caveofsapphires | suddenly my eyes are open [open]

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suddenly my eyes are open [open]

WHO: Gabriel (Sylvester Wilton) and [OPEN]
WHAT: Gabriel got taken in for a memory-modification. Now he's a little bit weirded out.
WHERE: Sleeping quarters, Bakery, Bar, Temple, streets in-between.
WHEN: Tuesday 10 to Saturday 21 April 2012.

This was one Hell of an elaborate prank. Except that Gabriel was starting to doubt that it was a prank, exactly. Dad wouldn't have thrown him into a place where the inhabitants drilled into his skull. Or experimented on him. Or ... did something Gabriel wasn't quite aware of but which must have happened, because going off to the clinic and then waking up in his quarters without knowing the in-between kind of indicated something happened in the in-between. All at once he remembered the 'dancing alien' prank he'd pulled and wondered if this was in any way similar. Maybe Lucifer had done it, except that Gabriel was fairly sure even Lucifer had no idea where archangels went after they died or how to capture them before they went there.

Maybe this was some kind of archangel's afterlife. If so, Gabriel's only hope was that Luci's turned out worse in the end.

With a groan Gabriel rubbed his temples, trying to wish away the ... it wasn't a throb, exactly. More like a hollow ache. He'd tried to snap it away, naturally, but that had only made the headache worse, so he'd stopped.

"Note to self," he told his reflection in the mirror. "This ain't a game anymore, and pushing the line results in ... in ... something. Just because you've already died apparently doesn't mean it can't happen again. I mean, look at the Winchesters."

With that pep-talk, he staggered to his feet and out the door.

The next five days were, in a word, weird. He still had no idea how to bake, but when he walked into the bakery on Tuesday he found himself automatically pulling out the ingredients for icing and had finished making a multi-tier wedding cake before he realised what he was doing. (Of course, then he had get rid of the excess icing. The cake wasn't actually saleable either, but Gabriel figured he deserved a reward for actually doing some baking and not having it completely burn.)

Tuesday night and Wednesday morning he discovered that powerless archangels in human bodies could, indeed, get sick from eating too much sugar. He made it to work--for a little while--he just didn't get much work done. (Instead he spent most of it looking green and slumped on a chair near the cash-register, with neither the appetite for sweets nor the energy to bake.)

On Thursday after work he went to the bar. If he could get sick, maybe he could get drunk too, and then he could get rid of this niggling uneasiness (fear) that Something Was Wrong. He succeeded in getting drunk quite well, and for a happily oblivious night completely forgot what the hell he was meant to be uneasy about, if anything.

He just didn't make it to work on Friday and spent the day in bed, groaning over the hangover, yelling at anyone who made too much noise and then going back to bed to groan some more.

On Saturday he found the Temple, a tiny little hole in the wall whose only two seats were cut into stone and whose altar sported a couple of thick candles. There was another worshipper, but he left when Gabriel told him to skedaddle, and then the archangel had a very unproductive one-sided conversation with the candles. Anyone passing by might have heard the final rather frustrated and faintly echoing refrain of, "Dad, if you can hear me, get me out of here!"

By Sunday morning something had settled in his mind and he finally became aware that he, in fact, had an extra memory that had been hiding by pretending it belonged there. A memory of baking a multi-tier wedding cake, colour-coordinated with the wedding party, with the mother-in-law hovering over his shoulder. The realisation it was there made him shiver.

He imagined it lurking and giggling, and named it Marie.

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"Who said anything about steering him into it?" Gabriel asked innocently, giving Aziraphale a winsome smile. His actual point had been that he'd just happened to see the guy's soul in need of just desserts, and there just happened to be a cement truck nearby, and since it was appropriate ... no, spontaneity didn't mean a lack of creativity at all.

There were a lot of things there that Gabriel could say, and most of them he didn't want to. Most of them included talking about how he'd left Heaven because he didn't want to fight, but hadn't actually questioned, until about five minutes before his death. At least, he hadn't let himself. Part of him had been for a while; that was the part he'd spent two thousand years ignoring.

He settled for muttering, "The world's a better place than most of the family liked to believe," an unintentional wistful note in his tone. A better place than a lot of humans even liked to believe. There were good things about Heaven, but most of the things that had been good about it had degraded badly by the time he'd left, let alone by the time of Armageddon.

