Re: [The piano bar: Misha & Lucifer.]
Misha, he managed stillness as Lucifer approached. Well, save for that bouncing leg. He wasn't sure what he expected, seeing as he didn't trust a damn thing Heaven had told him, not at this point. His momma, she'd talked 'bout his daddy, but she'd been young and dreamy and lost in her own head, and Misha mostly remembered a real pale and fragile looking girl, blonde hair pin straight and nearly white, blue eyes so bright they nearly glowed. She'd been young, or seemingly so, and she'd talked in riddles and fairy tales, or so it had seemed to Misha when he was small. She'd told him stories about a beautiful man, one misunderstood and hurting, and she'd said he was an angel, and she'd said she loved him. She'd said he'd been worth falling, and, course, Misha hadn't believed a lick, not 'til Heaven had come to fetch him off the end of a noose.
The man that came to the table, was young looking, handsome, or Misha reckoned he would be considered so. He could see why Claire was taken with him. Claire, she was always taken with men that were dangerous and lost some. Misha was young, but he knew he was staring 'cross that table at someone who had their own daddy issues, and those daddy issues were a whole lot older than Misha was.
"He ain't half bad," Misha said of the pianist, real noncommittal. He wasn't good, but he wasn't awful, and it really didn't matter none. It was an opening, and the boy folded his hands on the table. "I ain't sure how to begin," he admitted, his accent thicker for the emotion caught on his tongue. "Momma died when I was ten." That was how he began.