Chapter Text
Sometime between the anguished cry and the resounding silence that followed it, Adam was, once more, swept up into the chaos of Michael’s mind.
The fervor of Michael’s panic makes him feel like he’s just been dropped in a sea of fear-filled flames, and he’s suddenly reminded of his first encounter with Michael’s mind and grace, all those years ago, when he’d been so overwhelmed that it had damaged his mind to the brink of insanity. But it’s different, this time—this time, he’s firmer, more grounded. Not as overwhelmed, which is odd, but Adam doesn’t have time to question it. Michael is a fierce, endless maelstrom, and Adam buckles down and cements himself, holding as steady as he can amidst the violent disorientation.
—The Mark, how could it have—
—No, He wouldn’t let this happen, surely He would have prevented—
—Where is He? Father—
Michael! Adam tries, Listen to me!
But it’s like Michael can’t hear him. Adam calls out a few more times—even in Enochian, for good measure—to no avail, growing more and more frustrated by the second. If Michael could stop being larger-than-life for two seconds, that would be wonderful.
Like a porcupine, his mind pipes up. Remember?
Oh. That’s right.
He’s freaked out. Make him...less freaked out.
Adam forces himself to let go of his frustration, his own panic. He allows himself a few moments of silence, and then he starts to talk.
He chatters. He repeats stories he’d already told a million times, going off on tangents and exploring topics that don’t even make sense. He whispers about his mother and forces himself to laugh about the time he tripped and fell face-first on the ground getting out of her truck.
Adam keeps his voice calm, his soul steady, and he wills his voice to reach out to Michael. For Michael to listen.
At first, nothing happens. Michael is the same as before, still a whirling mass of high-strung terror and confusion that would be enough to knock Adam off his feet if he had them, in here. Then, Adam feels a change—it’s subtle, just a general feeling that swirls murkily around him, but he swears that it’s there, and it’s enough to keep him talking, enough to keep himself afloat from the wave of fear that threatens to drown him the second he breaks concentration.
Michael, he thinks, doing his absolute best to project the thought towards the archangel. Can you hear me? Do you...I don’t know, recognize me? Come on. I know you’re old, but your memory isn’t that bad, is it?
Adam almost wants to move forward and brush up against more of the hurricane of swirling grace around him, in some sort of comforting gesture, but he isn’t sure if it’ll be appreciated or not.
Michael, Adam says, softly, as gently as he can. Please.
Nothing. And then—a shift.
He can't quite put his finger on what's changed until he looks down at visible hands and realizes that he's taken on a human form again. He's still in the void, feet planted firmly on a vast expanse of nothing, and he has only a few moments to take it all in before Michael, in all his archangel fashion, abruptly appears across from him—arms tightly crossed, stiffly pacing, glancing at Adam fleetingly before his eyes return to zooming wildly all over the place, muttering something under his breath that Adam can’t quite hear.
“Thanks,” Adam tries, but again—it seems like Michael just doesn’t hear him. He watches him pace back and forth, for a few minutes, before some part of him decides, like always, fuck it.
Slowly, like he’s approaching a cornered animal (and maybe he is, some part of his brain thinks), Adam steps forward, step by step by step until Michael’s a moving line in front of him, barely a foot away when he crosses Adam's path.
He reaches out, grasping Michael’s upper arm with his right hand just as Michael’s about to turn. The archangel’s reaction is instantaneous, lightning-quick; he freezes, head shooting up to lock onto Adam’s face, almost like he’s about to pull away. His jaw is clenched, teeth obviously gritted, and Adam keeps his face as neutral and open as he can. He can still feel Michael’s grace roiling around them, oozing distress, but he doesn’t let it affect him—he tries hard not to, at least.
“Hey,” Adam starts, keeping his hand on his arm. “You with me?”
