Brigit's Flame -- "Wings"
Prompt: "wings"
Word Count: 726
Warnings: mild language, vague blasphemy
Author's Note: Too much Milton last semester and a prompt like this? It had to be Vincent! XD This sort of picks up after "Reap", but none too intently. :)
"WINGS"
Vincent set two cards down and pushed them across the table.
“They seemed like your kind of people,” he remarked.
Belial shrugged, the shadowed folds of his navy blue silk shirt gleaming black. “I haven’t heard anything,” he maintained, “and I would have, for an event of that caliber.” He accepted Vincent’s cards and winked. “I’d have been leading the charge and stealing your lawn ornaments if it had been ours.”
“The fountain weighs thousands of pounds,” Vincent cautioned idly, righting his fan of cards.
“I once tried to take ‘The Thinker’ for my personal collection,” Belial mused. “A very attractive Parisian girl convinced me otherwise.” He pursed his lips, looking at his hand. “Do you have any fours?”
By now, Vincent was mostly convinced that Belial had rigged the deck.
Then again, playing Go Fish with two people wasn’t particularly challenging.
Vincent had forgotten one of the crucial maxims of dealing with the emissaries of heaven and hell, which was that a spoilt-rotten vampire should be very, very careful what he wished for.
“Do you or don’t you, man?” Belial chuckled, though his laughter faded quickly as he saw the trajectory of Vincent’s gaze and glanced over his blue-silk-clad shoulder at the tiny sphere of white light swelling by the old armoire.
Vincent ducked, averting his eyes, as the light exploded outward, filling the room with its too-bright celestial radiance, a thousand searching rays prickling uncomfortably on his hypersensitive skin.
He peeked, however, as the worst of the luminescence subsided, the better to catch a glimpse of Belial, who was glowing like a black light, an indigo aura quavering about the roiling center of his genuine form.
Vincent made a mental note to open a hell-themed nightclub one of these days.
The last light of the angel’s arrival disappeared, leaving a much more substantial Maion, dressed in a nice red leather motorcycle jacket and pre-distressed jeans, to toss his hair over one shoulder as he planted his feet.
It was only after Maion had flashed a beaming smile at Vincent that he noticed the other being at the table.
Vincent made a mental note to schedule differently next time.
“You!” Maion hissed, blue flames flickering at his fingertips.
Belial made sure that his tongue was forked before he licked his lips rather more slowly and deliberately than the situation required.
“In the flesh,” he replied.
The flames surged up Maion’s arms, wreaking-well-hell on the sleeves of his new coat.
“I think you mean,” he gritted out, the flames gathering about him as he clenched his fists, “‘in the ash.’”
Belial turned to Vincent, grinning. “I think he likes me.”
Maion’s six blindingly white wings burst free in unison as he howled at a pitch that would cause tinnitus in most humans and tackled Belial from the chair.
“You have that effect on most people,” Vincent muttered, beating a hasty retreat to a more secluded corner as the whirling mass of warring forces, which was vaguely round, rolled around the room, smashing into furniture and spewing black and white feathers with abandon.
Vincent cringed at the trail of cinders on his Oriental rug.
“Could we not incinerate the carpet?” he asked loudly. “Because that would be great.”
He was none too surprised when no one seemed to hear him over the growling, roaring, tearing, and general mayhem, and he made a quick survey of the room, hoping to try a different tack.
Sure enough, he had always hated the vase on the end table beside him, which made it an excellent projectile for hurling into the obliterative core of this miniature Apocalypse.
He had apparently garnered their attention momentarily at least, because the seething ball differentiated itself into Maion attempting to strangle his adversary with one arm looped around the demon’s neck, and Belial had paused in the process of gnawing on that arm with extremely large wolf’s teeth that looked very unnatural extending from his recognizable face.
“How old are you two?” Vincent demanded distastefully.
Belial’s eyes, sparking red, flicked towards Maion, who instinctively shared the look.
“…old?” they answered in unison.
Vincent sighed.
“Please try not to burn my house down,” he told them, en route to the door. “And no swords inside.”
He pretended not to hear Maion mutter, “Damn.”
