#luceat

ᴄᴏᴍᴇʙᴀᴄᴋ: ʙᴀᴇ173

luceat

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and then we danced.

while not as desperately uncommon as it once used to be, mutt's laughter is still a most unheard sound. hearing it is like stumbling upon a leaf or a rare insect, trapped and preserved in amber. his amusement is always quiet, sly, or else entirely missed by those that hadn't been able to study his face, know his heart.

although it had only been an errant snort, it must feel precious, for he is so often a little thunderhead.

he presses the backs of his knuckles to his mouth, an effort to stifle inopportunely timed laughter. when the moment passes, he nudges his shoulder into nicky's, a warm gesture even with his sharp and abrupt angles.

"oh, my god."

is she allowed to say that around him? what a stupid question. nicky isn't some strict deacon at her childhood church. she laughs, breathy, to let him know that brief guilty look had been in jest, and because she's feeling so giddy at her discovery, she has to make some kind of noise.

Even for Manchester it's a beautiful night. Clear, with a density to the air. You can see the stars even in the city.

Not that Jibreel looks up. He, the angel, walks in step with the saint, set on looking where the saint looks.

Midnight Café. It's actually a kebab house, patrons, drunk, singing Sweet Caroline. There is another blonde, a potwash in the back, you can see them ending a phone call through the porthole. Dressed to match Jibreel, not in color but in style: the language that spells out whether or not one belongs.

Among the many things still in purgatorial stasis as chaos wracks the world is the building of an official embassy for the forces of heaven. Jibreel was it - this was it - the whispers and the response.

They find a clean surface and a sense of solitude. They sit, the condiment tray between them like a line in the sand...it becomes clear that this is going to be one of those transitions marked by a nebulous lack of ceremony.

Not my name.

❝Every night.❞

A cottage for what, huh. To be lonely in?

— No, no, no. Digging graves for anyone but himself. Anaïs. Jean-Pierre. Alain he wasn’t there for. Léon he couldn’t bury for the grief.

But bothering with a piece of shit’s send-off, that’s all Nicky.

He’ll shoot up salting the earth, shovel at the ready. Special rules. Makes him feel better, Booker wagers, when he’s exacting his own justice.

None of that, though, the ugly moment Joe takes his sweet time waking up. Down in Rieux-Volvestre, it had Nicky mad-eyed with the ancient rampage stuffed down the slim-necked genie bottle of his body. All morning, in denial. One wrong rub and he’d spill. He shoved two fingers into the mountainous forehead of his dear god looming over Joe’s body and flicked.

Booker saw another waiting crack in the ground then. But that one, he couldn’t. Would not. By the time Joe made it back, Booker had been wine-tasting his touristy way up North where his roots had rheumatized into a beast of the present as abstract as thoughts of Joe.

After, they wouldn’t hear from him for months on end.

He still has the bullet he would’ve tried his best with, round-nose. He would’ve put it in his mouth in the bathroom behind the shower curtain at the tried-and-true angle. You never know. Might get lucky.

❝For how many nights?❞

How many more?

His smile is soft, but he can’t keep the darkness out of his eyes despite all the effort he put into recreating the way he used to smile when he showed up on her doorstep. “I know, but I can’t.” The Rebellion isn’t on his shoulders, not entirely, but he has too many people relying on him to stay here, too much blood on his hands to feel welcome with her. “I just can to check on you, and Beetoo.” The old droid was on his charging deck still.