For a few moments there’s nothing but silence, a tense absence of sound that forces Adam to fight to keep the worry rising at the back of his throat down. He’s always been brutally aware of the fact that Michael is something bigger, something more, but his preternatural nature suddenly hits Adam like a smack to the face, inexplicable in ways he can’t even begin to touch in the here and now of it all. Michael looks around him, through him, his frightening stillness somehow making him seem elevated on a different sort of level, and Adam can almost feel the memory of what Michael actually looks like washing over him like a tidal wave.
He doesn’t fear the look of Michael's true form—he doesn’t think he’s ever feared it—but something in his brain urges him to push the image down, to turn away from it; and, for the life of him, Adam can’t figure out why.
Nonetheless, he dutifully diverts his attention away from it. A puzzle for another time.
Finally, Michael nods, and it makes Adam huff out a breath of relief. He doesn’t let go of Michael’s arm.
“Right. Okay,” Adam nods back, short and sharp. “What’s going on? Can you tell me?”
Michael’s exhale is terse, and so is his voice. He sounds nowhere near as composed as he usually is. “The Darkness. She’s—she’s back.”
“And, she is...?” Adam questions.
“Before all that you know came to be—long before I came to be—there existed two beings: my Father, and the Darkness before Him. His sister.”
“Wait, wait, wait—God has a sister?” Looks like the Bible could use some modifications.
“Yes,” Michael says, without skipping a beat. “My Father and my brothers and I, we fought for millennia to seal her away. We barely managed it. If…” he starts to trail off, and Adam is suddenly struck by how young he sounds.
Michael has always seemed old, always in control of himself, even on the occasions where he seemed a bit lost. Now, though, he seemed...not small, maybe, but diminished. Unsure, on a level that Adam had never seen before.
“If He had sensed that someone was trying to break the Mark, then why wouldn’t He stop them? And…” Michael pauses, and sheer disbelief stains his tone when he speaks again. “When the Cage felt the impact of the Darkness’s release, it weakened. I could sense parts of the outside world. I…Raphael, he’s—”
And Adam, acting on the orders of the sinking feeling in his stomach, lurches forward and hugs him.
Michael doesn't push him away, doesn't snap at him, doesn't make haste to teleport out of his grip. Adam can't tell if it helps at all, if Michael can even feel it—because he knows he's nothing but a speck of dust next to the vastness of Michael's true form—but he does it anyway. He doesn’t squeeze him, but he’s firm, unyielding, wanting to let Michael know that Adam’s there. That he isn’t alone.
Because this much, Adam understands. Knoes what it is to lose a family member, what it is to be left behind, what it is to be alone. So he gently runs his hand up and down the length of Michael’s upper back, he closes his eyes, and he holds him. Adam opens up his heart, his soul, lets Michael feel the entirety of his understanding like his own little tidal wave.
It probably isn't much, to someone like him. Like before, he does it anyway.
Michael doesn’t move. Doesn’t even seem to twitch. But Adam can feel as his grace begins to settle—his mind slowly easing back into the world of calm even if it isn't back into the world of okay.
I don’t understand you, Michael murmurs, later. Their false bodies have separated but their beings are still touching, Michael’s grace brushing delicately against Adam’s soul in a way that keeps them both grounded, connected. It’s an odd thing, he thinks, to be hearing Michael’s voice but not seeing his mouth move.
What do you mean? Adam asks.
I abandoned you in favor of battling my brother. I damaged your mind. You know these things, and yet...you feel no animosity towards me. It’s still strange, to have Michael be able to openly read his every emotion. It’s even stranger that Adam doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. It’s not like he has anything to hide, after all. Not anymore. You treat me with kindness. I don’t understand.
Adam’s quiet, for a second. I hated you, at first. Back then. I really did. But you stayed, didn’t you? After we made our little, uh, agreement. And even before that, sort of. Even if you acted like a douche. A hint of amusement ripples across Michael’s expression, but only a hint. He’s still distraught, which isn't surprising. Adam would be more surprised if he wasn't.
Adam remembers Michael’s old declarations, the ones about how God hadn’t come back yet, and he sighs. Plus, you fixed my mind when you found out about it. You’ve made up for it, haven’t you? I forgive you, man. I have for a while. We only have each other, right? he smiles, a little quirk of his lips, and he hopes it doesn't look sardonic.
