They had fought in countless cities across the millennia. The granite tenement walls that framed the alleyway and the shadows of spires, turrets and domes that stretched between the gloomy orange lamplight made this as suitable a setting as any of the others. Not as Gothic as Prague of course, nor as symbolic as Jerusalem, but fitting enough.
Lucifer stood at one end of the alley, his lithe silhouette tapering out towards Michael.  Their eyes were locked and arc sodium light reflected a feral violence.
As, always, it was Lucifer who made the first move, bounding up the alleyway.  He already had his weapons unsheathed, ready to strike into Michael's soft flesh, but Michael, as always, was prepared for the charge.
.
The sound of their battling could be heard up and down the street.  In number 34, the noise awoke Mrs. J. Masson from a light slumber next to her comatose husband. Careful not to wake him up, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the window looking down on the alley. She opened it up, stuck her head out into the chill of night and then, turning towards the warring angels, half screeched, half whispered,
"Get away you noisy beasts! Go, on scat!"
She waved her arms emphatically and Michael, who had his blades buried in Lucifer's side, turned and looked up at her, quizzically.
"You heard me! People want their sleep!"
And then the injured white rolled out of the black's grasp and ran off into the night.

It always turned out that way.