#lychee-days

“What are you doing?”

Two heads jerk up guiltily as Israfel crosses his arms.

“Uh…” Ramiel responds eloquently, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Gabriel wanted some attention,” Michael says, hand still hovering over the cherub flopped on the ground.

The youngest of their nest bounces to their feet. “Izzy!”

“Gabriel, you really should start—oof!” They throw themself at Israfel, the older angel barely catching them in time. “You should start to clean your own wings,” he chides, sweeping aside some downy strands of hair.

Large eyes gaze up at him. “But grooming is a common bonding activity!” they proclaim. The carefully practiced syllables make it obvious that they are quoting one of their teachers.

“Problem is, I only have two wings, and three nestmates.” Their lower lip juts out, their small hands tangled in Israfel’s robes.

“Hmm, that is a problem, is it not?” he asks, kneeling down so his lanky form is on level with Gabriel’s still small one. They are growing up fast, he realizes, their face losing the roundness of youth. Soon they’ll all be considered seraphs, and proper training will begin.

“It is,” Gabriel says, completely serious.

“Show me your wings. Let us see how clean they got them.”

“We know how to clean wings!” Michael exclaims, miffed that Gabriel’s attention has shifted away from him.

“Mymy and Rami do good,” Gabriel agrees.

“Do well,” Israfel corrects.

“Do well,” Gabriel echoes with a small giggle.

They let go of Israfel, turning and proudly snapping out their wings. “See?” they ask, trying to crane their head over their shoulder to watch Israfel. With gentle fingers he cards through their feathers, noting how long they’re getting and the very sparse remnants of down.

“Hmm, they are getting big.”

“And soon I will have more! So we can groom together,” they say, bouncing up and down on the balls of their feet, wings flapping with excitement.

“Oh? Well then you are going to have to grow up fast if you want more wings.” Israfel waits, and true to form Gabriel turns around to stare at them.

“I want to be big like you.”

Leaning down, Israfel presses their foreheads together. “I know, little one. But let us not be in any rush, hmm? I like you how you are. We can take turns grooming wings. You might have two, but together we have eight. Plenty to go around.”

Gabriel huffs a sigh. “Alright, Izzy,” they say. “But one day I am going to have six wings so everyone has a pair to clean.”

Israfel laughs and musses their hair as he stands up. “One day,” he agrees. “And until then, how about we go see if you can glide further?”

You stir awake with a yawn, morning light peeking in around the edges of the curtain. An attempt to stretch is foiled by the figure sprawled over your stomach, one arm wrapped around you—your arm feels tingly just thinking about it.

Your nightshirt clings to your stomach, saturated with drool. Michael, it turns out, isn’t a pretty sleeper. It reminds you of his days as a cherub. Even though he had been older than you, when you had neared him in size it was often him curled around you, wings and feathers everywhere.

“Michael~” You call his name in a soft, sing-song voice as you scrounge for the remote in the night-stand drawer, pressing the button to pull the blinds aside.

He snorts, and proceeds to bury his face further into your abdomen, which tickles slightly. You squirm, his warm breath passing through the fabric, a sweet torture. It makes you think of where else his mouth has been last night, tasting your skin, licking across the valley of your—

You stop your train of thoughts there, feeling your cheeks flush. Sleeping together now had some very, very different connotations than when you were younger. Ones that were very, very satisfying, too.

Reminiscing brings a smile to your lips, and an insidious idea to the forefront of your mind. Reaching down, you poke one of his round cheeks. He hates them, but you find that they sweeten his countenance. It would be better if he smiled more often, but one thing at a time. “Mymy,” you sing.

He stirs again, but he still continues to slumber on. For a creature that doesn’t technically require sleep, he sure is difficult to wake.

“Mymy, time to wake-up,” you continue, repeatedly poking his cheek.

Finally you get a groan, and a single eye cracks open.

“Good morning, Mymy,” you say. Michael grumbles something, and deliberately burrows into your shirt.

Laughing softly, you push him off, swinging your legs off the side of the bed. There’s a noise of protest, and the arm still wrapped around you tries to drag you back into bed.

“We have to get up sometime,” you chide, leaning over. Michael lifts his head, and shakes it.

“That’s my Mymy,” you state, leaning down and giving him a chaste kiss on the lips. Then you break out of his hold, dancing out of his reach.

“Gabbbbyyy,” Michael whines.

