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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It had been a trying week overall.

Aziraphale had learned quickly that he was to be John Gates, no questions asked. Not that he liked it – not in the least – but his single protest to the doctor who woke him was met with a glare and then silence. Sometimes his self-preservation instinct was functional. This was one of those times. He’d noticed, too, strain on the faces of other Sleepers who’d woken with him, a look of calculation, of looking forward to how their next sentence would end to make sure it didn’t break any rules.

So he decided that he would be John Gates for now, find Crowley, and then begin to fret about the ramifications of all this. Thus far, he had only had success pretending to accept his identity. There was no trace of Crowley, or indeed any supernatural beings, nor had he stumbled across Crowley in any likely spots (he’d tried the bar, even, sneering at the concept of alcohol as contraband, but no luck). And of course he was fretting. He was an Olympic fretter.

In a moment of – what was it, weakness or bravery? – he did not immediately flee when he saw the Temple. Steadying himself against the stone wall, he took a deep breath and peered into the house of God for the first time in years, only to find –

Not very much. A few seats, an altar, some candles. Nothing obviously Christian in origin. There wasn’t even a holy book anywhere.

There was, however, a madman shouting at the altar. Aziraphale stopped in the doorway and stared.

Dad, if you can hear me, get me out of here!

He pressed his lips together tightly and took a step inside. Surely not. Unlikely was an understatement. Besides, he thought in his private, less-than-gracious mind, I’m the only one who’s ignored by Him enough to be left in this place. I should just leave. This man is insane, not angelic.

Decisively, Aziraphale turned to leave – and tripped over one of the stone seats. The floor rushed up to meet him, he let out a loud “oof!” as all the air vacated his lungs, and his glasses went flying.

It was a good thing he didn’t actually need them.

Human senses really, really sucked. That was the only reason why Gabriel didn't hear anyone coming in. Not because he was too busy glaring at the altar; not at all.

He jumped and whirled around at the sound of someone taking a spill, one hand instinctively raised with fingers ready to snap and the other rigid at his side, prepared for the archangel blade that was emphatically not going to slide into his grasp as he willed it. Then he released a breath, forced himself to relax, and laughed.

"Have a nice trip?" Lame, but the best he could manage at the moment. The archangel really wished he had his soul-seeing eyes, but since he didn't, he settled for ambling over and squinting at the man (because candlelight wasn't very illuminating, okay!)

Settling into a new identity wasn't all that difficult. At least not one similar enough to his own that the Doctor only really had to remember his name, for the moment. When he got to the City, things would get more difficult - remembering where he lived, where he worked, all those other things this Doctor Olsen was supposed to know. At least he wasn't expected to remember everything about this person's life.

Though he'd already explored most of the locations, his inability to sit still kept him revisiting them, perhaps hoping to find something different. Different people, at any rate, as the bakery had someone he hadn't yet run into present.

Without approaching directly, the Doctor made his way through the bakery, investigating the shelves and tables, looking very much like he were giving everything a very thorough once-over, skeptisism very clear on his face. He also seemed to be talking to himself, or at least not specifically speaking to anyone in particular.

"Well, it seems like they have all the basic amentities, doesn't it? One has to wonder how much time it took to build all this. Surely they had enough warning of whatever event took place that caused them all to flee the city, hmm?" He paused, turning to look at the man at the counter as if seeing him for the first time. It was then that he noticed the slumping and possible illness. "You don't look like you're doing so well. Everything all right?" His concern seemed more polite than sincere, but at least it was there.

"I assume they had a lot of people and a few years to get things moving," Gabriel answered the man's musings first, his voice muffled because he had his head on the counter. "Which makes you wonder just what they screwed so badly that they couldn't fix it." He raised his head a moment later, blinking and pressing a hand to his face, but his gaze wandered the room.

"You'd think they'd have kept the place automated," he said thoughtfully. "At least that way there'd be actual edibles to sell." Which wasn't entirely accurate, because his co-worker did know how to bake some weird little twisted kind of bread, but that was about all. A moment later the archangel added, "Oh, just peachy. I just learned new things. Like the fact there is actually a limit to how much sugar humans can eat."

He sounded more disgruntled over that fact than anything else. Cut down on his sugar intake; what was his existence coming to?

"Oh, humans have a tendancy of making a mess out of things," he commented. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd stumbled upon a society after it had collapsed. At least this one seemed to have measures in place for rebuilding - even if those measures included kidnapping people and convincing them they lived here, which was what he believed.

