He’s mid dig when the skin at the back of his neck begins to tingle. When he feels something deep inside him tense and flex, when a sharp sting of pain shoots through the corner of his eye. When he looks up to search Azrael’s gaze, or whatever might be around them, it’s gone though, even when the distinct sensation of…something remains. Something. Ha. How could he ever forget. There’s always something. Waiting. Pacing. Inside. Lance’s brow furrows further, but in the end, he decides not to ask, not to step in that fucking hornet’s nest of potential problems. Not here. Not now. Not with her. Not again. Instead, he takes a long, deep breath and then forces that signature smile back on his face, the way he used to do it sooooo many times back in the time. Breathe. Snap. Action. Perfectly fucking normal and functioning person. Great performance. Not at all tense. Yada Yada. He snorts at the trail of smoke around her instead, raises an eyebrow.
“Hm. Didn’t know beings like you could be sleep deprived, too. How’s that work? Centuries of being busy doing what you do wearing you out? In need for a decade long power nap?” He chuckles and gets back to digging once again, just so she can’t see his face as he says the following, conceals the bitterness to it. “You know what they say, Azrael. Sleep’s for the weak. Maybe you should cut out on the downers and get started with some uppers.”
The cavern was eerily peaceful, so deep beneath the earth. All that could be heard was the distant sound of a phonograph playing music from the turn of the 20th century, and the drip, drip, drips of water from stalactites into clear subterranean pools. Oil lamps and clusters of melted candles flickered against wet stone, casting their warm glow on the strange clutter Azrael had accumulated: leaning towers of books, ancient weapons, cracked reliquaries, forgotten antiques, candelabras, canvases, and an oak carving of the Archangel Michael in all his glory, meticulously polished.
Azrael sat in the worn leather high-back chair near the wrought iron stove, where she had arranged a sort of pitiful-looking living room set-up. The opium pipe rested loosely between long, pale fingers, its bowl glowing faintly each time she drew from it. Her pupils had widened until her eyes resembled glassy black marbles, swallowing almost all of the molten silver. Dark shadows lingered beneath them, and though the opium had softened the sharpness of her posture, it had not removed it entirely.
At Lance’s question, she stilled. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She took another long pull from the pipe before exhaling slowly through her nose, ghostly smoke curling around her face.
“How does it work," Azrael repeated his question, voice lower and rougher than usual. "And who is asking such a question?"
Her gaze bore into him with uncomfortable scrutiny. It was like she could never truly relax. Not even in the safety of her home, which was clearly warded against demons and other angels by the symbols drawn on the cave walls in her own blood. Paranoia always crept in, even when Azrael tried to silence the voice telling her that no one had altruistic intentions. There was always an attack coming. Always a move to anticipate and outmanoeuvre.
“Lance Preston,” she said after a pause, “or it?”
The cavern was eerily peaceful, so deep beneath the earth. All that could be heard was the distant sound of a phonograph playing music from the turn of the 20th century, and the drip, drip, drips of water from stalactites into clear subterranean pools. Oil lamps and clusters of melted candles flickered against wet stone, casting their warm glow on the strange clutter Azrael had accumulated: leaning towers of books, ancient weapons, cracked reliquaries, forgotten antiques, candelabras, canvases, and an oak carving of the Archangel Michael in all his glory, meticulously polished.
Azrael sat in the worn leather high-back chair near the wrought iron stove, where she had arranged a sort of pitiful-looking living room set-up. The opium pipe rested loosely between long, pale fingers, its bowl glowing faintly each time she drew from it. Her pupils had widened until her eyes resembled glassy black marbles, swallowing almost all of the molten silver. Dark shadows lingered beneath them, and though the opium had softened the sharpness of her posture, it had not removed it entirely.
At Lance’s question, she stilled. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She took another long pull from the pipe before exhaling slowly through her nose, ghostly smoke curling around her face.
“How does it work," Azrael repeated his question, voice lower and rougher than usual. "And who is asking such a question?"
Her gaze bore into him with uncomfortable scrutiny. It was like she could never truly relax. Not even in the safety of her home, which was clearly warded against demons and other angels by the symbols drawn on the cave walls in her own blood. Paranoia always crept in, even when Azrael tried to silence the voice telling her that no one had altruistic intentions. There was always an attack coming. Always a move to anticipate and outmanoeuvre.
“Lance Preston,” she said after a pause, “or it?”
