Taking a vessel is annoying enough. The man is obnoxious and at the end of his rope, so to speak, and he spends a lot of unnecessary time trying to prostrate himself before Balthazar. Like all of humanity, he has all the wrong kinds of ideas about angels and won't let a real one get a word in edgewise. And this is after a lengthy mental debate about him being an alien or not, which the angel can't fathom why he tries to hide. Or why he has it at all. By the time he's through apologizing (really, is sobbing over under-age drinking nearly thirty years ago necessary?), Balthazar already feels exhausted. And it's a long night to go, yet. How humanity manages to function with all of this emotion is, really, beyond him.

Like all of his brothers, Balthazar has orders. A tiny, tiny part of him wanted to tell the higher ranks to go stuff themselves, because he's not sure that he sees the point, anymore. Not after what they'd done to Castiel, one of his oldest friends and possibly his closest brother. Is he supposed to be grateful that they'd dragged him up to Heaven and, briefly, changed his mind about everything? Balthazar had stood up for him, as he always has, but that had done nothing. They had still enacted their particularly brutal form of

He isn't sure where Castiel is, now. Sometimes he gets snippets of information. But the younger angel is laying low, on a search for Father (poor thing doesn't even know how to lay low), and he's pissed off the wrong angels. In a way, like that tiny part of him that wants to shirk his duties, the older angel is fiercely proud of him.

There are more than a few rumors circulating that Cas is falling, but Balthazar isn't sure what to believe. He desperately wants to believe otherwise. If he loses Cas, who does he have? Their garrison is shrinking more and more by the day, and it's not like Rachel is good company.

But he puts all of that out of his mind, for the moment, and focuses on learning how to use his vessel properly. There are all sorts of nuances and sensations that he hasn't felt in a while. In the "good old days," back when the garrison had still been whole and demons had been their only problem, he'd taken a vessel. A weedy, tall aristocratic boy, obsessed with what he termed "the finer things" in life. Balthazar had only been on Earth for a day or two, but he'd enjoyed it. That had been before the Earth was termed off limits by the higher ranks, in what humanity now liked to call ancient history.

Balthazar flexes his vessel's hands, runs them over his face. Sensation is something that humanity takes for granted, he finds. Angels felt quite a bit, though their Grace, but it was nothing like feeling the rough stubble of his vessel's cheek. He wonders if this one is related to his last one, or is from another line that was simply suitable enough. Whereas the archangels had to be careful with who they took for their vessels, or ruin them, lesser angels had a much easier time of it.

...Right.

Orders.

Resisting the urge to sigh, he flies from the little town of his vessel's birth and across an entire ocean. He ends up where he's supposed to be, on a rooftop in New York City. Balthazar has orders to find a particular demon, a spec of filth that, rumor has it, is equipped with a very powerful artifact. Heaven wants the artifact, and the demon dead. It's a simple enough mission. Almost too simple. But the angel doesn't feel like complaining about that—the more simple it is, the faster he can go back to doing nothing. Doing nothing is better than watching his brothers die.

He feels the soul he shares the form with settle against him, and temporarily feels confusion. Is he doing something wrong? Is the hairless ape's soul under some sort of strain? Balthazar's been nice enough (in his view) to soothe him and put him into a kind of sleep, so that he won't remember anything, but it's as if the man was tossing and turning in bed.

Then, he feels a soft strain of contentment. Puzzle pieces slide into place. The man's soul is cuddlingagainst him, for some reason. Privately, he reminds himself to complete his orders faster, so that he can return to Heaven and return the man to whatever guilty life he'd carved out for himself. But again, that tiny part of him notes that the man doesn't have much of a life. He has a wife who divorced him, a son who never talks to him, and a debt so large he has no hope of repaying it. Really, being an angel's vessel is a far better alternative. No wonder he's cuddled up against him.

There are a few known locations that this particular demon goes to, and Balthazar visits them one by one. The first is a warehouse, which the angel searches in a matter of seconds. He keeps nothing more valuable there than a few boxes of what looks to be, oddly enough, holy water. It takes Balthazar longer than it should to open the boxes. They're warded, and warded very well. It's doubtful the demon even knows what he's keeping here; the wards hadn't looked previously broken. Perhaps he, too, just has orders, and follows them to a T.