“Nuh-uh, it’s time to get out of bed lazybones,” you tease, skipping backwards, still grinning at the tousle-haired Michael. His shorn locks are just starting to get long enough again that they stick up at odd angles after a night’s sleep.

“But there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed,” he grumps, rolling onto his back, his head hanging off the foot of the bed, watching you go upside down.

“It’s the weekend, and I don’t have to go into work. I like to make breakfast for Daniel,” you chirp. Not to mention feed yourself. It had taken a bit to remember that being in a shell required consistent meals, regular sleep, and an assortment of other care that you didn’t have to bother with as an angel.

Padding into the kitchen on your bare feet, you frown. You had picked out a recipe for stuffed French toast, and you had put it… somewhere. Drat. Huffing, you start looking around the bare  counters. In theory, being neat meant that it was easy to find things.

In practice, you couldn’t remember where you put things most of the time. It had gotten to the point that Daniel was usually the one who had your keys ready for you in the morning, cup of coffee with a splash of cream. Sometimes it was even a proper cappuccino, Daniel having gotten you one for your ‘birthday’ last year.

You narrow your eyes, trying to retrace yesterday. It had been relatively quiet at the precinct, but you had still left late, absorbed in the cold case files that had been dumped in the squad room. It was from before any of the current team’s time, which meant you had to familiarize yourself with everything.

Michael had been cross when you got home. He had wanted to call your cell phone, but he had forgotten how to operate his and had refused to ask Daniel for help. Daniel, being the sweetheart he was, had texted you to come and save him from your boyfriend.

A sigh escapes you. They were… getting along better. Considering that Michael had wanted to kill Daniel upon their first meeting, that wasn’t saying much, unfortunately.

Coffee. That might help jog your memory. Carefully you start working the cappuccino machine, humming quietly to yourself. Daniel wouldn’t be up for at least another hour, probably three. He liked to sleep in on the weekends, when you let him.

It also gave you more alone time with a certain grumpy archangel, if he ever got out of bed.

As if your thoughts had summoned him, you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist, followed by a nose burying in your neck.

“You looked like you were busy thinking,” he mumbles.  

You brighten, covering his hands with yours and leaning back against him, enjoying his body heat in the cool air of the apartment.

“Just trying to find my recipe,” you tell him, turning your head so you can bump noses. Michael’s arms tighten around you, and he shifts so he can kiss your lips. It’s slow, unhurried, possessing a surety he had lacked for the first few months of your relationship. Every kiss had seemed to contain a desperate edge to it, as if he might lose you at any second, or that you might change your mind about him.

You break apart and offer him a soft smile. Silly boy, you weren’t going anywhere. He was stuck with you. Well, you weren’t going anywhere as soon as you found the recipe.

You had gotten home, and Michael had done his best impression of a limpet, trying to coax you into the bedroom after stripping off your coat, shoes, and gun. Instead, you had straightened up—leaving Michael alone at home guaranteed that you would come back to a bit of a mess, mostly books and various knick-knacks out of place—and gotten out your personal laptop.

The recipe had been emailed to you, courtesy of Alice’s mother. Worst case scenario, you could print it again. But you had printed it out.

You squint at the printer. No paper on top.

Behind you, Michael clears his throat.  “I had the paper, and then—” You speak aloud, hoping Michael would chime in.

Instead he drags his nose down the back of your neck, one hand coming up to play with the neck of your shirt. “Yes, you were doing that,” you say fondly.

Then you yelp in surprise as he sucks hard on your skin, undoubtedly leaving a mark behind.

“Mymy!” A giggle escapes you as you try to turn in his arms, but he’s not having any of it.

“I like this shirt,” he tells you, dragging his lips up to your shoulder.

“My coffee is ready,” you tell him, still trying to gently escape his hold.

Michael bites down on your shoulder, just enough to feel the imprint of his teeth, barely any pressure at all. But it’s the exact the same spot that he did last night.

“That’s right!” Now you remember where you put the paper. Michael had come up behind you and taken it from your hand, and then you had taken it back and—

This time you get away, dashing over to the desk holding the printer and opening the drawer. You hold up the single page triumphantly, flashing it to a Michael who is looking far too pleased about something.

You lower the recipe, trying to figure out what he’s so happy about. Flicking your eyes down, you take in your large t-shirt and sleep shorts. Not the sexiest sleepwear you have, but not bad, either. Not enough to have Michael looking so satisfied.

