bigapplesauce | Don't Panic [open]

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Don't Panic [open]

Iman practically drags her new friend to the East Village, wandering with intense focus until she finally comes across the bar Jodie had recommended to her, which looks just like it sounds, a proper English pub. It's been ages since she went to an English pub. She's looking forward to it. A little hysterically, actually. No wait. Scratch that. She does not get hysterical. She's a scientist.

"Here we are!" she says brightly, drawing Daniel in. Oh wow would you get a load of this place. The lady behind the bar is in costume. Adorable.

"Wow you can kinda tell it's for people from an alternate universe, can't you?" She snorts and takes stock of the people, looking for someone to talk to, or someone whose brain she (they) can pick. It's pretty early for anyone to be drinking, so there's not too many people there, except one guy who is drunk, slumped over the bar. Looking exactly like she feels, or rather how she wants to feel in an hour's time.

"That one," she says decisively, not bothering to check if Daniel's with her on the idea of approaching a drunk stranger and asking him questions about their mutual cosmic misfortune. He's probably not. She doesn't actually care.

She goes straight to the bar, assuming Daniel will follow, sits herself on the stool next to the guy, and nods to the tender. "I'll have what he's having."

[[ooc: Daniel's just gonna be here for the initial thread, but Iman will be here all day! Say hi if you wanna.]]

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Iman reaches out and pats Nick, once, on the back. "You're a hero among ancient evil entities, Nick," she says. "Damn, the damage I could do with powers like that. I'd drink everything in the world." She considers this for a moment. "Well, no I wouldn't. It'd be no fun by myself anyway. You been drinking whole bars for hours, and what, all alone? Good thing we happened along, huh?"

"Biblical," he says to Daniel. It's true on multiple levels.

He looks at her hand for a moment when she pats him, and she could consider herself very lucky that she still has that hand when she's done. Also, the temperature of "Nick"'s skin is far below what the average human would be able to survive; he's practically chill to the touch.

"I wasn't looking for company."

Certainly not human company. See: his stellar opinion of the human race.

He is not yet drunk enough for this, but Dad as his witness, he would be.

"Okay!" Daniel says brightly, freaked out and seizing the opportunity, bouncing to his feet, going ninety miles a minute, in way too much of a hurry to not be in this thing's presence any longer. "We'll just go. Right, Iman? We'll just go? We'll be on our way? I think you've had enough to drink. Don't you think? I'm so glad you agree. Let's go."

He's spooked enough just being in Nick's immediate presence, but the nonstop flow of idle threats, even if they were primarily directed at him rather than Iman, has Daniel worried enough. There's no telling when this thing's already questionable patience will snap and he starts backing up those threats.

"Hold up," says Iman distractedly, looking at her hand. She did feel the cold, though for a moment she'd just thought she was suddenly having some kind of bad reaction to the crossover, nerve numbness or something - but no, it was him. He's cold as ice. Not too surprising, given what he did to her glass.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says firmly. "Danny boy, if you wanna scoot, I think we can all agree that might be the best thing. But I have more drinking to do. With or without this asshole."

She glances over and cocks an eyebrow at him, challenging him not to trust her.

This is Lucifer.

This is Lucifer filling his glass up to the very, very top with alcohol again, ignoring the humans around him who are doing whatever it is that humans do.

You can practically see the fucks that he does not give littering every available surface.

This is Lucifer draining the glass with blatant disregard for both taste and the physical capacity of his stomach.

"I'm not going to leave you here with him," Daniel hisses through clenched teeth. "He's mad. And, yeah, okay, that's probably all my fault but that doesn't mean you should have to deal with it."

He's not actually one hundred percent sure if Nick is "mad" or not in the strictest sense of the term, but he doesn't want them to have to stay and find out.

Points docked. Her eyes narrow. "What exactly are you gonna do, huh?" she says, all but putting her hands on her hips. "Gonna save me from big grumpy evil by standing there and being manly, and asking stupid questions? Or are you saying you're gonna forcibly carry me outta here? Cause boy, you may be tall and I may be drunk, but I can lay you out, you better believe that." She turns coolly back to the bar and her drink. "I'm staying right here."

This feels a little mean. Not everyone can translate her general attitude to the affection it often actually is; Daniel is dumb as hell, but he's also cute and interesting, and it's not exactly a bad thing knowing such a ridiculous straight-arrow moral compass. She sighs and says, "Where you staying? I'll come find you later and show you how none of my limbs have been detached." She could make such a good joke about her arm here, but again, keeping that shit to herself.