He spends a few moments looking over the vials of water, just in case he's missed something else that's warded, before slipping one into his pocket. Maybe it could be handy in the future. Or maybe Balthazar just likes taking it. He's not entirely sure which it is; this is all just becoming a bit more intense than the angel had anticipated. Should he even be feeling these things? Probably not. The angel chooses to blame the two bottles of wine that his vessel had inbibed before accepting Balthazar.

Location number two is the hold of a ship, docked near the warehouse. This is a little more exciting than that empty space. He senses the demons, though, before they sense him, and he buries his blade in two of them before they can shout an alarm. None of them are the one he's after, of course. (That would be convenient.) Two others rush him, while one ducks through a door to escape. Honor. There isn't much of it, where these abominations are concerned. Or any at all, for that matter.

Balthazar smites the two aggressive demons, perhaps suicidally aggressive, before he notices that one has managed to slice up the side of his vessel's rib cage. He gives the empty, dead human a short jab with his foot, in response, though of course the human hasn't been in there for weeks. Months, even. He straightens his velvet coat, which hides the wound nicely; he can repair it later, before he relinquishes the body to its true owner. Right now, he just wants to get this over with.

Location number three is a bar.

This is a surprise. He eyes the sign, which calls the bar The Lone Palm with an appropriately tacky logo, and then the door. With any luck, the escaped demon will have warned his fellow, even just a little, about an angel looking for him, and Balthazar will "have" to give up. But he doubts it, privately. Again, there was no honor in a demon. Just a sense of "better him than me."

Hesitating for just a moment more—he wonders if he can get a hold of a few shots of tequila before the night is over, perhaps if he's victorious—Balthazar takes wing into the bar's spare room and, calm as you please, sticks his head out into the main room. (Which is just as tacky as the sign promised.)

It's a mistake.

The angel can feel so much power it might as well be a stormcloud, somehow contained inside where he couldn't sense it before, and swallows as a perfectly civil and light voice comments, "Come sit down, brother. What can I get you?"

Lucifer.

Of course it's Lucifer. It's not as if he's had much luck, lately.

For less than a tenth of a second, which is all that it takes him, he weighs his options. He can flee, but the fallen archangel is probably more than powerful enough to grab him if he tries—and then things will probably be very unpleasant from that point on. Or he can saunter to the bar and hope that his charm buys him a break with the Devil. It's, really, the best option, and so that's exactly what Balthazar does, as though this is precisely what he came to do.

Lucifer's vessel, he notes as he does so, isn't looking too great. The man isn't his true vessel, which an archangel requires, and there are unpleasant signs of strain in his flesh. Lucifer's smiling, however. He seems almost pleasantly carefree, even though Balthazar can guess that this is entirely opposite to what's going on underneath.

"What can I get you?" the fallen angel repeats, with all of that coiled power behind his simple smile.

To hell with it. "A shot of tequila, if it's not any trouble."

"Of course not." Lucifer behind at all of the pretty bottles, choosing one and setting a shot glass on the smooth bar-top. "What brings you to this neck of the woods? It's... Balthazar, isn't it?"

Well, there went all hope of pretending to be someone else, even if Lucifer is probably just as good at reading his Grace as any of the other archangels would be. Balthazar nods, starting to feel nervous again, as the shot is poured. He knocks it back before responding: the fiery burn down his throat makes things seem a little more contained than they are. Things are civil for now, but how long is that going to last?

"One of yours, actually. A little spawn by the name of Tobias."

"...Tobias... Tobias..." He thinks for a moment, before snapping his fingers. "Ah, yes. That spawn. Carries a nice little chalice around with him." Lucifer's smile dips into unfriendly territory. "Let me guess. My big brother wants it."

Balthazar hesitates. This isn't going well. "Well... yes. But I'm willing to say I couldn't find him," he notes quickly, "if it gets me out of here alive."

