Apate was in his element.

Well, techinically, everywhere was his element these days. This place, however, was teeming with his element. More specifically, the richer, more well-to-do class of people.

The minor deity was in a rather posh restaurant, posing as a waiter today. À la Mode, it was called. No stranger to language, he always found that funny. This was a usual haunt of his.

Today, he had the usual form, though it was drastically down-dressed. No threepiece suit today, merely black slacks and vest over a white dress shirt. Uniform. He didn't like it, but he'd get by.

At the moment, he was selling a bottle of horrible inferior wine to a middle-aged couple. Apate had switched the papers encirling it* with a far more distinguished wine.

"As you can see, this wine is from 1935. A very good year, if I do say so myself." He flashed his winning smile. Finally, they gave in, not even bother to try it. Apate bowed and moved off, not even bothering to take their order to the kitchens. When the complained, he'd lie. He was very good at that.

He moved on to the next table.

Gods can sense other gods. Minor gods can sense the major ones like a fish can sense a shark-- a change in the current, perhaps. Vibrations in the water. Maybe just pure instinct.

Azrael is seated alone at a small table against the wall. It was originally a table for two, but the other chair simply goes unoccupied. Currently, he's using it to put his feet up on-- his legs are, after all, long enough.

He's dressed up a bit, in accordance to where he's dining. His suit is funeral-formal, black down to the shirt, and it all hangs loosely off of his thin frame. His hair is white, as always, and spiked, clashing with the formality of his suit. His eyes are, of course, white. This is something he can never change.

He's waiting to be served.

A big smile crosses the minor god's face. He knows.

Oh, he knows.

"Hello, sir. I'll be your waiter, Bobert, today. Would you like the sushi slash camel toe special we're currently serving today? Or perhaps a bottle of Château de la Mer Morte, 1653?" He pulled out a small notepad and pen from beneath the towel on his arm. He stared expectantly at the major god's mouth.

Never the eyes.

Azrael glances up, taking in the other god's form. A frown crosses his lips, quickly followed by a smile.

"Ahh... Bobert. I think I'd like to order off the menu, if that's okay with you. Safer that way."

He waves a hand idly. "Chicken Cordon Blue and... just water, I think, thank you. Been busy today?" Not that he expects an honest answer.

Surprisingly, Bobert doesn't lie. "Yes, I have been busy today. So many people, so little time." As he spoke, he wrote down his superior's order, hiding it away under the towel once more.

"Oh, and if you'd like to move to another table, I quite understand. That last people who sat there, ooh." He pinched his nose and shook his head, walking off to 'fill the order.'

He'd do it personally.

Azrael waves off the offer of another table and watches Apate, or 'Bobert', as he leaves.

And the leans back and relaxes to wait for his meal.

Coming back, through the swinging double doors, Bobert carried a tray with unerring skill. He weaved through the tables, around people, and when no one was looking, through a few empty chairs. (If anyone was looking, he'd merely deny it.)

Setting the plate in front of the gothic god, it becomes apparent that Bobert did not fill the order as well as he carried it. It was most certainly not Chicken Cordon Bleu; it was not anything even remotely chicken.

He'd brought a small pile of peas and carrots.

"Here you are, extra rare, just as you requested." Indeed, the vegetables had not even been heated.

One devil's-wing eyebrow lifts-- first at the food, and then at the little god of lies.

And then the corner of Azrael's mouth twitches and pulls up into a grin. "Why, thank you, Bobert. If you'll just bear with me..."

He swipes a hand over the plate. In its wake, the raw vegetables have changed into chicken-- the chicken that he ordered in the first place. It's even steaming with warmth.

"There, that's better."

Briefly, Bobert's face fell, but quickly he regained his composure. Gods were so much more difficult to phase.

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"

"No, I think not."

The elder god shifts his position, taking his feet off the seat across from his and grasping the silverware in his thing, spidery hand. And then he pauses, looking up at 'Bobert.'

"Have a seat," he suggests, with a nod towards the recently vacated chair across the table.

"Thank you sir, but I have some more work to do." Bobert had a seat.

He grabbed a nearby table leg, pulling it loose and revealing it to be his cane. He never went anywhere without it.

"Of course you do, Apate." Hmm, he slipped there-- calling the other god by a different name than the one he's currently using.

He cuts of a small piece of his chicken and places it in his mouth. He barely shews before it's gone.

"How have you been?"

Bobert was quick to cover the slip. "Sorry sir, but I am Bobert. I'm sure I don't know an Apate." Nothing that couldn't be lied about.

He leaned back in the chair, getting more comfortable. "I have been well. Yourself, sir?"

"Yes, of course, Bobert." Another piece of chicken disappears-- that's the only way to describe how Azrael eats. He seems to only chew for show.

"I've been... well, I've been pretty damn bored, except for the occasional perk."

"You've been bored?" Bobert sounds appalled. "Really, that's no good. You must have fun, or you may end up working yourself to -- well, no. You're likely to fall into a boredom induced coma. That is most definately no good." For a moment, he's serious. It passes, as quickly as it has come.

"Be careful of the food; the cook has long greasy hair that has a tendency to fall out."

"I'll be careful," Azrael agree, taking another bite.

As soon as it's gone, he says. "Boredom plagues our kind on occasion... I'll get over it. I have a few interesting prospects now that might turn into something to watch." Why he's telling the smaller god this, he's not sure.

"Is that so?" The intrigue was very apparent in his voice. If Azrael thought them interesting...

