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Jophiel would be having a grand old time if not for the growing tension in the room. He eyes the depressingly empty table tops, the equally empty catwalks tragically devoid of any dancers, human or otherwise. No drinks are being served. No sticky drops of expensive cocktails are trickling down into warm and inviting cleavages. He sighs, wistfully staring into a frighteningly bleak eternity. A vast, funless abyss governed by the Firstborn and the Devil he knows even less than before now that his Miracle got a bun in the oven.
One of his sisters elbows her way into the centre, loudly demanding to be heard. Flowing robes and ruffled feathers make way for sharpened primaries, and flashing divinity.
“Muriel...”
Jophiel rolls his eyes at the patronizing tone in Amenadiel’s voice. It seems that the Eldest still fancies himself their saviour, preaching about faith, and falling. Lessons learned, and everything in between. ‘Blah, blah, blah...’
He leans against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest as if that could keep the tediousness from crawling into his ears. He hates it when his brother does that. Jophiel sighs again, remembering when Lucifer used to hate that just as much. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Lucifer, the Miracle, Dad setting the twins up like a living Renaissance painting. But instead of the Devil, it had been Michael who got kicked down.
For love of all things!
Like, ‘ugh!’
Jophiel makes a face, sticking out his tongue in distaste. But try as he might he finds himself unable to spit out that foul tasting word before it burns his mouth.
What has love ever done for them but sow discord amongst his siblings. Pride, greed, wrath and envy. Every single one wearing the face of angel. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Their individuality mocked; their imperfections considered a weakness of spirit. Gee, thanks Amenadiel, maybe next time consult with the Angel of Wisdom, aka me, before spewing any more of your whack job hypotheses.
Another question asked, another evasive answer from their should-have-been-Godifer gets scattered like breadcrumbs in a pond filled with rabid ducks.
And he hadn’t been the only one. Discord got sown with every non-action from their new God. Whispered complaints had rung out every time Lucifer went off on his own to find something shinier to occupy his mind. It’s not as if they hadn't been warned.
Jophiel’s eyes search the darkened niche beside the bar with its suspiciously moving shadows, but Michael had been very clear. The impending apocalypse wasn't his problem. Not anymore. Not after... Jophiel swallows convulsively, shaking his head to dispel the memories of-of... well... not after...
A small scuffle breaks out in the far corner. Violence rippling out from one of the occupied booths like the circular waves you get from skipping a boulder across a lake.
Things used to be so much easier when all you had to do was dangle the threat of “I’m gonna tell Michael”, over their heads. He would have had those ducks in a row faster than you could say goose. When Michael was around, things got done. With Michael there, battles were won. Jophiel swallows convulsively. Until they were not. ‘Nope. Don't even go there...’
There’s a shout and a crash, the sound of Amenadiel’s voice of reason being drowned out by more complaints.
That same intensity that served Michael so well as the Legion’s leader didn’t translate all that well into his new purpose as a glorified desk jockey though. Barking out orders instead of adopting smoother “corporate speech” patterns. Fearing the living daylights out of them for messing up what Michael had deemed a simple task. In other words, being a dick. Those who had served in the Legions had remembered him though. They still hated him just the same, but they knew.
The first punch gets thrown. Lucifer's voice raises in indignation quickly followed by Ibriel’s equally indignant squawking, because damn, that boy is a kiss ass.
Jophiel subtly reaches over the bar to riffle through the collection of bottles, squinting at the labels until he comes across a nice bottle of vodka. ‘Ooh fancy...’ He blindly feels around for a glass, pouring and drinking three shots in quick succession. He's is all for “talking things through” in a bar brawl of celestial proportions, because nothing says “I’m sorry” quite as succinctly as a fist to the face, but he’d definitely prefer to do it drunk, thank you very much. That way, there will be a less of a chance of those pesky feelings surfacing, or maybe... he knocks back another shot, or maybe have a greater chance of them being attributed to alcohol rather than sentimentality.
He briefly considers diving behind the bar to try and find himself some red bull when his anxiety levels suddenly skyrocket. ‘Oh, thank fuck for small mercies.’ It seems that Michael has taken up his invitation anyway. Despite his complaints, his understandable unwillingness to deal with any of them anymore.
