as the fact that there was indeed a living animal living with a supposedly evil demon. Lalael had always had the impression that demons only kept animals around for sacrifices to their infernal leader. After a mere few hours in this particular demon's lair, the only sacrifices Lalael had seen had been made to the cat itself, amid alarming noises from the cat and equally alarming wheedling from Lucien while he worked the can opener.
It puzzled Lalael, this cat. And the situation, come to think of it. One of the many questions that plagued the angel's broody thoughts was why Lucien seemed so... well, nice . None of the other angels had been this nice, in all the thousands of years that he had lived in Ríel. Well... There had been a few, back in the early years. Before Lalael had been – but no. There was no point in dwelling over thoughts such as that these days. Why was Lucien so... tolerating? Patient? Generous? He had opened his lair to the angel with only one question: Was Lalael allergic to cats?
So why didn't he seem to be homicidal? Why did Lalael never happen to look up to see a dangerous, murderous glint in the demon's eyes? Was Lucien lulling him into a false sense of security? Simply watching him walk sometimes nearly proved Ríel's point.
Lucien seemed the incarnation of the hedonistic pleasures that the Archangels adamantly forbade, the things that Michael had shouted about in angelic boot camp, so to speak, the things that Raphael had told them caused horrible injuries and festering illness when Lalael had been in the healing department... Lalael could almost see in Lucien the sin that the Archangels were constantly preaching about, curling and twisting under that thin covering of skin, all seven of them.
To be frank, it freaked Lalael out.
So did the cat.
Still, Lalael reasoned to himself, he had been trained to hate and be suspicious of demons, so no one could expect him to just trust Lucien after three days... Right? Even if Lucien hadn't taken the chance to rip off his wings when he had it. And the whole "not wanting to fight" thing? That didn't help Lalael feel comfortable either. It was unnatural.
Demons were supposed to be vicious and bloodthirsty; it was one of the Facts Of Life. The world was not a rational place without them. The angel realized, upon reflection, that he'd feel a lot more safe if Lucien (or, failing that, at least his cat) tried to kill him, just once. Or make him Fall. Or something equally alarming. But he didn't.
And so, Lalael suspiciously skirted around the demon when they were in the same room, talked as little as possible, and never ever turned his back. They spent their days in Lucien's flat, the demon in his bedroom, and the angel in the guest room that Lucien had generously (and suspiciously) gifted to him.
"Stay as long as you like!" Lucien had said. "I enjoy the company."
Did he even know that there were Facts of Life to adhere to?
Everything freaked Lalael out. Well, alright, not everything, but almost everything that was in Lucien's lair.
“ Don't go outside. Never know what those humans will do under pressure.” Lucien had said, with cheerfully ominous tone.
“ What pressure?” Lalael had asked.
“ Oh, you don't think,” Lucien had said in surprise, “that an Apocalypse and half of the world's population vanishing in the space of five minutes counts as pressure? Everyone has lost a friend or a family member or someone they knew. A neighbor. An enemy.” Lucien's voice became sorrowful, “The man behind the counter at the bakery that sells those really amazing cream things, and the jelly danishes –”
“ I don't know what those are. What's the point?”
“ I won't get jelly danishes on Tuesdays, that's what,” Lucien had said in despair. He'd completely lost the thread of the conversation.
Lalael had left him at the window. “I'm going outside.”
***
Lalael had gone Outside, and Outside was currently where he was.
It puzzled Lalael, this cat. And the situation, come to think of it. One of the many questions that plagued the angel's broody thoughts was why Lucien seemed so... well, nice . None of the other angels had been this nice, in all the thousands of years that he had lived in Ríel. Well... There had been a few, back in the early years. Before Lalael had been – but no. There was no point in dwelling over thoughts such as that these days. Why was Lucien so... tolerating? Patient? Generous? He had opened his lair to the angel with only one question: Was Lalael allergic to cats?
So why didn't he seem to be homicidal? Why did Lalael never happen to look up to see a dangerous, murderous glint in the demon's eyes? Was Lucien lulling him into a false sense of security? Simply watching him walk sometimes nearly proved Ríel's point.
Lucien seemed the incarnation of the hedonistic pleasures that the Archangels adamantly forbade, the things that Michael had shouted about in angelic boot camp, so to speak, the things that Raphael had told them caused horrible injuries and festering illness when Lalael had been in the healing department... Lalael could almost see in Lucien the sin that the Archangels were constantly preaching about, curling and twisting under that thin covering of skin, all seven of them.
To be frank, it freaked Lalael out.
So did the cat.
Still, Lalael reasoned to himself, he had been trained to hate and be suspicious of demons, so no one could expect him to just trust Lucien after three days... Right? Even if Lucien hadn't taken the chance to rip off his wings when he had it. And the whole "not wanting to fight" thing? That didn't help Lalael feel comfortable either. It was unnatural.
Demons were supposed to be vicious and bloodthirsty; it was one of the Facts Of Life. The world was not a rational place without them. The angel realized, upon reflection, that he'd feel a lot more safe if Lucien (or, failing that, at least his cat) tried to kill him, just once. Or make him Fall. Or something equally alarming. But he didn't.
And so, Lalael suspiciously skirted around the demon when they were in the same room, talked as little as possible, and never ever turned his back. They spent their days in Lucien's flat, the demon in his bedroom, and the angel in the guest room that Lucien had generously (and suspiciously) gifted to him.
"Stay as long as you like!" Lucien had said. "I enjoy the company."
Did he even know that there were Facts of Life to adhere to?
Everything freaked Lalael out. Well, alright, not everything, but almost everything that was in Lucien's lair.
“ Don't go outside. Never know what those humans will do under pressure.” Lucien had said, with cheerfully ominous tone.
“ What pressure?” Lalael had asked.
“ Oh, you don't think,” Lucien had said in surprise, “that an Apocalypse and half of the world's population vanishing in the space of five minutes counts as pressure? Everyone has lost a friend or a family member or someone they knew. A neighbor. An enemy.” Lucien's voice became sorrowful, “The man behind the counter at the bakery that sells those really amazing cream things, and the jelly danishes –”
“ I don't know what those are. What's the point?”
“ I won't get jelly danishes on Tuesdays, that's what,” Lucien had said in despair. He'd completely lost the thread of the conversation.
Lalael had left him at the window. “I'm going outside.”
***
Lalael had gone Outside, and Outside was currently where he was.
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