Aziraphale stared into his wineglass again. This was where it all got complicated. Questioning was so different for everyone. Falling was so different for everyone. It wasn't a matter of here is the line, toe it or you'll Fall; it was a matter of opaquely-defined "right thinking", a certain level of blind obedience, and a complete lack of creativity.

Crowley, for example, had not asked to Fall. He hadn't particularly wanted to Fall. He had, as it were, hung out with the wrong crowd. Crowley wasn't much of a demon at all. And then you had the Metatron, who was cruel while at the same time being entirely boring, and he was the height of holiness. Somewhere on this same spectrum was Aziraphale, who had uncharitable thoughts, who had doubted, who had (though he was loath to admit it) sinned, who was now human - being punished or rewarded or simply having fallen off the radar by accident, he had no way of knowing - and he was an angel, more or less.

What was fair about that?

"They are a tremendously stupid bunch, overall," he said, frowning and not really listening to himself. "They never paid attention. I understand Hell is quite the same. Just a clutch of the Fallen with the same single-minded dedication to . . . the end of everything." He glanced up at Gabriel then, and his expression of polite puzzlement was simultaneously the most and least angelic ever found on a human body. "The world is lovely, though, I don't know why they don't see it."

That was an odd phrasing--as if Hell had no demons, nothing but Fallen angels. Gabriel let it tick over in his mind for a moment, then decided it was a better subject to be continuing on with than this suddenly far-deeper-than-he-intended heart-to-heart. Then he changed his mind again almost instantly. How often had he been able to talk about this with a brother, after all? Someone who might actually get it? Castiel didn't count. He'd been like a sheepdog with a bone called Winchester, and just a little too smug because he thought he'd worked it all out and Gabriel hadn't.

Well, excuse him for having issues. That didn't mean the archangel was going to answer seriously, of course. Couldn't give up his reputation just like that!

"There's too much light in their eyes," he said with a smirk. "It blinds them from seeing any of the good stuff. You know, like television, pizza, pudding and sex."

While Aziraphale was not particularly fond of television, pizza, pudding, or sex, he took Gabriel's point, although his lips did turn down at the corners slightly at the mention of pudding - really, there were so many better things you could put in your mouth - and sex, simply because he didn't see the appeal. Books, he amended, and tea, and good dinners, and no hosannas, and conversations, real conversations. He didn't say any of this aloud because he was certain Gabriel would make fun of him.

Still, he leaned forward, steepling his fingers. A serious expression settled on his face. "My main confusion," he said, carefully leaving out the part where he had not come to it independently - the idea had been Crowley's, the idea was always Crowley's - "is in the concept that, even if a creation far surpasses its intentions, Plans can't be changed. As if they're set in stone - well, I suppose they are literally set in stone somewhere - but the point is - "

He struggled to find a point. "The point is," he managed at last, "it's not worth it. All the light at the expense of being able to - to learn."

Gabriel probably would have. Or brought up porn. And never, ever had admitted that a good conversation with someone was something he'd missed, was the reason he was willing to let this one continue despite the territory it was treading on.

"Plans can always change," Gabriel said with a roll of his eyes, tilting up his bottle to take a drink. "Or so I've heard, anyway. Our family's just not very good at working on the fly. It's probably that blindness syndrome."

He rapped the table surface thoughtfully. "I wonder if we'd gone better if I'd made it a compulsory field-trip for angels to be human for a lifetime. Anael went native and it worked well for her, up until she got her Grace back." Sure, his family would object strenuously to losing their Grace, however temporarily, but it was a thought. Part of him wished he'd had it sooner, before he'd had to tell the Winchesters how to throw Lucifer back into his cage.

Aziraphale considered this and took another sip, letting his hand cup the bowl of his wineglass reverently. "It certainly couldn't have hurt," he mused. "I found that my time on Earth provided . . . " He let out a puff of air. "Perspective."

With a quick look at Gabriel - an ancient, cynical look that might have surprised those who'd known him before - he added, "But it would never work. There's pride at stake, after all." Just because pride was a sin did not preclude the Host from feeling its influence. Quite the opposite, in his experience. In fact, the version of Gabriel he was familiar with had been quite prideful indeed (although in that respect he was not yet convinced that this other Gabriel was much different).