A long moment stretches between them, the fallen archangel inscrutable behind his smile and the bar devoid of any other patrons. There isn't even another bartender. Threads of high-strung, brilliant Grace contrast against the darker threads of twisted Grace. Balthazar has the uncomfortable feeling that he's being read like a book and doesn't like it at all. But he can't do anything about it. Finally, the older angel reaches underneath the counter again and pulls out a shot glass. More tequila is poured in, and he gestures at Balthazar to drink it.

"I don't want to hurt you," Lucifer says, gently. "I never wanted to hurt any of us. And I understand what you're feeling, Balthazar. You're confused. Tired. You don't want to see any of your brothers hurt each other. Do you think I do? It tears at me, just as it tears at you."

"You don't know me," Balthazar snaps, before he can stop himself. Then he kicks himself, and quietly prepares to be smited from existence.

But he isn't. Lucifer continues to smile that soft, maddening smile.

"You've been here before, haven't you? To Earth?" he inquires, gesturing at the empty shot glasses. "Is that where your preference for tequila came from?"

"My vessel's preference. Not mine." He eyes the other angel nervously. "But yes, I've been here before. A long time ago."

"I'm surprised you didn't come here the minute angels began to be deployed, again," Lucifer admits, "from what I just read off of you. You liked it here last time. But you didn't get to try everything that you wanted."

This isn't a good dance. Balthazar is about a hair's breadth away from being smited by Heaven, too, for just sitting here and talking with Lucifer about... well, alcohol. He thinks that's what they're talking about. But he doesn't have much choice, and that's what he'll tell them if they ever find out. It's not as though he can ask for a rescue. Michael or Raphael aren't exactly going to come down here and bail him out. His boss isn't going to, either; he doesn't stand a chance. But that thought does give Balthazar the delightful mental image of Lucifer smiting Zachariah.

"I tried enough," he lies. "I had my orders."

There's pity in the other angel's eyes. "You've been following orders all of your existence. Mostly." He chuckles. "I seem to remember you pulling more than a few pranks back in the day. My little brother had a soft spot for you a mile wide."

Balthazar feels a surge of affection at the mention of Gabriel. The archangel had practically been his role model. "He was... understanding."

"I think that's putting it lightly," Lucifer notes, wry. "I'll make you a deal, Balthazar."

There's another surge—hope—followed by trepidation. A deal with Lucifer. This probably isn't a good idea. But it's worth listening to, he's sure, if it'll get him out of this alive.

"I'm listening."

"I'll let you take the chalice to that idiot—what's his name—Zachariah—and my big brother. I'll let you walk out of here unscathed." He smiles. "In exchange, I want you to convince me that you're in Heaven on your own steam. Not because of pre-programmed loyalty."

"That's a very subjective deal," he replies, hesitantly. "And of course I'm loyal."

If he says it enough times, it must be true.

"Is it?" Lucifer raises his brows. "Don't get me wrong. I think you're very loyal. Just not to... the cause. The Apocalypse. You'd rather sit on the sidelines and wait for it to be over. Make sure that those you are loyal to aren't harmed. Castiel."

Balthazar jolts. "What about him?"

"I saw him a few weeks ago," the Morningstar notes, thoughtful. Before the other angel can say anything, he adds, "I didn't hurt him. Just as I... don't want to hurt you. He'd ridden in a car. We talked about how Heaven's making him a replacement scapegoat."

There it is again. That dark feeling, when he considers what Heaven has done to Cas. He can't stop it. Lucifer smiles.

"You haven't said whether or not you'll accept my deal," he points out, and Balthazar feels himself deflate.

He can't do it. Not anymore. He can't sit here and lie to the Morningstar—who will know, anyway—about his willingness to do whatever's asked of him, when his brothers don't even know how to take care of themselves anymore. It's chaos under Michael's thumb, a time bomb waiting for Paradise. He's only accepted this particular set of orders to keep up appearances, because he'd thought it would be easy. All he wanted was to complete it, and then crawl into a corner of Heaven and wait for the next news of Cas's whereabouts to come in. Every time he gets orders, he goes through this dance. Every time he waits, he hopes that his closest friend hasn't been killed.

