dumbshow | CALL ME OUT heuhuehe

[Haha, oh wow.

Metatron watches that little scene unfold. Of course, he kept up the most innocent of faces during the accusation. Michael, stop overreacting! it seems to say.

The second Michael whips around to point Metatron makes his move. Taste the delicious bonbon that has been forced into your stupid mouth. Who said chocolate wasn't innately useful again?]

[Michael had more to say after his little episode there - some finer points about how Metatron is not even a real angel so why doesn't he just get out of here, and so on - and so the next word he was going to say

(for the record it was "furthermore")

is cut short:] Fffmph!!

[There's a split second in which he doesn't. Quite. Understand what just happened here. His hand is still raised, pointing at Metatron, but now there's a hand in his face and it's all gone horrible awry. It's a short split second, of course, because then he's furious. His pointing hand grabs Metatron's offending wrist and yanks it away from his face a lot harder than necessary. If Metatron isn't wearing a chunky sweater today, Michael's vice grip on his arm might actually be uncomfortable.

He spits the bonbon out, to the side. Someone else will clean that up, too. (Sandalphon??)]

...

[He sticks out his other hand.]

Give me those. Now.

[That was more entertaining then it should have been. Even with his wrist in a vice grip, Metatron is grinning from ear to ear. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, causing the entire expression to look just wrong as he stares down at Michael. It only lasts a second before he is back to that insufferable childish face.

He holds the tin close to his body with his free hand, twisting his body in to protect the precious resource.]

No way, you already refused them!

[He is actually pouting here. It is very fake and put on. It should also be noted that he has not once tried to wrestle his captured hand free.]

[Michael knows there is something wrong with Metatron. He has known this for quite a while, and because he doesn't trust him, he still notices every minute problem in Metatron's face, body language, stupid insistence on leaving pillows in his room no matter how many times he's told--

So he sees that and he ignores it, and when Metatron twists away from him he pulls on the wrist still clamped in his hand, fast and hard, twisting the opposite direction. It's mostly to cause pain, but also to give him room to get up in Metatron's face.

He has to look up a little. How dare this human. (Invasive touching is only okay when Michael does it, also.) Regardless, that doesn't stop something dangerous and brittle-bright sparking behind his eyes.]

You listen to me, you worm. When I tell you to do something you do not say no way. [bennnding that arm again] Give them to me.

[It's nice to know Michael cares. Although it's not like Metatron notices as he has long stopped caring about those minuet details. He just focuses on the opposite. The slow decline of Michael, the fading power as he refuses to sleep. In the back of his mind he notes that this would probably have hurt a lot more a hundred years ago.

Metatron twists again as his arm is bent back. There is still that faint smile on his face, teetering on the brink of a grimace. Always so violent.]

Of course, sir. [A small chuckle.] Please enjoy them.

[He holds them out again, as politely as when he first offered them.]

[To his credit, Michael's declining strength is still leagues above a majority of their colleagues' abilities. But he isn't thinking about that; being around Metatron, or rather, being alone with Metatron distracts him. Like the persistent prickling at the back of his mind - a burgeoning tiredness, as it happens--but one he can ignore, as long as this man isn't in his presence.

Michael wants Metatron out of his hair, but he is resolute in thinking that leaving him unsupervised (or worse, going to sleep) would do no one any favors least of all himself, and so--so. He tries very hard, to keep him under his thumb without acknowledging that he has to.]

Quiet. [The chocolates are confiscated by his free hand (of course he's not letting go) and then -- he still doesn't want them, so now what...

Well, suddenly the tin of chocolates clatters to the floor, right in the perfect spot for Michael to put his foot on it. Just put it there. He has not decided if it's worth crushing a tin of chocolate, yet...]

You shouldn't even bring these things here.

[and throw out your catalogs you bargain bitch]

[All the yawning during meetings must be paying off. He'll get Michael in bed one of these days. Hopefully not his because Michael would probably throw a fit at the state of his room.

