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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"I've seen enough," Aziraphale said, words pulled from between gritted teeth - because 'enough' was a subjective measure so perhaps he could get away with it - "but there's a major difference between seeing and deriving any sort of - enjoyment from it. And my time with Caligula was not recreational, believe you me." He shuddered delicately. "I was trying to save lives. Thwart evil, and things. Sometimes work took me less than savory places."

There had been a few times, a few people with the Lord in their souls, whom he'd attempted to help (in the most bumbling and accidentally judgmental way possible) get out of the trade. Generally they hadn't been receptive. Then again, he never really had any money to offer and the job market in Caligula's time in particular had been grim. Obviously. Still, he'd tried. While studiously avoiding eye contact. It really wasn't his place, it was a human thing.

Cognitive dissonance being what it was, he had temporarily forgotten that he was human now, and would likely continue to have selective amnesia on that front.

"If you haven't hit the point of deriving enjoyment, you haven't seen nearly enough, bro," Gabriel told him, still with a broad grin and not even trying to hide his enjoyment of the other angel's discomfort. "What's the point in getting a meatsuit if you can't roadtest it once in a while?" He did a little, suggestive wriggle in his seat.

Aziraphale sighed. "Your definition of 'roadtest' is remarkably specific," he managed, and refused to look directly at Gabriel. He wished the archangel would sit still. Also stop talking, ideally, but of course that wasn't going to happen.

Rubbing his temple as the server approached, he took his refreshed scotch and held it close like a child or a lifeline, then swallowed half of it in one gulp. He still wouldn't look at Gabriel as he said, "I've never seen the appeal, honestly. It just seems - messy. Unnecessary. Base. Not really a tempting prospect."

Edited 2012-05-13 22:27 (UTC)

"It's a remarkably good roadtest," Gabriel said with the perfect equanimity of an Englishman that Aziraphale was struggling for and utterly failing to achieve.

The archangel snorted, snatching up his new glass and taking a gulp. He was beginning to feel that nice, warm stage of relaxation. "Well, of course you think that from the outside. I thought that. And then I gave it a try. It's kind of like ..." His hands motioned in the air, keeping his bourbon from spilling with practised skill, while he tried to think of something equally messy but fun which Aziraphale would approve of and wouldn't hurt Gabriel's reputation any more than he already had.

"It's like going mud-wrestling," he decided. Everyone had done that when they first got their meatsuits, right? It was like training. But in the mud. The very first experience of actual tactile contact with something, of having something on your skin that stayed. "You can forget about being all prim and proper and being a good boy and just have a bit of fun, and don't have to give a shit how dirty you're getting for once."

... How did the conversation turn back in that direction, anyway?

"Don't mock me," he said mildly, though of course he was used to it, and he wasn't surprised. That didn't mean he'd put up with it.

He focused on the table while Gabriel spoke, allowing himself a few measured sips as he considered the archangel's words. Aside from this conversation being one of the most embarrassing of his existence, Aziraphale had to admit that his time as a pagan god had given Gabriel time to perfect persuasion. It didn't sound patently unpleasant, at the very least, although part of this might have been because Gabriel was not being particularly graphic.

Still, there was something about what the archangel was describing that seemed incomplete - and certainly not worth it. (That and the comparison to mud wrestling was not well-received. He'd had enough of mud for all time by the sixth century and had been thankful when humans invented the shower.) He shrugged and glanced up at Gabriel for the first time in several minutes with a gentle smile. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it."

Edited 2012-05-14 03:57 (UTC)

There were other things Gabriel could mention. The way it could let you be close to another soul other than your host's, assuming your host's soul was still present. There was something about sex which enabled souls to touch in a way Gabriel hadn't even known was possible until he'd tried it himself, and then he'd been so startled and unnerved that he hadn't tried it again for a century.

Not always, of course. Sometimes it was just purely physical, and that wasn't really conducive to a proper connection. But sometimes ...

