new smell because Mama is busy doing something.... human.

The silver tabby scampers out of the kitchen where he's been sleeping in the towels (again) and then walks around the bar.

Oh! It is shiny and smells new! NEW SMELLY SHINY THING! Obviously, it is his new toy. He likes new things. But he doesn't like the loud shiny thing in the outdoor cold place. Mama keeps banging it and that is loud and his ears hurt.

SHINY SMELLY NEW THING! He found it! Tiny claws dig into the denim and he climbs up the leg, just like he does with Mama. HELLO SHINY SMELLY NEW THING. He can be pet now.

The kitten is on his lap almost before Michael registers that it's nearby. There aren't too many pets wandering the mansion without their owners, and in general he doesn't have much to fear from anything that isn't either human, demon, or a rebel angel. Animals don't fall into any of those categories, and they tend to do nothing more than what his Father designed them to do: be animals.

For that, he likes them.

He's lowering a hand and giving the kitten's soft fur an affectionate pat as soon as it's settled. A close look confirms that it is, indeed, nothing more than a young cat, no curses and no supernatural powers that he can detect. That probably means that it belongs to someone, so he glances up and scans the bar for anyone who might be searching the floor for something small and fuzzy.

Oooooh. That is niiiiiice. He curls onto the knee and starts purring softly. His eyes squeeze closed and his tail twitches just the tiny bit. He pushes his head into the fingers because the new shiny thing needs to pet him. Now.

Ellen comes out of the kitchen, carrying a couple containers. She spies her kitten on Michael's lap and ticks up her eyebrows. That's surprising.

The kitten looks at her and purrs a bit louder. That's Mama, it's all good.

She pours him a cup of coffee, and brings over one of the containers of cookies. "I know you don't need to eat, but here. Havin' someone sittin' in the bar without anything in front of them? Too weird."

Charlie pops her head through the door of the bar before fully entering, curious to see who's inside. In part, she's wandering around in order to meet with some unfamiliar faces, but it's also somewhat of a scouting mission.

Mostly to see which areas of the mansion seem to be the most popular. It comes as no surprise she usually runs across the larger groups of people gathered in the diner or the bar. If there was some kind of gaming room...maybe they should convert the ballroom into one. There's a thought she tucks away until later, when she feels up to scheming.

There's a few people she doesn't recognize immediately when she peeks in, so Charlie decides now's a good time to make friends - or at least introduce herself. In case she didn't the other times she was here....which is still a little weird to her, the lack of memories from Wonderland before.

She passes his table, glancing down to see what he's drinking and coming to a stop when she doesn't see anything. It's surprising, and has her giving him a friendly smile.

"Not up for anything they've got, or are you more of a Natty Light guy?" It doesn't enter her mind to imagine he's an angel, and not just any angel - an archangel. To Charlie, he just looks like a dude chillin' in a bar with no food or drink in front of him. It's just out of place enough to get her attention, that's all.

Heaven's been watching the Winchester line since it came into being, and Michael's made sure to keep a close eye on Dean Winchester in particular. He knows the name of every casual acquaintance Dean has met and every friend he's ever made.

He has no idea who Charlie is, however. She's from well after the fate he refuses to accept as his destiny. When she approaches him all he sees is a woman - human, female, no supernatural traits to speak of. It's habit to examine anyone bold enough to approach him and he favours her with a brief but intense evaluating look. Yes, you're human, so he'll talk to you. His Father always held a special affection for humanity.

A slight frown overtakes his features as he considers her question. Michael's not an expert in human references, but he gets the gist of what she's asking.

"More the practical type. Alcohol doesn't have much of an effect on me."

He motions at the chair across from him - the chair that seems like it wasn't there a moment ago, except that chairs don't come out of nowhere, so surely he didn't call it into existence or something. Sit, if you like.

His answer confuses her a bit before it dawns on her - oh, he must not be human. She's been running into that a lot around here.

Looking down where he motions, she gives the chair a funny look before easing herself into it, wondering who this is. She's been making a game of it, trying to guess each person's identity just in case they were from a popular book series, tv show or even movie. It's been a little crazyhouse once she met James freakin' Potter, but at this point it's just plain fun.

"How come you're hanging out in the bar?" She folds her arms on the table, curious. "Unless you're meeting up for a date of some kind. Do people do that here?"

It has her wondering, anyway. Dating here would be...strange.

It's hard to imagine the bar as a truly 'safe' place, being that, when Lucifer was in Wonderland, he'd surprised them all once by showing up. But Gabriel does tend to think of it that way, as he rarely comes in for anything other than bothering Jo and sucking down alcohol-flavored sugar.

When he walks in and notices that unmistakable note of power on the air, the one that is still intensely familiar, he feels himself tense up a little. This is the big brother who doesn't know he died, who told him to curb his humor. And, by extension, himself.

But once he's there, the stubborn streak that so often gets him in trouble takes hold. Why should he leave? Why should he back down?

Gabriel's hands are in his pockets as he sends a nod Michael's way. "Never thought of you as the bar type," he notes, too-casually.

The only reason anyone should need to back down from Michael is that it's Michael. His presence is a more reliable indicator that an area isn't safe than Lucifer's is.

As good as Gabriel has gotten at hiding, it's all but impossible for Michael to overlook the sudden proximity of another archangel. Michael turns to face Gabriel as he enters but he doesn't leave his seat. He's not one to avoid conflict, either. He glances none too subtly at Gabriel's hands, satisfied to find them empty.

"I'm not; Dean is."

He gives Gabriel a look that challenges him to say anything about it. Given how their only conversation on the matter went - pretty well overall, since neither of them died - Michael is well aware that Gabriel doesn't approve of him hovering around his vessels. If he tries to tell him to stay away from his true vessel, however, they'll have a problem.

"I assume you are?"

They're not empty for very long, but it's not a weapon that Gabriel retrieves from mid air. It's a hurricane glass, full of an alcoholic chocolate milk shake. One of his favorite things that humans have come up with lately, honestly.

"It's not really the bar that gets me to come here." He glances around. "Though, I have to say, it's prettier than a dive. But I just come here for the people, mostly. And the entertainment."

Wait, should that be reversed, he wonders? It sounds exactly like what it is — fondness for Wonderland's human residents. Some of them, at least.

Ah well. It is what it is.

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i am sorry for the boomerang i happened to glance at my inbox RIGHT AT THIS SECOND...

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