The street's quieter than usual for an evening, many of the windows dark:
hello, Thanksgiving holidays. Kitty and Pete's place is /not/ dark, at
all. Actually, it looks like someone might just have gone through and
turned on /all/ the lights sheerly for the sake of letting the glow spill
out the windows, making the place look alive.

There's a nip in the air, but apart from the cold, and the dark clouds
overhead, it's a fairly nice night. The moon is nearly blocked out,
leaving little to reveal the shadowed figure of Liam as he wings his way
in, landing neatly just in front of the door. Slinging his coat casually
over his shoulders, he knocks lightly.

"Minute!" is called somewhere inside - it's rather less than that before
the door's unlocked and pulled open, and a Kitty in jeans and a green
sweater blinks at Liam for a moment and then administers a quick, perhaps
unexpected half-hug. Half, because her hands don't go further back than
shoulders, and through the coat at that: got to be careful of the wings.
"Liam! Hi, you! Come in, come in, come on!" She's grinning, almost bubbly.
So this is what actual /enthusiasm/ looks like on her.

Liam is completely startled at the hug, though it's more than permitted,
and his arms close hesitantly around Kitty for a second or two. Blinking,
he offers her a grin -- one of his brighter ones, surprised into it. "Give
you good evenin'. Of which I'm gatherin' you're already havin' one." He
enters as beckoned.

"Yeah. We talked Kess and Tulio into coming over later -" Kitty settles
the door closed behind him, giving the lock an extra pat as it's turned.
"And I managed to coop Lockheed up /out/ of the kitchen, and we've got
enough food for about two months in there, and Pete thinks I've gone
completely mad. It's great. Can I get you anything? And I mean /anything/,
we've probably got it around." Welcome to the holiday season.

"Sorry," says Liam automatically, "Am I interruptin'?" Both bemused and
amused by hurricane Kitty, he'll wait for indication that he is not before
he leans down to unlace his boots.

It's quickly forthcoming, along with a laugh. "You're not interrupting
/anything/. Promise. And as far as /I/ know, you don't have anything to be
sorry for, either." Kitty starts to hold out a hand, checks herself and
lets him deal with his boots in peace - tucks her hands behind her back
instead. And she's /still/ grinning, shamelessly, brilliantly pleased with
the universe in general just at the moment. Look. Holidays. Mounds of
food. Surprise visits from friends. /Planned/ visits with friends. Arguing
about where to put the menorah. /Normal life/. Isn't it great?

It /is/ great, which makes Liam so much less inclined to ask or tell her
about any of those angsty maudlin things he has to worry about tonight.
Boots stepped out of, the angel straightens and smiles at Kitty.
"Everythin's been goin' well, then?"

Poor angel. Kitty nods to him, all the same. "More or less. Oh, there's
the usual amount of weird ambient doom, but we've got a handle on a lot of
it, and what we don't, we've got contingency plans for in case things get
out of hand." She waves a hand. "Well, the stuff we know about, anyway.
Reminds me, I need to drop first aid supplies off with Jack, make sure
he's stocked up. Honest - can I get you anything?" No, the mention of
medical supplies isn't any less generally pleased than everything else.
"Water? Coffee? Tea? Guinness? Chocolate chip cookies?"

"Tea an' a chocolate chip cookie sound wonderful, lass," replies Liam,
generally pleased. He can't help but pick up on her mood, which is really
just what he'd needed. A cheerful, well-lit interlude in his evening. "Any
weird ambient doom I can help with?"

That provides a Kitty an excuse to head for the kitchen, trailed by
laughter again. "Want anything in it?" she calls back. "The tea, I mean,
not the weird ambient doom. Um. If you hear anything about people with
black feathers who /aren't/ you - or a little girl with a red balloon -
I'd love to hear about it. And, uh - forewarning that you might get
dragged somebody with a nasty gunshot wound in the next few months,
sometime. Sorry that it's not exactly a /precise/ warning; our seer is
frequently accurate but often Delphic."

Liam limps after Kitty, pausing to hang his coat up. The black wings
stretch and settle behind him as he reaches his now-accustomed spot
leaning against the kitchen doorjamb. "Black feathers? 'Fraid I'm the only
one I know of. An' nothin' on red balloons. Would this be the elusive an'
mysterious Claire St. Thomas?"

