[RP] Dark was the night, cold was the ground, I could barely make out the sound...

[uberboned]

All's quiet on Chicago streets. There's snow on the ground, ice clinging to places where the salt trucks can't get to, and at this hour most people are in bed like any sane person should be.

Sane is relative in Chicago, of course.

In front of the Empress Theater, a Rift springs to life and 5'7 worth of Biblical Archangel-slash-Trickster God practically rolls out of it, hits the curb, and then scrambles to his feet just as the damn thing closes again. There's a silver stiletto blade in his hands and there's blood on it, which probably had a lot to with the fact that on the other side of that particular Rift, there's a dead archangel.

Raphael never did fucking know when to quit.

"Your timing is fantastic," Gabriel, because he stopped calling himself the Trickster a long time ago, spits at where the Rift should be. He wobbles a bit. He's not hurt terribly bad for an angel, but for something that passes as human, he sort of looks like he got on the bad end of a really vicious fight.

Probably because he totally did.

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[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"How long did it take you to come to that assumption, Holmes?" He says, around continued dealing with the excess cake on his fingers.

He is probably not as surprised about the unexpected chest cake as he should be, although he was probably expecting it to be more in the general area of his face. This is just kind of hilarious. For him. Less so for her.

He grabs her wrist and sort of half-pulls her down, so that this whole scenario looks a hell of a lot more awkward than it has any right to. "Where do I start with all the lewd, unnecessary- HI COOPER!"

This time he totally didn't time it that way, which makes it all the more awesome. Needless to say, Hawkes is standing in the doorway, looking like a teenager who has just walked in on his parents having sex.

...And he's gonna be slamming the door and going somewhere else now. Possibly to GET THIS IMAGE OUT OF HIS BRAIN.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

There's one frozen, horrified moment, and then the door slams. Murphy stares at it. And then makes a sound that is something like pfffft and cracks up laughing. She half-collapses against him, shaking with laughter until it leaves her gasping.

"Oh, Hawkes." She draws in a long, slow breath, smudging at her eyes with the hand that's mostly clean. "That poor kid. Oh God."

She fixes Gabriel with an accusing look. "Tell me you didn't know he was there."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Gabriel's been cackling since he saw the shades of red Hawkes's face was turning and just cackles more when Murphy collapses on him. The fact that his injuries aren't bothering him anymore and are permitting this without too much agony means he's already started to heal.

"Not that time," he cackles. "I swear. That kid just has horrible timing." And now he's laughing again and not really paying attention to the fact that they're both covered in cake, one of them is half-naked, and the other is practically on top of him. Because, you know, paying attention to that sort of thing would have to make people wonder what the hell this looks like.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Laughter peters out into the realization that she's spreadeagled over a half-dressed, wounded man.

Angel. Half-dressed, wounded angel.

For a breath Murphy's tempted to do something very, very stupid. A paralytic tingle of nerves washes through her. She's human. She's lonely and tired and only human, and having someone this close punches a little ache into her gut.

He's cute. Kind, in some warped way she doesn't really want to think about, and best of all, fleeting. Inconstant. Not the kind of person to expect things from her, considerations or compromises. The cold, honest corner of her mind hisses And then what? How would she judge herself if it went that far? Would he even let it? How would he judge her?

Murphy draws back, putting on a smile and patting the mashed cake flat against Gabriel's chest. "I'm going to get a washcloth."

She shifts, trying to extricate herself without touching him. She doesn't want to make his wounds worse.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

There's a moment where he's just as tempted and he has a hell of a lot less restraint- the endless dance of sin and vice he's committed over the years can attest to that. However, that's a dick move, even for him. He's upset, he's trapped, and he's hurt in more ways than one, and flirting shamelessly, making innuendo-filled jokes is one thing, but actually turning that into something else is something else and it's just not worth it.

And then he thinks, Okay, so I almost died tonight.

Which doesn't make it seem any less like using someone, but does make him appreciate that he's not nearly as indestructible as he'd like to believe he is. Maybe here he's untouchable, but he'll wind up back there eventually, picking up right where he left off. The next brother he fights, he might not win against.

The next one he fights, he might not want to.

And he sure as hell doesn't want to go into that good night, thinking he could have done something here, because knowing her a week or not, there's a weird, ridiculous understanding here that he doesn't get with other people. And she's attractive and... Well, friendships have been destroyed on things a lot less worthy than temptation. And hell, maybe if he doesn't have a reason to get tossed back here, he won't, and he can go back to his bloody fucking Apocalypse without having to worry about the sudden dissonance. And it's not like friendship has ever meant that much to him anyway.

He shifts, groaning a bit, and then grabs her arm and pulls her right back down on top of him into a kiss, which is more than a little awkward, considering she's somewhat covered in cake, but he's kissed a hell of a lot worse.