He finds his brother leaning against the far side wall with his arms crossed. His expression tight. Silently watching, judging the proceedings with that slightly unhinged, unblinking stare of his. An unnerving uniqueness both twins share.
Michael’s dark eyes suddenly lock onto his, his lips pressed together tightly in silent displeasure. He had looked the same then. When Lucifer appeared at the vote wearing a suit of all things! Anger and worry had quickly turned into rage at Lucifer's continued refusal to take things seriously. Michael hated stupidity. Knew it for the dangers it posed. For one mistake on the battlefield could cost one’s life. One person not pulling their weight could mean failure, defeat. He glances down at Michael’s clenched right hand, or worse, death.
Jophiel shudders. At least this time Lucifer the presence of mind to realise that things could get rowdy and he left his fragile “goddess” at home.
One of their siblings comes flying past. Crashing into the mirrored bar, showering them both with soon to be sticky liquid and glass. Jophiel gulps, uh oh...
“Enough!”
Michael roars at the top of his lungs, “Everybody, shut– the fuck– up!”
‘Well...’ Jophiel hugs his precious bottle of vodka against his chest as Michael stalks off, their siblings parting before him like Moses did the Reed Sea. He probably going to need it. He takes a swig from the bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I hope Zadkiel feels really stupid right about now.’
“What in Dad's name are you all doing?”
Michael moves like a predator. Slowly, meticulously scanning the faces of their siblings. No doubt creating a list of mind-numbing chores and checking it twice. Jophiel shivers. ‘Been there, done that.’
Jophiel still remembers the hours upon hours of scrubbing the City's sidewalks with his toothbrush. Or polishing all the doorknobs... also, with his toothbrush. Brushing his teeth... Jophiel’s anxious shiver turns into a full body shudder. ‘No! Nope. Not going there either. No siree...’
Michael's gaze falls onto a little huddle of younger angels all bearing the Legion’s sigil and he throws up his hand in annoyance. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Who’s guarding the gates?”
At least they manage to look properly chastised when facing the general’s growing ire. Still, they remain frozen in place. Holding their letters of complaint between shaking fingers as if that would stop Michael from threatening them with their own toothbrushes.
“Well then, chop chop.” Michael claps his hands as if shooing off a flock of pigeons. “Unless you'd rather patrol the edge? Hmm?” Jophiel sucks in a breath through his teeth at hearing those slimy undertones in Michael's dark chuckle. “I mean I wouldn’t, but you know, what do I know, right?”
‘Ohhh...’ Things are never good when the general uses his buddy-buddy voice. Shit rolls downhill as they say, and Michael knows exactly how create enough of that to make you rethink your actions.
He watches as his brother leans forward, a shit eating grin on his face while takes a deep breath...
“Boo.”
With a squeak and a flash of feathers, the younger ones blink out of view, quickly followed by a handful more that decided that losing their ticket number was infinitely more desirable than having to face whatever punishment Michael could cook up.
Michael’s gaze then sweeps the room, followed by a wave of girlish eeps and not only from his sisters.
“C'mon, I've been away for like five minutes and this is what you do?” He snatches one of the letters out of a trembling hand, eyes raking over its contents at breakneck speed. “You want your Sundays off?” The disbelief in Michael's voice is palpable. “Like, seriously?”
The temperature drops as Michael waits patiently for the angel in front of him to nod. He then he reaches an arm around their shoulders like a caring big brother. “Soooo, by your reckoning, there are no disasters on the Lord’s Day, hmm?”
Michael's eyes widen, making his brother look slightly deranged. ‘Just slightly.’
“No humans dying, no things to clean with your toothbrushes?” Michael continues with that look of fake interest on his face, his voice modulating through equally fake care and attention. “Is that what you're saying?”
They shake their head no though from where he's standing it’s difficult to tell if they are replying to Michael's rhetorical questions, or if they're just quaking in their celestial booties.
Michael smiles then though it looks anything but friendly. “Good good,” he pats their curly golden head. “Anyone else here to get their Sundays off?” Michael raises the letter, looking around with that wide manic smile plastered on his face. “No?”