"That's easily fixed by taking away their memories," Gabriel said in the semi-whimsical tone of someone who was seriously planning a venture even though they knew it was a pipedream. "Anael lost all hers when she tore out her Grace. Solves any prior personality issues."

Come to think of it, he didn't know just what had happened to Anael. He knew that she's gotten her Grace back, but otherwise all he knew was that she was still avoiding being dragged back to Heaven. "Of course then you'd need to keep an eye on them for the rest of their lives," he added with a longsuffering sigh. "And if their childhoods suck, humanity is still doomed. But still."

"Mm, I don't know about that . . . " Aziraphale brightened slightly, interested in the idea even though, yes, it was impossible, and that really wasn't them anymore. Still. "There's so much of life after childhood. And even if your childhood is wonderful, being an adult can be very unpleasant. It's all a game of chance, really, and a matter of experiencing everything that humans experience."

In other words: taking the good with the bad. Which would be the ultimate stumbling block, of course, because angels were not good at taking the good with the bad. Aziraphale sighed and finished his wine. They were all so . . . stubborn.

"Ah, yes, chance," Gabriel murmured, a smile on his lips that was somewhere between a smirk, plain nostalgia and wistfulness. "The best game of all. Sometimes."

He swigged his beer. There were times he'd visited casinos, and he'd always gone for the games of chance. Sure, he could manipulate them just like every other game in there, nudge the ball or die to come out what he wanted them to, but he didn't have to. And when he didn't, he had no idea what was going to happen. It wasn't like poker or blackjack, when he could simply see the players' souls, the dealer's hand, and couldn't help it.

"'Course, it'd do them some good," he added musingly. "Being taken down a few hundred notches. Wallowing in the mud, same as the monkeys." His intonation was mocking, mimicking of his brothers' customary insult, and he rolled his eyes. "Is our club exclusive or what?"

"It is a bit." Aziraphale made a sour face, tapping the stem of the glass. As if angels were the superior creation. He wondered what He really thought of them all, sometimes. After all, he had allowed the Apocalypse to be averted - or at least not made a fuss about it, and when God made a fuss, well, it was quite a big fuss. Someone would have noticed. Aziraphale would have noticed.

Glancing up at Gabriel, he studied him for a moment before adding, "Which actually makes me wonder . . . what are the odds of you being here, as opposed to someone more . . . " He waved a hand vaguely. "Traditional. It's strange."

The archangel looked wounded, laying a hand over his heart, though the effect was offset by the wry twist to his lips. "Bro, I'm hurt. Really. You think I can't be wicked enough to earn a punishment?"

If only the younger angel knew just how Gabriel had been spending the last two thousand years. Gabriel got the distinct feeling Aziraphale would not approve.

Aziraphale looked at Gabriel levelly. No, that was not what he thought. "Believe me," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I would not accuse you of that. I'm sure you've been - well. I believe you. I simply meant . . . " He spread his hands in a shrug. "Of all the angels in all of Heaven - Heavens, apparently - the odds would be in favor of choosing two far more put off by the idea of humanity than we are."

It was both insulting and amusing, and Gabriel chuckled. So good to know he was already corrupting the younger angel's perception of his own humourless Gabriel.

"That depends on what the point of it is," he said. "And whether it's meant to be punishment, reward, or some accident or other." He paused. "Or just Dad's way of entertaining himself."

"I don't - " Aziraphale frowned. "I don't know that He would do such a thing for no reason."

That was the whole point, of course; he didn't know. He'd been all right - more than all right - with that once, but lately it had been more and more difficult to reconcile with what he felt was right. He certainly didn't see God as a creator capable of toying with his creations for sport, but, well. If not that, then what? And if it was an accident, would it be rectified? That was fine for him, but what about Gabriel?

He rubbed his temple and waved someone over. "Another, please," he muttered, and watched distantly as another glass of the same was fetched. He couldn't think about this sober for much longer.

"Did I say 'no reason'?" Gabriel asked innocently. Entertainment was a reason unto itself, after all, even though Gabriel, deep down, didn't truly believe Dad would use such a frivolous excuse. "Who knows what He's thinking? I don't. Hardly ever have, even when I was still being a good son."

