#midamap2023

Another raised eyebrow. But deep inside Adam, where Michael's grace sat snugly around his soul, there was a twinge of something... almost disappointed?

“Two days, three hours, and fifty-three minutes,” Michael said dryly.

“Oh geez. I really spent a lot of time catching those Pokémon, huh.” Adam's felt a little bad. But only a little. After all, his goal was not only to win every fight in the game, but also to 'catch 'em all'.

“You get very absorbed in that game,” Michael said, and Adam couldn't really interpret his tone.

“Yeah, I mean. It brings up memories from when I was a kid.” Adam shrugged. “And it's a good game.”

Michael made a non-committal sound.

“You're not jealous of the game, right?” Adam asked, and had to suppress a smile when Michael huffed.

“Of course not. That would be stupid.”

Adam bit his lip to keep himself from sighing. That was Michael's catch-all argument against accusations of being jealous, lonely or needy – that it would be stupid.

And yeah, it would be. After all, Michael was literally his best friend of over a thousand years, his match made in Heaven, and the guy who lived in his chest cavity.

And yet.

“You know, I've been thinking,” Adam said, because he couldn't let this stand, and also because yeah, he had been thinking about it. The plan had been pretty vague, but he supposed they could always wing it.

Heh. Wing it. Adam grinned, feeling Michael's wings rustle in suppressed agitation.

“Is this like the last time you had 'been thinking'?” Michael asked warily, wrinkling the nose of his projection. “I'm not going to clean up a bathroom flooded with milk again.”

“Oh come on, that was one time! And you can clean it with a snap of our fingers.” Adam snapped his fingers for emphasis, which of course did nothing for him. “And that's not even what I wanted to say.”

“So enlighten me, oh wise one.” Michael gestured for him to go on.

“Alright. So remember how in the cage, you made games for me to live in, like that farming simulation?”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You mean the several farming simulations. You always wanted to change locations and NPCs.”

Adam gave a lopsided smile at the memory of trying to change or remove datable characters. He'd never cared much about the romance aspect of those games as a kid, and besides, he'd already had someone living with him on the farm: Michael.

But he hadn't exactly been able to tell Michael that he didn't want to date anyone there because he already had him.

“So could you do that, but for Pokémon?”

Michael's wings shifted in surprise. “But... we're in the real world now. On Earth. With actual people, and things happening.”

“Yeah, I know.” Adam shrugged, and looked away. “But I kind of miss when it was just us. When everyone else wasn't real, so we could just erase them from the world when we didn't like them.”

Michael looked at him for a long time. “I can do it, of course. But is that really what you want?”

Adam looked back at him. “Michael... You know that living in the Pokémon world was literally my childhood dream, right? The only reason I didn't ask for it in the cage was because you said you could only make things that you've seen before. Fields. Buildings. People. I figured that excluded any made up monsters from a children's game.”

Hesitantly, Michael nodded.

“Now that you've seen it all – and don't tell me you weren't watching while I was playing – you could do it, right?” Adam asked hopefully.

Michael hummed. “I could, though you can hardly say that I've 'seen it all'. This is the only of those games you've been playing, and there are many more, right?”

“Well, yeah, but we don't have all of them.” Adam frowned when Michael rolled his eyes.

“You can have everything you want forever,” Michael said, reminding Adam that he only needed to ask.

It felt wrong, though, to ask Michael to give him everything. And not just because Adam had no idea how it worked – did Michael steal a copy of the game from someone? Was it plucked from a stack in a store?

Adam supposed the latter wouldn't be so bad – no one would notice if one measly copy got lost.

But Michael wasn't his servant, or his tool. Sure, it was nice that Adam could rely on him when something went wrong (like said accident with the milk bath). But when Adam said 'Jump', Michael's response wasn't supposed to be 'how high?'. It should be 'But don't you want to cuddle me more?'

“We can do research,” Michael said, nodding. “We tube.”

Adam let out a sigh so long and deep that it could have killed someone who actually needed to breathe. “It's 'YouTube', Michael.”

