Gabriel (
trickntreats) wrote in
caveofsapphires2012-04-10 06:45 pm
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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.
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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Technically speaking, his meatsuit was his third, but he was almost fifteen hundred years old. Gabriel had been lucky; he'd found a 'One True Vessel' who actually contributed to ideas for pranks for almost a thousand years, up until he'd asked for his soul to be let go.
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"Threadbare about the edges; so it goes," he said. "Period costume is so difficult to keep up with regardless." He'd worn a toga several centuries longer than he should have. It was so hard to get Vikings to take you seriously when you were wearing a toga, but he just hadn't connected the dots. He would probably have caught up with the nineties around the twenty-second century, had he stayed.
Aziraphale was itching to ask the real questions. For example: Had he been shouting because he expected an answer? Did the Lord have power here? Was it just a desperate plea for help, a loss of control? Most importantly, did this clever idiot (relatively clever, relatively) know who he was?
Instead, he settled for, "And your name would be?"
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The last thing Gabriel needed was one of Mikey and Zach's to be sent here to be a killjoy, though this one did have some kind of sense of humour. Then again, so did Zachariah, and Gabriel was without any ability to properly smite if his possible-little-brother decided to get uppity. (Then again, he didn't really look in the condition for hand-to-hand, either.)
"If you guess right ..." Gabriel paused, thought and shrugged. "If you guess right I'll tell you so. And then you can tell me your name anyway."
The last was said breezily, but there was something in his smile and the way he stood which indicated he wasn't going to settle for a lie or a weaselling.
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Which raised the question of why he was praying. Shouting. Whatever. Aziraphale was clearly missing some crucial piece of this puzzle, and growing irritated again. Running a hand through his hair (he needed a comb, or something, it was ridiculous not to be able to miracle it tidy), he let all his breath out in a huff.
Ought he to gamble? If this one was truly out of the game, then it was unlikely that he posed much danger in the I'm-going-to-smite-you sense. Besides, what could Heaven do to Aziraphale from here?
Bugger.
"No, I'm not playing," he said, "but I will tell you anyway. I dreamed myself an angel, you see, Aziraphale, formerly of the Eastern Gate." He left off the titles. They embarrassed him, usually.
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Or did. Before Luci stabbed him.
Either way, this was much easier and Gabriel had no objections. It took a moment or two of thought, but then Gabriel snapped his fingers in recognition. "Oh, I remember you; one of the poor schmucks who got lumped with perpetual guard duty. Bad luck, bro. Really."
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Schmuck? He supposed it must have seemed that way to someone with a 'cushy office Upstairs'. "It wasn't so bad," he said mildly. "I was a field angel for millenia. It was eventful." More eventful than Heaven, he didn't say. More eventful than hosannas and blankness. He'd tried braised octopus once, and he was willing to bet that neither Raphael nor Uriel had ever eaten so much as a biscuit.
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He didn't remember Aziraphale being a field-angel, but he was minor enough that it's entirely possible Gabriel just hadn't noticed. He'd been a bit busy trying to keep Michael out of his frequent snits right up until after the whole 'death and resurrection' thing with the Trinity. After that, boom, Gabriel figured things would handle themselves.
He sighed, raised his hands in faux celebration, and smiled mockingly. "Just call me Gabriel, Big Brother extraordinaire."
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Even when he'd been woken from the cryogenics chamber it had been nothing like this. He'd felt fear but it had been numbed, distant, and he hadn't associated it with reality. He'd been able to walk from the building unscathed and feel the fear ebb away.
The strangest thing was that he had no control over it whatsoever. He could feel his pupils dilating, his heart speeding up, his fingers tightening into fists - his bowels clenching, which he distantly found disgusting. There was a ringing in his ears that competed with the dull thud of his heart echoing through his bones and he was convinced, utterly convinced, that he was about to die once and for all.
Rising abruptly, he pressed his back to the wall, well aware of how woefully unprepared and ridiculous he must look - but what choice did he have? In all the different scenarios he'd thought up (while miracling dishes dry, learning to prune roses, walking on the beach), he'd never imagined it would be Gabriel who'd come for him. Different, but more dangerous for it, and still insufferably smug, as ever.
Gabriel. He wished he had a tire iron, but picked up a decorative urn instead. "Go on, then," he said wildly. "Good job, you've tricked me, now try it!"
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"Woah there, little brother," he said with a startled laugh. "I'm not in the position to smite anybody. Especially siblings who actually demonstrate a sense of humour. We're kind of thin on the clouds, as you may've noticed. It'd be a waste."
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"This is a stupid game," he said, voice low and tense. "You must know. You're an Archangel. You must know. If you want to fool me, at least try harder!"
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His lip curled in something that wasn't a smile, wasn't humorous at all, and he gestured back toward the altar. "You think I'd be yelling for Dad in a damned non-denominational temple if I had any idea what was going on? The last thing I remember is Lucifer killing me."
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Aziraphale put down the urn, for what it was worth. "I'm sorry," he said, "really, I am. But it's been years, and I'm not in good standing, and I feel as though perhaps I've missed a great deal of information while on bloody vacation!"
He coughed. Shouting had not been part of the plan for that little speech.
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He recovered himself with a huff, and any trace of amusement vanished completely. "This is one hell of an alternate reality construct if it's got members of the family who've lived a different history. Not even Lucifer has that power. Not and pull the wool over my eyes."
