justasaleswoman | (no subject)

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Well, this is unexpected.

Verity is reasonably certain she's dead. Really dead, dead-for-a-demon dead, not just dead-for-a-human dead, which she's been for centuries. And while she can't say she's ever given much thought to where you wound up when you were dead-for-a-demon dead, if someone had asked, she probably would have guessed, well, nowhere.

Not the bar at the end of the universe.

Then again, this may not be Milliways. It may just look like it. End of the universe, last stop on the way from somewhere to no where, final frantic blip of a dying consciousness, a place and a time that are in fact neither a place nor a time, who can say? That stuff gets determined way above her paygrade.

Well, above what was her paygrade. She does seem to have been recently terminated.

The place, whatever and however it is, is silent and deserted -- there's not so much as a waitrat to be seen. Even without looking, she knows there's no one else here. Just like she doesn't need a mirror to know that she's wearing her own face for the first time in . . . well, the years are hard to compute. Let's just leave it at ages.

On the other side of the observation window, the universe goes on ending, and with nothing else to do, Verity wanders over to watch it do so.

And then nothing changes but everything does. There's not even a whisper of sound, not so much as flicker to change the light, no telltale disturbance of the air. But she's no longer the only one here, and she knows it. Knows who she'll see if she turns around, too.

"I probably should have guessed you'd be here, darling."

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"I'd offer you something to drink, but . . ."

Verity gestures to the otherwise empty bar.

". . . I'm not sure anyone's serving.

"Is there any point in asking why we're here?"

"Only inasmuch as there's ever a point to asking questions."

She doesn't smile.

"Did you want something to drink?"

"Honestly? I'm not thirsty.

"But I am damn curious as to what you're going to do if I say yes."

Michael raises one eyebrow high.

It is almost as if the answer should be obvious. Or it would be, somewhere else.

"Cheat."

"Strike the rock with your staff and wait for the water to come pouring out?

"I would love something to drink, Michael."

"And here I thought you'd prefer one last appletini."

Michael stands up, walking over to the bar and leaning over it.

Where did the actual alcohol come from?

Who knows.

"But I suppose I could replace it with water. If you'd rather."

"I think I'd rather have the water."

If it's all the same to Michael.

"I have say, I do admire your restraint in not telling me I had it coming."

The whole getting shot thing, not the water.

"You made your choices," Michael says mildly, handing over the martini glass before regaining her seat.

"We all do."

Verity sips her water before answering.

"And I'd make the same ones again."

It's not defiant or argumentative.

Just a statement of fact.

"At least you have the courage of your convictions."

There's a dry twist to her voice, but only just.

"Yes, I do."

She smiles.

"And a glass of very good water, and a Verity, this is your life session with an archangel."

If nothing else.

"I'm afraid there are no extra-special secret guests from your past. Or present."

Michael spreads her hands wide, palm down.

"Just me."

"I'm not even sure I can be said to have a present at this point," Verity says.

And a future is right out.

But a past . . . yeah, one of those she's got.

"Anyway, I can't think of anyone I'd be especially interested in seeing, so just as well.

"You're more than enough."

"I hear that fairly often, all told."

She's still not smiling.

"And you're here, are you not? It might be a moment frozen in time, but you are aware of it. Which means, for lack of a better descriptor, it is your present."

And maybe it even is a gift.

Or maybe not.

"For some definition of the word here, at least."

Maybe not all, or even most, of them.

"So what shall we do with what is probably my last chance to use the present tense, Michael?"

"Mmm."

Michael appears to consider that, tapping her thumb against one corner of her mouth.

"The opening gambit, at least, is largely up to you."

"Pawn to queen's four, then.

"Though I am definitely not the queen in this particular strategy."

"No," Michael says evenly. "You're not."

It's a truth they both know very well.

"But neither am I."

"I suspect you have a better view of the board than I did, though.

"Still, the grandmasters aren't here, are they?

"So the white knight and the black pawn can meet in the no man's land in the middle of the game and swap cigarettes or something."

She frowns, thinking.

"That metaphor went a little awry."

"A better view of a board, at the least."

Michael flicks her fingers in a swift, dismissive gesture.

"And a longer view of history. I'm afraid I can't help you with the metaphor."

The metaphor is beyond help.

"You've seen a lot more of history than I did.

"Grand scheme of things, I'm really not that old.

"I died, for the first time, well after the Europeans reached the Americas.

"And for what it's worth, if you ever get to pick, being shot in the forehead has it all over being hanged.

"Especially if the hangman doesn't know a damn thing about how to tie a knot."

"Mmm. It's about on par with a headsman who doesn't know how to sharpen an axe."

She pauses a moment to consider that, lifting up her hand to push a few strands of hair out of her eyes.

"Or perhaps a little worse."

"Perhaps."

Well, reallly, they both pale in comparison to worse.

Verity went through a lot of worse, shortly after the hanging finally ended.

But that's hardly the point right now.

"Getting shot at least is quick.

"There's not even time to process the thought Sam Winchester actually shot me."

Michael's eyebrows hit her hairline, but the rest of her stays unmoving.

"I wouldn't have imagined that was a thought that required processing.

"Considering."

"Considering what?"