Metatron glances down as the tin hits the floor. He's been around long enough to know what's going to happen but, honestly, stepping on chocolates. A silent prayer for their imminent death. Still twisted in that uncomfortable position, Metatron brings a finger up to his mouth in a miming of serious thinking. Should he really give up his catalogs? Haha, no.]

What can you do? Being human's my claim to fame.

[Plus it pisses you off.]

[Maybe if Sandalphon tucks him in, he is the better twin--]

I said quiet! [Seriously, don't just talk about being human while he's still touching you. Rude.

He scowls though, considering Metatron's awful face. Maybe he should switch it up and grind his face into the tin of chocolates, see how much he likes them then.

But it seems that during his most recent outburst, he inadvertently dug his heel into the tin and dented the lid pretty badly... oops.]

As long as you last here, you have duties you cannot shirk to play collector. Stop wasting time with this trash.

[You held his hand when he was full human, don't even front. He will blabber on about it for ages if he wants. You don't own him!

Ah! The poor things. It's good he already has another back in his hoarders room. Such accusations though. Metatron waves his free hand vaguely.]

I don't collect them, per se- [he eats most of them after all] It's more like a hobby! Even you have one of those, right?

[Like stalking Uriel. And obsessing over Lucifer. Good hobbies, he approves.]

All work and no play isn't healthy after all. I must say I'm a happy worker! Everyone needs a little rest.

[HINT HINT. Just kick him in the face already, Michael.]

[That was one time and you were way cuter back then!

Guess what that subtle hint makes him do? Spoilers it's not swoon unconscious into Metatron's arms, it's glower again. Seriously...]

You have to do work before you can call yourself a worker. [Honestly, he doesn't give a shit if Metatron's ambiguously defined work gets done, it's just the principal(ity) of the matter. But he dismisses that thought with a tighter squeeze on his captive wrist and a haughty laugh.

michael had an emotion!!]

There really is no saving a human from being a simpleton, is there. You think I should have a hobby? One you approve of?

[He does stuff, he does lots of stuff... right now his hobby is asking questions he probably will regret, leaning just a little bit closer as he does so:]

Well? Are you going to keep me waiting?

[Michael-senpai you're so mean! Seriously though, standing like this is starting to really hurt...

Which is why in a brilliant flash of inspiration he leaps at that question. He knows Michael isn't serious but that matters not. No, instead his face brightens considerably.]

Any suggestion? Oh, I've got quite a few.

[He doesn't hesitate waiting for an actual answer. No, he just stands up straight all of a sudden and places a hand on the small of Michael's back. And sweeps him into a waltz. Metatron holds the captive hand up where the tender hand holding pair should be. Mmmyep.]

Something like dancing would kill the time and increase your interpersonal relations I think! Two birds with one stone!

[Please don't rip him into shreds.]

[Increase his inter-what?? Michael makes another indignant noise like he first did when his sulking was interrupted, but this one is also - stunned, really. He looks in every direction besides Metatron's face very rapidly, like he's wondering when a giant pillow is going to assault him next, and oops he just kicked the tin across the floor, bye tin--]

You-- What do you think you're doing? Don't touch me!

[The only reason his free hand has found its way to Metatron's shoulder is to hit it, several times. Excuse you little boy, hands off the goods??]

[This dance train isn't stopping. Metatron is just leading Michael around the hallway. He doesn't even know the right way to dance the waltz... At least he hasn't stepped on any feet.]

I'm dancing with you. [Obviously.] You asked.

[Casually twisting your words is fun. He smiles again as he looks down right at Michael's face. Come on, look at him.]

Edited 2014-01-06 07:38 (UTC)

[At least hum a few bars, this is stupid. Michael doesn't know how to waltz, either, but he's fairly sure this is not how. To waltz. At all.

Being a sassy brat does get him to meet his eyes, though it's with more irritation than tender appreciation of this concern for his... hobbyist well-being.]