"You'd think so." The Doctor browsed what passed for the bakery's available wares. "But then, they probably didn't expect their workers to wake up with no recollection of how to bake." Or to have to replace them. His brow quirked with amusement. "Been indulging, have you?" Again, his eyes scanned the bread they had to offer, which didn't look all that appetising. "Doesn't seem like you have anything with a high sugar content." A hint of a grin crossed his lips as he looked back to the man. "Or are you holding out on the rest of us?"

"They're great at making messes," Gabriel agreed with a grin which belied the sharpness of his eyes as he studied the man. Not human, eh? Gabriel had to wonder what he was, then. In these meatsuits he couldn't have said if anyone was another angel.

"'Course, I've gotta admit they're not the only ones with talent," he added grudgingly a moment later, thinking of his brothers. Then he laid a hand over his heart, summoning up pure innocence to counteract the paleness of his face. "Who, me? Of course I am. What's the use in being a baker if you can't sample the goods?"

They, indeed. He looked the man over with a curiosity that gave away that he'd caught the implications behind that. If he wasn't human, either, the Doctor had to wonder what he was. But asking didn't seem like the best choice when, if his suspicions were correct, they were likely being observed.

He gave a chuckle. "Oh, of course. But if you sample them all, you won't have much left to sell to customers, now will you?" His hand rose to waggle a finger. "And you'll wind up overindulging. But I guess that's a lesson you've already learned, hmm?"

The man's curiosity was seen and acknowledged with an ironic and knowing quirk of Gabriel's eyebrow, but the archangel chose not to raise the topic either. It was one thing to thumb his nose at the Workers by referencing his name and disbelieving the dream theory. It was another to say outright he was Saint Gabriel, archangel, where he was likely being spied on. There was a scale to being stupidly confrontational!

Especially since he hadn't quite worked out just what they'd done to him when they took him away.

"There was only one," he told the man with the faintest trace of a pout. "It was an experiment, but it wasn't exactly something we could sell, even in pieces. So I thought, what better way to make sure it didn't go to waste than to eat it?"

He grimaced and sank back in the chair, moving carefully in case his stomach chose to object again.

"Only one?" A look of disbelief crossed his face. "That must have been a large thing to have caused such discomfort. I'm guessing a cake, then." What else would a baker make that would be large enough that to eat it in one sitting would make you sick? "Unless, of course, you were experimenting in extraordinarily large danishes." He chuckled.

He watched the man move, giving a small frown. "Should you be working in your state? Though if moving causes discomfort, I suppose getting out of here wouldn't be a high priority. All that walking about and all." A shame, really. He would have liked to speak the this fellow somewhere more private. But if he was stuck here, it wasn't like the opportunity wouldn't come up. "No, probably better to let your stomach settle before you go strolling about. Perhaps nibble a piece of bread. It might help."

Aziraphale sighed. What tremendous stealth, angel. Pulling himself to his feet, he smoothed down the front of his jacket, cheeks blazing with embarrassment and indignity.

"Have a nice discussion?" he snapped back before he could help himself, then cleared his throat and bent down to retrieve his glasses. He put them in his front pocket, for something to do. He did not appreciate the sudden scrutiny, although turnabout was fair play, he supposed,and he had been watching this . . . individual without permission.

He was not very ashamed of himself, he realized to some dismay.

"It was a wedding cake," Gabriel admitted, making a face. "I can't even bake a danish, but I baked a wedding cake." Thus the weirdness. Something was wrong; he just wasn't sure how, exactly. Not that he was going to let on quite yet. Instead he looked thoughtful. "Mind you, there's an idea. Nothing wrong with giant danishes."

Except that the mere thought was making him feel sick again and, really, a human constitution sucked. It was just wrong that the thought of more sweets should make him feel worse. "That's why I'm out here," he told the old man. "All that food in the kitchen--guess my co-slave started to get worried I might have something more to add to the mixer."

And, frankly, throwing up was an experience he had thus far managed to avoid and would very much like to not have. It had been a close one when he'd come in, which was why he'd stationed himself out here. "To be honest," he grumbled, eyeing the far-too-bare cabinets, "I'm about ready to climb the walls. I can still smell him trying to bake things and it's driving me nuts."

"Sure, it was illuminating," Gabriel said without missing a beat, though that didn't stop the fact his eyes narrowed. Well, then; he'd been overheard. Now the question was whether this guy thought he was insane or actually knew something about 'discussions'.

"I think the line's broken though," he added with a winsome smile. "So if you're looking for call someone up, you're going to need more than a dime." That'll give him something to think about. Or react to. Maybe.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in irritation. What an idiot. He hated word games. "Maybe you're using the wrong line," he said archly. "This place is astonishingly awful. And I think I lost all my dimes while I was sleeping in any case."