Jophiel shudders, hiding it by taking another sip from his bottle. He's been on the receiving end of that smile way too often. Whilst Lucifer had been safely ensconced in Hell after his Earthly sojourns, Jophiel, hadn’t been that lucky. Still, it had remained ridiculously easy to sneak out of Heaven. Quite often right under Michael's nose too. Though he now suspects that may have been exactly how Michael always knew when and where to find them. If you work hard, you get to play hard, if you don't...
“Then, get your asses back to work!” Michael barks suddenly, sending off a dozen or two more with a jolt of fear. The golden-haired angel seems to be frozen in place though.
“Well, what more do you need?! An invitation?” Michael sounds gruff, though his countenance softens considerably when he sees just how badly their sibling is shaking. Jophiel watches as Michael reaches out to touch them, but seems to think better of it. It hurts to see it, but even he knows Michael can't always control what he was given.
“Just get back to work,” his brother rumbles gently, stepping back and out of reach. Allowing the angel to poof out of view without further reproach.
Michael glances his way then, his eyes softer than he's seen in a while, and Jophiel releases a relieved sigh. Seems like his brother hasn't changed too much after... you know, after.
And then the softness of the moment is broken by the Devil himself.
“Bloody hell, who invited Quasimodo?”
Jophiel sucks in a breath through his teeth at seeing Michael visibly flinch. He knows Michael has steered clear of Lucifer for more than just physical safety. The dark rings under dark eyes had told him all he needed to know when he went to try and convince Michael to come today. The flash of surprised hurt that had flashed across his brother's scarred face told him that nobody had dared to invite him. Thankfully his general recovers quickly, or at least, manages to hide the effect hearing his twin’s voice has on him.
“Luci...” And in swoops the Fist of God to smooth the devil's feathers.
‘Ugh...’
Michael's face reflects Jophiel’s inner monologue. His brows drop into a deep scowl as he bares his teeth in a feral grin. Amenadiel’s fussing has obviously set alight Michael's temper again. Jophiel can only hang back and watch the fireworks.
“At least Quasimodo had the sense to know the work doesn't stop on Sundays.” Michael drawls, obviously still annoyed by the whole issue.
“Michael...” Amenadiel sounds about ready to tear his non-existent hair out. ‘Now there's an image.’
“Quasimodo also knew when he wasn't welcome. Unlike another unwanted child. Maybe you know him? About yea big, slightly lumpy, wearing the face of the brother he can never live up to. Does that ring any bells?”
Lucifer’s grin is razor-sharp and Jophiel winces, ‘Wow, bro. That’s a low blow, even by Luciferian standards.’ And he can tell that Michael has some trouble recovering from that.
Watching the twins go back and forth like this is nothing new. He has seen them dance this dance a bajillion times already. And as long as they are still using their words and not their fists, or certain flaming weaponry, there's no reason for him to intervene. In fact, chances are that both will turn on him if he does, and he's no match for either of them. Not even Michael in his wingless state.
“Well,” Michael croaks, before he's ready and the vicious smirk on Lucifer's face grows infinitely wider.
‘Fuck.’
It’s a tactical error he would not have made before, and it only shows just how off kilter the general still is. Who wouldn't be. Jophiel closes his eyes to the situation developing right in front of him. He's really not drunk enough for this yet, but he's also too drunk to not stay out of it.
“There's obviously someone here who thought you might need a...” Michael pauses, obviously trying to find a more pc version of what all of them seem to be thinking, “...someone to show you the ropes.”
‘A kick up the ass, more like.’ Jophiel thinks as he finishes the remainder of his bottle of Vodka, infinitely saddened by its demise. ‘Well, at least Michael didn't throw him under the proverbial bus.’
Michael looks tense, dark. Obviously fighting to get the words out and stay civil at the same time. “I, I understand you want to implement a more... democratic rule,” Michael looks down at the crumpled-up letter still clamped between his fingers. “Though the execution sure leaves much to be desired.” Lucifer huffs, but Michael pushes through. “They just need someone to manage them and I...”
“And you're supposed to be it? Lucifer interrupts his brother with a scampering laugh. “You? You sad excuse for a twin? Excuse me while I go call Dr. Martin. Seems like you just lost your mind.”