That's-- [In another era and another place, he must have seen something worthwhile in keeping a human around who so enthusiastically tries to challenge him at every turn -- and he must have been very dumb back then, because this is absurd.

But the thought (subconsciously) (very subconsciously) does delay Metatron's inevitable demise, at least for a bit longer.]

Spinning around clumsily is not dancing.

[Implying that he even knows any good waltz music... Ask him to recite the best wine for 1573 and he could but who knows about anything else.

The fact that he isn't being burnt where he stands is surprising to say the least. Maybe Michael really likes dancing! A surprise discovery.]

You caught me, I've never taken classes.

[A loud laugh but he sure isn't stopping.]

Maybe we could go together.

[Michael hates dancing, but he hates scraping burnt humans off the floor even more. The wine would have been a better choice, although he still wouldn't have had any.

He's finally stopped pushing Metatron's shoulder, only to switch to drumming his fingers on whatever cosplay coat he's wearing today. Impatiently. At that... suggestion... he lets go of the other wrist and drags his hand over his face, clearly exasperated. If there were anyone who could get Michael to do this (besides Raphael but he's Raphael), it's the token human.

He gives Metatron a look between his fingers, then waves dismissively. Man, he does not even care that he messed up the waltz.]

You know the answer to that.

[And he's free! Metatron stops his little fake dance, rubbing at his pained wrist. Do angels bruise? Oh well, it still hurts and he doesn't care to hide that fact.

The fact that Michael isn't even getting angry anymore is annoying. He must have pushed it too far for today.]

It was worth a shot.

[Metatron lazily moves his wrist in a circle and half shrugs.]

I did successfully distract you for a while there though.

[Well, he's not exactly pleased with how this little secret meeting has turned out - does that make you feel better, creep?

He takes a step back and smooths out his weird curtain outfit. Don't look now but there's even a subtle hairflip when he looks up again.]

I already knew about your incredible talent for wasting time. [he mentioned it like 30 times today, even

also that was probably criticism for not giving him a good hobby, not that he would have listened... and now he's just idly watching Metatron flip his wrist around, yeeeaah causing damage mmm]

[Maybe a little. Slowly he will wear you out one way or another.

A talent is a talent, Michael. Thanks for the compliment. But now that he has finished his very necessary check up on his poor wrist he needs to go back to bothering the Michael. It's good that you've fixed yourself up because Metatron is just going to gracelessly drape his arms around Michael's neck. Hugs... If he can get away with it he will plop his chin right on top of his head.]

There's a whole lot to waste. [being immortal suxs, txt it] A naps the best way though.

[Sleep next to him, Michael~~~

Ah. Metatron is tenderly touching those wings too as he drapes. Hello.]

[Lewd.

It's like, over and over Michael thinks he has the upper hand, and then the upper hand is snatched cruelly away from him. Who actually allowed Metatron to be so tall? This is probably blasphemy--

He has a snappy answer, if by snappy we mean "just saying no really emphatically again," but he tosses that to the winds when hands invade his pristine wings. What he says instead is,]

Off!

[And then, since he has a faceful of Metatron and nowhere to move his hands unless he wants to burn the whole hallway down, he whacks him--with a wing. They're handy for more than flying, who knew! Please enjoy the token sparkling rain of feathers that accompanies literally anything Michael does with his wings.]

[All he is doing is touching. Stop being so over reactive, he isn't usurping you (yet). Truly he is a saint.

Oof. That sure is a wing hitting him out of fucking nowhere. Metatron was not expecting that so it knocks him off balance and right on his ass. Look, now Michael is finally taller! He won't be getting up right away so savor it.

Metatron catches one of the many fluttering feathers and spins it between two fingers. A little amused laugh.]

It's like it's snowing.

Edited 2014-01-07 03:45 (UTC)

[Jeanne is a saint, Metatron is just annoying. Michael is savoring this moment, though.