"All right," murmurs Lucifer, who the other angel realizes is a little closer than he was before. "I suppose we have a... problem." He really does sound regretful. "I've got a schedule to keep, and Tobias, the unpleasant little worm, is pretty important around here."

Balthazar shakes his head. "I'll go. You'll never see me again."

"That would be a shame, wouldn't it?" Lucifer asks, conversationally. "Look at you. Willing to keep pressing on, despite everything you know falling apart under your feet. What were they?"

This time, when a shot is poured, it's the other angel that knocks it back. He pours it from another bottle. Whiskey.

"What was what?"

"You didn't get to try a few things that you wanted, the last time you were on Earth in the presence of the hairless apes." Lucifer still looks calm, gentle and fully in control of himself. "What were they?"

"Oh... Erm..."

During that day-long trip in his last vessel, the aristocratic boy with the long hair and the appreciation for wine, his vessel had been much more awake. Balthazar hadn't yet mastered keeping the other occupant of the body comfortable and numb. His desires had fueled more of him, mixing with the angel's Grace, resulting in him trying what he could before his orders were fulfilled. Food and spirits, for the most part, but the boy's thoughts had been particularly lewd about a few of the women in his circle of friends. He'd desired them greatly, and Balthazar had been nervously entertaining the idea (and eagerly—that small part of him, again). But he'd run out of time. That had made the decision for him.

If he was about to be smited by Lucifer himself, he didn't want his last words to be along those lines.

"Boating," he lies. "It seemed..." A shrug. "Interesting."

Lucifer chuckles softly. "Traveling slowly over water in a dangerous, leaky bucket? Is that really interesting, to you?"

"It is what it is."

The fallen archangel pours himself another shot of whiskey, gesturing wordlessly to see if Balthazar wants more tequila. The younger angel accepts. Might as well be slightly more at ease on his way to oblivion, he thinks.

"I haven't lied to you yet, Balthazar, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie to me," Lucifer says, which makes the other angel freeze. His vessel's blue eyes stare into those of Balthazar's, and he continues to smile that dangerously disarming smile. "You're an unusual creature, do you know that?"

"I'm told that on a daily basis," Balthazar admits, and he looks down at the wood of the bar counter. Things in Heaven haven't been the same since Uriel switched sides. Part of him wants the old days, when they followed the orders of Anael, more than anything. The rest of him is too tired to arrive at an opinion. "In less charitable terms."

"Everything is harsher in Enochian. Much more pure than this language, but harsher. Does anyone else other than Castiel make the effort to look past the jokes, to see the loyalty and the good heart underneath it?"

Well. He's doomed, he decides. The Morningstar has him pegged.

"I—" he begins, but Lucifer cuts him off. He does so by placing a few fingers over the mouth of Balthazar's vessel, gentle but firm.

"You don't need to lie, here, Balthazar. You don't need the chalice, either." Lucifer strokes his thumb over his jaw, almost idly. "How long has it been since you were content?"

Things are switched, now. The little voice is telling him to flee, to go back to Heaven, to forget what he's hearing and be a good soldier (like he's never been). The rest of him thinks about that question, thinks about standing in an ancient forest with Castiel while Uriel made some sort of stupid crack about the color of the trees. Funniest angel in the garrison? Not by a long shot. Only if you had no taste, like poor Cassie.

"A... while," he says, softly, feeling the drag of the pad of Lucifer's thumb across his five o'clock shadow. That little voice wonders why he's doing it. But it feels nice, and he's not complaining. "If that's what content is."

Lucifer makes a noise almost like a tsk tsk. "That's why I was cast down, Balthazar. I could see that we were greater, and yet Father gave the apes everything." The angel considers for a moment. "He gave me free will. It's a mixed bag, but at least I've got the clarity that comes with it. As for you... Do you block out everything your vessel sends you?"

"No," Balthazar admits, finding himself leaning into the other angel's hand. "Some things I let through."

There's a ghost of a chuckle, a gentle noise. "You should. He can help you. Murderous, ignorant creatures—vile—but they have what Father didn't give the rest of you. He can... show you the ropes. Or would you, even now, go back and pretend that this had never happened?"