Jophiel hates it when Lucifer is like this. He may be the brightest twin, but he often lacks in wisdom and let's his feelings rule his decision-making. Michael may seem like a cold-hearted bastard, but he feels far too deeply. Rational justifications are what kept him sane. Jophiel exhales slowly. Relatively sane that is. He's not sure if either twin can be safely called that.
Michael leans back on his left foot, his hand automatically feeling for a sword that's not been there for ages. Jophiel frowns, his brother is definitely bracing for something.
“I’ve managed the Host for ages, you know. I could...” Michael can't even finish his sentence.
“Ah Mikael; Mikael; Mikael,” Lucifer tuts, “You can't even manage to keep your own bloody shoulders straight, why ever should we listen to anything you say?”
Michael closes his eyes and everyone freezes. It's suddenly so quiet that you can hear a pin drop and he can tell a few more of their siblings wisely choose to leave before the upcoming explosion.
“Oh, look at me. Poor old crippled Mikey.” Lucifer mimics his twin's posture and accent, “if you are quite done making a fool of yourself, Michael, then please see yourself out. It's bad enough you choose to walk around like this,” Lucifer's wrinkles nose wrinkles in disgust, “but forcing your little sympathy act on the rest of us is more than I'm willing to put up with.”
Jophiel almost claps his hand to his forehead, but refrains from moving as if that would stop the oncoming storm. Michael turns pale before everything turns dark around him. Anxiety is screaming through his body, his blood pumping at an astonishing rate. Jophiel braces himself for the inevitable. It's like stepping on a divine landmine, hearing the click, and knowing even the slightest movement can set it off.
He watches with growing horror as Lucifer takes a swig of his drink with a victorious smirk on his face.
Jophiel can't tell exactly what had been the trigger. Did somebody cough, sneeze, breathe?
Because true to form, Michael explodes.
“Do you think I chose this?” he stalks forward with evenly measured steps. “Do you really think I'd willingly go through this pain for every day of my life for-for funzies?”
A soft murmur spreads amongst the gathered angels.
“Michael...” Jophiel calls, but Michael cuts him off before he can finish his thought.
“No, Joph!” Michael swipes his hand to the side angrily, “I've kept heaven running for longer than I can remember. I've commanded the legions for even longer than that.” Michael’s voice gets louder the longer he talks. “I’m not some mentally challenged weakling and it's time everyone remembers that.”
Jophiel blanches at Michael's insinuation, because he does remember. He remembers watching helplessly as Michael was grabbed by the chaos beast and shaken like a dog shaking a rat.
“I thought the state of my wings would have been clear enough, but noooo,” Michael continues viciously, “I must have managed to self-actualize that!”
He remembers the horrible crunch of Michael’s spine breaking. His gurgling screams. The relief he had felt when Michael still managed to jam his sword up into the roof of the creature’s mouth. It hadn't been enough to kill it, but at least it had spat him out.
Michael starts to shake off the jacket, cursing at his unwilling arm. “Why did you think I got put on desk duty?” He all but screams at his twin. “What is there to not understand?”
Michael had plummeted towards the edge while he and Gabriel had raced to catch him. It had been his fingers that had squelched into torn flesh. His hands that kept the bubbles from escaping from Michael's torn lungs.
“I can’t even remember what it’s like to not be in pain.” Michael's voice wobbles even in his righteous anger. He had finally managed to shake the jacket off his shoulders and was now working to get the fingers of his right hand to grasp the hem of the sweater.
It was a miracle his brother had healed at all. The resulting lameness is a blessing compared to the mangled, bloody mess he was when Jophiel flew him into Raphael’s infirmary. When every ragged breath had become an agonized moan and despite the pain his brother had been in, he had been unable to fall unconscious. Such is the nature of being the Sword of God.
“I didn’t make myself into this.” Michael got one arm out of its sleeve and is working to pull the fabric up over his head since the other arm just doesn't want to cooperate today. “I'm going to show you once and for all what I'm really made of!”
Maybe it’s because he cares too much, maybe it’s the alcohol in his system, ‘probably the alcohol...’ but Jophiel decides that enough is enough. He pushes himself through the dose of anxiety that Michael hands out like free candy and stops him in his tracks.
“Michael.” Jophiel puts a hand on Michael's chest, keeping him from completely tearing off the turtleneck sweater and showing the extensive scarring down his right side.
