trickntreats: (do you fear the things you love)
Gabriel ([personal profile] trickntreats) wrote in [community profile] caveofsapphires2012-04-10 06:45 pm

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.
tactical_alert: (oh good lord HERE we go...)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-12 02:38 am (UTC)(link)
Malcolm didn't even keep himself from putting a hand to his head, fingers rubbing brief circles. This would result in a headache for certain--though thankfully not nearly as big a one as his friend here would have come morning. "Whiskey goggles then, my mistake. You look as though you've had more than enough this evening, wouldn't you say?" Wouldn't want him kicked out after hours and then get picked up for something so inane was being out late. And drunk as a bloody skunk.
tactical_alert: (not sure if serious or trolling)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-12 09:07 pm (UTC)(link)
"Oh, you wouldn't like me drunk." That was most definitely a lie. He'd be bubblier and gigglier than Gabriel was at the moment. But best not put that image in anyone's head. And if he was called 'Mr. Brit' one more time, he might have to correct that. (But which name to go with?)

With a sigh, he stepped up to the inebriate, resting a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him from sliding off again. "I think we should pay your tab, and then perhaps you should head on back to your room. You wouldn't want to be caught passed out drunk after hours, would you? Or find yourself with a sickened stomach and a worse-off liver."
tactical_alert: (kind of funny; kind of sad)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-14 02:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Fine, he'll just leave that bit of conversation behind. No need to reinforce any ideas about being drunk. Instead, Malcolm felt a small pang for the man. The snapping he liked to do clearly was supposed to do something back wherever he was from. (Telekinetic abilities? He'd never really asked.) So while nothing happened here while sober, nothing happened while drunk, either. "You'll regret it in the morning, you know, all this drinking. You're going to wonder why you ever did something like that to yourself." Why was he trying to reason with a drunk man, again?
tactical_alert: (are you out of your mind)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-16 09:36 pm (UTC)(link)
"Tell you what," Malcolm eventually said after a few moments of thought, sliding into the seat next to Gabriel. "How about I share a drink with you, and then we meander our way back to the living quarters, stare at the pretty pretty lights around the cave, and unceremoniously flop into a soft bit of bed for a long sleep, hm?"
tactical_alert: (oh well...that shouldn't have happened)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-17 03:52 am (UTC)(link)
"What--" Oh. Oh. "That isn't at all what I meant! I would most certainly never take any sort of advantage of anyone--and I'm still arguing with a drunkard." That figured. On part with his life right now. Sometimes a drink did feel like a really good idea. "Fine, I can leave you like this, and if some late shift workers pick you up and do whatever gets done to people out late to you, don't say I didn't warn you."

He'd probably just get a wristslap and, as Malcolm offered, deposited in his room, but he didn't know; he didn't do the late night shifts.
tactical_alert: (gdi innuendo knock it off)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-17 03:10 pm (UTC)(link)
Well. There was still time. And he had offered one drink with the man-who-was-an-angel. "Good. I draw that line, too. Even colour it in. With warning signs, bright and neon and flashing."
tactical_alert: (problem?)

[personal profile] tactical_alert 2012-04-21 02:52 am (UTC)(link)
"Let's not and say we did," Malcolm suggested, rolling his eyes. "How about we focus on things that aren't pretty pretty colours and strung up lights, hm? Like why it is that you've taken up the pastime of drowning your liver. Not very helpful in this situation."