Calcifer's Intrusion, Part I

Calcifer scowled, hunching over his cup of dark roast coffee (grounds in the cup) as he glared at the intruder. This was his coffee shop! He had staked his claim, and some, some angel had no right mucking up the place!

At his small, round table at the front of the shop, Azrael had not noticed the angry stare being aimed at the back of his head. After ordering his usual drink (soy latte with hazelnut), he had removed his Macbook from his book bag and set it open on his table, looking forward to continuing on his novel. Despite being assigned to watch and safeguard humanity for the past several thousand years, he was still having a nasty issue with the plot twist on page 79.

For several minutes, Calcifer watched his enemy type, his cup of coffee starting to boil from the heat of his palms. Several times, he felt the urge to simply start throwing fireballs. However, Calcifer prided himself on having learned from his time spent among the humans. Forcing his fingers to unclench, he took several deep breaths before rising to his feet.

Azrael continued to type, pausing only to push back his scarf every now and then as it slowly slid forward to cover the keys. The plot twist was still giving him trouble, he had to admit, but he had managed to work in some excellent character exposition. After a while, however, he realized that he could feel a second pair of eyes, reading over his shoulder.

As he spun around in his chair, Azrael wasn't sure whether to chastise (“How dare you read my work! It isn't finished yet!”) or to ask for opinions (“Do you think I've properly captured the introspective mood?”). When he laid eyes on his observer, however, the question died in his throat. He was definitely chastising.

“What do you think you're doing here?” he hissed at the smirking demon who had been squatting behind him.

Calcifer met his angry gaze. “Me? This is my coffee shop. You're the one who doesn't belong.”

Azrael sniffed loudly to show his derision. “Your coffee shop? As one destined to spread the word of God, I believe that such a bohemian abode is clearly my domain.”

Annoyingly, Calcifer didn't cower before this righteous tirade. Instead, he slid into the chair opposite Azrael, a slight grin flickering across his features. “If that's the word of God,” he commented wryly, nodding towards the laptop, “then God really ought to learn how to break up run-on sentences.”

The angel flushed scarlet at this insult to his writing abilities. “It's called stream of consciousness!” he spat, barely keeping his voice under control.

Calcifer shrugged. “Look, I don't really care,” he admitted. “But this place? It's between a college campus and downtown. This is where the addicts, the sinful students, the money-focused business traders, come to get their caffeine fix. Clearly it's my domain. Besides, I've got my own booth and everything.”

“Really,” sniffed Azrael. “Your own booth? I think Divine authority gives me more power than your reserved spot in the back.” He leaned back, glaring at the devil, but Calcifer remained undeterred, lifting up his hand to wave at somebody with a 'come hither' gesture.

The story continues in Part II!