Gabriel (
trickntreats) wrote in
caveofsapphires2012-04-10 06:45 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Aziraphale just stared up at Gabriel and decided to give up. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," he said wearily.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
He did wince a bit at "demon-smiting". One of the downfalls of associating with angels, he supposed.
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
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."
no subject
He laughed a bit. "Humanity does get under one's skin, doesn't it."
no subject
"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?
no subject
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."
no subject
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
no subject
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.
no subject
"Come on," he said, setting off towards their location with what might have been a swagger in his step if he was the sort to that kind of thing. Instead he just had better posture than usual.
no subject
He watched the streets, slotting them into his mental map with an equally mental grumble. "Soooo apparently you're a drinker."
It was a prod and a question and an amusement all at once. Not many angels espoused not getting drunk as 'missing out on things'.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Once upon a time he hadn't known what style was.
"I'm afraid to ask," he sighed, pushing the door open.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
i see those feels gabe.
you're seeing things, duh.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
this will end in tears
he's too drunk to think it through
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
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