“Yes, but we will be tubing together.” Squeezing himself against Adam's side, Michael fished their phone out their pocket. “There are those... 'Let's Plays', yes?”

“Dude, yeah, let's watch some nuzlockes!” Adam pulled up the page of one of his favourite groups of streamers. They should have covered most of the older games – he'd seen the video thumbnails, but hadn't had time to watch any of it so far. “This is gonna take us a while, you know.”

Michael butted their shoulders together. “You're the one who just wanted to spend untold hours in a projection.”

Adam elbowed him back. “Hey, that wasn't a complaint. Besides, I wanted to spend untold hours in a projection with you. Don't forget that.”

Michael blinked at him, and his wings rustled shyly. “We- we should be able to set these videos to double the speed, yes?” he eventually asked, managing a scowl again. “You should still be able to understand those.”

Adam couldn't take his eyes off his archangel, projection or not. “Don't worry about me, silly,” he said, a hand on Michael's thigh.

They spent days together on the couch, at some point switching from the small screen of their phone to their laptop. Sometimes, Adam had his head on Michael's shoulder, while other times, Michael's head was in Adam's lap.

It was a good time. Just watching and sometimes commenting. Relaxed. Happy. At times, it felt almost like back then – like they were the only two people in the world, and no one else mattered, or ever would matter again.

“Alright,” Michael said after the last video ended. “I think we have enough data.”

“Mh.” Adam wasn't too hyped about having to get up, or having to disentangle himself from Michael. But then Michael just told him to lay down on the couch.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his face far too serious for what they were about to do.

“Born ready.” Adam grinned when Michael rolled his eyes, and Michael made his projection vanish.

Close your eyes, he said from inside their head.

Adam followed his lead – and felt his consciousness fade away from their body.

When he blinked his eyes open again, he was somewhere else. In a room that looked oddly familiar...

There was a Pikachu plushie on a dresser, and several posters with Pokémon and items on them lined the walls.

Grinning giddily, Adam turned around to where he knew Michael would be standing – and was greeted by several balloons and a party horn almost hitting his face.

“Happy birthday, Addy,” Michael said softly.

Adam stared at him. The last thing he remembered was that it had been the middle of September – apparently, they had been watching those nuzlockes for a bit longer than he'd thought.

“And happy birthday to you, babe,” he said back.

“I wasn't born,” Michael recited their age-old argument, rolling his eyes.

“No, but it's your Feast Day. And what's the day that we feast on?” Adam said, also not for the first time.

Michael sighed. “Our birthday,” he completed their routine grumpily. “Fine. Now go get your Pokémon.”

“Only me? What about you?” Adam checked that he had everything – the obligatory bag, and the phone that would probably get updated with a Rotom, if he understood the newer lore correctly.

“I already have a team, of course, since I'm a lot older than you,” Michael said smugly. Then he strode out of the room – and Adam followed with an indignant gasp.

“How dare you! I'm over a thousand years old!”

“Exactly. You're basically still a baby.”

“Oh, honey, are you leaving?” a voice asked, and Adam stopped dead in his tracks on the last step of the staircase.

“Mom?” he asked under his breath.

“Oh look at you, baby, all grown up.” His mom came out of the kitchen and took his hands. “Ready to become the champ.”

“First, he will have to beat eight gyms,” Michael reminded them both.

Kate cupped both Adam's and Michael's face with a hand. “I'm so glad you'll be there for him,” she said. “I would be worried to death if Addy went out alone.”

“Moooom,” Adam complained. He knew that this wasn't his actual mom, since she was still in Heaven. But his indignation was real. “I'm not a child.”

“I know, baby.” She went on her tip-toes to kiss his forehead. “Now go meet the Professor.”

“I'll come by again afterwards,” Adam said, taking his mom's hands. “I promise.”

“Baby, I'll always be here when you want to come home.”

Adam squeezed her hands. Of course she would be there, he told himself. The mom was always home in the games.

