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[As Mickey goes on, the lopsided grin on Luce’s face grows wider. He only looks more interested and amused as the story goes.

Til the Hebrew gets mentioned.]

Y'actually know any Hebrew or was this one o'those speakin’ in tongues sort of things?

[A snicker.]

Based off of y'previous answers, imagine it’s got a fun story behind it. But we can save that f'another day.

Mm. Interesting. I like it. Also wrong.

[Mickey stares back at the comment. He doesn't exactly expect someone to ask if he actually knows the language, anymore. He figures people just believe him when he says he can. But, maybe it’s been a good while since he’s had to give lectures.]

Uh, yeah. Hebrew, Greek, a little bit of Aramaic and Syriac. Irish if you squint. I spent years and years learning how to translate the book of Enoch, if that means anything to you.

[A grimace when he realizes he’s wrong again.]

’S impressive. The tooth an’ th’ autopsy.

[Can’t help chuckling as he fetches his own cigarette and a lighter from the pocket of his labcoat.]

Good question. There’s a story here I’m dyin’ t'hear now. And don’t worry. I don’t deal with cops.

[Not unless you gave him really good reason to. Even then, he’s more likely to take care of things himself.]

Nahp. Nice guess though. They are fun fuckin’ buggers.

Trust me, walking home in the scrubs I stole off an unconscious coroner with no shoes and glass in my feet and a massive gaping hole in my chest. The best part was I found fifty bucks in the guy’s wallet and I got a bottle of peroxide to chug.

[A looooooooong drag.]

So, I got caught out for “reckless endangerment” and “felony-class property damage” when I drove my old camry straight through a Church’s chicken a few years ago. Cops found me trying to waterboard myself  with a soda fountain and a massive chunk of windshield in my neck.

I uh, went to court, and in court had a moment? I sort of, well, stopped speaking English and spoke entirely classical Hebrew until my attorney nearly beat me shitless.

[Mickey whistles]

Two years in a local prison! I got out on parole with a permanently suspended license, and an ankle monitor. You do not wanna guess how I got rid of that.

[A sigh.]

[The blue flame gets his attention for a moment, eyes darting at the gesture. There’s a small quick cock to his head.]

Y'get in scraps a lot, don’t you?

Ooh, Dartmouth. Fancy.

[Come to think of it, he doesn’t really remember how fancy Dartmouth actually is.]

I mean, guess all y'want, kid. Doesn’t mean I’ll give ye hints. More fun for me.

[He gives him an incredulous uh-dooooi look, holding his cigarette to curl up his lip and reveal an absolutely smashed incisor that’s grown in a little crooked.]

Do I get into scraps; I had a guy at the bar smash my face into the bar! Broke my tooth a few weeks back! I set his head on fire and had to dump the body in the alley, and don’t get me STARTED about the time I woke up during my own autopsy--

[There’s a pause. Oh Christ.]

Do NOT tell the cops about that. I can’t go back to trial, I’ll get held in contempt AGAIN, and I already lost my ankle monitor and stole the camino-- why am I telling you this? [Another pause, a slow drag on the cigarette.] 

[That frankly adorable wheeze only widens his grin. It’s not long after that Luce doubles over in what can be disguised as a guttural sounding giggle fit.]

Y'should see yer goddamn face, Christ, that’s beautiful. Look like a fuckin’ deranged goldfish.

[When he’s able to stop laughing, his lips form into a crooked smirk. Small one.]

Mmm, you don’t get that yet.

[Oh, so now this motherfucker is laughing at him! Mickey pockets the flask and shoves a cigarette between his teeth, snapping his fingers to strike up a tiny, tiny blue flame and give himself a light. 

Calm thyself, you sonnuvabitch.]

I usually get called an “impudent crackhead” and “a deranged zombie”, so the goldfish thing is new. At least goldfish are cool, I used to keep a goldfish in my office back at Dartmouth--

[He’s rambling. Shit. But he doesn’t miss that comment, though.]

[His diaphragm spasms as he does his best to hold in the cackle that’s threatening to bust out. The sputtering was funny, the expression after had been hilarious.

He takes the flask and gives it a good swirl before sniffing it's contents. Certainly smelled like Windex.]

Oh I believe you.

[The flask promptly tips back and Luce takes one, two gulps before handing it back with a toothy grin.]

Magic does strange things t'a person.

Yeah, see, I didn’t believe Cass when he told me the same shit years ago, and now--

[Oh, he just fucking drank that shit. Chugging right along. The inhuman wheeze-squeak that comes out of his chest is pitiful. He knows it’s pitiful, and now he’s standing here flabbergasted with his flask in hand.] Alright, alright, alright, okay cool-- That’s fine! That’s normal! What the fuck are you, now?

Y'know, ’m sorely tempted to see that.

[He lives for chaotic bullshit like this. Free entertainment.]

I- You- I don’t- ugh. 

[He holds up his flask, and works up the energy and thought command to screw the dingy little top off, before taking a belt, shaking his head and holding the flask out to him.]

[He has a good chuckle at the whole goddamn conversation. Kid was certainly somethin’.

He’s been around too many goddamn weird things, himself included, to ask who the fuck doesn’t notice they’re drinking turpentine or Raid.]

Ya’ll’ve got t'stop strange chemicals in places they don’t belong.

Trust me, if I wasn’t bored with immortality two years into the gig, I’d be drinking mimosas like the best of them. I can absolutely crush a glass of windex if you give me the chance, though.