Michael is staring at him, his eyes a little wide.
Besides, Adam chuckles, then, a little darkly, it’s not like I haven’t screwed up, either. I mean, maybe if I’d actually been a more powerful vessel, we wouldn’t have ended up—
“No,” Michael interrupts, out loud, and there’s so much conviction behind it that it makes Adam fall silent. “No. That’s not it.”
He almost seems to struggle for words before clasping his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees from where he’s sitting on the black expanse that acts as their ground next to Adam.
I used to think that as well. Back then. But I…I was wrong, he presses his lips together in a gesture that Adam’s much, much too familiar with before his grace brushes a little more against his soul. Adam sucks in a breath at the depth of Michael’s candor. To have had you as a vessel...it has been my honor, Adam.
Adam stares at him, wide-eyed. You sound like you’re saying goodbye, old man.
Michael’s face is stark and grim, his gaze just a little to the left of utterly hopeless. The Darkness is free, and my Father is gone. She will, no doubt, seek to destroy all that He’s created. So… he sighs and utter defeat forms like a black hole on his face, marring his features, a sight that makes Adam's insides twinge in a painful little twist. Maybe I am.
Adam knows death. He’s died twice now, after all, and he’s fervently wished for it on more than one occasion. He isn’t afraid of it. Not anymore. Something in him cries out at Michael’s words, though, something that wishes that he didn’t have to die in here, in the dark and cold of Hell where nothing could ever reach them.
As if anything would try, his brain snarks. He ignores it in favor of extending a hand towards Michael, who watches the movement with open surprise.
“If we are to die,” he says, in Enochian, “we shall not do it alone.”
Adam watches a myriad of emotions too quick to catch unfold on Michael’s face; feels the way his grace seems to tremble, just for a moment. He says nothing, waits for Michael to respond.
Michael, as slowly as if he were disarming a bomb, reaches back out in return, hesitantly resting his own hand in Adam’s. Adam curls his fingers around it, watching the way the archangel's twitch in consideration before mirroring the gesture.
“No,” Michael murmurs. “No, we shall not.”
Lucifer has grown volatile, lashing out in random directions before growing still and silent for erratic periods of time. Both Michael and Adam have taken up residence of Adam’s body, now, with Adam refusing to retreat backwards into his mind once more.
“I’m not leaving you,” Adam had stated, and Michael hadn’t argued. Instead, he’d nodded, and propelled them both upwards until the Cage was visible once more.
What’s he doing? Adam asks, sending Michael the mental image of motioning to Lucifer. He gets the image of Michael shaking his head back, feeling ripples of confusion cascade across his grace.
I’m not sure, Michael says, and he sounds troubled. I’ve never seen him so quiet before.
There’s a short silence, and then, Adam says, Michael...you said you could sense parts of the outside world, right? Now that the Cage isn’t as strong as before?
I can.
Can you… Adam pauses, unconfident. Do you know how long we’ve been down here?
Michael's grace takes on a strained feel for a moment before returning to a neutral state, almost as if he'd been stretching. Time works differently down here, kid. On Earth, it’s been...five years, at least. Nearing six, I think.
If Adam had been in control, he would’ve blown out a breath.
Five, six years. He would’ve been...what, twenty-three, twenty-four? Twenty-five, maybe? What would he have been doing, if he were still up there? It’s something too distant to think about; something obscure and strange. He barely even remembers how people interacted up there—all he has now are the memories of himself and his mother, and the occasional memory without her.
And down here?
Roughly six hundred.
It sets him more at ease, he thinks, to hear the words six hundred. Maybe it’s because it seems more real than just a simple five or six—counting by such short periods of time feels odd, for reasons he wants to shy away from. Days and weeks and months and years are just too small. Six hundred feels more natural. More material.
He feels the equivalent of nudge from Michael and snaps back to attention, freezing like something bad’s about to happen. Michael’s never nudged him like that before.
Hm? What’s going on?
Nothing. Yet, Michael mutters, a little bitterly, before his voice evens out. Are you alright?