"If I survive this, I think I'm going to gloat about it," he jokes, again before he can stop himself. This time, there's another chuckle, and then Lucifer moves his hand to the talisman around Balthazar's neck. He turns it over, curious, as he continues to speak.

"Maybe one of you will listen to me."

"I don't know if I should, but... you... make a fair point."

Lucifer laughs just a bit louder this time, and Balthazar feels himself do the same. He's no fool—he's still wary of being smited—but the air feels less tense between them, somehow.

"You asked me before what I wanted to try," he went on.

The archangel looks at him curiously. "Yes?"

"Well, my vessel was... particularly... amorous."

He thinks about what Lucifer had said. He can help you. Certainly, his last vessel had been much more wholly adventurous than this one—who spent most of his time emptying bottles—and had helped him to grasp what the hairless apes were really like.

"I understand that the sensations are very different from what we normally feel, when we're not inhabiting a vessel," Lucifer says, fingers brushing against Balthazar's skin before he pulls his hand back. Why does the angel feel disappointed when he does that?

"But you don't know?"

Lucifer snorts, and for a second Balthazar worries about over-stepping his boundaries again. But nothing in his demeanor otherwise shifts. "No. Not for myself. Copulating with mud monkeys isn't on my 'to-do' list, if you haven't noticed," he murmurs, smirking. Then, unexpectedly, he brings his hand back to Balthazar's jaw. "But I guess it could be on yours."

Suddenly, everything is confusing. His hand is firm and warm, and the situation is anything but.

"Bloody hell, are you going to smite me or not?" he wonders, just a little petulant.

The other angel tilts his head. He's still smirking. "No. Are you going back to Heaven to gloat?"

Just like that, Heaven's remaining trickster feels a little of his old self return, the angel who ruffles feathers just to see them ruffled. He wonders what Lucifer's wings look like. They're tucked away, at the moment; furled tightly in his bedraggled Grace. "Perhaps I am."

"Balthazar, live a little," Lucifer quips, pulling his head just a bit closer before placing his lips over the other angel's.

It's like an electrical jolt, right down his spine. He can tell that Lucifer's done this before, and feels a little curious about that—but not enough to stop the kiss. The kiss drags him over some sort of cliff, an invisible ledge he hadn't even known was there, and then he's kissing back, and Lucifer's running his tongue across Balthazar's lower lip. They lean just a little closer, and then the older angel pulls back to look at him. His expression is inscrutable.

"I'm no expert, but you seemed to enjoy that."

He has no breath to catch, but still, Balthazar takes a deep breath. "It, uh..."

Dad damn it, he can't even form thoughts anymore. What has Lucifer done to him? He considers bouncing a few ideas off of his vessel, but then realizes that he'd be admitting to hijacking him to snog the Devil. Not exactly what a human wants to hear. Even one who isn't exactly devout.

Maddeningly, Lucifer just smirks and closes half of the distance between them. Balthazar closes the rest. Whereas the first kiss was much more tentative, gentle, and unsure, this one is all intent, teeth, and tongues. Each one wars for dominance in the little struggle, but ultimately it's a battle that Lucifer wins. He threads his fingers into Balthazar's hair and pulls, just a little, scraping his nails lightly on his skin. Unable to stop himself, the angel moans and fists one hand in the fallen angel's t-shirt.

These are foreign sensations. They should be confusing, maybe even frightening, at this stage. But all he can think of is more.

When they finally pull away, again, it isn't very far, and Lucifer brushes his lips over the tip of Balthazar's nose. "Back," he murmurs. Before Balthazar can really process the request, Lucifer's in flight and they're in front of one of the booths on the opposite side of the room. Now that they don't have a bar in between them, he presses close to the older angel, wanting to get as much sensation as possible.

Again, Lucifer's hands are in his hair and pressed to the back of his neck, not giving him time to process the fact that he's snogging Heaven's greatest enemy. The more time passes, in any case, the less he cares. He runs his own hands over Lucifer's chest and then to his shoulders, processing the feel of the fabric under his palms, before deciding that he wants to feel bare skin, instead. He pulls the older angel's over-shirt from his arms, Lucifer chuckling softly and moving them helpfully. Then he tugs the other shirt over his head, and like that, Lucifer's hands are back on him (thankfully) and Balthazar wraps his arms around him.