"A wedding cake!" The incredulous look was obvious. "Well, at least you'll be prepared should anyone wish to get married, hmm? Might I suggest trying cupcakes next time? Much smaller, easier to share." He grinned. He wouldn't mind a cupcake, or anything besides rations, really. Perhaps he should try some of their bread.

"Oh, well. Perhaps a stroll would do you some good, then? I'd suggest some fresh air, but that's not much of an option, is it?" He frowned. Being cooped up underground didn't seem like a very good way of reintegrating people. What if someone were claustrophobic? At least the cave was fairly large. "At the very least, you'd be able to get away from the food."

Malcolm hadn't really visited the bar, aside from getting sent out now and again to either look into some minor scuffle outside or someone who'd drunk themselves blind--the latter he could hardly blame anyone for at this rate. He hadn't been aware at the time when he spotted a familiar face around there though that said face would fall into that category.

"Mr. Wilton," he'd started politely, but, even with the bar, the boozy smell seemed to just eminate from the strange, soul-seeing man. Oh boy. "Trying to see those souls through beer goggles, are we?"

Gabriel had been making steady in-roads into the bar's resources for close to a three hours now. Sure, at first he hadn't held back in favour of keeping an eye out for someone interesting, but eventually that slid into 'seeing how much alcohol it took to get a powerless angel drunk'. And he had a lot of practice drinking.

"Heeey, Mr Brit!" Gabriel waggled his finger at Malcolm with a lazy, lopsided grin. "You'd be s'prised how clarifying beer goggles can be." He put his head on the side and lifted his glass. "B'sides, it's whiskey."

"You'd be amazed at what sort of connection I know how to get even with faulty lines," Gabriel said, his smile turning somewhat more sardonic and his gaze still on the other. He wondered if the Temple was watched just as everything else likely was. "I'm pretty sure the Workers have been stiffing us."

"Repairman, are you? How respectable. So why wasn't it working?" Aziraphale challenged. "Besides, if I wanted to find my Father - " A hint of emphasis there. " - I'd find him on the main land. Apparently."

He sat down squarely on one of the seats and crossed his right leg over his left, feeling a bit more in control. This one might not be as clever as he thought he was. "'Stiffing us' implies that you are unsatisfied with living in a cave."

"Jack of all trades," Gabriel told him lightly, but where the stranger sat, Gabriel chose to remain standing, loose and deceptively relaxed, his hands gesturing. "Just got here, haven't had the chance to figure out the problem yet."

He didn't like this man. He was snide in the 'I know better than you' way. Kind of like some of Gabriel's brothers. (The thought was both interesting and a pain, and Gabriel wasn't sure whether he wanted it or not.)

"Hey, if you're fine with living like a mole, that's up to you," he said with an expansive shrug, the sardonic little smile never leaving his face. "Some of us like the air, water and just a little less Hell-landscape."

"We've all just got here," Aziraphale said dismissively, inspecting his nails. He was being petulant, but something about this man rubbed him entirely the wrong way - not least the fact that if he was an angel, or had been, he might pose a direct threat to Aziraphale's continued good health, depending how faithful he was. "I should think the problem is fairly obvious."

He did laugh a bit at the Hell comment. "Very subtle." He should shut up, he really should. Hinting would only take him so far. But hanging around with demons was a bad influence, and he went on: "Moles are God's creatures, you know, just like the both of us. Surely you've figured that out by now."

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.

"I don't like submitting to the obvious," Gabriel said smartly. "Usually it means you're missing something far more complicated and fun under the surface." Never mind that he had been on the apocalypse bandwagon for a long time, but he'd cracked that habit!

"Oh, I like moles," assured Gabriel with a smirk, waggling his fingers in midair. "They're small and furry, and dig excellent potholes to trick people into stepping through. But I'm not a mole, and if you are, then all I can say is: where did you buy your costume?"

"Mmnnnope. Nope, I wouldn't say." The archangel beckoned Malcolm closer, leaning forward on his stool and almost sliding off with a 'whoops!' He re-centred himself with a disturbing giggle and then crooked a finger at Malcolm again. "Come join me, Mr Brit. Lessee how much booze it takes to loosen that stiff upper lip."

Aziraphale hated it when unpleasant people made good points. That did not, of course, negate the validity of said points. He'd always been a bit passive (that had been his job, generally speaking, to obey orders and not take initiative), but that didn't mean he ought to be forever. He surrendered the argument with a quick shrug.

A smile appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth, then flickered away. "The 1950s, or so I've been told," he added breezily. "And yours?"

Aha; victory! Mentally Gabriel tallied that one up to him and shrugged easily. "Mine's a bit worn in," he said. "A family heirloom, you know how it is. They're just that old and you should really let 'em go, but nope, they're just too comfortable and there's no guarantee you'll find one that breaks in just as nicely."

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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