“What?” you ask, coming back into the kitchen and snagging your cappuccino. One sip and your eyes close in a moment of bliss. Charleston was right to be a coffee snob—good coffee was much, much better than the instant stuff the precinct reception had.

“It’s a good look on you,” Michael says, being suspiciously obtuse. You open your eyes, narrowing them playfully.

“But they’d look better on the floor?” You offer, recalling the kind of dialogue his favorite books seemed chock full of.

“That’s always a given,” Michael says, flashing his teeth in a knowing smile.

What was he—

You glance down, and then twist your head awkwardly to get a glimpse of where he had just bitten you.

Oh. OH.

You slide down the counter, feeling yourself blush. Michael’s grin only spreads.

“Possessive much?” You ask, before burying your face in your coffee mug. You’d rather not see your reflection right now. Michael had had his mouth all over your neck, and if the one little bruise you could see was anything to judge by, you were probably displaying a nice collection of hickies.

“Can you blame me with someone as wonderful as you?” Michael asks, stepping up to you and wrapping you in his arms again, mindful of the coffee.

“I suppose not,” you tease, taking another sip of your coffee. Michael lifts a hand, gently stealing your cup away. You watch it go with a forlorn expression.

His other hand plucks the recipe from your grasp, putting that down to the other side. You raise an eyebrow, head tilted to one side in curiosity.

“I know better than to spill your coffee,” he comments, as he slips his hands down your back, lower and lower, until you smack him on the chest.

“Michael,” you say, half-amused, half-berating. It does nothing to dissuade him, and a second later, he’s lifting you up, onto the counter.

You huff, but open your legs so he can stand between them. “This isn’t me making breakfast.”

“No, this is better.” Michael nuzzles the hollow of your throat, pressing fleeting kisses against each of the marks, reminding you of their presence. As he works his way across your exposed collar bones, you caress his hair, playing with the strands that are starting to curl at the nape of his neck.

It’s nice, just sitting here, the morning sun giving a warm glow to the kitchen. When Michael comes up for air, you find his lips with your own, planting a series of light kisses across the curve of his mouth, feeling his smile.

The moment is interrupted by your stomach growling. Michael pulls back, frowning at your stomach. “What was that?”

Sheepishly, you poke his chest until he steps back and gives you enough room to hop down. “That is known as growling belly. In other words, I need to feed my shell.”

“Didn’t you do that yesterday?”

You roll your lips together, trying to remember not to laugh. “Most humans consume three meals a day. And I’m not…” You blink, trying to remember what food you had eaten. “Alice grabbed wraps for lunch, I remember. I don’t… I don’t think I had dinner.”

Michael grumbles to himself, but reaches out and picks up the recipe. “Stuffed French toast?”

“Yep. I picked up everything earlier in the week, just need to prepare it. Can you get the eggs out of the fridge?”

Letting Michael cook wasn’t an option; you might not have been the best when you started, but Michael is somehow worst. Probably because you had more experience on earth than he did.

Michael opens the fridge as you start pulling out mixing bowls, the whisk, a griddle for the stove, the bread, cornflakes, and the other necessary ingredients.

The eggs wriggle into a small open spot, and you hasten to push them all the way on the counter. “Now what?” Michael asks.

“Now, I need that recipe,” you tell him, stealing the paper back.

Throwing together the butter and cream cheese in a bowl, you position Michael in front with the hand beater. “Switch this on, and mix,” you instruct.

Michael takes a moment before the beater whirs to life. Immediately cream cheese splatters everywhere, hitting you in the nose.

“Not… that high,” you say belatedly. Michael switches it off and drops the beater. “I think perhaps you should do this,” he states. Then he turns, and sees your face. A snort of laugher escapes him.

He raises a finger and swipes it across the bridge of your nose before bringing it to his mouth. “Mmm,” he hums. You reach up, trying to return the favor.

Michael catches your finger and brings it to his mouth, licking the cream cheese off while holding eye-contact with you.

“Ah-hem.”

The loud throat-clear has you springing apart, looking guiltily around.

“Heeey Daniel,” you squeak, trying to come across as nonchalant. Michael glowers from beside you. You elbow him, and he works on rearranging his expression it something more neutral.

“Sorry, but if I saw anything more, I don’t think I’d eat the French toast,” he states, pulling out a cup to make another coffee.