( a predictably long time while grandpa tries to figure out how to send his location. eventually he gets there, and he is outside, baking in the sun on a warm patch of grass. )
( well, grandpa is going to have to wait for him to get his coffee first, but eventually, pierce portals to him with a cup of coffee in hand. it's just plain café noir. )
( he squints an eye open — pierce is the exact perfect size to block out the sun. but! duty calls.
hopping up, he snags his shirt from the collar, lifting it. it sticks wetly to his back, but he pulls it off without any complaint or even surprise, holding the gold-bloodied shirt out to him with one hand.
with his other, he makes a grabby motion for the coffee. )
( he says, consoling. as if to say "this is not a trap, don't worry." belatedly, and after taking a sip of coffee, it clicks for him, though. ah, he says, turning around so pierce can see his back — two, maybe 8inch long gouges in the center of his back running parallel to each other, coated in a glittery, gilded substance, with a bit of extremely sharp bone sticking through one of then, jagged and uneven. if it isn't obvious, there are some white feathers sneaking through the open wounds, sticky with his blood. )
Just blood. Or the angel equal of blood. I could get you a clean one, but I'd have to remember where that is.
( neither the demonic nor the divine realms have anything to do with him, so he doesn't tend to get up close and personal with them when marco and aug aren't concerned. lucifer is more their area, not his own. he is happy to keep it that way.
but it would be a lie to say that this hasn't piqued his interest — the freshness of the wounds and the relatively known history behind them. )
They don't heal? ( he leans slightly forward to get a closer look at the bone protruding forth from one of the gouges. ) Or is this recent?
( thoughtful mm, weighing the relativity of what "recent" means. then again, thoughtful because the memory of his wings, torn from his back, is also the memory of the last time god ever touched him. bliss by way of pain — not a happy memory, but not wholly unpleasant, either. god's attention used to be like medicine. )
They don't heal. ( he tosses a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to them, and flashes pierce a grin. ) God's loving hand, and all that. What a prick, right?
( a considering expression crosses his face, before he looks back at the shirt in pierce's hands, turning to face him. ) You shouldn't lick that. It'll be like, uh ... ( his finger taps the air, looking for the word ) uh, battery? Is that it? You'll go a little silly.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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fuckin' devastating. )
how about your shirt?
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so are you giving it to me or not?
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( well — )
yeah ok
like off my back?
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just give me the one you're wearing now
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so
what will you give me in return
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a deal
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if you don't want to give me your shirt, then just tell me so i can be on my way
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ok yeesh
then i want a coffee
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where's your room?
we'll make the exchange there
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i'm outside
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i'll find you
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Your shirt.
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hopping up, he snags his shirt from the collar, lifting it. it sticks wetly to his back, but he pulls it off without any complaint or even surprise, holding the gold-bloodied shirt out to him with one hand.
with his other, he makes a grabby motion for the coffee. )
Coffee coffee coffee.
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Do I want to know what this is? ( handing over the cup, pierce takes the proffered shirt, narrowing his eyes slightly at the golden substance. )
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( he says, consoling. as if to say "this is not a trap, don't worry." belatedly, and after taking a sip of coffee, it clicks for him, though. ah, he says, turning around so pierce can see his back — two, maybe 8inch long gouges in the center of his back running parallel to each other, coated in a glittery, gilded substance, with a bit of extremely sharp bone sticking through one of then, jagged and uneven. if it isn't obvious, there are some white feathers sneaking through the open wounds, sticky with his blood. )
Just blood. Or the angel equal of blood. I could get you a clean one, but I'd have to remember where that is.
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but it would be a lie to say that this hasn't piqued his interest — the freshness of the wounds and the relatively known history behind them. )
They don't heal? ( he leans slightly forward to get a closer look at the bone protruding forth from one of the gouges. ) Or is this recent?
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( thoughtful mm, weighing the relativity of what "recent" means. then again, thoughtful because the memory of his wings, torn from his back, is also the memory of the last time god ever touched him. bliss by way of pain — not a happy memory, but not wholly unpleasant, either. god's attention used to be like medicine. )
They don't heal. ( he tosses a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to them, and flashes pierce a grin. ) God's loving hand, and all that. What a prick, right?
( a considering expression crosses his face, before he looks back at the shirt in pierce's hands, turning to face him. ) You shouldn't lick that. It'll be like, uh ... ( his finger taps the air, looking for the word ) uh, battery? Is that it? You'll go a little silly.