Though of course, his real mom was always there, too, when he wanted to see her in Heaven.

He dropped her hands and gave her a smile. “I'll be off, then.”

“Be safe.” She turned to Michael. “Both of you.”

“Always.” Michael squeezed one of her hands too before they left, walking down the dirt path to the Professor's house.

Adam wasn't going to mention that his real mom wasn't quite as enthusiastic about seeing Michael than this one. In turn, Michael wouldn't mention that he was the current champ of this region.

A few minutes past midnight, and they’re awake again. 

Baby hadn’t been crying this time, per se, but Michael seemed to be attuned to every single snuffle she made, so as soon as she began to whine lowly in her bassinet, he was awake to scoop her up and hold her against him. That, of course, meant that Adam woke up too, blinking blearily at the two of them. 

“Is she—” he begins, worried, but Michael’s sleepy silence is enough to calm him instantly. He’s holding her up, patting her back as she’s snuggled in her little orange blanket and Adam can see that her eyes are open.

“Oh,” is the only thing he can say before all his breath instantly deserts him.

And— here’s the thing. All newborn babies, Adam thought, looked the same. They were all red, wrinkly, scowly (though, Adam supposes, any child of Michael’s was doomed to be scowly) with no discernable features, and they all depended on the hormone soup made-to-order in postpartum parents to, like, survive and stuff because there was no way that they’d be able to attain that level of attention with their ‘cuteness’ (and lack thereof) alone. Three days ago, Adam had thought that that same logic would apply between him and his daughter— that she’d be little and ugly and red, and the only reason he’d think she was cute or special in any way appearance-wise (as a newborn, at least) was because of the parenting chemicals buzzing through his veins.

Adam of right now wanted to punch Adam of three days past in the face.

Because his baby is fucking adorable. She had a full head of soft black hair that tickled whoever she was laying on, and her face was fat and round and a shade of red that was giving way to a russetty tan. Her eyes— when they were open, like right now— were blue, deep blue, and they were massive, looking at Adam and— and even though he knew, objectively, she wasn’t seeing anything she’d remember, or recognise, in an hour’s time, it still sent tingles to the tips of his fingers to think that she was looking at him. One day, she’d look at him and know him, know that he’d always be there for her, that he loves her so, so fucking much and—

“You haven’t blinked in a while,” Michael observes sleepily.

And— oh, he’d forgotten to do that. Adam blinks, and, doing so, he feels something warm running down his cheeks. Tears, his mind informs him after a second. 

He redirects his gaze to Michael, and feels his heart leap, jumping through his ribs to his throat, clogging his throat up all over again. He blinks again— more tears— and meets Michael’s gaze, and a surge of affection rushes through his body, threatening to crash over his very being and drown him in a feeling he wishes he could convey to Michael. A feeling that, if Michael were with him properly, nestled up against his soul, grace spilling out from under every layer of his muscle, every layer of his skin, he’d be able to push towards him, envelop him in, making a cocoon out of his gratitude and his joy and his love, love, love, that he could lay over and around and into and beyond Michael, and then— only then— would his point adequately come across.

But they aren’t together. Not like that. Not anymore. And all Adam can do is get up, reach over to Michael and trace his thumb over lips bitten raw and skin that shone with historic radiance, and use one of his few breaths to whisper, “I love you. I love you, I love you so fucking much, I—” more warmth splashes down his face, and he feels his own lips tremble “—I love you.”

He plants a quick, chaste kiss on Michael’s bottom lip, just over where his own thumb was, and draws back to look up at Michael. Dark eyes (large, shaped like the baby’s) drift drowsily down to meet his gaze, and they shine with a sentiment that Adam knows would feel infinitely better wrapped around his soul.

“I love you too,” Michael murmurs, in the absence of his ability to do that, of their oneness, “I love you.”

Then— Baby, who had been content and semi-quiet until then, begins to whine again, scrunching her little face up and turning her head, lips tracing Michael’s collarbone as her squalls threaten to turn into wails. Michael’s own face settles into a deep weariness that, to Adam, seemed to have become his default expression for the past week or so.

