The Legend of the Pervy Archangel
Michael tried to get comfortable on the bench. This didn't sound overly difficult, but that was simply because most people had never tried lying on a bench. They were hard and unyielding, absolute murder on your bones, especially your back. They also weren't very long, usually no more than maybe five or six feet at most—and since he stood at a good six foot six, that meant he just didn't fit on this little five foot bench. His entire calf and some of his thigh hung of, leaving him astoundingly uncomfortable.
If that was his only problem, then maybe he would have been able to deal with it. Maybe. But, on top of being in forced into a posture that disagreed with his joints and muscles, he was also cold. Being an angel, and an Archangel at that, Michael never had to worry about things like temperature. Heaven always had perfect weather, and while Hell was sweltering hot, he usually found himself too busy fighting to be bothered by any foul-smelling liquid he excreted through his pores.
There was also the fact that Hell smelled of sulfur and brimstone.
He shifted again, trying to get comfortable without success. In an attempt to ignore the agitated pain in his back, Michael tried to disassociate his mind from his body. He did this by thinking about other things, like, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do now.
God had said that until he repented for his sin, he would not be allowed back into Heaven. That was all well and good, but just how did one repent for peeping on women in the hot spring? By not peeping? For how long? Did God intend to watch him to see if he was peeping, or was there some other method of repenting that God had planned?
Michael, being God's Right Hand and everything, liked to think that he knew a little more about the man up top than most angels. A good example would be that he knew how fond God was of overly complicated and incredibly vague plans that made absolutely no sense to anyone but himself.
Like when God created man. That made no sense. Or when God created woman. That made even less sense.
For all his knowledge of God, Michael still couldn't figure out what God's purpose was for sending him down to earth. The only thing he had managed to figure out thus far was that his purpose had something to do with the girl, Alice. They had met under strange circumstances (and yes, even Michael considered falling on top of someone and randomly squeezing their boobs strange), which could only be God's hand at work.
That still left him with a lot of blank spaces, though. What was he supposed to do for the girl? Was he supposed to help her? How much should he help? How much was he allowed to help her? And if he wasn't supposed to help her, then just what was he supposed to do? Questions, questions, and more questions. It seemed like all Michael had were an abundance of questions and nothing to help him answer them.
The sound of footsteps caused Michael to blink his eyes open. His vision was a bit fuzzy, making him realize that he'd actually managed to fall asleep somehow, or at least fall into a hazy, half-dazed state. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring at a pair of milky white thighs.
“My face if up here, perv.”
Following the white thighs up to a pair of hip-hugging black shorts, he then moved over them to a partially bare stomach that had very little in the way of fat on it. His eyes continued roving up to see a black halter top, then slender shoulders and an elegant white neck, and finally, to a familiar face.
Angry dark eyes glared at him from beneath thick lashes.
“Alice?” He blinked again, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. “What are you doing out here? It's cold, you know. You should go back inside.”
“I am going back inside,” she snapped, sounding upset about something. Michael didn't know what had caused her to be so angry, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know either. Women, be they human or angel, seemed to be a fickle bunch. “Just as soon as I drag your ass inside with me.”
“There you go swearing again.” Michael sighed. Why did this girl have such a foul mouth on her? Were all mortal women like that? Or was she an exception to the rule. “I really wish you'd―wait.” He blinked, his mind processing the rest of her words. “What did you say?”
“I said you're coming with me.” Alice placed her hands on her hips. “I can't very well leave you to die in the cold, can I? Now come on. Get your ass up and follow me before I change my mind.”
Michael decided not to argue. He didn't even think of contending with her, especially not when she was offering him room and board. That would be stupid.
So he got up and followed her as she led him up the stairs and into her apartment. A small smile appeared on his face. This girl, despite her appearance and attitude to the contrary, was actually quite kind. He didn’t know much about humans, but he was sure that most of them wouldn’t accept a stranger into their house.
He stepped into her apartment, allowing Alice to close and lock the door behind them. Michael took one look at her place and then said, “wow. This place is really barren, and it’s a mess.”
“You've got no right to complain,” Alice snapped, her eyes narrowed fiercely. If looks could kill, Michael would have already been lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. “It's better than lying down on a small bench in the middle of winter.”
“Woah, woah.” Michael held his hands up in a defensive warding gesture. “Easy there. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm grateful that you're allowing me to stay here.” He smiled at her.
“You're truly a wonderful young woman.”
Alice, despite herself, blushed.
“Oh... well, thanks, I guess.”
“Even though you're vulgar and uncouth and you swear far too much, you're obviously a very good person.”
Alice's eyebrow began to twitch, violently.
So did her fists.
Several seconds later a loud crash echoed around the apartment. Michael felt incredible pain explode on his cranium as a fist smashed down on top him. He then found his face planted into the floor, where he lay, moaning and twitching. There was the sound of stomping feet, heard clearly over his own groans of agony, and then the slamming of the door.
Blinking the tears from his eyes, Michael sat up and rubbed the spot where Alice had hit him. He could feel the large bump on the crown of his head, like a hill rising out of his hair. It stung quite a bit, a dull throbbing that wouldn't be going away anytime soon. That girl, she hit almost as hard as Gabriel!
“Just like my luck that the girl I'm supposed to help is as violent as Gabriel.”
A decision was made right then and there.
He would never tell a woman that her house was a mess ever again. It would just cause more problems in the future.
A wise decision indeed.
Michael winced, putting his hands on the floor and pushing himself to his feet. He swayed a bit, a sense of vertigo nearly causing him to fall back down, but he managed to find his equilibrium through sheer force of will and grit. He then shook his head, which made him wince as the throbbing intensified.
Moving his head slowly so as not to agitate the injury, Michael took a gander around the interior of the apartment. It wasn't much, as far as apartments went. Even his residence back in Heaven, Spartan enough that not even Spartans thought it had enough decorations, had more than this place. The living space had no couch or chairs or even a table. There was nothing. Just an empty space with dirty carpet that looked like someone had eaten there, made a mess, and never bothered cleaning it up.
He then looked at the kitchen, clearly the messiest place there. He'd never seen such a decadent display of putrid grime and filth in all his life. Considering he was an angel that had been alive for, well, a really long time, that spoke of just how soiled that kitchen truly was.
“Since Alice is letting me stay here, I think it's only right that I help her out with this. At least a little bit.”
Rolling up the imaginary sleeves of his toga, mainly because his toga didn't have sleeves, Michael made his way over to the kitchen.
“Look out grime! The Archangel Michael is here to cleanse this place of your filth!”
It was time to go to work.