Savoring in a sick way, of course; while he stands there and looks down at Metatron there is nothing about his expression that doesn't scream "now you're in your rightful place," because -- he's nuts. And so on. He takes a step forward, planting one foot by Metatron's knee and bracing the other one against his abdomen. All his weight is pressing on that foot, more so when he bends forward to stare into Metatron's face again and reach behind him, shoving his hand roughly into the feathers at the base of one wing.

For a moment, he doesn't do anything - he doesn't even move, save for a slowly intensifying squeeze on that wing base. It's hard to read his face now; part of him would do this thing he's halfway threatening, part of him wouldn't. The catch is that both sides are fueled by the same disaster area that is his feelings for Metatron, not that he'll admit it, not that he'll even hint that there's something he isn't admitting (he may be a little less successful about this last point). He's angry, of course, but it's undercut with something less clear, less simple. The rules of the world are absolute and easy, but this - this. His opinion of Metatron is tangled in so many things he can barely think about it without getting angry about thinking about it.

He remembers: a human man, a grasping hand, a vow. An earnest and genuine man (for a human) who now, with his borrowed wings and ridiculous suggestions, still possesses some... part of Michael. Somewhere. It disgusts him, but he will do nothing about it. He tells himself, only Lucifer concerns him, and he tries to believe it.

If angels had bad habits (Michael obviously has none, presently), then Metatron would be his. There is another second where he searches Metatron's face for something, anything at all besides giggling and whimsy - then he scoffs, pulling out a handful of little feathers and kicking him squarely in the chest.]

[Looks like Metatron is the new rug for the hallway. He expects kicks and grinding heels, it wouldn't be the first time, but what Michael does surprises even him.

It would be alright if Michael did it, after all. No one would question it.

Metatron stares, probing his actions as closely in return. The smile stays but he's definitely questioning. It's clear on his face he is wondering if Michael will go through with it, almost daring him to do it. Rip them, throw them to the ground, smite him. It would be interesting. To see if Michael would really punish him, maybe even rip out both and cast him down. He could move on then.

But he knows it would never happen. Even as the grip tightens he can see the slight wavering within him. They've been going back and forth like this for millennial, he couldn't hope for change now. As his feathers are torn he winces and falls back with the kick. Metatron sighs as he stares up at the ceiling. He had gotten his hopes up.]

You shouldn't threaten such things so readily.

[A light chiding. He never stopped smiling.]

[It is a strange stalemate, this - Michael unable to exact his justice because it's exactly what Metatron wants. He makes another derisive noise, shaking his hand free of feathers over Metatron's body like a handful of dirt. Metatron can chide and suggest all he wants, but Michael is stalwart and sure,]

I am the bringer of justice. [Casually, like a reminder: things Metatron cannot have.] Not you. You exist only by my blessing.

[Which, apparently, is what he's calling it these days. It helps little that he nearly hisses it, cinching the last syllable with a stomp on Metatron's wing. He clasps his hands behind his back and stands straight as he looks down (the ruler surveying his kingdom), and it's unclear whether he's talking to Metatron or himself anymore. He lifts his other foot, preparation for another kick - but then all he does is toe the upper part of the wing he's trampling over, tracing the edge to the first joint. He tilts his head, idly thoughtful.]

These wings... I'll do whatever I want with them. It was never your choice.

Edited 2014-01-07 05:05 (UTC)

[Michael...

Metatron turns his head to look at Michael's foot ~~fetish~~. It can't be said that he likes being trampled on this way. More like a weird little bonus when you obsess over crazy angels. He knows he really shouldn't push Michael any more than he has but being looked down even more obviously than before is a tad grating.

He grabs Michael's ankle, the foot still on his chest. It's a light hold, his thumb running along the joint at the heel, but the threat is clear: he might just try to yank you off.]

I don't know what you've been waiting for then, o Michael on high.

[He's honestly done more than enough for it and they both know it.]

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