And there was the way it could make you feel alive. It was sort of like how training did it for some of the warriors, the physical exercise, except this was more intense. It went back to that connection, but didn't rely on it.

But talking about these things was treading far too close to admitting things Gabriel had felt, things he was still too used to denying to admit he felt, and would have made things way too serious. So he didn't.

"You should," Gabriel just told the other angel amiably. "You should and I'll mock you until you do, so if you want me to stop, you should really fix that. Just consider it a matter of expanding your horizons!" The last line declaration was accompanied by a wave of his hand (the one with the bourbon in it, which still managed not to spill).

Had Gabriel mentioned those other things, Aziraphale might have paused and stopped thinking for a moment and considered the possibility, the validity of that kind of connection. After all, what else were they here for if not to create connections, to become, in their own ways, human? He could at least have used it as an excuse. He would at least have thought about it; the idea would have niggled at the edge of his mind.

Instead he dismissed it. Hedonism was not his cup of tea, or so he liked to tell himself, and as such he refused to think about this topic any longer.

"I'll take the mockery, then," he said, with a firm but friendly smile. "You can corrupt me any way you like but that one. It simply won't work."

"Tricky customer, eh?" Gabriel grinned at him, a slow, wicked grin. "So you're going to be a challenge. Excellent! I like challenges." He tipped his glass slightly in Aziraphale's direction. "Just means I need to find a suitable subject. So, what's your knucklehead look like, eh? May as well start there."

Maybe he could find an appropriate analogue among the Sleepers. Sure, he'd need to get them piss drunk first, but hey, he could work with that. Or something else, once he had something to start with.

Aziraphale grimaced briefly and was tempted to tell Gabriel exactly what Crowley looked like, snake-y attributes included, if only to shut him up for longer than five seconds. He didn't, of course, but it would have been so satisfying, and it would probably have gotten them onto a different (albeit more dangerous) conversation topic.

"I did tell you it wouldn't work," he said. "Why do you think I'd give you tools to trick me into it if I don't want to do it?"

His glass was solid in his hand and the scotch burned slightly on the way down, although less than it had been doing earlier. It was so odd not to be able to control this. Still, it was a distraction, which was welcome, given the melancholy that was beginning to slip over him. He did not want to talk about Crowley any longer. He really didn't.

A few months ago he would have pushed. A few months ago he would have seen the flicker in Aziraphale's composure, marked it as a weakness, and taken every advantage. In fact he opened his mouth to do just that and then paused.

Gabriel had opened up, unintentionally, and Aziraphale hadn't pushed. And something about the expression made his stomach flipflop unpleasantly. So instead the archangel said with a crooked smile, "I'll work on that. So tell me: how'd you keep yourself sane in London all those years? Don't tell me it was just the booze, or I'll have to book you for extra lessons in not being boring."

Sitting back slightly, Aziraphale gave Gabriel a warm, if slightly unfocused, smile. The change in topic was noted and appreciated, although he kept his mouth shut about it. He was already getting the sense that drawing attention to Gabriel's more gracious impulses would only make him defensive.

With his fingers still curled around the outside of his glass, he tapped perfect nails against the etched designs, then let his hand fall flat on the table. There was nothing to hide, really.

"I stayed away from the major fires - " Except for the one that had burnt his shop to a crisp, of course, but that was only major to him. " - and had very little to do with kings. Other than that, I kept to myself." He smiled again. "It's a really fascinating place. Lots of history. Of course, I watched it all happen, so perhaps history is the wrong word."

"History's boring," Gabriel claimed, lifting his finger, with just a little too much enthusiasm to not be tipsy. Or maybe he was just trying to work on that 'getting away from serious topics' thing. "Because of exactly that. It doesn't count as history if you damn well lived it. Then it's just your past, and who wants one of those?"

He shrugged, flapping his hand. "Should've just burned the whole lot down and rebuilt it, if y'ask me." In fact, he might have been ... indirectly ... responsible for some of those fires for that reason.