Lucifer sucks on his lower lip before releasing it again, as though he wants to devour the other angel, and then Balthazar's coat and v-neck are being dealt with. There's a little less patience, now. Balthazar can feel a heat in his belly that wasn't there before. Being skin-to-skin is yet another jolt down his spine, too, a thoroughly pleasant and addictive sensation, and he gives another soft moan into the archangel's lips.

He can feel the other angel shiver, in response to this sound, and Lucifer's hands drop to his belt, undoing it deftly without letting his lips leave Balthazar's. Then he's sliding his hands down, past the band of his underwear. One in the back, and one in the front. He cups the excited flesh there, rubbing two fingers gently down the shaft. It's Balthazar's turn to shiver, because no doubt about it—that feels incredible.

Then, all of the sudden, the other angel pulls back a little. He's smiling, but it's that gentle smile that he wore when Balthazar had come into the bar. "Sit."

Hands on Balthazar's hips and without turning him around, he guides him to the booth directly behind him. Lucifer tugs his jeans into a pool of blue at his feet, crouching down in front of him as he sits, and kisses him again, this time brushing his tongue against Balthazar's. Then he pulls his head away, and the other angel suddenly remembers that he's sitting in a bar with his pants on his feet and incredibly vulnerable. But he can't bring himself to care.

Especially not when Lucifer takes him into his mouth, warm and inviting, and begins to work him, scraping his nails down Balthazar's thighs.

Holy hell. No wonder this is all his vessel can think about, when a compatible partner is around.

"Are you sure you haven't done this before?" he moans. There's nothing to rest his back on—the wall's about another foot back—and he desperately wants to collapse into a puddle and just feel. But then he regrets saying anything, because there's a wet pop as Lucifer takes him out of his mouth.

"The hairless apes blame me for their impulses, remember?" Lucifer teases him. "It's not true, but I know my way around it."

He leans up, pressing a soft kiss to Balthazar's lips, before taking his length back in again, and the other angel has to close his eyes. The sight of him is—too much. In fact, a few minutes later, he feels the heat gathering up again, flooding him, and then he lets out a soft sound as his orgasm takes hold of him. The first one he's ever felt.

There's no way to describe it that's favorable enough. When it ends, leaving him taking deep breaths, all he wants is more. Lucifer swallows what he gives, then licks him, cleaning him, and gives him one of his many hard-to-read expressions. It's Balthazar who initiates the next kiss, kissing him as hard as he could, hands pressing against the sides of his neck. They sit there a moment.

"You're beautiful," Lucifer murmurs, and Balthazar knows he's talking about that point-of-no-return. Or maybe he's talking about all of him. No one's called him beautiful before. "Too beautiful for me."

What did he mean?

"That was incredible," he admits, before giving him another appreciative kiss. He supposes that he really should be returning the favor, and has to admit to himself that he definitely wants to. But when he shifts, the beginning of a change of position, Lucifer shakes his head.

"You should leave. They'll be suspicious that you haven't reported in, yet." He stands up, despite what's probably a very uncomfortable pressure below the belt, and turns away slightly. "But remember what I said, Balthazar. Live a little. Find free will of your own."

"Lucifer—"

The fallen angel looks back to him, then shakes his head slowly. "We're on different paths." Lucifer was the Enemy. Balthazar had, until quite recently, just thought about Heaven, his friends, and his place there with them. "But maybe they'll cross again. Goodnight, Balthazar."

Before he can object, or get any other sound out at all, there's a soft sound of wings and Lucifer is gone.

Balthazar snaps his fingers, returning his clothes to their previous condition and places. He's sure that this whole experience has left him with far too much to think about. Reporting back can wait for a few more hours. He grabs more than a few bottles from behind the counter, and then flies to find somewhere he can watch the sun come up. He has some ideas to ponder, and he needs to be drunk when he comes to some kind of decision.