Satan's just going to keep on sitting here, draining the bar of all its alcohol. Watching Daniel dig himself deeper and deeper with every poorly phrased comment is just an added bonus-- drinks and a show.

If Iman wants to keep drinking, she might want to get her alcohol while she can, because the bartender's looking nervous.

"What? No, I'm - I'm not gonna carry you, that, that's -" Ridiculous, absurd, whatever words Daniel's brain can't scramble for presently because he's feeling as nervous as the bartender looks. Maybe more so.

And he casts a worried look at Nick, who doesn't seem to care one way or the other - is he amused at this? - and then back at Iman, who apparently doesn't care who she drinks with as long as drinking is getting done.

"I just want to help," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say even if nothing he's said so far has done anything to illustrate that point.

She sighs heavily. "I know you do," she says. "But this time you can't. All right?"

She leans forward and grabs clumsily at his hand, giving it a firm pat. "I will be okay. You go do whatever it is you do when you're not making a huge ass of yourself."

That's right, Daniel. Lucifer is amused at the way you so masterfully take your foot and shove it right in your mouth.

The bartender is looking around, confused as to why all the whiskey is gone. There is a row of empty bottles in front of the Devil, and he's in the process of cracking open the flavored vodkas. He doesn't care that most of them taste like sugary diabetic death-- something his brother Gabriel would love, no doubt-- he cares about the alcohol content.

"Yes, Daniel," he says, and his pour is slightly less neat than it has been. "Go on. She'll be fine."

Daniel is so reassured.

"Pretty much my full-time job," he replies truthfully, shrugging, flat-out not trusting himself to even address Nick at this point. It's not like he trusts Nick to walk her home, and -

"Hang on, you don't even have a place to stay yet, do you?"

"Iiiii do not." Truth be told she hasn't really be thinking about this.

She finishes off her drink and presses her chin to her hands for a moment, pointedly ignoring Nick's creepass remark. "Any ideas, smart guy?" She looks over at Nick. "Where you stayin?" So, you know, she can expressly not stay there.

"I stay wherever I please."

He's the freaking Devil, if he wants to stay someplace, there isn't anyone who can tell him otherwise. Mostly, though, he's been holing up in an abandoned warehouse in the Meatpacking District that's warded all up; he doesn't exactly plan to entertain there. It's more a place to rest his wings and lick his wounds than much of a home. It's secure, it's quiet, and it's away from prying eyes, so that's good enough for him.

He wavers, torn. On one hand - he is not safe here. Iman is not safe here. He very much doubts anyone is safe here. And, ideally, he'd get everyone out of here as soon as possible.

On the other, well. Iman's very obviously not going to be budging anytime soon.

She's been handling herself well. Better than Daniel has, certainly. If he sticks around his inability to keep his mouth shut might just get everyone killed, a very real possibility. It's happened before.

He's going to have to trust her.

He can do that.

"All right, here." He pulls out a pen, paper, and scribbles something down before handing it to Iman. "You hold onto this, all right? It's my number, in case anything happens. Anything. If you need help, or if you don't know where to go, or, or anything, you call that number. Okay? You've got a phone, right?"

"Well, aren't you fancy," she says to Nick, rolling her eyes. She has a feeling she's gonna be doing that a lot today.

At the question of a phone, Iman hesitates. Of course, that's what Daniel - like every good overbearing worrier - needs. To be reassured every fifteen minutes. And she can do that. She doesn't have a phone, but she can definitely do that.

"Yyyyes," she decides to say. "I do have that thing." She takes the paper delicately between her fingers, memorizes the number on it in a brief moment, and slips it into the pocket of her jacket. "I will keep you updated. Consistently." She gives him a salute, feeling it just the thing.

Lucifer puts a hand beside his mouth, stage-whispering an aside.

"That's a lie."

"I know you'll be okay," he mutters to Iman, as much for her benefit as his own. "I just wanna be sure."

Then he shoots Nick a glare, pointed.

"And I don't care what you are or how old you claim to be. Anything happens to her or anyone - I've killed gods before. I don't stop until I'm dead. And sometimes, not even then."

Nick probably won't be the least bit impressed with the threat, but Daniel doesn't care. It helps him feel, barely, like he has at least some small amount of control over a situation that he objectively knows he has absolutely no control over.

He tells himself it'll be fine. Over and over and over and over and overandoverandover -

And then he leaves.