“No, Joph, I don't have to stand here and swallow this.” Michael tries to push him off, but Jophiel grabs his wrists. For once ignoring the pained gasp when the movement jostles his brother’s shoulder.
“Let them see! Let them see the truth about their so-called self-actualisation!” Michael grounds out through gritted teeth.
The resulting fear from that incident had been so deep that when Michael had healed enough to be sent back to the front, he had frozen up. He had become unresponsive in the face of chaos and they had come out with heavy losses.
“Dude, don't do this.”
Remiel had chalked it up to cowardice.
Michael tries to wring his wrists out of Jophiel’s iron grip. Every hair on his body is standing up in response to Michael’s gift, but there’s no way he's going to let this happen. Because Jophiel knows better, and Michael deserves better.
Lucifer had considered his posture a weakness in Michael’s character. Marking him unfit to even be his shadow and Amenadiel had done very little to dispel that idea. Because when the golden boy Amenadiel had finally been sent to the front just like everyone else, Remiel had his ear.
“I have given everything I had,” Michael all but screams in his face, “and I’ve never asked for anything in return. I've been loyal to the end.” Dark eyes flash dangerously. “That should have been me!” He points at Lucifer and his mock throne.
“Right, because you are such a good Samaritan. Saint Michael, the Archangel, protector of the realm,” Lucifer snivels, mimicking Michael’s East-Coast accent, “Pffsh don’t make me laugh. You've never done anything that wasn’t beneficial to you.”
“I was protecting them!”
Lucifer scoffs, “They didn’t need protecting. None of us did, until you decided you wanted to sit on the throne instead of kneeling beside it. If you had been doing your bloody job instead of conspiring to become God, we wouldn’t be in this position now would we? Dad would still be here...”
“Dad was losing it, Lucifer.”
“Was he?” Lucifer scowls deeply. “Or did you gaslight dear old dad into thinking he was, hmm?”
“What? No! How can you not know...?”
Amenadiel looks away with pinched expression.
Something isn't adding up for Jophiel. Lucifer is still on earth and while he had thought it had something to do with his Miracle baby, the way Lucifer keeps arguing without seeming to know anything makes his skin crawl.
“You’re God now, you won. Why can’t you just do your fucking job for once?” Michael shouts.
“Is that what you think? That I am sitting here listening to that drivel for the heck of it?”
But Michael is no longer listening. “All my life I’ve worked and worked. Nobody cared. You take over and everything is falling to shit and nobody asked me anything. Nobody! You didn’t even invite me to this circus.”
“At least you didn't get thrown into Hell–”
“No! You don't get to do that, Lucifer. You took your vacations, you got your Miracle, but guess what I got. I got to keep my scars, and my lameness, my fucking broken w-...” Michael's voice cracks.
That tortured scream.
Jophiel tries not to think about it, but he knows it's too late.
Those pale hands shaking uncontrollably.
He knows there’s no way Michael won’t pick up on it now. Not with them touching.
The scent of burning black feathers.
Especially since they are touching.
The dull thud of Michael’s severed wings hitting the concrete.
Jophiel feels the full body shudder go up Michael’s injured spine. He hears the pained hitch in his breathing. The sudden weight in his arms as Michael's right leg starts to tremble.
But before he can apologise, the vision recedes and Michael shakes his head.
“Oh my, me...”
“Why are you still here, Lucifer?” Jophiel grounds out, still holding on to Michael to keep him from crumpling to the floor in the wake of their vision
The remainder of the Host shuffles awkwardly and Lucifer picks up on it like a hound to a scent. He looks between Michael and Jophiel. “Oh, I see how it is. You manipulated them with your sob story and now I'm your next target. May I remind you brother,” he spits out the word as if Jophiel has suddenly become his biggest disappointment in life, “that Michael has no trouble telling lie after lie. Granted, he can be terribly charming when he wants to be so I can't fault you for that.” Jophiel hates the condescending tone in his brother's voice. He's more than aware of how the devil sees him as an airhead with little more to do than scam the pants of Napoleon. Shows how little Lucifer really knows about any of his siblings regardless of where they stood during the rebellion and after.
