abraxaslogs | I don't trust, but I see right in front of me

It's like chess to her. Her response had still been hooked to his; that assault he implied he would wind away at her; the truth that it was no more or less than the wind currently. Hers more of a hooked challenge, with too much of the answer already known, even unknowing of him more than stories and two interactions.

He doesn't add to it.

There's no song and dance.
No antic caper. No manic smirk.

He stays in the dirt, tending to the gardens, and she waits. But it pauses there, and that's an odd enough impasse that she doesn't move. She wonders if he means it differently, infinitum, even in blink, imprisoned in two different cages, both not of his making. One of them far worse than the other, though no curiosity touches her on whether he had not well earned it.

Sabine only glanced down at her lap, where her book had ended up when he added those last three words. It would be a lie to say she agreed. But it would similarly be a lie to say she had never thought so at any point. But she doesn't love that it stirs up a first-fledgling trill of uncertainty in the cemented stillness of her untouched by him.

"Do you think so?"

Give him something real and he may give something real back. He's an extremely cagey (haha) individual, with Trust Issues to stretch one-way across the cosmos, and Abandonment Issues to stretch the way back.

"Mmmm," is his agreement. "If I went home," he starts. If he went home and didn't filet his son. If he went home and lived. "And, say, my Father erases everything else in existence," hypothetically speaking, "my siblings and I would endure. Rule and dominion over a wasteland. Freedom, maybe. Finally. To an endless nothingness without a point. An empty world is just another cage. When does it end?"

Or his Father executes them with the rest, but he has enough hate in him that he honestly imagines God would allow them to live, just so they would suffer.

It's stated as a fact. Even, currently, in Abraxas Lucifer doesn't so much want to rule, he just wants the world to be different and it's not there yet.

Sabine's eyebrows furrowed, gaze sliding back in Lucifer's direction as words started pouring out of him. They are the fits and starts of sentences, and she knows there's context she's missing, perhaps whole other parts that might go there, but she could translate Jack at his worst, and Lucifer's strung-together bits are still far more straightforward than that.

The image is surprisingly clear and—honestly—a touch more sadistic than Sabine expected or knows whether to believe in even the slightest. Given the spokesperson; and the very bright warning woven all through and around him. Judgment doesn't cloud her this time, and she lets it set itself a different thing to question instead.

"You can't decide to go somewhere else outside of it instead?"

Outside of that universe. Or plane of existence.

"I think that might be gone, too," he says, and then adds, "probably." All his details from Michael are missing pieces and he's just been filling in the blanks just like she's been filling in his sentences. "The fact that this place exists, presumably out of his reach, does not make any sense in the logical realm that I'm accustomed to."

He leans back and blows out an annoyed breath. It's likely he'll swing back into Annoying Child at some point, but for the moment she's got him in the place he's grown more comfortable with as of late.

And it's talking about his terrible parentage. He could take eons on that.

"This--Abraxas--is as 'outside' as my siblings may ever get."

Sabine has never wanted to leave Jack. Not even when they were lividly screaming at each other or not talking at all outside of slamming doors and drawers, and either way, she wanted to throw plates and glasses at the wall just because words weren't big enough and he wasn't listening, wasn't taking care of himself, was dying and losing his time on the shittiest of things that weren't important.

Not even then.

She had wanted to leave the Rift and The Gas Station, their Shitty Little Town, and the greater share of her duty for Jack. But she'd never wanted to leave-leave. The big types of Leave. The kind she'd been in limbo between the last six years. The kind she's always known there were billions on billions on further billions of other options out there.

That she could take.
But never wanted.

She chose her duty as a Keeper,
and more than that, she chose to love Jack.

She'd made her own walls, and sometimes she loved them, and sometimes she hated them—her parents hadn't hovered trapped and waiting for six years, they'd simply slipped elsewhere immediately after 'their car accident'; but she was also this and she'd owned the repercussions of it—but she got to choose them herself.

(All except the coma. That was still entirely someone else's doing.)

"Wow." Short. Punctuated. "Your Dad's an Old Testament dick."

Edited 2023-05-11 02:54 (UTC)

It's the first thing she's said that might mean he could like her one day. It doesn't lessen the skin-crawling but it does perk him up slightly any time someone actually realizes how much God sucks.

"I know, right!" he exclaims. "Everyone gets all mad at me for when I wanted to extinguish humanity but then he takes a page from my book and it's all 'well he's God.'" He huffs.

"No," Sabine says quicker this time. "It's still terrible both times."

"Anyone who thinks otherwise is just as terrible."

If people could stop trying to kill or trap their ragtag bags of humanity in pain-riddled, deathless, infinite perpetuity, that'd be great. It's a warped set of lines to cross when this want just to rid themselves full stop of their 'people problem' is still probably more merciful than The Devastator's thrall was. Would have been.

Past tense for her. Current-future tense for Jack.

Time never was as straightforward as people assumed it to be.

"Yeah, I know, I get it, okay! They're all not horrible!"

He did say 'when I wanted.' Past tense. It's gotten a bit more complicated now. He still hates humanity as a unit, a group. Still hates that his Father wanted him to bow down to a bunch of apes that could barely wipe their own asses. Hates maybe that specific iteration of Earth's batch.

But.

But.

