Moonshadow

Characters: Michael
Genre: General/character study
Rating: Apparently 'T' for here (frequent foul language, sexual references). Let me know if it should be higher; there's a lot of cussing.
Type: One Shot
Summary: 'He's twitching again; that manic nervous shudder that starts behind his eyes and works its way down his spine…' Short, introspective Michael oneshot. Originally written as a companion piece to my Raphael oneshot from waybackwhen, and probably still works as such.

Michael hates the night. During the day he burns as a righteous flame of God's justice, crackling with life and striking terror into the hearts of his enemies when in the split second between life and death, they catch a glimpse of his wild eyes and see that yes, he really is that fucking crazy and they're going to fucking die on the end of that blazing sword right fucking now.

The night reminds him of his brother, and so Michael burns all the more fiercely under the sun to compensate for the bitter aching that sets in with the coming of twilight and the fatiguing of his overstretched muscles.

Raphael tells Michael he works too hard, that he's too tense, and that's why he aches at night. Raphael can go fuck himself – he's never done a hard day's work in his life and screwing one of his bitches doesn't fucking count; lazy, know-it-all bastard that he is. But Raphael isn't stupid. The arsehole probably knows exactly why Michael gets angrier as the day draws to darkness, and as long as he keeps his pervert mouth shut behind one of his cigarettes and his half-arsed diagnosis, Michael's willing to let him (and by proxy their fragile alliance) continue to exist for the time being.

He's twitching again; that manic nervous shudder that starts behind his eyes and works its way down his spine until his wings appear of their own volition in a rush of quivering feathers; the tic that has most of the Council convinced he's completely insane but still too fucking dangerous to dispose of. He knows they're afraid of him, and he revels in their fear as gleefully as he does in the splashing heat of blood.

The night is cold and his twitching is subsiding into shivers and gooseflesh, so Michael abandons his position in the courtyard where he's been glaring dumbly at the sky for fuckknows-how-long in favour of the corridor heading towards his chambers. A maid – a high-ranking and less-stupid one judging by the length of her skirt, but they're all fucking stupid if you ask him – baulks away from him when she notices his shaking limbs and mistakes it for agitated energy. She scurries around a corner as fast as she can without making it look like she's running, and he bares his teeth at her retreating back in savage amusement. Bitch knows her place, at least. He takes pity on her for that and bites back the stream of abuse he was about to shriek, but it's probably more because he's tired than out of any sympathy. Michael has no fucking sympathy for anyone, least of all fucking servants and attendants. Traitors.

He snarls out loud like a feral cat as he swaggers along, thinking once more of his brother and Baal; kind Baal who never laughed at him, who became Barbelo and his brother's favourite slut long enough to bear him a child, Baal who stood between Michael and Lucifiel to protect That Bastard, Baal who betrayed Michael for Lucifiel just like every other arsehole who mattered to him…Baal deserved to have her pretty face scarred and burnt.

Michael would bet his sword that she'd fallen in love with Lucifiel as she watched him in the moonlight. Darkness was for traitors and whores, and she was fucking both.

Lucifiel cloaked himself in darkness just as elegantly, effortlessly as he commanded the starlight. Neither light nor moving air ever seemed to touch Michael in Lucifer's presence. Tall, beautiful, icy, perfect. Bastard traitor! Nothing Michael can do will ever match up to his brother's ghost, and he shudders in sick anticipation of the day he'll get his chance to face Lucifiel – Lucifer, in person once more.

He's made it to the doors of his chamber, and stares blankly at the great arches of dark wood and stone as if waiting for them to open in the face of his majestic presence. They fail to and he strikes out viciously with one foot, adding to the collection of splintered dents and scuff marks already marring the polished surface. Michael opens his mouth to bellow for Kamael before a gear turns in his busy little head and he remembers the other is far, far away with the new recruits, probably ripping fang teeth out of Evils or something else fun that Michael always seems to miss out on thanks to that creepy white bastard and his endless fucking meetings.

The twitch is starting up again. Michael slams the door closed behind him and stalks to the window beyond the messy pile of furs and pillows heaped haphazardly over a barely visible bed frame (no fucking way was any bitch servant getting in his space). As he leans out to look up at the sky, the cold granite of the windowsill raises gooseflesh on his bare stomach and his twitch subsides into a shiver. He rubs one hand wearily against the opposite bicep in a half-hearted attempt to warm himself a little. Clouds have rolled across and veiled the moon and stars, and a little part of him that's tired of being furious at everything in general and a couple of things in particular thanks God quietly for giving it a night off.

He doesn't want to think about Him or Her tonight. His breath mists in front of him.

With no fury left to fuel him Michael starts to drag the heavy velvet curtain across the window, gives it a spastic, half-hearted angry jerk when it catches, then draws it carefully the rest of the way across, stroking the pile softly as if in apology when he's done. (He does like those curtains, not that he'd ever say as much – he's not gay.)

It's very dark, and very quiet. A few embers glow faintly red in the hearth across the room. Michael exhales and makes his way slowly to his nest of furs, shedding boots and clothing as he goes. The heavy blanket he draws up over his bare shoulders is old and soft and worn in all the right ways. He drowses, and dreams of glories to come.