milliways_bar | (no subject)

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lucifer morningstar

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*enters and catches sight of the group in the corner - his eyebrows lift a little and he smiles*

*orders a glass of Chianti from the bar and sits there, content to watch*

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Can I sit?

Certainly.

*sits down, a little warily*

Cheers, man.

For the guitar, I mean.

And have you written...what was it? Proper music?

I... dunno. I've written something, but... it's too close, right now. I don't know if it's good yet.

Then I won't ask to hear it. Yet.

*orders another glass of Chianti and slides it across*

Here.

*looks at it warily, then looks up at Lucifer, one eyebrow raised*

*softly*

When devils will the blackest sins put on
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows
As I do now

Are you scared?

No.

Just...

No one ever bought me wine, before.

*looks hesitant*

Was that... Shakespeare?

*inclines head slightly, looking amused*

Even the devil can quote scripture to suit his purposes.

...and so was that, incidentally.

Never? High time, then. It's Chianti. Italian. Quite good.

I've had wine, y'know, it's just... I dunno. People buy me spirits, beers. It's a band thing, a 'cool' thing, a quick-fuck thing. Wine's more of a seduction thing, and that's not me. That's not my life.

No, this isn't your life. It's your death.

Do you accuse me of seduction, Billy Tallent?

The prince of darkness is a gentleman.

King Lear, if you were wondering.

Nah. I'm sure you have bigger fish to fry.

And thanks for the reminder. I managed maybe five minutes there, without thinking about it.

All it means is that you can change. It doesn't exactly sound as if you were enjoying your life.

The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity.

That was Seneca.

Okay, that's nice. That I can deal with.

*takes a sip of the wine*

Maybe this I can deal with, too. All of this.

I dunno yet.

*quietly*

I've changed my mind. Play for me.

*looks up sharply, warily*

Why?

Because you owe me a favour. Because your fingers have been fiddling with the strings since you first sat down.

Because it's impossible to experience one's death objectively and still carry a tune. Dave Barry.

Because you, Billy, are anything but objective.

Okay, I'll play. But nothing new. It's not ready, and I'm not ready, and I can't deal with it today.

What do you wanna hear?

What will I enjoy?

*leans his chin on his hand*

*his voice is croaky, always not-quite-hitting the note, but it's strangely intimate for that, sounding like a friend trying to sing you to sleep*

good for me, for a time
all hell's cubically contained
starched and bottled
pressed and altered
and ready for the rings
the first tiny little shadows of my creepy little thoughts
and have it all that matters
and i lose by default
and i'll never promise anything again
i never promise anything again
i never promise anything again
i set a dozen 12-step traps
they slip by everyone
i never catch the little bastards
i really do wish that they'd own up
those paranoid little fuckers
take their paranoid little time
and when the moon rolls in
they're like a bank-robbin'
and i'm a hostage who will drive
and i never promise anything again
i never promise anything again
i never promise never promise never promise
anything again anything again
never promise never promise
anything again anything again
never promise anything again
now i can only do so much
and i will never deviate
i hear myself take a deep breath
and think i musta wanted it this way
i remember all those little traps
i could not keep them in place
and whenever stationed anywhere
they were terrorized and maimed
so tonight i set a vigil and my shadow's all that's cast
and the iron that's encased it
is doing all that one could ask
and i never promise anything again
i never promise anything again
i never promise anything again anything again
never promise anything again
never promise anything again anything again
never promise anything again

[OOC: Cubically contained: the Headstones]

*listens with cheek-on-hand to the quiet song, and smiles a little at its end*

And was that so hard?

Nah, 'cos it wasn't mine.

Mine hurt more.

*quietly, almost to himself*

Why should the devil have all the good tunes?

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