(no subject)

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

Date: February 1st, 2001, evening
Setting: Tadfield Manor, hospital wing
Status: Private - Crowley and Gabriel (Complete)
Summary: Crowley admits defeat.


The hospital was quiet.

Normally, with so little activity, Gabriel would not have spent his whole shift in the place; would have checked in from time to time, and relied on whatever intuition alerted him to the needs of the hospital. But tonight in particular it wore on him that he had no place else to go, no other reason to stay in the manor than for the few patients that might need his help, and a promise he'd made, months ago, to the Antichrist.

He did his best to keep busy, working his way industriously through a stack of paperwork that had been neglected in light of the past weeks' hecticness. There were a few things, perhaps, on which he would later consult his assistant Dobiel, but for the most part, it was an endless litany of signing his name.

Older than Gabriel, than Jibrail, than any other name the mortals had given him: a graceful sweep across the bottoms of the pages of characters more ancient than Time.

Occasionally, the strain of the unearthly language would cause his fountain pen to dry up, and the angel would have to pause to will it back in to working order, but mostly the act was a bit monotonous, and required little thought.

It was who he was, who he had been since his creation. He who stands before God. Nothing through the centuries, not Lucifer's whisperings nor his most recent trials, had ever changed that.

He heard the sound of footsteps from the hospital's entrance, and, weary as he was, was grateful that he felt none of the sense of urgency that accompanied critically wounded patients. He set down his pen, surreptitiously sending the paperwork back to his desk Upstairs, and stood to see what was needed of him.

The aura which had become familiar as Crowley's struck him more sharply than its usual sense of evil muted by centuries of Earth; the displeasure evident on the demon's face despite the protection of the ever-present dark glasses might account for that.

"Crowley," he said somewhat neutrally in greeting. He hadn't checked up on the demon since first healing him upon his return; and though the angel knew he could have left in no safer care than Adam's, he wasn't sure what that would mean in terms of their tenuous etiquette.

Comments

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Practically vibrating with suppressed anger and frustration after his conversation with Aziraphale (http://community.livejournal.com/neutral_omens/126034.html#cutid1), Crowley dragged himself back to the hospital, faintly relieved to find the Snob there this time.

"Gabriel," he bit out in response. Very little of his anger was directed at the archangel, but he assumed a great deal more went the other direction. Still, it didn't matter. Even if he hadn't been the bearer of bad news and the pursuer of Gabriel's lover, the angel was too conscious of sides for them to ever be able to get along. At the moment, Crowley thought he probably had the right idea. If he never saw another damn angel again, it'd be too soon. But it was the wrong time to think about what just happened. He needed to focus.

The demon blinked, trying to figure out how to ask for help without actually asking for help. "I can't... I mean I don't... Look, you're obligated to work in here, right? For whomever might be injured? Regardless of personal matters?"

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

"No," Gabriel answered curtly, and as far as he was concerned, it was true; what he did was voluntary, and he did not report to Adam in the end. The Antichrist had indicated as much (http://community.livejournal.com/neutral_omens/95781.html?thread=1649957#t1649957) in the past.

However, though Crowley may not have been the first being Gabriel had been hoping to see, he had proved himself a friend to Belial, and the angel wasn't going to turn him away without reason.

"What do you want, Crowley?"

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Crowley stared at Gabriel for an awkward eternity, deciding. But he really didn't have much choice, did he? Checking that they were alone, the demon extended his battered wings with a grimace. A few scant tufts of broken black feathers lay in ragged patches against the thin skin of his wings. Scabs dotted the surface where the others had been violently torn out. And the right wing hung crookedly - the delicate, hollow bones broken or fractured in several places.

Unable to come up with any words to explain or ask or hide his humiliation, Crowley simply looked at the Messenger; his expression as blank as he could make it.

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

The sight was enough to shatter the ice of Gabriel's expression: wings were a matter of great importance among angels, and he could only imagine the blow to the demon's pride just to admit to an enemy such injuries. It must have happened when the demon had been in Hell, he realized, and wondered how Crowley had lived all this time with the pain such extensive damage would have caused all - and how Gabriel himself had not noticed to begin with.

"Crowley..." the angel began in barely more than a whisper, a troubled look to his blue eyes, but it was pointless; there was little he could say that would make a difference. Instead he moved to the nearest exam room, holding the door for the demon and his delicately extended wings. "Come in, sit down. Please. I'll see what I can do."

