Re: [The piano bar: Misha & Lucifer.]
Lucifer didn't know any of Misha's history - not the time Above, and not the escape through Below. He didn't know any of what had been told to the boy during that time, and he'd likely argue with much of it, were he to learn. It was obvious, at least to him, that the one sat across from him had no place in being a watcher or a messenger. Not in the way that so many Above were. And it wasn't simply his young age. There was a spark there that wouldn't lend itself to that sort of existence. There was the ability for creation within him (not just the parroting of others' songs or words), and an energy that vibrated at a different pitch than that of other angels.
When Misha looked at him, he simply looked back in return. He wasn't afraid of being studied, or what the boy might find in his appearance. There were many things about him that were open to anyone's knowing, and most of the things that weren't were hidden very well indeed, and locked away over the course of millenia. It would take more that Misha had within him to undo those locks that Lucifer had created - they could only be opened from the inside.
Time moved differently for all of them, especially when Above or Below. But 10 years seemed to match up with what he knew from his side of the story. The boy being a child, how he appeared now, and when Lucifer'd last seen Numiel. He gave a nod and continued to listen, though the words only brought a frown to his face. When he'd known the boy's mother, she hadn't been broken like that. A little quiet and a little strange, but personalities were as varied Above as they were on earth. That she'd fallen so low and been so broken as to take her own existence - was that why he had no idea where she was? The entire situation made him angry but also cut a sadness into him at the same time.
His anger wasn't quite to the point of matching Misha's. Not yet. He could feel it as well as hear it though. It was cutting and sharp and jagged and much too raw. Too much for Lucifer to not prod at. He was gentle as possible, but still there was a press. "For what?"