He'd say he'd regret it, but he doesn't really regret. Creature of impulse and vice, here. He'll just suffer long the consequences and pretend like he doesn't care. He's damn good at that.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy's breath hitches in surprise as she loses her balance and falls on him, the first half-second of thought being that she's going to hurt him and then everything else getting torn away and leaving her entirely focused on that kiss, on every point of contact, on the fact that he tastes like cake and cinnamon. She breaks off, studying his face with startled eyes.

"Well," she whispers. "I guess being older than recorded time is good for something."

She could resist. She still has that in her.

But he could have died while she was here, stuck chasing a mockery of the heavenly host that Gabriel is stuck fighting. She fishes his shirt from the side of the chair, bracing her other hand against the back of it to keep herself from putting too much pressure on him. She swipes the cake off the side of her face, slowly, and tosses the shirt aside. And then leans in again, pressing a hand gently against the back of his neck and kissing the corner of his mouth before meeting his lips and tongue properly with her own.

She's straddling him now, thinking vaguely of locking the door while she runs her fingers over the back of his neck. If cake-smearing horrified Hawkes, she can't begin to think what seeing this would do.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"I get around," he smirks and he sounds way more smug than he has any right to, but how that's any different from how he normally sounds, the narration has no idea.

He shifts again, trying to get his arms freed up. He slips one hand in Murphy's hair and kisses back. It's hardly the passionate, sweet kissing of a lover, because Dad forbid he turn into that kind of guy. It's rough and desperate, greedy and full of that sketchy in-between space between need and want.

His free hand, he lifts enough to snap, dimming the lights and locking the door in one go and Murphy can consider herself lucky there's no disco ball or Barry White music to go with it. He considered it, but... Meh, that's a bit too over the top for 'Oh hey, I'm alive' sex... Or whatever this turns out to be.

That done, he lowers the hand back down to the small of Murphy's back, surreptitiously working his way up underneath her shirt. He's considering the benefits of moving somewhere not the chair, because this is going to get so awkward so fast, especially with his injuries, but right now... He doesn't really care. The wounds are healing and this feels awesome as is.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

If there was a disco ball, she would probably break it over his head. Barry White she might forgive, if only because hot damn is he a good kisser.

I'm getting spoiled, Murphy thinks, shivering at the feel of Gabriel's hand on her skin. Between him and Kincaid, I'm not going to want anyone who hasn't had at least a few hundred years' practice.

Desperate is all she needs right now. She's in that space with him, the quiet knowledge that they might never talk about this later--probably will never talk about this later--barring her from making the emotional connections this kind of contact might otherwise create. Mutual loneliness, mutual want. A moment or a few to just forget and be physical in a way that feels good, just good.

Murphy slides her hand down against his hip, wriggling her fingers into his pants and enjoying the feel of hidden skin. She'll get to his belt in a minute. Right now this is good enough.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

And somewhere meta-ly, Gabriel's only response is damn straight. He's had a lot of experience with this sort of thing- part of the big ol' plot to piss off Daddy and get him to pay attention sort of deal that just wound up being loads of fun. Human women- they've been the ruin of many a poor angel and Dad knows (or doesn't, because that's the point), he's one. Although, to be fair, he was sort of ruined before the debauchery caught up with him.

He makes a sound that's half moan and half chuckle against her mouth at the contact and moves his hands further up her shirt, smirking victoriously through the kissing when a certain little something unhooks without much difficulty, whether that's just luck or he's abusing his powers again isn't really clear. Either way, his hand has stopped working its way around her back and has moved forwards a bit.

A Knight of the Cross and an Archangel screwing around like a couple of teenagers in the backseat of a car. If Dad even cares anymore, they are both so doomed to the special hell forever. Might actually be worth it though.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

She's sliding his belt buckle open when someone starts pounding on her door. Murphy closes her eyes, allowing herself three whole seconds of hating the universe before she calls out, "What?"

"I don't know!" There's panic in the voice on the other side. She doesn't recognize the speaker's voice, but there are a lot of people in the theatre.

Her eyebrows knit together. "What do you--"

"I don't know! I don't know! There's a rift--"

Murphy swears fluently enough to make a guardian of that special hell blush and rolls off of Gabriel, snatching her sword from the corner by the door and throwing back the lock. She stops, looking back. "You're not healed yet," she says. She's not going to tell him to stay put, though, because fuck if he'll listen to her.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Gabriel's itching to just send that person to Fresno and pretend nothing is happening, but the minute he hears rift and gets a really good earful of the panicked tone, he knows he's doomed to the not getting laid special Hell, which is a lot less nicer than the other one. He grits his teeth, groans audibly and hits the armrest of the chair as Murphy rolls off of him.

"There are not enough cold showers in the world," he mutters as Murphy departs. He waits until she's actually left before he counts to ten and reappears right in her path in the hallway, now fully dressed and devoid of cake, but no less disgruntled.