“And she’s hungry,” he sighs, and begins to shuffle himself further up, reaching an arm out to feel around for his water bottle in the dark.

“Oh, wait— here—” and Adam grabs his own “—use mine.”

He passes the bottle to Michael, who flashes him a grateful look before taking a large swig of it, all while Adam supports the baby in his arms, shifting Michael’s shirt about and positioning her the way they’d been taught to do at the hospital centuries (a day) ago.

(“Remember,” the nurse had said, grey hair pulled back, wrinkles entrenched in her face and eyes twinkling in a manner that betrayed her to be infinitely younger than Michael and Adam both, “you guys are a team now. You have to learn how to work together, pull each other up by the bootstraps.”

And, Adam and Michael had looked at one another then, skin-to-skin and hopelessly far away. We know how to work together, Adam had wanted to cry, the problem is we aren’t together.”)

When Baby latched on, it was Michael’s turn to cry. 

“You okay?” Adam asks, propping himself up on both arms and shifting to sit on his legs. “Michael?”

“Fine,” his voice is hoarse, he’s definitely not fine. “I— I don’t know why I’m crying. I just am. This— I—” and Michael chokes, for a second, and closing his eyes doesn’t halt the flow of tears “—I didn’t expect to feel so much all the time.”

“Oh, Michael,” Adam breathes, and something deeper than his heart aches. Hormone soup, his med-school mind provides, and it makes him feel a bit better knowing that nothing was seriously wrong, but that doesn’t mitigate the shattering heartbreak of realising he couldn’t do anything to help. “I— I don’t—” I don’t know what to do, he wants to say, but stops himself at the last second, just as his tongue began curling around the words.

“I,” he tries again. Michael sniffs, and Adam runs his fingers through his hair. “What we’ll do,” he says, slowly, eventually, and Michael blinks at him, “is that I’ll give you some more water, and I’ll go refill your bottle and grab us some food. It’ll be like— all three of us eating. Family dinner.” Michael gives a small snort at that, and Adam mentally whoops triumphantly.

“Family dinner,” Michael repeats, a stray sniff ruining the deadpan tone he was clearly aiming for. 

“You okay with that?” Being alone for a bit?

“I—yeah. Yeah, I’m— I’ll be okay.” Be back soon.

And Adam makes good on that. He brings his water bottle up to Michael’s mouth, tilting it, letting Michael drink his fill, before leaning over and grabbing for Michael’s water bottle. Then he’s up, he’s out, padding about their apartment and tracing phantom footsteps in the dark until he reaches their little fridge, peering inside, pulling out the leftover chicken and rice and depositing it on a plate to put in the microwave. While it’s heating up, he grabs a pack of Oreos (hidden at the back of the top shelf of the corner cupboard, where Michael can’t reach and, ergo, can’t know of it’s presence inside his ostentatiously healthy home) for himself, and gets through one or two by the time the microwave goes off, its beeps ringing out in what startles Adam to realise was an otherwise still night, calm despite it all. The constant, urgent roar in his ears must’ve been the sound of his own blood in them. Outside, it’s pitch black and silent, and the quiet rush of solitary cars rushing down midnight roads is nothing but a faraway whisper, drifting into their apartment through the blackness surrounding them. 

Suddenly, Adam feels very, very alone.

So, he takes Michael’s plate out of the microwave and grabs a spoon to set down with it, and refills Michael’s water bottle with filtered jug water, and not the stuff from the tap (because, nowadays, Michael conserved energy by not complaining, but Adam knew him, and knew he hated the taste of tap water, so the jug had proved itself to be a wise investment). Gathers all the stuff— food, Oreos, water bottles, cutlery, and the mental checklist’s all ticked off— into his arms, and pads back down the hall and into their bedroom, where Michael’s still sitting up, staring into some distant nothing, and Baby’s still clasped to his chest. 

“Hey,” Adam says softly as he climbs onto the bed, careful not to spill anything.