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Surprised but faintly encouraged, Crowley carefully flexed his wings back and passed through the door Gabriel held open. It meant that he'd have to turn his back on the angel, but if Gabriel wanted to do him harm, he'd have plenty of opportunity. Loathe as he was to admit it, he was just going to have to trust him.

He sat where he was told to; the slight tremor in the base of his wings was visually amplified by the size of the limbs as he let them relax to their normal resting position, nearly brushing the sides of the small room.

Still he said nothing. He had nothing to say. But he did watch the angel's movements intently, acting more like a scared, wounded cat than he would have liked to admit.

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

It was fairly obvious from the awkward angle at which it hung that Crowley's right wing had been broken in several places. Gabriel thought he should start there; even with the damage to the feathers so frighteningly extensive, the fractures were surely more painful. But before setting about locating the various breaks, Gabriel glanced critically at the demon's strained expression. Its stern lines spoke mostly of frustration, but there was perhaps some fear, some pain, masked beneath.

"Do you think you'll be all right if I use my powers for this, Crowley?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle to show he intended no offense. "I had to do quite a bit last time, and I know that must have been a strain... If you think it'd be best not to, there are other options."

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

"It can't hurt worse than..." he began, but Crowley stopped himself, gritting his teeth.

Somehow the angel's gentleness was worse than if he'd coldly turned him away. Crowley didn't want to owe anyone anything. But especially not an angel - not Gabriel. He didn't want to have to feel thankful or have to be polite. The demon was not currently in any mood for polite. Though if he wanted to be able to use his wings again, he was going to have to be.

"It's fine. Just do it."

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

Crowley's abruptness brought Gabriel back to their situation: angel and demon, despite Crowley's tattered wings, despite living together under cover of the Antichrist's rules. He would still help Crowley to the best of his abilities, but he wasn't going to expend any energy on sympathy when Crowley set such a precedent; he and the demon were not on the best of terms even when Crowley's manner wasn't sharpened by pain. He turned his attention to the crooked right wing.

As he traced the paths of the delicate bones in his mind, he found fractures in several places, some so concentrated it looked as though they'd crushed his wings... but he didn't need the details, he thought firmly, just needed to know how to fit the pieces back together.

Wordlessly, Gabriel reached out his hands to cautiously support the broken wing, starting his work quickly before Crowley could protest. He began at the base, radiating outward; working as quickly as he could to reduce the pain without missing anything. He could not restore the strength - nor even, he was afraid, the feathers - but he sealed together bone and marrow until there was no sign left that the pieces had been cleft. By the time he'd finished, the right wing arched up in proper form, mirroring the left.

"All right?" Gabriel asked after the concentrated silence, looking over his work critically. His own joints felt stiff after the expenditure of energy. "Did I miss anything?"

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

He didn't want angelic sympathy. He wanted to rage and scream and set things on fire. But what did it matter that he lost the job he loved to take on a task he loathed? What did it matter that his ex-lover had returned without gaining an ounce of understanding in the intervening time? What did it matter that he was Hell's punching bag? In the larger view, absolutely nothing. In the personal view, everything.

What Crowley wanted, more than anything else at the moment, was to have some kind of resolution. To have one problem solved no matter how small. To feel like he had any control over his own life. He focused on his wings. If he could tolerate this, keep his mouth shut long enough to not alienate Gabriel entirely, he could have that. So the demon sat stoically, trying not to grimace as he felt the bones beneath his skin draw together and knit, trying to ignore the feel of the angel's hands on a very sensitive area.

When Gabriel finished, Crowley came out of his self-induced daze and flexed his wings slowly once or twice. They'd be stiff and achingly sore for a few days as the bruising healed, but they were gloriously free of the sharp, stabbing pains he'd been fighting all week, having only managed to mend one or two of the multiple fractures himself.

"No. That's... I think you got it."

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

Gabriel nodded, making no comment. Crowley seemed no less tense after the healing, though perhaps that was in part because, despite his efforts, the demon's wings had not been completely restored.

"I'm not sure about the feathers," he admitted after a moment; and indeed, while he had seen angels lose patches of feathers in fights and other such circumstances, he had never been witness to such extensive damage. There were very few of the sleek black feathers left, and most of Crowley's wings were covered in nothing more than wan skin, so thin in places that one could see every detail of the maze of capillaries beneath. "I don't think either of us could replace all of them. Not in one sitting, anyway."

