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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"Having to listen to brothers whinging every time they come through the Gates," Gabriel said promptly. "'Why do we have to bother with these mud-monkeys'; 'stop joking around and be grim and proper'; 'why couldn't Dad send me into Hell to smite Luci instead of his Son'. Moan, moan, moan, moan, moan."

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."

Aziraphale realized as it was happening that he had never experienced a full-force human fear reaction before.

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!"

Whatever Gabriel had been expecting, that reaction was the very last one. He held out his hands as if to ward off Aziraphale's fear, bafflement crossing his face fast enough to cover the faintest hint of what might have been hurt. Sure, his brothers had been annoyed by him, constantly, but he had almost never been feared. Especially once he'd left and they'd given up looking for him.

"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."

Aziraphale did not put down the urn. He did not step forward. He did not - could not - breathe any slower. He was ready to run out the open door at any moment, though if he did have to flee he doubted this body would make it very far. He ought to have gotten a fresh one before the world almost ended.

"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!"

Gabriel's smile dropped. He didn't step forward, because Aziraphale looked this close to running, and Gabriel was not going to let this get any further than it had to. "Yeah, I'm an archangel," he said with intensity. "And in case you didn't notice, I'm in this place just the same as you are."

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."

The inescapable intensity of that gaze - definitely archangel. But the words didn't match up. Something was off; it was as though they were talking past each other, trying to meet in the middle but never quite making it.

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.

Gabriel blinked for a moment and then threw back his head and laughed, clapping his hands. "Oh, this is wonderful. You've Fallen? Did you somehow miss the fact I haven't set foot in Heaven for two thousand years?"

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."

"Excuse me, there is a difference between not being in good standing and being Fallen!" Aziraphale protested shrilly over the sound of Gabriel's laughter. Not that he was likely to listen. The more things change . . .

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?"

"Uh, we've never met. I just said that. Weren't you listening?" Gabriel sighed and leaned back against the altar, poking away the candles so they didn't catch on his clothes. "I'd hate to imagine any universe where I didn't have a sense of humour," he grumbled, but then perked up. "But maybe that's just because I got it all. That would make sense."

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."

"Why would He do that?" Aziraphale asked before he could stop himself. Perhaps it was a naive question, or an irrelevant one, but it was still his first in bizarre situations. And it simply didn't make sense. Why create two disparate versions of the Host, two Falls, two temptations, two humanities - and this place?

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'?"

"Why would He create it all and then leave us hanging for two centuries?" Gabriel asked sardonically. "The only person I know Dad's talked to lately is Joshua, so of course Mikey's running the show right into the ground. Or maybe Dad's stacking the deck. Maybe He decided even us angels deserved the chance for multiple possibilities so maybe one version of each of us, somewhere, would get it right. And maybe this is some kind of angelic afterlife; if so, I probably didn't score well."

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."

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. This was all very overwhelming - not to mentio that the notion of an angelic afterlife was frankly terrifying. Generally, afterlife implied judgment, which Aziraphale was not eager for; clearly Gabriel was not either. And if there was another version of Aziraphale out there somewhere, what in the name of all that was holy was he doing?

"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.

"Not our place to ask, is it?" Gabriel asked sarcastically. He would have asked. He had asked, once or twice, times he would never have admitted to Castiel, except he'd never gotten an answer. Maybe he would have asked again, if he'd still been alive to do so.

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."

"Of course not." Aziraphale, for his part, had never asked - until he bypassed the asking all at once and went straight for disobeying.

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.

Gabriel's grip barely moved and he only swayed with Aziraphale to keep it rather than resisting the motion. Rather, he shouldered the other angel into falling into step with him, half marching and half dragging him out of the Temple. "Uh, uh. I said I've never gotten drunk before, not that I don't drink."

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."

"As I said," Aziraphale grunted, giving up and allowing himself to be marched forward. "Sheltered. You ought to have tried harder."

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.

"Remind me to see if there's a bacchanalia going around in this place," Gabriel said thoughtfully. "It's too bad we're not from the same place; I know some nymphs I could introduce you to." He grinned. "They'd show you some fun, all right."

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.

Control yourself. "Not interested," he said through gritted teeth. "And besides - " Yes! Change the subject. Excellent. " - why would there be a bacchanalia? I don't see any Romans."

Aziraphale just stared up at Gabriel and decided to give up. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," he said wearily.

"I'll bet there's someone who's dreaming of being one," Gabriel said. "All we'd have to do is find them!" He smirked. "That, or we could make our own. I still remember how it goes. Bacchus used to throw some great parties back in the day."

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."

"Plan to put out an ad, then, do you?" Aziraphale asked waspishly. "'Ex-Roman or equivalent fetishist wanted for impromptu bacchanalia, location tee bee dee?'" Shuddering, he added under his breath, "You should have seen Caligula's."

That actually gave him pause. He wasn't sure what he'd have done in Gabriel's place. Probably lost his mind, such as it was. For the first time he felt a twinge of sympathy. "As far as I recall, Michael and Raphael are often irritated by default," he said. "But who was the other?"

"I did," Gabriel said promptly. "His were pretty good, but there was a definite influence there. You know what they say about imitation."

It was a strange thing. Gabriel's voice remained light, flippant, but he didn't look at Aziraphale. Given his usual mannerisms, he may as well have looked away, instead of just not looking. "Castiel," he said. "Last I saw him, he really had Fallen--about to lose his demon-smiting and all."

It really was like night and day. The casual tone made the trace of sadness catch Aziraphale's attention even more. Castiel - or a version of Castiel, in any case - had only made the briefest of impressions upon Aziraphale before he was sent to Earth, but the loss of anyone was painful. With a twist of his mouth, he bowed his head briefly and mouthed "Sorry," for lack of anything better to say.

He did wince a bit at "demon-smiting". One of the downfalls of associating with angels, he supposed.

Now Gabriel looked, and he snorted at the expression on Aziraphale's face before glancing away again. "Oh, don't bother. He's still alive and kicking; he just went native, even more than I did. Palling around with the two meatheads who were meant to be Michael and Lucifer's vessels."

There was a irritable sarcasm to his tone which didn't quite manage to hide an underlying, almost musing fragility. Castiel the faithful. Castiel the idiot-who-followed-the-Righteous-Man-without-thinking. Gabriel still wasn't certain whether he wished he could have seen the other angel again, told him he might have been right, or not.

"With humans?" Aziraphale's expression was less disapproving and more curious. "I should think that would take a lot of explaining." Not to mention the fact that humans generally believed what they thought they saw rather than what was actually in front of their faces. It would require quite the suspension of disbelief.

"These were hunters," Gabriel told him, and his tone of exasperation was for someone else. "The Vessels, straight from Cain's line. Biggest pair of pathetic co-dependants you've ever seen, and they managed to rope Cassy into trying to help them stop the apocalypse."

The indignation was genuine, but tired and worn--accepted. "And me," he admitted after a moment, with a rueful twist to his lips. "Bastards got me to admit I like humanity. Completely ruined my reputation."

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