“Hello, Adam,” Michael replies, sighing, leaning his head back to bump gently against the headboard. “Hunger is an entirely foreign concept to me, but from what little I do know about it, she shouldn’t still be hungry. It’s been fifteen minutes.” A pause. “And forty seconds, so almost sixteen minutes.”

Adam shrugs, passing Michael his own water bottle and pulling the duvet up around himself. “I heard that twenty minute feeds were pretty standard at this stage. Plus, she’s just come into a big, scary world, and newborns nurse for comfort too.”

Michael doesn’t respond, and Adam supposes he doesn’t need to. It’s a jarring shift, to go from a weapon, someone whose presence brought with it whispers of war and chaos and destruction, to something comforting. To have a being, so, so small and fragile and completely helpless, suddenly thrust into a strange world, depend entirely on you for survival, not for orders. For comfort, not for war.

“Hey,” Adam says again, just to get Michael to snap out of the world in his head, to look at him. He holds up the plate. “Do you wanna be comforted too?” Michael rolls his eyes, and that inspires Adam to scoop up a spoonful of rice, and move it around. “Here comes the aeroplane!”

Another eyeroll, but Michael opens his mouth, and Adam almost hollers in victory.

They continue like that, for a while. Adam having his oreos, feeding Michael, Michael taking frequent sips of water and feeding Baby, and Baby oblivious to the world (even as Michael has to swipe fallen grains of rice from her hair). It’s… peaceful. Surreal, definitely— the room is dark, and even when Adam’s eyes adjust all he can make out are stray silhouettes masked by the night, and the world is quiet beyond them, no noise daring to breach the tranquillity that envelops the three of them. It’s almost as though nothing dares to exist where it could disturb them.

When Michael finishes the rice and chicken, he switches the baby to the other side and his stomach audibly rumbles.

“Need more comfort?” Adam teases, leaning his head on Michael’s shoulder.

“I don’t know why I’m still hungry. I shouldn’t be.” Michael sounds sluggishly frustrated with himself.

“Hey, if you’re hungry, you’re hungry. Who cares about anything else.” Adam pops an Oreo into his mouth, then holds another one up to Michael’s lips. “Say ‘aah’,” he says around the Oreo, getting tiny crumbs all over the bedsheet and making Michael wrinkle his nose.

“Manners,” Michael chides halfheartedly, before taking a small bite of the cookie.

“See, when I get crumbs over things, it’s over the duvet, and it’s a problem. When you do it, though, you get them over the baby, and that’s perfectly fine.”

Michael dusts the little cookie crumbs out of Baby’s hair.

“No crumbs on her now. But your awful manners still exist. Who’s the problem, again, kid?”

Adam puffs out a laugh, and settles down to nuzzle his head against Michael’s shoulder, using a finger to smooth away their daughter’s dark, downy hair away from her face.

“She’s asleep,” he notes.

“She’s still eating,” Michael rolls his eyes.

“Ooh, hungry baby.”

“Baby’s been alive for less than four days and she’s already proven to have gotten her appetite from you,” it might be a teasing jibe, it might be a sleepy, halfhearted attempt at his signature sardonicism, tainted by the weight of his fondness, but whatever Michael means by it, Adam can’t help but melt.

She’d gotten something from him. She’ll have gotten traits from Michael, too. Because she was theirs, and she was real, unexpected and somewhat unexplained but so, so real, and their life together was shaping into what Adam thought, a thousand years ago, would be nothing but a bittersweet fantasy. 

She’s real. They’re real. Michael’s real, eyes heavy with sleep, sharing his exhaustion but so incredibly, irresistibly real that Adam can’t stop staring into them and—

“Are you okay?” the sudden alarm in Michael’s voice snaps Adam back into something resembling reality.

At first, he isn’t sure what Michael’s talking about. A split second later and he feels it; the sudden heat against his cheeks, the faint taste of saltwater against his lips. His hand lifts to trace down his face and it’s wet.

