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In which Loki quotes Good Omens.
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Happy Hour
You're on the roof of a shopping mall. This has happened before.
You're on the roof of a shopping mall or Walmart or middle-class apartment. Usually you're there when the sun goes down or happy hour begins. Whichever's first.
The sun is setting, stretching shadows against the sky.
Bartleby looks at the bottle in your hand and says, "I don't know know why you even bother with that."
"You've got it backwards," you say. "Why do you even bother waiting for something that's never going to happen?"
"Because we're talking about home. Home, Loki. Not yesterday's newspaper or a bag of Doritos. Home."
You're sitting on the edge of the roof, staring at the parking lot below. Bartleby's behind you, slowly pacing back and forth and back, which used to irritate you, but you get used to things after a few centuries. When you speak, the words are familiar to you. You've had this conversation before, but you always have it again and again.
You get used to things after a few centuries.
"Just give it up, man," you say. "We're never going to get home. We've been cast out of Paradise like Adam and Eve... Well, Adam and Steve. We might as well not be angels anymore."
Bartleby reaches inside his shirt, tugs, and winces. He holds something out to you.
A feather.
"Adam and Eve were still human when they were thrown out of Eden," says Bartleby.
You take the feather. "That was why they got thrown out in the first place, wasn't it?"
"We're still angels. Nothing's changed."
You raise your eyebrows.
"That much," he amends. Bartleby's getting that look again. You don't like that look. That look says, 'It pains me that when I go back home, you won't be with me. I wish you wouldn't make bad choices.'
Fuck that. That's the kind of attitude that gives you guys such a bad rap on Earth.
"I just wish we haven't made the mistakes we did," he says.
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"Don't you give me the party line. People... or things, whatever, like you and me, we've got no excuse to make mistakes."
"So obviously we're not mistakes. We're part of the plan."
"We're made to obey His divine will. How the hell could we fuck up?"
"Exactly. God works in mysterious ways."
"Loki, please quote something other than the Hallmark cards or I will smack you like a bitch."
So you do. "The whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. People couldn't become truly holy unless they also had the opportunity to be definitely wicked."
"What are you saying?"
"On one hand, angels and humans and demons are on the same level: God created us. And we all just do what we do. We do what we do, forever a work in progress, eternally headed for holiness. Angels, humans, demons, fallen or otherwise. We're all on our way."
There's a long pause before he replies. "Stop drinking that shit."
Bartleby swipes your drink and lets it slip out of his hand as he walks away. You watch his retreating form, with his hands raised like a white flag, and you can't bring yourself to protest. You look at the feather in your hand and bring it to your lips. You blow. The wind carries it a few feet, then you turn around and follow Bartleby because you don't want to see it touch the ground.
Happy Hour
You're on the roof of a shopping mall. This has happened before.
You're on the roof of a shopping mall or Walmart or middle-class apartment. Usually you're there when the sun goes down or happy hour begins. Whichever's first.
The sun is setting, stretching shadows against the sky.
Bartleby looks at the bottle in your hand and says, "I don't know know why you even bother with that."
"You've got it backwards," you say. "Why do you even bother waiting for something that's never going to happen?"
"Because we're talking about home. Home, Loki. Not yesterday's newspaper or a bag of Doritos. Home."
You're sitting on the edge of the roof, staring at the parking lot below. Bartleby's behind you, slowly pacing back and forth and back, which used to irritate you, but you get used to things after a few centuries. When you speak, the words are familiar to you. You've had this conversation before, but you always have it again and again.
You get used to things after a few centuries.
"Just give it up, man," you say. "We're never going to get home. We've been cast out of Paradise like Adam and Eve... Well, Adam and Steve. We might as well not be angels anymore."
Bartleby reaches inside his shirt, tugs, and winces. He holds something out to you.
A feather.
"Adam and Eve were still human when they were thrown out of Eden," says Bartleby.
You take the feather. "That was why they got thrown out in the first place, wasn't it?"
"We're still angels. Nothing's changed."
You raise your eyebrows.
"That much," he amends. Bartleby's getting that look again. You don't like that look. That look says, 'It pains me that when I go back home, you won't be with me. I wish you wouldn't make bad choices.'
Fuck that. That's the kind of attitude that gives you guys such a bad rap on Earth.
"I just wish we haven't made the mistakes we did," he says.
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"Don't you give me the party line. People... or things, whatever, like you and me, we've got no excuse to make mistakes."
"So obviously we're not mistakes. We're part of the plan."
"We're made to obey His divine will. How the hell could we fuck up?"
"Exactly. God works in mysterious ways."
"Loki, please quote something other than the Hallmark cards or I will smack you like a bitch."
So you do. "The whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. People couldn't become truly holy unless they also had the opportunity to be definitely wicked."
"What are you saying?"
"On one hand, angels and humans and demons are on the same level: God created us. And we all just do what we do. We do what we do, forever a work in progress, eternally headed for holiness. Angels, humans, demons, fallen or otherwise. We're all on our way."
There's a long pause before he replies. "Stop drinking that shit."
Bartleby swipes your drink and lets it slip out of his hand as he walks away. You watch his retreating form, with his hands raised like a white flag, and you can't bring yourself to protest. You look at the feather in your hand and bring it to your lips. You blow. The wind carries it a few feet, then you turn around and follow Bartleby because you don't want to see it touch the ground.
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hey! do you have aim? might as well chat with ya considering how many lj comments we pass back and forth. mine's tomatoesandwires if you have it.
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