"Let me get this straight. I'm well enough to have sex with you, but I'm not well enough to kick the ass of whatever is preventin' me from havin' sex with you? Get your priorities in line, Murph, 'cause I see a hundred things wrong with this picture and me not gettin' laid is somewhere near the bottom." Pause. "Okay, near the middle." Another pause. "Top ten, maybe. ...Were we gonna kick ass and take names or what?"

He's moving out of your way now, Murphy, but don't you dare think for a second that he's staying behind.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

She's not going to lie--having him at her side makes her feel a whole lot better about whatever's waiting for them. That doesn't mean she's just going to consent, but isn't that just the way they do things?

"You got put through six walls and four stained glass windows already or something," she says, jogging after the terrified messenger. "There's probably a quota or a union rule about that."

Her expression goes hard when she hears screaming and she breaks into a run, then stops, holding her hand out to Gabriel. "Get us there fast."

She's having better luck ignoring frustrated desire--her people are in danger. The fear of what might be happening to them is clear on her face.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, there's also a rule about not screwin' humans, but I'm pretty damn okay with that," he says sarcastically, stepping heavily to keep up with her. Not that he has to work very hard at it- he is the taller one after all. He's just dragging ass, because he's tired and undersexed.

He slaps his hand into hers. "Thought you'd never ask, genius," he smirks, vanishing without the needless drama and dropping them just short of where all this is going down, so that they're not right on top of the danger but close enough that getting there won't be a problem. Sooner this is over, the sooner they can have 'hey, thank God we didn't get killed by that monster' sex. It's like the other kind, but with a lot more mutual hot, dirty, sweaty adrenaline and a lot less cake. Sweaty, dirty sex and cake don't really go all that well together.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

The rift is spinning in the stage like a multicolored pond. That holds her focus for a fraction of a second before the creature shredding the curtains draws her attention.

And then, Murphy is terrified.

It's like an armadillo, if an armadillo's plating was less plating than spikes and its arms and legs so much longer than they should reasonably be. It's wriggling clawed fingers in the belly of an impaled woman and chuckling.

"Oh Jesus Christ," she whispers, and then she's running down the aisle where they appeared and toward the stage, flat out, eyes blazing. "Out of the way! All of you get back now!"

Her bellow barely sounds like her at all.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Well, that's an ugly son of a bitch. And Gabriel wishes doom upon it for interfering with his getting laid... And it killed that woman, which wasn't exactly nice either, but less annoying than him not getting laid.

....And why is Murphy running at that thing like she's a- Oh son of a bitch.

"Save me from suicidal women," he hisses towards the ceiling, rolling his eyes, before running after her. Right. So he's not really sure how one goes about fighting one of those things and save for banishing it into the lake or something, which he doubts he could do right now, he has no bright ideas... Which means he's mostly going to follow Murphy's lead and make sure she doesn't die.

Because that is so not how he needed to end this hell of a day. "I hope you have a plan," he says, suddenly at her shoulder. "'Cause your improvisation blows."

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"None," she whispers, and launches herself onto the stage, rolling to her feet. She can't breathe. She can't breathe.

The creature looks down, head tilting while its skin ripples and shifts. The dead woman falls from reptilian claws. "Hello, little one."

Its voice is hideous, bubbly and amorphous as the thing itself. "What is this place?"

Murphy draws her sword, her fingers shaking on the hilt. The light itself trembles, flaring unevenly over the blade. "No place you should be."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Gabriel stops short when she says none and mimes strangling something in the air with his hands for a few seconds, making a few incoherent annoyed sounds and follows her up to the stage. Murphy's freaked, that thing is hideous, annnd he's operating at even less power than he normally operates on. Terrific. Everyone wins.

"Hi. We're your new neighbors," he says, cheerfully, coming up behind Murphy, because if Murphy's gonna be the scary badass cop, he's just gonna be the snarky dick. "The little woman and I are just here to welcome you to the neighborhood." He slams a foot down on a large shop broom that's lying across the stage and catches it by the handle. At that, his voice goes just a bit darker, "And, you know, tell you to get the fuck off our lawn."

He'd be a lot more threatening archangel with a better weapon than a broom, but there's something about the look in his eyes that makes even that threatening. Never mind that there's a twinge of pain in his eyes from wounds that haven't quite finished healing yet. He's all epic.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"You're far from home yourself. Will you beat me like a woman squealing at a rat?" It chuckles again.

Murphy takes a step forward. "Get off of my curtains," she says. "We picked those out special."

The light from her sword solidifies. The stage is clear. It's just her, Gabriel, and the skinwalker. Murphy can only pray that Vansen and Hawkes are either safe or not planning something stupid. The skinwalker drops onto the stage, splintering the boards and sending a little wave of impact over the stage. It sounds amused.

"Come then, little hammer."