“Well, shit,” Adam chokes out a laugh, “guess we’re both emotional messes.”

“We can’t be blamed for it,” Michael attempts to justify (or, perhaps, it’s a statement more than anything). Then, he sniffs, “Stop crying, or I’m going to cry again, too.”

“Family dinner’s turned into family cry-time. Amazing. Well,” a pause. Adam looks down at Baby, whose eyes are half-open again, “almost family cry-time. She’s not crying.”

“And praise whatever power that exists in the world, now, that she isn’t. Don’t worry, she’ll cry her fill in an hour’s time.”

“She’s got terrible team spirit.” Adam pokes his daughter’s cheek (gently, of course; it’s more a stroke than it is a poke, really), and the skin is soft and warm and solid. “Hear that, Baby? Your poor old dads are here sniffling up a storm over you, and what’re you doing?”

Michael shuffles himself— and the Baby— closer to Adam, and lets his head fall atop the latter’s. “She’s eating dinner” he sniffs, ever the pretentious archangel of old, “don’t be critical. She’s doing so well.”

Adam can’t find it in him to tease Michael at that, can’t find the space to squeeze it through the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” is what he manages to murmur eventually, “she’s doing so, so well.” Then, he tries, “We’re doing so well.”

“We are,” Michael placates him, or affirms, and nuance is lost on Adam as songs of lines, and words, and worlds blur into a cacophony of right now. Into the weight of Michael’s head on his, into the smoothness of their baby’s hair, and into the chasm Michael left inside of him when he was forced into another form, a chasm slowly being filled with love, and terror, but love all the same.

Moments aside, Adam knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Hormones would wear off, life would settle in, and he was scared of the day where he would take this for granted, where this would become ‘normal’ and displace the years, the centuries of agony and the crushing loneliness of being alone in his body, that it took to get here. To get her. He wondered if the novelty would wear off quickly— he hoped it didn’t, hoped he could stay floating in a castle of cribs and sleepless nights forever.

Even if it did, though… Adam closed his eyes, felt the rub of Michael’s hair against his. At least they’d be together. They’d always be together, now, and there was proof of that. 

Archangels don't get married. The idea is ludicrous, and Adam figures it's kind of a 'married to god' thing, just like nuns. He wasn't thinking about that when he introduced himself as Michael's fiance though, he wasn't thinking much really, high on the rush of Michael calling him his boyfriend. He'd only wanted to correspond the declaration, and that's all it'd been. Michael's manager - and wasn't that a title- had left, they'd hung around for the day and then skipped town, lease and shelter be damned.

They'd left for Rhode Island, settling close to the shore. It's all new for both of them, and that goes well with the wonders their days are made of now. The way Michael's eyes linger on him, getting used to his dyed hair and glasses, his own shock at the angels unchanged appearance. It'd been too painful to look at his reflection every day and know he was entirely, hopelessly alone, that the eyes looking at him from the mirror were his alone. He doesn't understand how Michael could bear it, but intuits it was a similar sorrow that drove him to keep his vessel unchanged. All that's forgotten now, though, and he's as elated at Michael's fidelity as the angel is by his evolution. As they are at being apart, together. For days, they are functionally one person, unable or unwilling to break away more than strictly necessary. He falls asleep in Michael's chest at night, Michael holds him as he makes his way to the door for the takeout he ordered, they spend way too much time cuddling; reassuring themselves at their closeness. They kiss.

The first time he kisses Michael it's natural. It just feels right. The angel is spooning him lazily on the sofa as Adam reads him The Two Towers. When he makes it to the passage where Shelob paralises Frodo, he feels Michael hide his face in his shoulder, and the gesture is so honest, so alive he cannot help it when he puts down the book to turn in his arms and press a kiss to his lips. It's chaste, featherlight pressure that grows into something solid for an instant before disappearing. As he pulls back, he gets the impulse to hide his face but the intensity of the archangel's expression stops him. Eyes blown by surprise, cheeks tinted red, lips parted as he rises one limp hand to ghost over them. It just then occurs to him there's no way Michael's kissed anyone before. The notion is exhilarating and frightening in equal parts, and he finds himself gently replacing the angel's hand with his own, tracing his lower lip with his knuckles. 'It's okay.' He says breathy and as nonchalantly as he can manage. 'Frodo and Sam, and everything. It'll be okay.'