Huh? Oh—oh, yeah, I’m alright, halo, don’t worry about it. Just thinking. The nickname slips out, unbidden, and Adam bites down on his metaphorical tongue. Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean—
It’s fine, Michael says, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything else, because Lucifer starts talking, for the first time since they’d come to the fore of Adam’s body.
It's not even in Enochian, which strikes Adam as odd.
“Y’know, Michael,” Lucifer says, and he starts taking steps—back and forth, back and forth, from one wall of the Cage to the other. Adam feels Michael’s grace stiffen and harden, defensively, before he feels himself being pushed back. Not enough to land him back in his own mind, but enough that his attempts to peer at Lucifer reminds him of looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Michael’s grace never leaves his soul, though, and for that Adam is grateful. “I expected more from you.”
Slowly, slowly, his true form starts to shift—from a massive, corrupted being of unbridled energy to a man, blond, with a green jacket not unlike Adam’s own. He looks smug. “I mean, look at you! Daddy’s perfect little soldier, reduced down to—to this. Some half-assed vegetable, just rotting away in our own personal mini-fridge.”
Lucifer spreads his hands, and a sneer plays across his features. His laugh is condescending in a way that makes Adam want to punch him. Not that it’d do any good. “Plus, I mean, look at what’s happened! Our good ol’ Auntie’s decided to come pay the world a visit, and, uh, where’s Dad? Oh. Oh, that’s right,” he leans in, his voice turning sing-song. “Nowhere! Probably holed up somewhere acting the same as you, honestly. But, you know what the sad thing is? The thing that really grinds my gears?”
He begins to step forward, and Adam can feel Michael’s grace begin to morph into something fiercer, something more ready to attack. To defend, even.
Be careful, Adam whispers. He gets a quick flicker from Michael’s grace in response—a motion to show that he’s heard, Adam interprets.
“You,” Lucifer points a finger in Michael's direction, “still believe in Him, don’tcha? You’re probably hidden away in there, all hopeful and waiting for Dad to come riding in on some chariot,” he tsks, pityingly, and Adam can feel Michael’s temper start building up like a flame nearing the wick of a stick of dynamite.
“He’s not, just in case you were interested, but me?” the Devil laughs, sounding triumphant. “I’m about to take a free ride out on somebody else’s chariot. Not yet, not now, but, uh, soon. And you’re gonna be left here, aren’t you? All alone. No Dad, no me, just... you.”
Lucifer’s eyes hone in on Adam’s body like a hawk locking onto its prey, seemingly waiting for something to happen. A reaction, Adam realizes, and he leans forward, brushes up a little more against Michael, silently urges him to calm down, to not make any rash decisions.
And holy fuck, is Michael close to one.
But Michael doesn’t do anything. He fumes, but the only movement he makes is the way his grace thrashes wildly, an agitated motion that only Adam can see, deep in whatever mental link they've formed. The rest of him never leaves its steely defense, ready to lash out at a moment's notice.
Lucifer gives an exaggerated slump, like he’s disappointed, and then he steps back until he reaches the wall of the Cage with a thump, sliding down until he hits the floor. “Ugh. You’re no fun anymore, you know that? You’re just weak. It’s pathetic, really.”
With no reaction drawn once more, the Devil falls silent.
Finally.
‘Ride on somebody else’s chariot’? What’s he talking about?
I don’t know, Michael replies, I don’t know.
Do you wanna go back inside?
There’s no reply, but the view of the Cage abruptly disappears into the familiar copy of Adam’s house. Michael still looks angry, but Adam’s...connected to him, now. He knows better, can feel the perturbation that flows off of him in waves, the tendrils of emotion too raw to name that trickle past his control as a result of Lucifer's jabs.
“You’re not weak, y’know.”
Michael glances up at him, penetratingly analytical. “I know.”
“Do you?” Adam cocks an eyebrow at him, sitting down on one end of the couch and leaning his elbow on the armrest.
