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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"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."

Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure what hunters were, but put it down to not having been importent enough to get crucial information on human trends. "Two humans and two angels against the Apocalypse face better odds than - " He stopped. "Well, certainly there have been worse odds."

He laughed a bit. "Humanity does get under one's skin, doesn't it."

"No kiddin'," Gabriel grumbled. "And it's two men, one Fallen angel and some crippled redneck. I had to go and be all heroic and get killed by Lucifer. With my own blade!" His tone aggrieved, Gabriel threw up his hands and finally released Aziraphale, but then spun on his heel to face the other angel and walk backwards at once.

"Better odds than what?" he asked quite calmly, lifting his eyebrow in a way that said Aziraphale's attempted backtrack had been ridiculously obvious and who did he think Gabriel was, anyway?

"Wouldn't that make you something like a martyr?" he asked, amused. "Saint Archangel Gabriel. Well done."

Absolutely thrilled to be released, Aziraphale rubbed the back of his neck and straightened his jacket, following Gabriel while attempting to keep his gaze clear and honest. "Better odds than me and an assortment of humans who'd never actually stood in the same room. And the Antichrist, who was of course on his own side."

"They already call me that in some denominations, I suppose," Gabriel answered thoughtfully. "All it means is that I caught up." He snorted, half laughed. "Dad likes bringing things down to the wire no matter what world it's in. You know, I've no idea what happened to our Antichrist. The demons lost him, then found him again, and then lost him." His tone turned mocking. "Our brothers, of course, never had him."

Apparently losing the Antichrist was some sort of universal demonic trend. Aziraphale snorted. "Yes, well, Adam was always quite independent," he said with a shrug. "I don't think anyone could have 'had' him in any case.

"Where did you say we were going?" he added, looking around for familiar landmarks. He could only follow Gabriel around like a forlorn duckling for so long.

"We are--" Gabriel looked around, his brow furrowed, and then with a pang of combined irritation and consternation realised he'd stopped paying attention and, given that he no longer had his angelic mental map, lost their way.

"We were going to the bar," he corrected himself with a scowl, snapping his fingers rapidly by his side, as was becoming habit when he wanted something to happen and it wasn't because he was too bloody human. "But my roadmap's no longer accessible. This whole human shtick is getting really old."

Aziraphale hummed under his breath and turned to face the direction they'd come from. "This would be a lot easier if you hadn't marched me all the way here under your arm," he mused, squinting. "Nevertheless . . . Isn't that the library up ahead? Isn't it around there someplace?"

"Well, I had to keep you from running off," Gabriel told him with a flippant wave. It was more flippant than he was currently feeling; he scanned the street, still frowning. "I'm a lover, not a smiter. Well, not often, anyway. Having a brother run away on me is just not going to happen."

He turned in the direction Aziraphale was pointing, tapping his chin. "Could be. I seem to remember passing by a library once." Not that he'd actually entered it. He wasn't desperate enough for information to subject himself to hours of dust research.

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