milliways_bar | (no subject)

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So first the gates of Hell open.

Then the Weekly World News shuts down.

Then it turns out the Winchester brothers, Señor Muttonhead and Muttonhead Junior, are the ones responsible for bullet point A up there?

Man, this is the worst fall ever.

Sulking, he scoops up a bite of waffle -- okay, more like a tiny island of cooked dough in an Atlantic-sized sea of maple syrup -- and eyes Milliways at large. Maybe he should tie a couple of metaphorical shoelaces together or something. Pranks always make him feel better.

(Hey, don't judge. He's a trickster. He's allowed!)

[OOC: as per usual, slowtimes are highly likely, but! Post is open until it scrolls.]

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Without missing a beat: "Doing well the last time I saw her, but phew was that a while ago. Maybe I'll be able to catch up with her here! Think you could tell her I said hi?"

"You are full of shit," Coyote says, without any true rancor behind it. Not yet, anyway. "And I should know."

"Not even a little, sweetheart."

He's not quite as good at the dangerous smile as Coyote, but for someone --

(something -- )

-- like him, he's doing a passable job.

"If you say so, Loki. You come here often?"

It's devoid of any real flirtation.

"Couple of times before," he says, and waggles his eyebrows just for show. "And you, my dear?"

"For years," Coyote says. "And in other lives."

"You had best be careful," she says, after a pause. "You do know other angels come here?" Seeing them trip over each other would be pretty hilarious, but she probably wouldn't be around to see it. So it's worth giving that up to see if she gets any more reaction from him.

"Yeah, still not getting the halo-and-harp fixation," he says, taking an abrupt swerve back into the sharpness of before. "But I've run into one of those winged monkeys already, thanks."

A beat, and another thin smile that drips sarcasm.

"Any other advice you wanna share?"

"Any other advice you'd be willing to take from me?" she asks, dry as the desert.

He tips a hand toward her.

"Seems like you're all about dishing it out for free tonight, what can I say."

"It is a very rare mood, I assure you," Coyote says. Her tone implies 'and this is why'.

Is she implying that he's being a jerk? What slander.

Totally accurate slander, but nonetheless.

"All right." He folds his arms on the bartop, syrup and waffles completely forgotten, and fixes Coyote with a look. "Fine. You wanna talk glory glory hallelujahs, I'll humor you -- how many other angels?"

"There are at least four currently. And several more who used to come here as well. One of them is an acquaintance, and another I know very well."

'Know' in the biblical sense. Heh heh heh.

Angelic sex, he would maintain, is only hilarious if he's talking about it.

"And...do I get any names to go with that?"

He wouldn't deny her the pun, would he? How cruel!

"I wonder if they are all the same, through each universe." Coyote takes five seconds to ponder the mysteries of angels and heaven and gods in other universes, then decides she doesn't actually care.

"Michael is one."

Okay, fine, he can appreciate the pun. He likes puns.

"And that would be the one I already met." Beat. Mock-thoughtful, "Wasn't expecting her to look like that from the name."

"Oh please, you really should lay off the heteronormativity if you are going to keep that facade going."

And that will be one of the few times you'll hear a word that scientific pass Coyote's lips.

He snorts, unimpressed, and rolls his eyes.

Frankly, it's either that or saying something --

Well, saying something pretty unwise about siblings, and all angels being the same across universes.

"It is not what is on the outside, but what is on the inside that counts," she says, trying to keep a straight face and almost failing.

"Yeah, yeah," he grouses. "Laugh it up, fuzzball. Am I gonna get any other names besides Michael's?"

"Sariel was here, years ago. And Remiel." It's too bad they're gone now, she got along quite well with them both. She still has the smashingly orange leather jacket that Sariel gave her, actually.

...Yeah. And both of them he knows. Not as well as Mike, but --

He'll just be over here latching onto the "years ago" part like grim death, thanks.

His jaw sets. He stays -- remarkably, for him -- quiet.

She isn't saying another word about Raguel, now that her suspicions are confirmed.

"They seem all right. For angels."

Both eyebrows rise again.

"You got a thing against angels ordinarily?"

"Ordinarily I find them to be stuck-up, stiff necked, moralistic morons."

...sorry, every angel that she's liked. You didn't trip her asshole radar that often.

(Raguel, you never saw this.)

If they were anywhere else, he'd be grinding his teeth so hard they'd be dust by now.

Instead, so bland that it makes vanilla look like an exciting taste explosion: "Sounds like we've got a little bit in common there."

(He loves his family. He does, without question. But -- )