Who: Bartleby and Elaine Belloc What: An Angel to Angel talking to; because smiting someone first thing is not the best impression to make. When: Wednesday, early afternoon Where: Hollywood Walk of Fame Status/Rating: incomplete/PG-13
A new place. A change of scenery. Both things might have done Bartleby a whole lot of good. It wasn't surprising that after a millennia in Wisconsin he was a littleā¦ off. A vacation would have gone over well. Los Angeles was no heaven, but maybe the right to move around the country and see more than cows and cheese for all of eternity would have been beneficial to both his and Loki's mental health. But then, who were they to argue anything with God? That's what they had been exiled for in the first place and because of that Bartleby had never once allowed he or Loki to argue the logistics of their exile to the deity, even in simple prayer.
Still, a vacation likely would have done them both a world of good, and look. Here it was. Bartleby looked up, blinking into the bright sun and feeling the dry heat against his skin. Standing there on the middle of a Los Angeles sidewalk, wings spread and armour gleaming, he looked a bit like a sideshow act. People stared at him as they walked by, some wondering where his hat or tip jar was and others wondering what feat he was going to perform to earn the dollars and chains they'd throw into the hat, if there'd been one there.
But that wasn't what he was there for and what those walking past didn't notice was the fact that the sword in his sheath was recently used, stained a dirty red with blood that also coated his fingertips. He licked at his thumb and could tell without effort that it was Loki's blood on his hands. The taste in his mouth fully awakened senses tempered from years of disuse.
There were sinners everywhere. "Fuck Mooby, Loki would have loved this."
Loki had always been so good at finding the guilty and punishing them. All Bartleby had wanted to do was make his friend happy. That was the entire point of their sojurn to New Jersey. He'd just wanted Loki to be happy. His friend hated Wisconsin, as Bartleby did too. Who would pass up the chance to get back into Heaven? They'd had the perfect opportunity. It was simple, just walk through the archway. Perhaps Loki's stop on the way to smite those of the Mooby empire had slowed them, but they were sinners and smiting was what Loki did best. Bartleby couldn't deny that he loved to watch his friend work either, even if the other angel had been a bit over enthusiastic sometimes.
He'd meant to make it into Heaven, not Los Angeles, but then nothing had really gone according to plan. He certainly hadn't meant to cut off Loki's wings. In fact, Bartleby wasn't entirely sure why he'd done something that he knew must have caused his friend a world of pain. Yes, it had made him mortal, but Loki's blood was now on his hands, sword, and armour. Thinking back, this hadn't exactly been in the plan. Between Azreal's games and the Scion trying to kill them, something must have snapped.
Bartleby ran his messy hands through his hair before attempting to wipe away the smears of blood he could feel caking dry on his face. Also Loki's blood.
What the hell had he done? And all for what? To somehow end up in Los Angeles. He was supposed to be in Heaven with Loki, not here on Earth, realizing he'd very possibly killed his best friend for nothing. And now he could feel the sins of those around him, but his friend wasn't actually there to do anything about it. Unfortunate, because this wasn't how it was supposed to work. He was the watcher. Loki was the harbinger of smiting and death. There was no one, absolutely no one who could rain down fire and brimstone like his best friend.
Except now, he was going to have to try. He'd never done well in crowds, not alone at least, and this was why. He was a Watcher. He watched. He knew things about every person who walked by in the crush of people hurrying towards Grauman's Theater. He knew there wasn't an innocent one among them and he would have to do something about it because he'd killed the only other person he knew who could.
It was the only thing Bartleby could think of to somehow make his friend's death worth something. He'd ended up in this place filled with sin and no one to do Loki's job and it was his fault. He could draw his sword and fix that. He could at least make Loki proud --Wherever he was.
And he would start there; his eyes flew towards a girl kneeling down to get her picture taken next to a star on the walk of fame. Her boyfriend was holding the camera and they both radiated one thing: Lust.