"So, your grace, how have things been on Mount Olympus? I have not been there in such a long time. Extended vacation, and all that."

Azrael snorts. "Not Mount Olympus anymore, Bobert. You must have been gone a while. That fell with the subsiding of the big lightning gods."

Another bite disappears into his cavernous mouth.

"We have a new goddess... and I really do mean new." There's a note of interest in his voice-- new things are rare and therefore worth savouring.

"She's the daughter of Amor. Amor..." a pause. "Disappeared, and apparently she somehow ascended to fill his place."

"Did he now?" Poor Bobert has been out of the loop for a long time. "I heard he merely was held up at the Bates Motel for some time." He can't resist.

"What is this new goddess' name?"

"Grace." Azrael pauses to consider, the fork halfway to his mouth.

"She's still very mortal. Very innocent in our ways."

"Grace, you say? It seems ironically fitting to the job. Does she fit the name?"

Bobert laughed. "A mortal god? That's absurd. She is catching on quickly, yes?"

"It seems. She's already catching on to the idea of broedom, fast enough."

He gestures with his fork and then places the morsel on it in his mouth.

Chew, chew. Disappear.

"The problem is that she's still thinking like a mortal-- still living like a mortal-- just with more power."

"Is she now? Someone should set her straight. She might blow someone's eye out, wielding it that way." A small smile crosses Bobert's face. He'd have to try that sometime.

He gestured to the chicken, saying, "Shall I give my compliments to the chef?"

"Yes, why not. Just don't break the poor man's heart."

Another bite of chicken slices off and stuffed into a smiling mouth.

"As for Grace... well, no doubt her human mind will eventually subside into the deitic one."

"One can only hope," Bobert didn't. He also didn't bother to get up and compliment the chef. He might do it later.

"What of these other prospects? Mortals? I hope for your sake, as they can be so intriguing. Their reactions are so interesting."

"Mortals, of course. A few curses, a few curious. Just recently a mortal mage asked a boon of me in a pub, where we met..."

Azrael grins.

"So I enchanted this brooch for him, and added a little extra... kick, that he doesn't yet know about."

Bobert could not help but smile himself. "Really? Did they know who you were when they asked?" This surprised him. That was a bold mortal.

"I haven't been to bar in such a long time. To much drunken raving nowadays for my tastes. Not enough falsities; the drink loosens their tongue too much. It's no fun trying to play with them either."

"Not everyone in a bar is drunk," Azrael advises.

"Yes, he know who I was." one long finger taps by the corner of his eye. "Recognized me. Smart mage, really... I'll be interested to see what he does when his little toy doesn't work exactly as he thought."

((Man, the gods are gossips. ^^))

"Yes, but the ones not drunk are the ones too virtuous for their own good," Bobert countered.

"How very audacious of him," he muttered. "You'll have to tell me what happens when he tries it."

((lol, I know. But what else do they have to do?))

"Or they haven't yet had a chance to get drunk."

The last morsel of chicken dissapears into his mouth.

"And, I might, I might."

((Not a whole lot, other than messing with the lives of mortals. ^^))

"Touché. Maybe I'll pop into one sometime soon."

At the last of the chicken, Bobert suddenly snapped back into the waiter role. Snapping his cane into oblivion and standing up quickly, he grabbed the plate and rushed off to the kitchens with a bow. When he returned, he had the pad and pen out once more.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

((True, and they do that often enough XD))

"Yes, I think... a slice of chocolate cheesecake, if you would."

He grins, almosy slyly. "I've been told I need to fatten up."

"Chocolate cake? I do not believe we have any of that," he said. There was, but lies are to be expected.

A small smile crossed Bobert's face. "Fattening, sir? I'm not so sure you can go much further..."

"No? Well, I'll have that anyways."

He laces his fingers together and smiles over them at the god-turned-waiter.

"Why, thank you..." Unclear if this is sarcasm or not.

((Ha, there is danger in insulting a god, of death no less. Patty knows no bounds. Don't know if that's good or bad.))

"Very well, sir." Scribble scribble. Said god-turned-waiter put the pad beneath the towel once more, scurrying off to the kitchens. He soon returned with a slice of chocolate cake.

"I'm sorry sir, we had no chocolate cake," he said, placing it in front of his customer.

It must get rather boring in conversations with the minor god with all the blantant lies.

Not that Bobert cares.

"That's okay, I didn't want chocolate cake, anyways." He says this looking Bobert straight in the eyes.

And then smiles, because... it's the truth. He wanted chocolate cheesecake.

Regardless, he picks up his dessert fork and begins eating.

Indeed, initially, it was what he said. Bobert had been sure to say there was no chocolate cake. The major god had requested it anyway.

He was quick to look away from the direct eye contact, however.

((Ha, a smooth cover up if I do say so myself. *shifty eyes* And I really should add the direct eye contact thing to his bio...))

((Smooth. And, can if you want. If people abuse it I will smack them.))

The major god takes a few more bites and then glances up at Bobert.

"Was there anything else? I think we exhausted small talk."

"Yes, I do believe we did. I think my shift is just about up, anyway," Bobert said, bowing. Always one for theatrics, he went for a smoke envelopment, coming out of the dispersed cloud in full suit and hat. He grabbed his cane once more, using it to tip his fedora.

"Cheerio, old chap." Perfect imitation of a refined english accent. With that, he turned and walked from the restaurant.

He may like theatrics, but he wasn't one to dawdle.

Usually.