Kitty pauses in fussing over a kettle to glance over touch herself on the
nose with a fingertip. "Got it in one. Cookies are right over there, go
ahead -" She gestures to an only mildly heaped platter. The kitchen itself
is in a state of pleasant chaos, tangled cords and stacked dishes and a
crockpot simmering quietly and the pervasive smells of baking and of
mulled cider. And a stack of printed recipes weighted down by a bag of
apples. "I didn't know you'd heard of her - though on second thought, it
doesn't surprise me much. By definition, she probably knows /everyone/.
Met her yet?"

"Haven't," says Liam. "Got an indirect message from her, apparently I'm to
stay in on Saturday. Which I'm still tryin' to make somethin' of. Should I
trust her?" He blinks around the kitchen -- the homey chaos can't help but
bring another curve to his lips. He leaves his station at the door in
order to sample a cookie. "Oh," he adds belatedly, "an' gunshot wounds're
no problem, you know you can call on me anytime."

The cookies are a stealthy, insidious form of evil - not only are they
still warm and suitably chocolate-melty, but there's enough vanilla
involved in their baking that they're practically still alcoholic. Kitty
blows Liam a kiss at his last comment, still a little distracted from his
question, then hunts teacups - and looks mildly alarmed; apparently
they're still in the dishwasher. A Pinky and the Brain mug is called into
service in their place. "Huh. I wonder what's going down Saturday. I don't
know if /trust/ is exactly the word - I haven't yet heard of her actually
being /wrong/." She gives Liam a serious glance. "But she's frequently
right in a way that's particularly hard to work out. It's hard for her to
sift through everything she perceives and bring it down to a level that we
can understand. And I'm not sure it's easy for her to tell whether or not
the things she sees are /real/, if that makes sense - she seems to see
dreams as well as possible futures, and I'm not sure she actually thinks
of them as /different things/." A glance to the kettle. It's not whistling
yet. Hurry up. "I think she means well, definitely. But - well, we won't
know how good she is at what she's doing till after it's over with. Did
you get the actual phrasing of what she said, from whoever brought the
message? For that matter, did she even say which Saturday?"

"Lorne," clarifies Liam, because he trusts Kitty. "An' he just said that
/she/ said that I were to stay home next Saturday. Which has me a bit
wonderin', not to mention I'm not even certain what day today is." He
gives Kitty a wry look -- and then closes his eyes as he bites into a
cookie. Mmmmmmffff. Chew. Swallow. "Now this?" Remnants of cookie,
brandished. "*This* is heaven. I'd no idea you could cook on top of
everythin' else."

Kitty replies amusedly, "I can't. You didn't see the /other/ three
batches." She's good at the mathematical aspects of cooking, timing and
calculation and scheduling and proportions - but it's as much art as
science, and the only art she's ever really taken up is dancing. She leans
back against another bit of counter, getting some kind of sauce on the
back of her sweater without noticing. "Day after tomorrow, I think. Unless
/I/ lost track, which is ... well, pretty possible. Been kinda busy. I can
think of some possibilities on that - maybe somebody's going to come
looking for you there, and it'd be important, from her point of view, for
them to find you; maybe she sees you going out and getting hurt, and it's
something you can avoid by staying home without getting worse consequences
later." She shrugs helplessly. "Or maybe the message got confused. I've
got /no/ idea."

"Aye, well, that's about as helpful as my own opinion on the subject,"
replies Liam, wryly. Shaking his head, he takes another bite of cookie,
and finds a free spot on the edge of the table to rest his hand, so he can
lean. "Not much for believin' in destiny, anyway. Likely I'll forget which
day it is, an' what happens, happens."

Finally there's a sharp sound from the kettle - no, not an explosion, that
only seems to happen when Pete's the one dealing with it - and Kitty pulls
it off the heat. Hot water for tea, and a steeping mug to be presented to
the angel shortly thereafter. She eyes the table. "Um." A moment later, a
stray stack of plates has been relocated to a random cabinet, and there's
space to put the mug /down/ in. "Want anything for it? Milk, sugar,
anything - yeah. I'm with you on /that/ one." Her eyes are still
laughing-bright, no fear, no particular concern. "Take it as a warning, be
braced for trouble, and then don't /worry/ about it. Even Claire admits
that the things she sees can be changed."