That's all it could be. It was the only way Aziraphale could have Fallen and not known that Gabriel, of all archangels, might be on his side; the only way he could be so terrified of being smote by the only archangel who had left. Now the real question was: was Azzy only a construct? Or was he real, as Gabriel was? Because if the latter, there was only one being who had that kind of power.
Gabriel scowled at the altar and pointed at it emphatically. "For the record, Dad, giving me a little brother to corrupt just makes this more interesting, not any more funny."
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At Gabriel's last outburst, he scoffed. "What makes you think it's your job to corrupt me? Or that you can?" He allowed himself to stand straight, stepping away from the wall. "Not to mention the fact," he added, pointing at Gabriel accusingly, "that you are not the same Gabriel I knew. He was a humorless twit. You're just a twit. So either you've changed entirely over the last - " He attempted to count how long it had been. " - while, or we've never met. Which is it?"
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So saying, he turned his attention fully back to Aziraphale, golden eyes intense and thoughtful. "See, the thing is, Azzy, apparently we've each got brothers who share each other's name but aren't actually us."
He said it slowly, like he was spelling it out for the dumb little brother. Then he smirked, a slow, almost wicked smirk. "Besides, it's always been my job to corrupt our younger brothers. Someone's gotta teach you how to have some fun."
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I already know how to have fun, he thought but didn't say. For one, it would lead to questions; for another, from what he'd seen of Gabriel thus far, he'd take it as a challenge. Instead Aziraphale said, "And how would you - don't call me Azzy - how would you define 'fun'?"
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He shrugged, spreading his hands. "He might've talked to me an awful lot, but I just delivered His messages. Whatever His plan is, He's either abandoned it or He wants to watch us stumble around in the dark first."
The trace of bitterness was unmistakable. He could've stopped everything for happening, but He hadn't. The fighting, the bitterness, brothers killing brothers--none of it needed to happen. But that wasn't Dad's way, was it? Instead He left everything up to a couple of chowderheads and a fallen angel. Gabriel couldn't even be there to stand up with them anymore.
The smile spread over his face did so slowly at first, but then became something much more like a smirk. "Bro, if you've got to ask, you haven't had enough of it."
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"It's ineffable," he murmured, with a clear hint of sarcasm streaking his tone of sorrow. "And we may never know."
The expression on Gabriel's face was truly distressing him. He cleared his throat with some discomfort and looked away. "I have fun." It did not sound convincing. His kingdom - flat? - for the ability to tell white lies.
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Aziraphale's discomfort only made the smirk wickeder, and with a sharp, sudden movement Gabriel pushed himself upright again, clapping his hands. "Oh, Azzy, this is going to be good." He bounded across the tiny space and slung his arm over Aziraphale's shoulders, too quick for the other angel to escape. "Let's try the bar. Did you know I can actually get drunk, now? It's kind of fun. We should have a contest and see who gets pissed first."
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When Gabriel grabbed him around the shoulders, Aziraphale yelped. "Don't call me that," he snarled, trying to get away and utterly failing. "And it'll be you if you've never gotten drunk before, fancy such a sheltered existence." It had been a trial, figuring that out, but Caligula had been such an unpleasant man that he and Crowley had sat down and made a pledge to get drunk or inconveniently discorporate trying. It was all a matter of letting the alcohol bypass your divinity, or - whatever, in Crowley's case.
He shouldn't have been egging Gabriel on like this, but at least if they were talking about alcohol they weren't talking about, oh, sport or scandal. Or sex. He'd had enough of talking about sex with near-strangers for the week.
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It was hard for angels to get plastered to begin with, and apparently being an archangel made it harder. Besides, the last time he'd come even close, Bacchus had ... somehow ... turned into a goat. (Not his fault, but he'd decided then that discretion might be the better part of maintaining his cover.)
"I could always call you Zira," he mused out loud. "Or Phale. Or Raphale." He made a face. "Oh, not that one; wouldn't want you to start sharing too many of the same qualities with our darling brother. Azzy's simple enough. I mean, it's the first three letters of your name."
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As they left the Temple behind, he mirrored Gabriel's twisted face. Raphael was the same in every universe, apparently. "You've known me for all of half an hour," he said peevishly. "You don't get to give someone a nickname after half an hour. Thousands of years, yes. Even one year. Even a day. Not half an hour."
He sincerely hoped that no one he knew was at the Bar tonight. He did not want to have to explain being walked in the door like a recalcitrant child.
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The archangel only shrugged and gave Aziraphale an innocent smile, steering him easily down the streets. Corridors? Whatever. "You're my brother; I'm allowed. Pretty sure it says so in the big brother's manual."
Mainly because he wrote it. Sort of. That part of it, anyway.
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Aziraphale just stared up at Gabriel and decided to give up. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," he said wearily.
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At that the archangel only laughed and clapped a hand to Aziraphale's shoulder, though not exactly without letting him go in the process. "Can you blame me? You're only the second sibling I've been able to annoy for the last two thousand years. Unless you count just not being in Heaven where I was supposed to be, in which case I can probably include Michael and Raphael on principle."
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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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how many shots have they even had each, i feel like it's zillions
it probably has been, Gabe is probably waaay past his limit XD
watch your livers, children
livers, what is this foreign object?
idk!! same thing as a lung or a kidney probs!! 8U
i'll go with that!
why is this cute
because drunken angelfeels