life's not free.

MILO › " you ... live here? " he's always been so good at following directions, that completely disregarding charlie's command to stay put, don't touch anything, outside, feels ... gross, honestly. but he feels safer when he can still see him. not that he doesn't trust charlie, more that he doesn't trust himself. FREEZING, FAWNING. those are his responses. he's never been someone who's able to stand up for himself ... not in any substantial way, anyway.

it's a concerted effort to not watch charlie changing, to not let his eyes linger on the lean frame, on the scars scattered across his skin. on the muscles that flex when he pulls a clean t-shirt over his head. (he does, however, catch the sweatshirts hung up in the little closet, and the stupid lizard part of his brain wants to take one, and wrap himself in it, like it's a safety blanket. he settles for letting his hand — the one that doesn't have a thumbnail caught between teeth — fall upon the sweatshirt left draped over the kitchen nook's seating.) whatever.

" is this a kidnapping? am i being kidnapped? "

charlie can’t find it in himself to be annoyed that milo  —  call me miles,  please  —  followed him into the airstream,  though the question makes him frown as he tugs his dirty shirt off.     ' no,  i don’t live here.   i have an apartment. '     had an apartment,  more accurately.   whatever.   this isn’t the time to get caught up on semantics.     ' i do,  uh.   take this thing on the road sometimes. '     when forced to.   which he likely will be again,  after everything is said and done with this case.   goddamnit.   he sighs,  glancing at himself in the mirror affixed to the closet door.   he’ll probably have to get a haircut too,  just to be safe.   after he spent so long growing out the buzzcut.   charlie pulls a clean t - shirt off the closest hanger,  putting it on quickly.

at some point, everything's gonna go south on you. everything's gonna go south and you're gonna say, this is it ... this is how i end! now you can either accept that, or you can get to work. that's all it is. you just begin. you do the math. you solve one problem ... then you solve the next one. and then the next. and if you solve enough problems, you get to come home.

( B ) — something he's been able to do on earth, that he wasn't quite able to do back home, is stare. the irony of that revelation is not lost on bartleby, not at all. sure, as a grigori — as an employed grigori, he might correct — he watched everything. he was able to hide behind scrolls and tablets, and let loki do his thing.

now, though, he can watch everything with wide eyes, and soak every little detail in. he doesn't have to look for the sin — though it still finds him easily enough — he doesn't have to wrestle with the guilt of knowing someone was doing something bad, and that he'd be the one effectively sentencing them to death for it. he could sit back on his bench, chew his gum, and watch people. embrace each other, argue with each other, give tearful goodbyes or hellos. watch the anguish of missing a train, or the relief of stepping off one. at cafes, he could sit with a book, and a coffee, and watch the people furious at smokers, or the simple joy of a hot coffee in the winter. watch first dates blossom into true love, or college students as they fail their midterms.

before laying down his sword,  and the subsequent exile from heaven,  loki wouldn’t’ve described himself as one content to sit idly.   he still wouldn’t.   not like bartleby,  who likes to sit and people watch for hours on end,  rain or shine.   no,  loki has a tendency to wander off.   walk around until he finds someone to bother.   some soul that has no idea the ex - angel of death is about to engage them in theological debate.   it’s fun,  and no amount of eye rolling from bartleby will change that.   but sometimes,  it’s nice to just  …  exist alongside bartleby.   claim a table at the coffee shop a few blocks from their apartment,  by the window,  respective drinks set on coasters.   split a pastry,  even though that’s more for show than anything else.   play pretend at being normal people,  not angels cast out of home for eternity.   do these little outings of theirs look like dates to passersby?   loki pushes that thought away as quickly as it comes.

another thing bartleby likes to do,  that loki tries not to read into too much :  stare at him.   he always has,  since the first time they met.   of course,  that was part of his job,  then.   WATCH AFTER LOKI.   like he needed a fucking babysitter or some shit.   it would’ve been offensive if he and bartleby weren’t so well suited for each other.   (  if loki didn’t know better,  he would say God created them to be together.   a perfect pair.   as is,  he’s just glad She didn’t separate them when they were banished to wisconsin.  )   and if loki weren’t in love with him.   so in love he gave God the finger while quitting his job,  uncaring what would happen after,  because he knew bartleby was with him.   that was enough for loki.   it still is.   when he catches bartleby looking at him,  though,  with those hazel eyes  …  he can’t help the momentary longing for more.   the brief wish that passersby had the right idea.

so much for pushing that thought away,  huh?

( WH ) — " y'know. they're startin' to get real mad at me. " will's leaning on the counter of the nurses' station with one arm, hand in his pocket playing with the pack of cigarettes he's itching for. a nod in the direction of the glorious whiteboard. " i haven't lost one yet. think i'm a psychic? "