"Pasts are interesting things," Aziraphale said neutrally. He had mixed feelings about his, for lack of a better word, life. There'd been a lot of missed opportunities, some time wasted, but also a good deal of certainty that he had to admit he sometimes missed nowadays. Of course, he was also certain of new things now. Companionship, protection, "the morning sun of heaven" - on Earth, but near enough and lovely enough to be the same thing. Continued existence. Contentment.

He shook his head slightly. He was being sentimental.

"History is important to people, though," he added, shaking his head more vigorously at Gabriel's last comment. "I think it might be hard to know who you are without it, if you're - not us."

They were beginning to touch on far too serious topics again. What, were those topics just following them around or something? Gabriel could think of so many different ways of answering Aziraphale, and all of them treaded too close to 'serious business' for the archangel's taste.

"We need a drinking game," he said instead, completely changing the subject. "Any suggestions? If you're a budding alcoholic you'd better have some, or I'm going to be disappointed."

Aziraphale openly rolled his eyes. "I might," he said, "but if I did I wouldn't tell you what they are. I'm sure you can be creative enough on your own." He wondered if Gabriel would take that as a compliment. Probably.

"Killjoy." Gabriel pouted, his fingers rat-a-tatting on the side of his glass. "I'd suggest we take a shot for every time we see a clone in a helmet, but I'm not even sure the stormtroopers know this place exists. Or acknowledge it, anyway."

Aziraphale wondered briefly why Gabriel was talking about German soldiers when there obviously weren't any here, and then dismissed it as unimportant. "Consider it a challenge, if you like," he said, and gave a 'go on' motion.

Clearly Aziraphale needed to be introduced to Star Wars as soon as possible. The archangel hummed and leaned back in his chair, arms stretched upward. They were essentially the only people in the bar at all, so therefore any drinking game would have to be with each other.

Oh, that was one! Grinning, Gabriel raised a finger. "Ever heard of 'I never'?"

Aziraphale cocked his head quizzically, feeling a bit concerned at that grin. Gabriel grinning only ever seemed to end poorly for him. "Ah, no, I don't believe so. How does it work?"

"Well, we have to change that right now!" The archangel sat up and leaned on the table, raising his glass in a wild motion which somehow didn't spill anything. "We take it in turns to say something we've never done, and if the other person's done it, they have to take a shot."

He wasn't quite out of it enough yet not to realize that Gabriel was putting himself at a certain disadvantage, given his apparent wealth of experience. He opened his mouth to say something to that effect, and then closed it and nodded warily. "I suppose," he said, fingers skidding off the glass and tapping haphazardly on the table.

"Of course," Gabriel added with a smirk in afterthought, "as far as you're concerned it should probably be the opposite. So! I'll start." He leaned back in his seat, still grinning, and poked a finger in the air at Aziraphale. "I never wore tartan."

And here he'd thought he'd get out of this unscathed. Aziraphale looked at Gabriel for a long moment, considered backing out, and then eyed his drink. Oh, well. He drank what was left a little too fast, hissed at the quick-fading burn at the back of his throat, and considered the archangel. "I've never played a horn," he said lightly. Best to start out somewhere safe.

"I knew it!" Gabriel jabbed the air at Aziraphale again, laughing, and indicated the server for more drinks. At least, he was laughing right up until Aziraphale said that, and then his expression of mirth faltered for a moment before he yanked it back up again. "Foul play, bro."

He down the last of his own drink, motioning for the bartender to hurry it up with those others. "I never," he started, then pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. Finally he smirked. "I never wore a bowtie."

The server came by with an intimidating array of alcohol in silly little shot glasses. Aziraphale only rarely saw the point of shots, and it was generally when he was already drunk and avoiding thinking about things. This was very much one of those times. He took one, drank, coughed, and pointed a little hazily at Gabriel. "Are you trying to make some sort of point?" he asked. "I never intruded into someone else's pantheon."

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i see those feels gabe.

you're seeing things, duh.

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this will end in tears

he's too drunk to think it through

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