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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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 -- )

"I could be persuaded to change my mind." You know, if she met more than two angels who liked her sense of humor.

She's curious, now.

Another silent beat sails right on by.

When a smile twitches his lips, this time, it's still pretty thin and humorless. What it isn't? Anything like a smirk, dangerous or angry or otherwise.

"And, let me guess. You think I could help you with that?"

'Cause if she is, she'll be waiting a long time.

"It would, at least, be an interesting story. I like good stories."

Coyote inspects her fingernails idly. "But I am a busy person. I don't have all day to sit around in the bar."

He leans back, stretches his arms in front of him, and cracks his knuckles. "By all means, Coyote," he says, "don't let me keep you."

Well, the lack of sarcasm was nice while it lasted.

Guess that bluff failed. Ah, well. Can't win 'em all.

"You shouldn't be so tense," she says. Is that a hangnail? "You are far from the strangest thing people have seen here."

One side of his mouth curls like a hook.

"Look," he says. "Of all the entities who are gonna get the full story out of me, you are way down there on the list. But let's just say it's not these yahoos I'm worried about."

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the rest of the bar.

"I am so hurt." (She isn't, but she makes a good show of it.) "Then what? Afraid someone will go telling stories to big daddy?"

"Please. If Dad was gonna zap me with a lightning bolt he would've done it eons ago."

He's good, but let's face it: in his heart of hearts, he knows he's not that good.

And he kind of doubts his Father left him alone out of kindness.

"Then what is your problem?" She taps out her forgotten cigarette in an ashtray.

He smiles.

"Come here." He beckons with two fingers. "Come in close."

...that sounds like a very bad idea. So of course, she does!

He leans so near to Coyote that his lips practically brush the shell of her ear, breath tickling her earlobe.

And as if confiding a great secret, or murmuring sweet nothings to her, the being who calls himself Loki whispers: "It's none of your damn business."

Coyote lets out a huff, pulling back so fast her hair whirls around.

"Have it your way, Loki." She sneers. "But you had best not expect me to be helpful if we meet again."

She gets up, and pushes away from the bar.

"Oh. Oh, my heart," he deadpans. "It breaks."

Maybe if he weren't in such a foul mood to start, he'd think twice about pissing off a god who's on the (semi) level with his secret identity. Especially one of the tricksters.

Then again? Probably not.

"I kinda got the feeling we won't be seeing a lot of each other again anyway, sweetheart."

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