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.

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.

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?"

When Elena walked into the bakery, she'd been half-expecting to hear a lot of yelling and crashing behind the counter again. Especially since Sylvester seemed bent on learning how to bake a cake, even though he obviously didn't know the first thing about being in a kitchen. The silence was a bit eerie.

"Excuse me," she said under her breath, as she took the liberty of ducking under the counter to enter the back area of the bakery, where she assumed only employees were allowed normally. But somehow, this (all of this) was far from normal, so it could probably be excused.

What she saw was... surprising.

Elena leaned against the doorway to the kitchen in silence, as she watched Sylvester absorbed in his work, icing a massive cake that she was pretty sure he hadn't known how to do a few days ago. Unless he'd been ridiculously modest, which, coming from him, was doubtful. All in all, this was pretty suspicious.

"You learn fast," she said out loud, both eyebrows raised.

"Try not to fall off there, mate," Owen cautioned. He was trying to be stern about it, but really, it looked like customer was trying to get as drunk as humanly possible and it meant Owen would be keeping a sharp eye on him throughout the night. So far, Gabriel didn't seem in danger of getting himself sick or overly rowdy, so the next drink was set in front of the man with a light thunk.

Though, the attitude was still a bit worrying... Hell, Owen could use a bit of distraction from his own niggling and insistent uneasiness. "Testing out all the flavours of the alcohol rainbow?"

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