The archangel sends him a distasteful look for all of half a moment before sighing, slipping his hands into his pockets and walking over to take a seat at the other end.
“If I thought nothing made sense before...” Michael shakes his head. “It’s making even less sense now.”
“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?” Adam says, grinning, but it’s empty. “Who says things have to make sense?”
Michael frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and then just sits there, apparently unsure of the meaning behind Adam’s words.
It’s fine. Adam isn’t sure either.
“I thought I was supposed to die in battle,” Michael says, in an undertone. “Not like this.”
“I used to think that I’d die old,” Adam offers. Nothing’s happened, yet. No wave of destruction coming to annihilate them all. Honestly, the anticipation is killing him. He’d much prefer to just get it over with. “With a house, I guess. A wife. Some kids.”
Michael turns to look at him. “Is that still what you want?” The words seem critical, but the archangel’s expression seems genuinely curious.
Adam laughs a little. “Nah, no way. I don’t think I’d ever be able to settle down like that, not anymore,” he looks back at him, an amused smile on his face. “Besides, you’re pioneering my body, aren’t you? So it isn’t like I’d be able to walk and talk, and stuff.”
Michael regards him for a moment. “I see.”
“What about you? If all of this—” Adam gestures around with his right hand, “—wasn’t happening, and we got out, somehow, would you still wanna burn down the world? Kick off the Apocalypse?”
The archangel glances down. “The battle with my brother was intended to bring my Father back,” he murmurs, finally. “Seeing as He hasn’t come back, even in the face of the Darkness’s return, I...suppose there wouldn’t be a reason for me to go through with it. Not anymore.”
Adam nods. “Okay, but that isn’t what I asked.” When Michael turns his gaze back on him in confusion, Adam clarifies. “Would you want to?”
Michael stares at him, taken aback, before his face adopts a look—similar to how he used to peer at him before they’d become...friends. It’s not as piercing, though. It’s more searching, like he can’t fathom why Adam’s asking him this question in particular.
“No,” he says, at last. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Adam smiles in spite of his own surprise, eyebrows raising as he turns to face Michael with his entire body. It makes Michael’s expression even out in return, the upward tugging at the corners of his lips on display for the world to see.
No, not the world. The world isn't down here, is it?
It's just Adam in here.
It's just for Adam.
“Well, uh…" Adam nods, trying to shake that suddenly-realized detail out of his brain. He sounds like a creep. "Here’s to things changing. Even if we’re gonna die.”
With that, Adam holds out a fist, which Michael looks down at with curious amusement before Adam remembers—oh.
Right.
Archangel.
“Oh! Oh, that’s right—you don’t know what a fist bump is, do you? Okay, so you just—” he mimes tapping his own fists together before extending one back out to Michael, who chuckles. It makes Adam join along, and Michael raises his fist and knocks it softly against Adam’s, his movements a little too stiff for Adam to pretend he didn't notice.
Hey, if the universe is ending, he might as well have his last laughs, right? Having them over fist bumps doesn’t seem all too bad.
Michael’s eyes trail upwards, then, landing on something just above Adam’s head. Adam tips his head backwards, trying to follow his gaze and frowning bemusedly at Michael when he comes up with nothing.
“What is it?”
The archangel doesn’t reply, instead reaching out with his hand and brushing it over Adam’s hair, like he’s smoothing something down. It makes heat prickle underneath his skin, and when Michael pulls his hand back, Adam gets the urge to chase it; to follow the warmth of physical contact and never let it go, reminding him of the same feeling he’d gotten all those years ago.
His skin—what‘s considered his skin, in here, anyway—tingles from the contact, eliciting a fierce appetency for more, more, more within him that trickles through him slowly, like molasses. Adam’s absolutely certain that every reaction of his is being read across their connection by Michael, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that if he tried. It isn’t like he’s trying to hide—he has no reason to.
Adam hadn’t felt this when he’d hugged him, or when he’d held his hand—too focused, he’d been, on comforting his only friend—but this was different. Less of an act of comfort and more of...an act.
Just an act.