He goes to say something else, anything else to take from those implacable eyes that glisten with something he can't understand, but there's hands on his face pulling him close and Michael's kissing him with all the vehemence of inexperience, fingers tense on his cheeks, lips ever so soft on his. He smiles into it, giving him a peck before pulling back just enough to form words. 'Michael, are y-''

The angel's mouth is back on his before he can finish, experimental and skittish and, evidently, alright. Reassured by the contact, Adam lets his lips glide against the angel's, warm and enticing. Slowly, he guides Michael's hands from his face to his waist, which has Michael sighing into the kiss and holding him closer than Adam had expected, but still not close enough and he returns the embrace, tangling their legs as if they could melt into one this way. He pulls away at last, eyes half lidded in contrast to Michael's, which blink wide open at the loss of his touch. They kiss a lot that day, book entirely forgotten. Adam's personal high point is when, emboldened as the angel's hands start to wander, he nips at his lower lip getting a full body shudder and a low whimper he commits to memory as Michael's fingers dig into his hips.

They kiss a lot, all the time. Soft, playful pecks whilst they wait for the water for heat for their tea; forehead kisses as Adam drifts off; longer, tender kisses when he wakes. He loves the way he manages to render Michael speechless within seconds, and Michael doesn't mind at all as long as he gets to kiss Adam. The thought makes the human positively giddy. One evening, when Michael zaps them back home after they manage the Cliff Walk, he even feels brave enough to up the ante. Invigorated from their hike and seeking the archangel's warmth he kisses him hard, pushing him back against the door, getting a satisfied noise that ends in a whine when Adam teases his tongue along the seam of his lips. The sound gives way to an eager gasp, and he's glad for the firm hold Michael has on his hips, because he feels his knees go weak as the archangel's mouth welcomes him, pliant and wishing, and better than he could have dreamed because Michael's usual loss for words doesn't make him any less vocal at the pleasurable assault. The moans leaving his mouth under his tongue's ministrations are downright indecent and Adam never wants to stop kissing him. Fortunately, Michael is in the same page as he leads them into the couch without pulling apart. They kiss until Adam is breathless and his mouth is tender and still, Michael peppers kisses on his face as he carries him to bed.

And through it all, archangels don't get married, so Adam should really stop thinking about it. He cannot stop thinking about it, hasn't been able since he let the comment slip out. Archangels aren't supposed to french either, he reasons, and after everything they've gone through Michael isn't likely to have any real objections. He, however, probably won't understand it. And Adam wants him to understand. Growing up he knew he wanted to get married one day, he didn't want to be like John Winchester. Of course, back then he had a different idea of just about everything, but that's one thing that hasn't changed even if just about everything about it has. Because the person, the angel he'd like to marry is the first archangel no less. But he's learned about kissing and electric kettles and walking places versus flying, so Adam will be damned again if he doesn't at least try it.

So he coaxes Michael into staying home when he goes out today. They snog at the door for entirely too long, and still Adam thinks it was just this side of too easy. Maybe he's been to clingy. Right, clingy to the man who cannot wait for him to wake up every day. It's probably just his nervousness making him secondguess himself, and he shoves all that to the back of his head when he walks into the jewellery shop. He knows what he wants, and he's got the advantage of having the same ringsize as Michael. The thought gets a small laugh out of him, but the jeweller just gives him a knowing look, and what's to say he's not besides himself with joy at the whole affair, rather than finding yet another silverlining on the whole angelic possession to Lucifer's cage speedrun. He walks out a couple of hours later with a flawless round cut in a classic yellow band.