Iman shoots Nick a dirty look and swats him lightly in the shoulder (still really fuckin cold beneath his shirt, but whatever). Fortunately Daniel seems to miss the meaning of the remark and just says another really stupid and overbearing thing before finally getting the fuck out, poor kid. Iman rolls her eyes again and swivels back toward the bar.

"What a dork," she says. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love him, but." Her left hand fidgets discreetly, or at least moderately discreetly. If Nick knew she didn't have a phone (or was he trying to imply he didn't believe she'd actually keep Daniel updated? either way), he'll probably pick up on this soon enough. Oh well. She concentrates on Daniel's number, setting it on sort of an automatic dial - she'll basically be importing the texts directly into his phone, sort of a remote hack, mildly frowned upon where she's from, but eminently useful at the moment.

"So, Nick," she says, nodding to the increasingly reluctant bartender for another. "Are you really a god, or is that all just talk."

Mostly, it's just very, very difficult to lie to the Devil.

He cocks his head, watching her and her little device; it's odd and he's never seen one like it, but it doesn't hold great interest for him. Just another little human toy.

The mention of gods makes his whole expression and bearing shift, however, rising from languid amusement into something stern and cold.

"I am not a god." This is something he is very emphatic about. "The pagans are petty, disloyal creatures with the arrogance to think they own the Earth. There is no intersection between what I am and what they are."

"Ummm, excuse you?" Iman gives him a spectacularly unimpressed look. Devastating to mere mortals. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

She's pretty sure she's offended, or something. Allah is not what anyone in their right mind would consider 'pagan', and even if he were, she's nowhere close to being religious - the headcovering and periodic bursts of 'daily' prayer are more habit and affectation than anything else - and anyway, where she comes from, religion is on about par with a favored sports team, you're raised into it, tend to stick with it, you'll report dutifully to the meetings where able, you'll even defend it aggressively when the time comes, and once in a while, if you're especially invested, you'll do something stupid and violent on its behalf. But nobody takes that seriously. Not like political parties or modes of scientific thought.

But she doesn't need to be her grandmother's sort of Muslim to get offended about that. Grandiose, obnoxiously vague generalizations put her off better than almost anything.

"So let me apply a little method, here: going by your obstreperous reaction I can only assume pagan gods are actually literally real where you're from, which, don't even get me started - but not only have you acknowledged that, in the same breath you've also swept the whooole massive diaspora right under a rug of 'oooh, they're just a bunch of shitty fakers'." This with a fairly childish but no less devastating impression of Nick and his grumpass shittiness, which is visible from metaphoric space. "I mean assuming it's anything close to where I come from, massive diaspora. Also, not that it's important or anything, but I'm a pretty good judge of character, and you, my trashdrunk friend, are both the pettiest and most arrogant prick I've ever met, and that's going some. So you're gonna have to do one better than that."

Feeling pretty pleased with herself, she drops her chin onto her hand and fixes him with an arched eyebrow of justice. And then for good measure she pops off a mental text to Daniel .

"Don't presume that you understand anything about me or my nature."

The coldness and sternness of his bearing has been turned up far enough that it's glacial and he seems practically made of stone.

He may be drunk-- and after going through that many bars, he would damn well hope he'd be drunk-- but he still has power, and his tolerance for humans and their bullshit is not particularly high. And the fact that he thinks that practically his entire family is dead does not help his mood.

"I have met many more pagan gods than you have, so I would think that I'm in a better position to judge. You do not even know what I am, nevertheless what they are, and you would still try to make a comparison? Do I have to explain what a logical fallacy is to you?" His lip curls a little, a hint of contempt. "Don't speak when you're ignorant about the subject matter."

"But then how would I learn?" she says sweetly.

Yes, he's intimidating. She's distantly aware that she could be in some trouble under different circumstances, or maybe these circumstances if she pushes. But she refuses to show any intimidation. She can avoid taking the bait without behaving like he's won. She sits back and takes a drink.

"What are you, then?" she says, cool and expectant.

"Beyond your comprehension. Were I not in this vessel, my true form would burn your eyes from your skull. My true voice would make your brain hemorrhage."

He's the divine equivalent of a brown note, wrapped up in some other guy's skin so that he could interact with the world.

"And this is not even my true vessel, just a... stop-gap. An ill-fitting suit, I suppose you could compare it to."

"Gross," she says without self-consciousness. "And very coy. Wow I'm impressed. Is this building up to something?"

You're losing her, buddy. Iman will only suffer so much suspense.

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