Which was probably why there'd been a few, er, incidents during his tenure. Well, how was he meant to know the three wise men would lose their way if he left them to have a bit of downtime while on Earth? They were meant to be wise men. He would've thought it was obvious you don't go announcing to a king that a new king just got born in his own country.

Philosophers. They never stopped to think things through. (... To a relative degree, of course.)

He drained the rest of his beer and held up his hand before the server could escape. "Me too!"

Frown deepening, Aziraphale leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze intent and focused. This was not a conversation he'd been able to have with anyone before, not even Crowley, because that have been terribly insensitive. Now that he had the opportunity, he was not going to let it go. "Why," he asked, "does being a good son mean not asking questions? And, and staying distant from Creation. And never having ideas. That's barely existence."

As he said it, he realized, in a more concrete way than he ever had before, and, remarkably, without any urge to tamp the realization down, that he had disobeyed in spirit long before Armageddon, before the Arrangement. It had begun with Eden and the gift of fire, but it had evolved over millennia into an engagement with humanity and history and Earth that he hadn't even been conscious of.

Barreling forward recklessly, he spread one hand wide, knuckles of the other going white on the edge of the table. "And stupidly black-and-white thinking, and no interest in anything, and being dull. Why do we have free will if not to use it?"

Never having ideas. Staying distant. No free will. Gabriel froze a little, amusement dropping off his face as he stared after the server. And because he'd been thinking back anyway, he couldn't quite stop some of the memories he had consciously avoided in the last two thousand years.

Before the Fall, before humanity, before any fights or conflict and there was only family. Pride was a sin, but Gabriel felt it anyway, for the song he'd written.

"That was beautiful, little brother. Did Father give it to you?"

Michael. Gabriel dimmed a little, drew in, protective but not wary. "No. I wrote it myself, for Father. It was Lucifer's idea."

Surprise and uncertainty flickered in Michael's Grace. "... Well. Father seemed to like it."

He flew through Heaven, darting between the lines of Creation, sometimes just a little too fast not to leave ripples in his wake. He couldn't stop; they were about to catch up. Why, oh why, had Father given him this mission?

Abruptly he collided with Lucifer's Grace as the older archangel gripped him tight and brought him to a halt. "Gabriel! You're disrupting the cosmos!"

He panicked and then had a flash of inspiration, and let his Grace ripple with a command to those pursuing him. "Lucifer wants a hug!"

Only the cupids would ever even dream of mobbing one archangel at the behest of another. Then again, they always did what Gabriel said anyway. That was probably what Father intended when he gave them to Gabriel to train as messengers.

Later. Much, much later, after the Fall, after everything had gone bad. After Lucifer was imprisoned, Michael thought only about the day he'd be able to kill his own brother, Raphael still refused to have an original thought and Gabriel was left to try and keep their family together. He was returning from his mission on Earth to usher in his Father's Son, irritable and embarrassed and too far gone to even bother caring about the hints of shame.

Wise men. Hah.

Heaven was actually heavens, now, and despite the perception of his Father with a throneroom it wasn't anything so ostentatious. And yet it was more spacious than any actual 'room' could be. Gabriel sank into the fabric between the heavens, the foundation of Creation, where his Father infused every inch of time and space. It opened up before him, inside him, and he felt his Father pull him close in His embrace.

"They're in Egypt," he reported, and explained what had happened with Herod's decree. Not exactly with words. It was never with words, with Father, not even to the half-point the angels used among themselves to supplement their communication through Grace. He just already knew.

He didn't explain how Herod had known. How Gabriel had left the philosophers to their own devices for just a little too long to slip into a willing human and indulge in some of those amazing herbs they had on another continent. But he knew Father knew. Part of him was afraid Father would say something, chastise him, smite him--

The rest wanted Him to, dared Him to. Say something! Do something!

Not a word. He never said a word about Gabriel's transgression, and when Gabriel left Him to seep back into the universe, he felt angry and relieved and strangely disappointed. Thirty-three Earth years later, after the Son had returned to Heaven, Gabriel was gone from it.