True to Adam’s prediction, Michael surveys him in an inquisitive manner, obviously not expecting Adam’s visceral response.
When Michael’s hand makes its way back up, slowly and deliberately, it rests lightly on the side of his head, his fingers hovering carefully on his hair—just above his scalp, like he’s hesitant to touch. Which doesn’t make sense, because it’s just him—just Adam.
Regardless, Adam hasn’t had the ability to truly indulge in the feeling of contact for centuries, and he has nothing to lose.
Absolutely nothing.
He shifts his eyes downwards, staring at the couch cushions, and softly presses his head into Michael’s hand.
The effect is instantaneous—he feels warmth blossom forth from the area where the hand lays until it spreads to the rest of his body, and it’s so blatantly unfamiliar that it almost seems like it’s burning him. Little flashes of lightning are sparking underneath the surface of his skin, and his eyes flutter shut as he inhales, suddenly feeling as if something delicate has burrowed its way from the point of contact down into the center of his chest, something that had the potential to snap at any given moment. He's a leaf on the edge of a cliff in the middle of a storm, about to be hurled away into the great unknown of the valley below whether he likes it or not.
Michael—to his credit—doesn’t move, instead allowing Adam to remain leaning against the palm of his hand, against the electric pads of his fingertips. Adam can feel his grace flicker, a bit, but he isn’t sure of the meaning behind it—whatever Michael’s feeling, he’s keeping it carefully contained, hidden away. Adam pries his eyes open reluctantly, looking up to meet the archangel's stare and finding him watching him with a mixture of muted surprise and profound focus that makes him want to close his eyes again.
He doesn't. Instead, he lets his gaze flicker off to the side, looking through one of the windows on his left. Incongruous white light stares right back at him, something akin to a sunbeam that filtered through the pseudo-glass and never quite seemed to fully enter the house. He could reshape it to form a neighborhood, if he wanted, but he thinks that it would be too out of place here. A neighborhood was an indication of human life, or even that human life once existed, in any particular area. There’s no human life here. Nobody except him, at least, and he hardly thinks that he’s the best example of it.
The distraction that the window provides is enough to shock him back into the reality of what, exactly, is happening right now, as if he’s suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a defibrillator.
Christ. What is he doing?
Adam clears his throat, figuring that he should say something, but all that comes out is, “Ah...sorry. I didn’t, uh, I wasn’t—” he starts to move away, despite everything within him screaming at him to stay, to savor the sensation of touch after so long without it.
He starts to move away—except he doesn’t.
Adam can’t bring himself to move away when Michael’s hand begins to trail down, leaving scorching imprints on his head as his fingers sink lower—imprints that seem to reach all the way down to his soul. If he were to touch the area himself, Adam knows with certainty that there would be nothing there, but he would swear with just as much certainty that they exist; can feel them, plain as day, tingling with an energy that’s dipping just over the edge of red-hot. He sucks in a sharp breath, the caress enough to leave him feeling like he’s swaying, the foreign burn piercing his skin in a way that’s much too welcome for his own taste.
The archangel’s hand doesn’t travel far, stopping to curl at the base of his neck, his fingertips pressing lightly into the back of it with his thumb swiping softly along the skin under his ear. Adam’s eyelids immediately fall shut once more, his head tipping shamelessly backwards to press into the touch like it’s a drug and he’s a man sick with withdrawal. He feels tears beginning to prick at his eyes but he keeps them shut, refuses to let them fall.
It really is so ridiculous that he can cry in a place that’s literally constructed by his imagination. He’d like to think that his own mind would give him some goddamn leeway—in this area, if not the sanity area—but apparently not.
Some part of his brain wants to ask why Michael’s doing this, why he’s letting Adam do this. Maybe it’s because it’s the end of the world and Adam isn’t the only one who’s decided that he has nothing left to lose. Maybe it’s because Michael feels bad for him. Maybe it’s something else.
He doesn’t speak his mind, though. No matter what it is, it’s the first time in centuries that he feels something a little like peace. Real peace.
Pretty shitty timing, all things considered, but he’ll take it.