“If you want a job so badly, Michael, you can have one downstairs. The floors of Hell could do with a little scrubbing. I'll even throw in a “left-handed” toothbrush to sweeten the deal. We wouldn't want to overwork poor you.” Lucifer needles his twin and Jophiel feels the shudder run through his brother at the continued denial of anything being actually wrong with him and he's glad he stopped Michael from showing his scars. Lucifer wouldn’t have believed them anyway.
“Stop deflecting and just answer the question, Lucifer,” Michael sighs, he sounds so tired now.
Now it’s Lucifer's turn to look pinched, “I'm not–” but the lie doesn't materialise. The remainder of the Host is hanging on his lips, and Jophiel feels Michael's hands curl up into the front of his robes the longer Lucifer takes to answer.
“I didn’t get the Omnis,” he eventually murmurs, almost too low to hear.
“What?” Michael jolts in his grasp.
“He didn’t get the Omnis, Michael.” At least Amenadiel manages to look regretful.
“H-how’s that even possible?” Michael laughs, a sound full of pain and sheer disbelief. “Dad said we had a choice!”
Lucifer swallows and looks away. “Did he?”
Michael’s laughter turns frighteningly hysterical, “This is-is-is one of y-your stupid hypotheses, right? Right?!”
Amenadiel shakes his head and Jophiel suddenly feels terribly lightheaded.
“You didn’t get them...” Michael's voice cracks and Jophiel vividly remembers Michael's theatrics at the Coliseum. Crowing his bloodless victory to the heavens, the lack of thunder or anything else to show the transition of power to the winner.
“Dad set us up...”
“Maybe it needs to be unanimous?”
He remembers Lucifer offering Michael exactly what Michael had gone to offer before the vote. His one last attempt to keep the body count down. But after the Miracle had gone and shot two of their siblings, her expression cool and uncaring, that offer had become nullified. Jophiel stares at Michael's profile, the dropping of those dark brows, the trembling of that lower lip. He had still accepted the terms to a duel, just between the two of them, terms Lucifer broke.
“No, this it to the death.”
Another deal broken by the devil, though he is happy that Michael is still among them. The universe just wouldn't be the same without him.
“We didn’t have to fight...” Michael looks at him and he feels his heart break a little more for the darkest twin.
Lucifer shakes his head no.
“I didn’t have to–” Michael tries to pull away from him. He ducks his head, trying to hide his face from him, from them. “I...”
‘Remiel...’
“I was protecting them.”
Lucifer scoffs and Jophiel could punch him for that.
“You know I did!” Michael’s dark eyes suddenly flash to his and Jophiel’s heart clenches at the intensity of his gaze. “I’m still doing it!”
“I know, dude, I was there,” Jophiel says calmly, or as calmly as he can manage. The Edge, the Rebellion 1.0 and 2.0, the uphill battle to keep heaven running when Dad went AWOL, he had been there for it. For all of it. Unlike some of his brothers.
“I really thought I could do it.”
Even if apparently the universe doesn't need a God to remain...
“I know, Mike, I know. I chose to stand with you for a reason you know.”
Michael stops, dark eyes turning to his brother in anguish. “W-what?”
Jophiel smiles wryly, “Did you really think I was only there because you had the flaming sword like Lucifer said? C'mon, I know you, brother. You are a dick, but I knew you'd do a good job.”
Michael's mouth works, forming silent buts.
Several angels around them nod their agreement.
“Y-you don't hate me?” Jophiel hates how small Michael sounds. So far removed from the commander he once followed to the edge and beyond. It makes him sad to see heavens fiercest warrior be put out to pasture as if his sacrifices meant nothing. “No even after I...”
Jophiel sighs. If anyone knows that in war there are always casualties it’s Michael. Remiel had played both twins and apparently hoped to somehow come out on top, and he's not quite sure of the outcome had been different had she gone after Lucifer. Not after what happened to Uriel...
“Nah, dude, you're my brother.”
“You still want me?”
And there it is. That troublesome need of being needed. Jophiel knows it all too well. It’s how their father made them. It’s how He kept them dependent on Him right up to the point when He left and maybe even still.
Michael’s shoulders drop and he drops his head against Jophiel’s shoulder as Joph pulls him in.