Gabriel blinked and took a sharp breath, and when he looked back at Aziraphale there was an angel's lifetime of bitterness in his eyes. "I don't know how it went where you're from," he said, "but in my universe? After the Fall, all Michael was interested in was smiting things. Raphael was Raphael and wouldn't know an original thought if it bit him. So take a guess who had to keep the family together, keep our brothers happy. That whole shtick with Herod and making the Son flee to Egypt? That was me. That was because I took a joyride in someone on the other side of the world to get away for a while and trusted wise men to be able to find their way and keep their mouths shut. It almost ruined everything. And Dad never said a word. Not one word."

He gave the other angel a brittle smile. "So you're asking the wrong angel, Aziraphale. Forget about not having room to make my own choices. I would have given anything for just a little more fucking guidance."

They were so different.

Aziraphale sat back in his seat, slowly letting go of the edge of the table, one finger at a time. He looked at Gabriel, not curious, not prying, not even pitying - but absorbing.

For the first time he realized the strange amount of freedom that had come with being unimportant. He'd had one big job in Eden, and after that he'd had field duty for thousands of years. He'd been watched, but not closely. If there had been a . . . paternal absence, he hadn't noticed it firsthand, only watched the effects ripple out into the world.

Had he gotten off easily? In his time he'd always been content with an ineffable God as gospel, as it were. He had never had to confront the Lord. He had never even contemplated the possibility of doing so. He had been able to hide within a sense of harmlessness and become more real, more human than the Host of his world, who were more of Gabriel's Michael and Raphael than Aziraphale could articulate.

He couldn't help wondering whether he, in the archangel's place, might have followed a similar path, left their Father and become a powerful, bitter something else wandering the world and pretending not to be what he was created to be. Or, perhaps more likely, would he have never questioned at all, turned his face to the light and pretended his doubts into nothingness?

His stomach gave a twinge. All that responsibility. All that pressure, for a Father who seemed not to care. Whether that perception was true or not did not, Aziraphale realized, matter very much at this moment. What mattered was that he had caused Gabriel pain, and he had no idea how to make it go away. If it had been Crowley, he would have - well. He would have come up with something in the spur of the moment, a hand on his shoulder, a smile, a walk, an entire bottle of wine - but all the masks Gabriel had put up, his time as a pagan god, for the love of someone, made Aziraphale hesitate, hands curling into fists on his lap.

Gradually, far too slowly, as the seconds stretched out, he came up with a list of things not to say. Sorry was one of them. Do you want to talk about it he tossed out immediately. He chewed the inside of his cheek and realized he was still staring at Gabriel and had to think of something to say or the archangel might get up and leave, which would make him feel even worse.

"There's got to be a middle ground," he said, "somewhere," and rubbed his temple. It was weak and unhelpful and he still felt compelled to apologize, but if Gabriel wanted to pretend as though none of that had just happened - well. He had the space.

It was only a second or two after his heated words that Gabriel realised just what he'd said and looked away, his face tight while he tried to get a handle on all those memories, all the things he'd been avoiding for so long.

The silence stretched on and the archangel managed to put a lid on his anger and frustration. The weariness was harder. He didn't turn his head as Aziraphale spoke, watching the server come back with their drinks, but he did take the beer and down half of it in one go.

Next round he was breaking out the hard liquor.

Finally Gabriel looked around again, and this time his gaze was tired. "If there is, I've jumped over it so many times I wouldn't have a clue where it is. That, or Dad keeps moving the line."

Or maybe He had never marked it in the first place, and it wasn't anywhere near where everyone thought it was. Gabriel could see Dad doing that--making them work for the knowledge.

Watching Gabriel drink, Aziraphale decided he had the right idea. By the time the other man put his bottle down, Aziraphale's wine was mostly gone. It was a shame to waste such a good vintage - wherever it had come from, which was a serious question now that he thought of it - but he needed scotch, or something. Never mind that he wouldn't be able to sober up. He actually didn't care very much.

"Maybe we're meant to create the line for ourselves," he said quietly, unconsciously echoing Gabriel's thoughts. "I think I - I almost had, before. Or created the illusion of it, anyway."

The illusion, that was, of humanity. And remembering the Downs allowed him to slide away from Gabriel's slip, his mind drifting to his last moments of peace and familiar company.

