Jack Hardcourt, record owner extraordinaire, can count the number of sane women he's dated on one hand; even if he lost a finger or two, he could still do it. Perhaps that penchant for crazy is what keeps him from throwing Claire Rogers out of his office.
Or...it could be the smooth legs, round hips, and devilish way the sundress she's wearing clings in all the right places. He is, after all, a dude.
"Run that by me again," he says.
"Rigged election. Devil may win. Apocalypse coming. Need your help."
He nods. "Right, that's what I thought you said." He takes her hand, places it against his forehead. "Am I feverish?" he asks.
She frowns at him - that librarian frown she uses when he's being particularly dense and her patience is wearing thin - but she doesn't move her hand. "In this one instance, Jack, God isn't a hallucination." She slides her hand down the side of his face, rests it against his cheek and runs her thumb along the ridge just below his eye. He feels like he's maybe - just maybe - hit the lottery. "Sorry," she says.
"For what?" he asks, bordering on happy for the first time in at least ten years.
She slaps him. Full on slaps him, hard enough his fillings rattle, and he nearly falls over from shock. When he looks at her, he sees colors and wonders if she knocked something lose in his already pretty frazzled brain; all around her, the air shimmers with colors.
"What the fuck..."
She smiles. "Do you see the colors?" she asks and he nods, transfixed. "Good. That means it worked!"
This focuses him. "What worked?" He moves his jaw, massages the spot where she hit him. It tingles, like pins and needles. "What did you hit me with?"
She shows him her hand; wrapped around her middle finger is a large, silver and dark wood ring he's never seen before. Carved into the dark wood is an owl; it raises an eyebrow as he stares at it and he leans back, immediately freaked.
She grins. "I literally just slapped some sense into you." She looks down at the owl, which has gone back to being still. "Artemis gave it to me for occasions just like this."
He's saved from comment as the bay doors blow open behind them and Claire's Uncle Mike arrives...wearing white linen pants, a white linen tunic, and huge fucking wings. Jack falls over the edge of the desk.
"Jesus Christ, what's with the wings!?"
Michael chuckles, shakes his head. "Don't let the sandals fool you, Jack," he says. "JC isn't nearly this white - or good looking."
Jack's poor mortal brain gives up on him; he passes out, his head hitting the concrete with a thud. Mike grins at Claire, who's glaring at the archangel.
"That sounded hollow to me," he says, laughing.
Claire slaps his wings. "Shut up, buzzard, and help me get him to the couch."