And then it launches itself forward, arms spreading into wings and speed increasing the closer it gets. Murphy drops, thrusting the sword upwards as it skims overhead and banks into the catwalks of the theatre.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"...Hey."

Gabriel looks genuinely insulted that he just got glanced over by the Monster of the Week, although he doesn't have time to start up on the rant building in his throat, because he has to duck. There's a shimmer, a distortion of bluish light around the broom and he's holding a sword not completely unlike Murphy's. A little too maudlin and medieval for his tastes, and he can think of some better alternatives, but when in Rome, be badass like the Romans.

"Is that all you got?" He taunts at the catwalk, wandering back over to Murphy to make sure she hasn't gotten injured in all that flailing about. "Get your spiny ass down here and take it like a freakish... Whatever the hell you are." Skinwalkers are different where he comes from.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy rolls to her feet once again, barely feeling the bruises and the ache in her leg. She glares up into the rafters, searching for the skinwalker in the shadows.

"It's playing," she says.

Laughter echoes through the theatre. "Little hammer, I thought you'd run away from me."

It plunges straight down, blasting through the boards of the stage to Murphy's left. She teeters, seizing Gabriel's sleeve to keep from dropping through the hole. There's a breath of silence, and it shoots upward again, sending chunks of wood flying--and seizing Murphy around the waist as it bolts upward again.

"I can smell her on you," it says, its voice carrying the same way its laugh did.

Murphy pushes against the talons crushing her waist, twists uselessly against the grip it has on her arms. She won't scream. Son of a bitch, she is not going to scream.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"...Which one of us is he even talking to?" Gabriel mutters, leaning over a bit like he's surreptitiously trying to pass something along to Murphy, one hand in front of his mouth and everything. "I like these putzes better when they don't talk."

AND THAT IS A MONSTER AND THAT IS A HOLE AND GREAT CALL THERE, MURPHY. Gabriel spins and staggers backwards when it drives forwards. Motherfuck. He grabs Murphy's shoulders and glowers down at it, amber-brown eyes searing with white-hot frustration.

"Yeah, hope you got a good whiff, ugly," he snarls, raising a hand and then snapping. He manages to get them as far as the wing directly behind the thing before he collapses against the wall, suddenly feeling the fact that he just came off one battle he didn't do so hot in.

"You okay?" He asks, panting a little. He's about to do something stupid, but it's okay, because he's immortal and he'll live, but first he... Should make sure Murphy's spleen isn't ruptured or anything.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Her shirt is shredded, her abdomen scored with long gashes. Her arms are in the same shape.

Also, she looks ready to tear the skinwalker's spine out through its nasal cavity. She is not, will not, be used as a threat or a taunt. "Me. It was talking to me. I was fighting that thing the first time I came through. A rift opened up right next to me. I thought it was a portal to the Nevernever, but--"

She grips the katana, and the light dims. Not through any loss of will on her part--quite the contrary, in fact. "What about you?"

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Oh, I'm peachy, precious," Gabriel says, shaking his head and doing a bang-up job of not looking as exhausted as he is. "'Bout ready to go for another round. Give me a tic."

He whistles, stepping casually between Murphy and the skinwalker's line of sight. "Hey, Mr. Wiiiiiilson," he sing-songs at the thing. "Here's a thought. Why don't you pick on something in your own weight class, you spiny, son of a bitch. Huh?"

Yeah, he'll cock that eyebrow at anything. It's a talent.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"What are you doing."

Murphy doesn't like this. She feels like she's two steps behind Gabriel and about to be slapped in the face with a really stupid plan.

"Gabriel." There's a slight edge of desperation in her voice. "You can't take this thing alone, not right now." The last is a low, hissed whisper.

The skinwalker mantles, feathers going thready and thick as it takes on the twisted dimensions of a bear. "You are a servant," it says. Its boneclatter voice is still amused, now with a touch of scorn. "An entertainment."

It bulls forward with more speed than a bear could possibly manage. Murphy's not going to dodge. Not until she knows Gabriel is getting the fuck out of the way.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"No clue!" Gabriel beams over his shoulder. And it's not nearly as awesome as she makes it out to be, by the way, but whatever. "And you already filled your stupidity quotient, so you've lost all right to tellin' me what to do, okay? So suck it up."

He turns back to the skinwalker when it speaks, slowly, only to have a smirk start playing on his lips. It's not a pleasant expression. "Here we are now," he says, completely serious.

For one sickening moment, it looks like he's playing chicken with the thing, unmoving, expression steadily growing into an even wickeder smile, and then at the last possible moment, he grabs Murphy around the waist and snaps.

And suddenly they're up on the catwalk and tiny's about to become best buddies with the wall, now that it's way too late for it to alter its course.

"Entertain us," he calls down over the edge of the catwalk with a victorious whoop.

....Yeah, Murphy. You have a type.