Jophiel notices that Michael doesn't even attempt to return the hug. Both twins so broken that they can only see themselves as worthless. So afraid that they will fail that they don't even try anymore. And no wonder if your father throws out one on a whim and keeps the other like a divine Cinderella.
It was all for nothing...
Jophiel ignores the wetness against his robes, doesn't draw any attention to this one moment of weakness in Michael's long life. Michael has earned every title he holds, even though he doesn't feel like he does.
“I'm just so tired, Joph.”
Michael's voice is barely audible, and he knows, oh, he knows that Michael has been running the City on fumes for the past millennium or two. “I know, Mike. I'm the angel of wisdom, remember.” That pulls a slightly wet laugh from his darkest brother. Jophiel feels Michael’s hands hesitatingly creep up his back, one always lagging behind the other.
“Thanks.”
“So, what do we do now?”
Surprisingly it’s Lucifer who asks the question. “We used to have these meetings all the time. I know I've not been around, but surely having council with me instead of Dad wouldn't be that different, right? Except we get to party after.”
Jophiel winces and looks away. It makes sense for his brother to reach for what he'd known before. He just doesn't want to be the one to tell him that...
“Lucifer... there's not been a council ever since you fell.” Gabriel makes herself known, finally breaking the silence she'd cloaked herself in after the war for the throne. “Dad disappeared... Michael is all we had.”
‘Wow, could have softened that blow a bit more, sis,’ he thinks when he feels Michael stiffen up. ‘I thought Michael was your favourite?’
“What about the old system? I didn’t always do all of this on my own you know.” Michael sighs, leaning even more heavily against him. “I never wanted to but somehow it still happened.”
Yep, he knows that too, but the Host kept taking a leaf from Lucifer’s book and left their work to Michael who had been traumatised enough to pick up the slack, add more to his pile, all because of misplaced guilt. He should never have been sent back to the Edge after barely surviving, and he guesses they could and should have kept a closer eye on him after he’d been taken off active duty.
“We know,” Jophiel glares at the remaining angels, “and we all know how that ended.”
“Everything had been fine before I... before I...” Michael shakes his head in grief. Before he'd cracked and broken apart completely. Perhaps this had been a mental breakdown waiting to happen. And maybe dad had seen no other options but to let the twins hash it out between themselves. It had left the Silver City rudderless, with Michael forced from his position as both middle and upper management. Shown to the Host how much weight his brother had actually been pulling all this time. Maybe there is some merit to Amenadiel’s drivel about faith and mercy.
“I know, but someone’s gotta take care of you, brother.” Jophiel thinks about his own scars. Scars he wouldn’t have been alive to suffer, had Michael not pushed him out of the way. “Especially if you don't do it yourself.”
Michael huffs and Jophiel can practically hear the wheels turning inside that head. Only this time around he’ll be there to protect him. Only an ass would make the same mistake twice.
“I think a council could work, but definitely not with the full Host. You wanted a democracy? Then create one. Don't let them bully you into giving them their fucking Sundays off.”
Lucifer huffs and scowls deeply, but doesn't comment.
“Well, we could do a vacay rotation? Split up the Host into factions with archangels at the head to represent them in council?” Gabriel pipes up.
“You wanted your Sundays off too, huh?” Michael grumbles and Gabriel shuffles her feet guiltily. “I should have known.”
Jophiel lets out a relieved sigh. Crisis averted, for now. “So, teach us, take a breather. Recover first. Have Raphael try to fix your wings.” He glares at Lucifer who nods tightly. “They've been kept in the vault. They weren't destroyed, brother."
Michael looks up sharply, hope shining in those deep dark eyes. "You don't have to do everything yourself. Besides, you'd make a terrible god.” Jophiel thumps Michael's chest, stopping him before he can get a word in. “You'd look awful in white socks and sandals.”
That finally pulls a real laugh from his broken brother. They clasp each other’s wrists like the warriors they once both were, when suddenly Michael pulls him into a tight hug. “I’m sorry Lucifer and I mucked it up.”
Lucifer looks properly downcast and he should.
“I know... Again, angel of Wisdom. Hey Lucifer, do you have some more vodka? Seems like I just ran out. Oh, and make that a vodka Red bull please.”
It will take some time to get used to the new regime, but they'll get there. And life will be good.