Though it had been a reaction to the latter part of his comparison, Sabine doesn't need to question that he'd taken it personally, that seems to roll pretty seamlessly into the rest of the self-fixated points of this. It also says— no, no, she is n-o-t. Not that she wasn't not saying the earlier wasn't equally so, but no one needed lateral and hypocritical extermination zealotry regardless of who was holding the lead.

"I wouldn't go that far," Sabine says, and maybe, just maybe, it's the first faint twist to her tone. "Some of the people—" and beings "—everywhere are pretty unanimously shitty in the mix, as well. But we don't 'baby with the bathwater' a whole species, or universe, because of it."

She lived in the South. It was a testament to those people not dying every time they opened their mouths. There was a reason she'd only cared for the forest and her books until she'd stumbled on to the child insanity couldn't touch. She might be a Keeper for The Rift—and the whole planet, and even the human race, through that—but it didn't mean she actually had to like any of them.

She just had to agree they didn't deserve an eternity of pain solely for existing.

Look he's very self-centered, the fact that he's grown slightly less so over the course of a near-year is extremely impressive. Everything is, typically, in some way about him. There is a part of that solely from himself and who he is.

There is another part of that where he's just used to people saying shit about him all the damn time that it's just how he takes everything from a New Person.

"Well he's all about it. Get mad at something, throw in the towel." He waves a hand exaggeratedly, leaning slightly more into that childishness, but he's still in the zone. "Byyyye little ants." He plucks a weed with the same hand. "I don't know how much he decided to nuke," if any others at all, but this is where his mind is currently set without talking to Michael, "or how many other drafts of worlds he made in the first place, I've only been to two; my home and another." Oh he was dead in that world, too.

Fun times.

So there were still other places, but his god had locked the doors and clipped their wings, perhaps as far back as their creation, so that they couldn't go any further than the patch of playground laid out for them. It's a cruelty, even when one considers most humans would never begin to understand how much existed beyond their sphere of understanding.

How much of it already lived side-by-side with them, still beyond their comprehension.

Sabine sidesteps the animated denigration.

"He was destroying everything when you were pulled here?"

"No, not yet--not that I know of anyway, I don't know, he'd flounced off again," is the bitter, rambled response. "But one of my brothers, I don't know how far ahead he is from me, was witness."

If she asks for more information, he doesn't have it. He doesn't think it matters enough to put on his To-Ask Michael list, which at the moment is only comprised of Abraxas-related things. Earth isn't important.

Even the devil's curiosity has limits.

"One of the other two at the funeral."

Yes, Lucifer.

She's astute enough to be figuring out the game field around her at all times, whether it decides to look for her or not. She's used to being hidden in plain sight. She's also used to not being solid. Or free. So there were ups and downs to anything she could call being used to. But she did not sit on her laurels long. If ever at all.

(Not since the moment she 'died.'

Not since the moment she ... was whatever she was here)

There was too much to do for that.

"Yes, the one that didn't look like he was going to pass out from a gust of wind," he says. He doesn't particularly care if he knows. What she sees in the others. Truly, part of him wonders. The three of them are so out of sorts and on different states of being.

Castiel on one end, Michael on the other, Lucifer (irritatingly) in the middle. Maybe it's an age problem. Ha. ~~Ugh.~~

"You should bother them, I'm sure they'd love you," he says it neutrally. It's likely he's being sarcastic, but then, if Lucifer's awfully indecisive about her, they probably would like her.

Sabine's order of the three interestingly is different, but decay and death, even of beings of higher orders of reality, is natural. Murder as an ending well equipped to be inside that same box; very little couldn't be stopped by some means, something bigger, somewhere.

She denotes the fact but not with much in the way of interest yet.

But to the second, Sabine's brow raises only every so marginally. Dry irony at the hypocrisy of the statement; she hadn't chosen to bother Lucifer, down in the dirt, working in the garden, to begin with. "Because?"

Being in his general vicinity counts as bothering, even if by all right he entered her space, not vis versa. As though there weren't other people that Lucifer would quietly work without leaving to their peace.

"Because I said so," he sings. He raises his brows to her, and sharper, "Because you're so hard to ignore." He twitches a hand up, fingers turning like they're trying to grasp some invisible thread. "Little itch on my periphery, that just doesn't belong."

Sure makes him wonder if she does belong anywhere, but he doesn't care enough to ask. He has enough overlapping similarities with her boyfriend, he doesn't need them with her, too.

~~(And wouldn't that answer, to such an unasked question, be one for the playbooks.)~~

Somewhere there's a question of why she's still humoring this. Or maybe there will be later. (Maybe it's half-humor, half-baiting; knowing there's a dangerous caprice to Lucifer's emotions, patience, whims—shown here several times already—and what he does with the knowledge he both has-and-does-not-have could involve Jack.)

But she's not thinking hard on that when it's all too easy just to let the response to those words, still, half hitched back, roll out with no pause and the continued, unphased quirk of that eyebrow with deigned interest. "Which is to say, which exactly?"

"I should bother them because they'll love that fact, unlike you,

or they'll love me because they'll love the fact that you find me maddening?"

"You know, it's probably both," he says, and that's the honest truth.

His family is weird, okay. They're all a special brand of chaos (you too, sorry Mikey) and yet they do have some crossed wires, as he's realizing more and more. The three of them would prefer to have zero similarities with each other.

And it sucks to be all of them in that case.

I don't trust, but I see right in front of me

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