"Ta," says Liam, cheerfully, both for the tea and the advice. "Expect
that's what I'll do. Too much to worry about to bother worryin' about it.
Ah... if that makes sense." He's leaning against the table in the kitchen
that Kitty's filled with foodly chaos; his coat's been hung up and the
black wings are folded close to his back. "An' no, nothin' for the tea."

There's a key in the lock, not particularly audible in the kitchen due to
steam and bubbles and conversation, but then the sound of someone coming
in humming and shutting the door follows. "Here already?" comes Pete's
voice, and as he's saying it he's actually coming into the kitchen, coat
still on, carrying a suspiciously clanking brown bag. "Oh, Liam! All
right?"

Kitty's eyebrows lift at Liam's phrasing. "Got other things on your mind?"
she asks angelward, and then there's door-sound and she tips her head to
one side, only for her grin to recur promptly at the sound of a recognized
voice. "Hi, you. Was starting to wonder if you'd got eaten or something."
Clanking? Huh.

"I do," replies Liam to Kitty, amiably, "but you probably don't want to
hear it. S'always the bloody angels. Pete!" Pleasure there -- it's been a
while since the angel's seen the guy, and navy eyes brighten and spark.
Really. "Alright. Warmin' up an' partakin' of Kitty's utterly fantastic
cookies."

"Haven't got eaten. Just wondering when we can start eatin'," replies Pete
with a please-don't-hit-me grin, setting the bag on...the floor in the
corner, then leaning over the table to give Kitty a brief kiss. Then he's
giving Liam an astonished look, "Utterly fantastic, is it? And you're not
dead yet? Pryde, have you got Mrs Fields locked in the ducts again?" Yes,
undoing bag. It contains a six of Bass, a six of Killian's Red, a small
bottle of rum and one of Jameson's. "Doctor your tea?"

These two have the most fascinating things happen to their eyes from time
to time. Sparks. Glowing. It's fascinating to watch - oh, hey, kiss. But
brief one, because also, guest. "/You/ don't get to find out," Kitty
retorts to Pete, "till after dinner. No, I just finally worked out how hot
the oven was running." Among other variables they tend not to mention in
cookbooks. "Always the - They're not after you because of the whole deal
with Deimos, are they?" Somehow she manages to insert concern in her tone
and glance to Liam without actually damaging her overall brighter mood.
Mostly by way of half-amused indignation on his behalf.

And he was being so good, going for tea instead of Guinness. There's only
so much self-restraint one poor angel can muster. The lights are dying in
his eyes again, leaving them warmly navy. "Aye, you might at that," he
says to Pete with a grin. "Ta." And, shaking his head at Kitty, "Nah, not
so far. At least, Bartleby weren't, an' jury were still out on Loki, but
since I've not heard from him, or had him come after me with a sword or
anythin', I'm thinkin' it's alright on that score." His own smile fades
for a moment -- torn between news they should know, and not wanting to
take a chance on ruining their evening. Responsibility wins out, and he
adds as casually as possible, "Current theory is, they've kidnapped Marley
an' are goin' to try an' use her to open a portal to heaven."

Opening the bottle of whiskey with one hand and theiving a cookie with the
other, Pete waits until he's pouring and his mouth is full before
contributing to the conversation. "Likely she's enjoying it," he says,
managing to get the minimum of crumbs on his tie, and pouring expertly.
"If she's not, she's got a marvellous ice cream truck driver to save her."
He steals another cookie and stuffs it in his mouth with the other.

"Pete..." The groan was inevitable, really. Kitty shakes her head,
flashing Liam a brief apologetic look. About the manners, anyway, even if
not about the content. "Has anybody warned them that with her, /heaven/
isn't exactly where they're likely to get? Not that they sound all that
likely to listen, but..."