Walking back home, he's still not sure what he will say but that doesn't trouble him. The mere concept of the pair of them not understanding each other is risible. Maybe he'll cook them something. Michael likes very few human meals and, since he's introduced him to them, he knows how to make them. He makes a stop first for a bottle of champagne and then, in an inspired gesture, for a bouquet of asters. He imagined he'd be nervous, but he's brimming with anticipation as he closes the door behind him, calls out, 'Michael?'

'Wait there!'

His voice is tense, but not in a dangerous way, so Adam takes off his shoes and lingers. It's getting dark, and he'd have turned on the lights, but the archangel doesn't need them. Then again, he has a tendency to burn the bulbs out under distress. 'Alright. Is everything okay?'

'Everything's great! Did you have fun?'

'Lots. But I missed you more.'

'Me too!' When he zaps right in front of Adam, the archangel looks pleased, if a bit weary. He wastes no time before he's giving him a short, sensuous kiss and resting his chin on his shoulder. Adam lays his hands on the small of his back, taking in his scent like autumn flowers and lightning and. Burnt fabric. 'Is something burning?'

'It's not!' Michael steps back to take his hand as he walks towards the living room. 'Come on, I put it out already.'

'Are you okay?'

'I am.' He kisses the corner of Adam's mouth, something he does when he doesn't want to get distracted from what he's saying. 'I made grilled cheese sandwiches.'

'And I've got champagne!'

Michael materialises an array of coupes and flutes in the table, already holding a stack of the aforementioned sandwiches and a bowl of tomato soup and, as a delayed explanation for the darkness in the foyer, a considerable amount of candles. Adam sneaks a glance at their router which is still flashing its connection and he's relieved the archangel didn't overload the grid whilst he was gone. Michael is charmed by the flowers, setting them in a vase next to the candles but not within burning range. Probably. The grilled cheese is actually great, but the angel prefers the wine. He's glowing, telling Adam how he did burn a potholder but has restored it to its original state.

After their meal, they have the rest of the bottle in the living room and Adam is looking for a segue into his point when, of course, Michael seems to read his mind. His eyes flicker down before meeting the human's again, fierce and burning with love. 'I've thought about what you said, when you came back to me.'

'Yes.' He sighs, relieved. Then he realises he still doesn't know how he's going to explain any of it. He stalls. 'Fiance is French of course, but betrothed is not really used these days.' Michael raises an eyebrow at that. Adam pushes through it. 'Humans get married when they're in love. Not everyone who's in love gets married, though, it's sort of a case by case thing.'

'I know, marriage was sanctioned by heaven. Some marriages.' He tilts his head with a sceptic smile at that. Adam can't believe himself, how didn't he think of the religious component of the thing? Michael reaches for his hand. 'But I understand, this is not about heaven. Maybe I should say this is about hell. But maybe it's about the heaven you unfurl when you're with me.'

Michael presses a long kiss to the human's knuckles, and then he's taking a knee. The part of Adam's brain that understands what's happening has him transfixed in ecstasy. The part that hasn't caught up is mostly baffled by the archangel kneeling at his feet. He finds his voice has left him for good, but it doesn't matter because Michael continues steadfast. 'I'm not sure I'll ever understand what it's about, but there's nothing that would make me happier than trying to. With you. I love you, Adam, I- I want to marry you, may I?'

Adam's voicebox is still a deadzone but he nods overemphatically, joining the angel on the ground, crashing their mouths together and that's when his voice returns, conveniently, in the way of a stifled sob. He's laughing through the tears that follow when he pulls apart, shaking his head to help clear it. 'You can marry me any time you want, I-' He breaks off, fighting down his overjoyed giggles so he can continue. 'I even got you a ring.'

He fishes it out and slides it on Michael's finger, who lets out a shaky breath when it's in place and examines at it with a confused smile. He gets a glistening silver-white band from his pocket. 'I thought I was meant to give you this at the ceremony?'

'No way!' Or maybe he was? No, that's what the bands are for. But it looks like a band. Unimportant. 'Put it on, Michael, come on!'