If they were, Gabriel wasn't entirely sure he'd passed that test. If it was a test. He'd joined the fight just a little too late--late enough to ensure his own death, no matter what. If he'd been earlier, maybe he could've done more and stayed alive in the bargain.

Which was annoying. He'd known that going in, but it wasn't like he'd expected to be able to regret the choice afterward.

"Well? Don't hold me in suspense, here," the archangel said with a deprecating smile. "How'd you manage that and what did it look like?"

And there was the trouble with honesty and talking to people, staring him right in the face. His face fell slightly, and he finished his wine before answering, to give himself time to fill the obvious gaps. Just because Gabriel was - what was the term - 'laid back' did not mean he would understand.

"You won't be impressed," he said at last. "But . . . I lived in London for a time. Ah, centuries, actually. I had a little shop and I did my job, I did God's will, but I also lived." Tilting his glass towards himself, he thought longingly of his routine. "Habits were so important," he said thoughtfully. "And . . . after everything I moved to the shore. I had a little cottage. Habits, again. But after the Apocalypse I wasn't so afraid of the repercussions."

Saying 'I' instead of 'we' was throwing him off. He waved over the nearest server and ordered a scotch, then glanced questioning at Gabriel.

"Azzy, if you survived London for centuries, that's impressive," Gabriel said with a snort. His humour was mostly feigned, for now, but he needed some lightening up and hopefully it would catch on.

That didn't mean he missed the initial hesitation or the way Aziraphale's face fell. He was a terrible liar, and was equally obviously hiding something. The archangel looked down at his beer, drained the rest of it, and ordered bourbon.

"That's nice," he said calmly as he set the bottle aside, his eyes glittering. "So now you can tell me what you're holding back. Tit for tat and all that." He'd spilled on Aziraphale and embarrassed himself. It was just fairness that Aziraphale did the same.

The small smile that had come to his face at Gabriel's joke drained away very quickly indeed. He hadn't enough practice lying. He wasn't good at putting walls back up once they'd been taken down, which, tonight, he'd allowed. And yet he couldn't tell Gabriel the truth. In the event that Crowley was here, somewhere, it could compromise his safety. No matter the differences between the Gabriel he'd known and the Gabriel sitting in front of him, the man was still an archangel, and telling the truth was simply too dangerous for everyone concerned.

Now if only he had a decent cover story, and knew how to lie without giving himself away.

"I associated with humans," he said, as the waiter returned with their drinks. "Human. He knew who I was. He - helped, at the end of the world. He helped me, in general." For a moment he felt fragile and uncomfortable, because it was true, except for the human part. "He was my friend."

The tumbler of scotch was solid in his hand as he raised it to his lips and drank. When he lowered it to the table again, it made a subdued thunk, and brought him back to himself just enough for him to add, "But it's probably better that he's not here, all things considered."

Now it was just a matter of hoping Gabriel believed him. Aziraphale glanced away into the crowd, looking again for that odd glimmer of sick familiarity to be found in Famine's presence, and, on not seeing him, turned back to Gabriel and the table and his scotch with a sigh.

There was something there. Something off. Gabriel hadn't made any secret that he liked humanity so much, so why would Aziraphale want to hide that unless it was a cover for something else? But the archangel couldn't peg what, exactly, it was a cover for. (The idea of a demon didn't occur to him, simply because ... well, it just didn't. Demons were demons. The only angels who associated with them were the truly Fallen, which Aziraphale wasn't.) So Gabriel let it go. Maybe he'd look into it later, when things were less raw.

Which wasn't now.

"You had a soft spot," the archangel said with a twisted smile that said he understood completely. Two thousand years on Earth? There had been one or two humans in Gabriel's time. He'd always said 'never again' afterward--after they died or discovered he was supernatural and inevitably tried to kill him--and never been able to stick with the vow. Somehow he just always wound up with some idiot chucklehead who triggered whatever protective instincts he had left and channelled into revenge.

Which was why he hadn't approved of Castiel getting too involved with the Winchesters. Gabriel's last had been a hunter too, had been too recent, by angelic standards, and had blown up badly. The archangel could only wonder how the Castiel-Winchester parade was going to end.

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