"Haven't warned them about anythin'," replies Liam, with some asperity,
not /quite/ taken aback by Pete. "Spent four days now tryin' to find the
bastards. When I don't want them, I'm trippin' over them." He shakes his
head, and continues more mildly. "An' as I'm also on the list of those
what need to rescue her, lucky me. At least it looks like they're delayin'
for some reason." Mmm. Doctored tea. Alcohol'd be good right about now,
and Liam lifts his mug to take a sip.

"Maybe they want her for a turkey instead," suggests Pete, casting Kitty a
sidelong grin, pouring himself a cup of hot water and going fishing for
Earl Grey. "You rescuing her 'cos she needs it or 'cos their plan might
actually work, cracked as it sounds?" There's a brief pause, and summer
blue eyes fix on navy. "Saving Marley rarely accomplishes what it's meant
to."

There's really nothing Kitty can add to that, save for a brief and mild
glare at Pete at the turkey suggestion. Portals to heaven? Cracked angels?
Not her specialty. Well, that and another brief commiserating glance to
Liam. Four days trying to find two people in a city the size of Beacon
Harbor: gah.

Liam watches Pete over the rim of his mug, before he lowers the drink,
holding it in his hand. "I've no doubt Marley'd more'n like to see me
dead," he replies, with a shrug. "For her. For Bartleby. For someone else,
who cares more'n she should. It's what I do. Can't watch anyone suffer."
It's what I am. "An' if it works? I doubt they'll get what they think
they're goin' to, though even so, if it's Bartleby's heaven? Won't be
anywhere you want to see."

"Well, don't get killed," replies Pete quietly, finding the tea he wanted
and fiddling with the bag and his mug - his 'I hate it here' Far Side hell
mug. "And if you're injured you know where to come. I told the both of
them I never wanted to see them again, and I meant it." After a couple
more seconds of determined dunking, he tosses the bag into the trash and
doctors his own tea, glancing up. "What's this, then? The portal meant to
bring heaven to Earth? Didn't know the psycho angels were JWs."

Kitty gives in and slips over to steal a cookie herself - her hand brushes
against one of Pete's on the way. "People of less than steady sanity
messing with portals of /any/ kind more complicated than the door to their
bedroom closet - not such a hot plan." Look what happened to this place
already! - er. Not flinging herself in with the usual prompt offer of
assistance, either, not this time around ... but indirect help? Hers is
implied along with Pete's. If you're injured you know where to come.

Liam wasn't asking for assistance, really -- he knows damn well what
Marley did to Kitty and Pete. He just feels the need to keep them informed
about things. Information is good. "Haven't a clue, really. About the
portal. Only the ritual they're goin' to use? Were meant to open a portal
to hell. An' I'm thinkin' no good can come of that." Lopsided smile at
Pete. "Gettin' killed isn't part of the plan, no." Shaking his head, he
puts his mug down on the table. "Nor should I be insertin' death an'
destruction on your dinner," he adds, wryly. "I'll get out of your way.
Need to keep lookin'."

"Feh, look /after/ dinner. Stay. There's enough food to feed the bleeding
Space Patrol, Liam. And that's a *lot*, coming from me." Leaning
comfortably against the counter, Pete gulps down a healthy portion of his
deadly bliss. Still hasn't taken his coat off yet - enjoying the sensation
of being slightly overwarm, what with the coat *and* the resident
cooking-heat of the kitchen. Then he glances at Kitty. "Closet door's
*sorted*, dammitall. I fixed the hinge."

Kitty chimes lightly back at Pete, sing-song, "Just checking." Her bright
eyes slide back over to Liam, open invitation. "Keep up your strength for
flying?" she suggests. "Wouldn't do to slide out of the sky - especially
since it wasn't that long ago you were hurt..." Not demanding he stay, no,
but the offer's definitely there. Along with just enough absently devious
determination that if he says 'no' he might come back to his own apartment
to find the fridge restocked in his absence with leftovers.

Liam hesitates. Sort of torn, really --- because, duty. And yet, Pete and
Kitty. His chances of finding Loki and Bartleby in a city the size of
Beacon Harbor being, in fact, very small, the angel draws a breath, and
relents, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Ach, well.... if I'd not be in
the way, sure an' I might warm up for a bit longer. With better
conversation, mind! Tell you about this bloke I saw on a corner the other
day..."