He then pretended not to hear Belial respond, “Don’t look at me.”
Word Count: 726
Warnings: mild language, vague blasphemy
Author's Note: Too much Milton last semester and a prompt like this? It had to be Vincent! XD This sort of picks up after "Reap", but none too intently. :)
"WINGS"
Vincent set two cards down and pushed them across the table.
“They seemed like your kind of people,” he remarked.
Belial shrugged, the shadowed folds of his navy blue silk shirt gleaming black. “I haven’t heard anything,” he maintained, “and I would have, for an event of that caliber.” He accepted Vincent’s cards and winked. “I’d have been leading the charge and stealing your lawn ornaments if it had been ours.”
“The fountain weighs thousands of pounds,” Vincent cautioned idly, righting his fan of cards.
“I once tried to take ‘The Thinker’ for my personal collection,” Belial mused. “A very attractive Parisian girl convinced me otherwise.” He pursed his lips, looking at his hand. “Do you have any fours?”
By now, Vincent was mostly convinced that Belial had rigged the deck.
Then again, playing Go Fish with two people wasn’t particularly challenging.
Vincent had forgotten one of the crucial maxims of dealing with the emissaries of heaven and hell, which was that a spoilt-rotten vampire should be very, very careful what he wished for.
“Do you or don’t you, man?” Belial chuckled, though his laughter faded quickly as he saw the trajectory of Vincent’s gaze and glanced over his blue-silk-clad shoulder at the tiny sphere of white light swelling by the old armoire.
Vincent ducked, averting his eyes, as the light exploded outward, filling the room with its too-bright celestial radiance, a thousand searching rays prickling uncomfortably on his hypersensitive skin.
He peeked, however, as the worst of the luminescence subsided, the better to catch a glimpse of Belial, who was glowing like a black light, an indigo aura quavering about the roiling center of his genuine form.
Vincent made a mental note to open a hell-themed nightclub one of these days.
The last light of the angel’s arrival disappeared, leaving a much more substantial Maion, dressed in a nice red leather motorcycle jacket and pre-distressed jeans, to toss his hair over one shoulder as he planted his feet.
It was only after Maion had flashed a beaming smile at Vincent that he noticed the other being at the table.
Vincent made a mental note to schedule differently next time.
“You!” Maion hissed, blue flames flickering at his fingertips.
Belial made sure that his tongue was forked before he licked his lips rather more slowly and deliberately than the situation required.
“In the flesh,” he replied.
The flames surged up Maion’s arms, wreaking-well-hell on the sleeves of his new coat.
“I think you mean,” he gritted out, the flames gathering about him as he clenched his fists, “‘in the ash.’”
Belial turned to Vincent, grinning. “I think he likes me.”
Maion’s six blindingly white wings burst free in unison as he howled at a pitch that would cause tinnitus in most humans and tackled Belial from the chair.
“You have that effect on most people,” Vincent muttered, beating a hasty retreat to a more secluded corner as the whirling mass of warring forces, which was vaguely round, rolled around the room, smashing into furniture and spewing black and white feathers with abandon.
Vincent cringed at the trail of cinders on his Oriental rug.
“Could we not incinerate the carpet?” he asked loudly. “Because that would be great.”
He was none too surprised when no one seemed to hear him over the growling, roaring, tearing, and general mayhem, and he made a quick survey of the room, hoping to try a different tack.
Sure enough, he had always hated the vase on the end table beside him, which made it an excellent projectile for hurling into the obliterative core of this miniature Apocalypse.
He had apparently garnered their attention momentarily at least, because the seething ball differentiated itself into Maion attempting to strangle his adversary with one arm looped around the demon’s neck, and Belial had paused in the process of gnawing on that arm with extremely large wolf’s teeth that looked very unnatural extending from his recognizable face.
“How old are you two?” Vincent demanded distastefully.
Belial’s eyes, sparking red, flicked towards Maion, who instinctively shared the look.
“…old?” they answered in unison.
Vincent sighed.
“Please try not to burn my house down,” he told them, en route to the door. “And no swords inside.”
He pretended not to hear Maion mutter, “Damn.”
He then pretended not to hear Belial respond, “Don’t look at me.”