It was a delicate issue, and he waited for Crowley's input on how to continue - no matter how insulting the delivery might prove to.

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Crowley's tenseness had little to do with Gabriel other than him being a reminder of his species. The demon was, in fact, quite grateful for the Messenger's assistance, though he wasn't sure how he'd manage to say so. He was mostly furious at Aziraphale. And for the loss of his beautifully kept feathers.

"Don't waste your energy. They don't grow in properly if they're forced," he grumbled. "I'll just have to wait." With a mournful look at the bedraggled things, Crowley prepared to put them away, ignoring the faint stabs of broken quills into his exposed skin.

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

"I'll still fix the scratches, unless you object," the angel said. Head bowed slightly, Gabriel glanced critically up at the few clumps of straggling black feathers. "And I could at least take out the rest," he suggested carefully, "so that they won't be in the way, and your feathers can grow in evenly."

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Torn between not wanting to be touched or even in the angel's presence and getting his wings entirely healed with no effort on his own part - or as much as they could be - Crowley hesitated a moment.

"Why would you do that?" he finally asked. It wasn't a no.

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

Gabriel's expression did not change, which was perhaps more of a betrayal than he realized; for anger, annoyance he would not have hidden from the demon, but such uncertainty as this situation held he dared not show.

For in the logic he had always known, he had no real reason to help Crowley - no reason, in fact, to care what became of the demon. There was a vague promise, made to the Antichrist, to help when he was needed. But his duties in the manor were not as binding as those which he had been created to fulfill, and Gabriel had to consider more carefully anymore where his line was drawn: The politics of Hell were not meant to be his concern, after all, nor was their malfeasance of their agents. But Belial had made them his concern, hadn't he? And already Gabriel knew his concept of Enemy and Friend were much more plastic than they once had been.

Perhaps it was because he had already seen fit to help Michael, who had shifted so abruptly from one category to another. Or perhaps it was the concern Crowley had shown for Aziraphale over time, whether or not their relationship could be considered a romantic one.

Or maybe it was nothing more complicated than the fact that Gabriel yet recognized the face he now beheld, carefully obscured by dark glasses, from some other place - from a very different time - where he had once known it by a name he still remembered, even if Crowley did not.

The angel was not ready to admit to any one of these reasons, though likely each held its sway. Instead, though, he settled on one which he suspected that they both understood more readily than they would perhaps admit. He tilted his head, glancing almost curiously at Crowley, and answered simply, "Because you helped Belial escape."

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Not being at the top of his game at the time, Gabriel's expression, or lack thereof, passed Crowley by, not leading to any great revelations about the angel's moods or motivations. On this occasion, he took the Messenger's word at face-value. He'd helped Belial, so Belial's grateful lover would like to help him. A stupid notion, and classically 'angelic', but it made enough sense for the demon not to suspect anything further. Actually, he began considering how to manipulate that impulse to force people to help him by helping their friends. Anything to avoid thinking of how he'd helped Belial in the first place. He knew, probably better than the angel what it truly meant.

"All right," he muttered, not meeting Gabriel's eyes. "But make it fast."

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

Gabriel nodded, though he had no intention of rushing as he continued.

He worked by clumps of feathers in order to strike some balance between overwhelming the demon with angelic influence and wasting his efforts tackling one feather at a time. In his awareness, he followed the shaft of each feather to where their quills were buried in the flesh, gently severing each connection until there was nothing left holding the misshapen feathers in place. As they fell in a fluttering cascade, each feather was dissolved deliberately into nothing, so that when Gabriel was finished, there was no sign of even a single black feather left in the room.

Then it took only a moment to deal with the small scratches from broken quills. Even the loss of what few feathers had been left seemed strange; Gabriel had seen demons who chose bat-like wings deliberately, but had never seen wings plucked bare to achieve the look. Seeking not to stress Crowley further, he kept his expression neutral, despite what pang of sympathy he experienced, and looked them over only as long as it took to discern that he had healed all the cuts and scratches he could see.

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Surprised at Gabriel's thoughtfulness in evaporating the remains of his broken plumage, Crowley curled one bald wing to look balefully at it. They'll grow back, he told himself. It'll take a year or so and itch like hell, but they will grow back the same as before. I'll be able to fly again someday...

Catching sight of the archangel's carefully blank expression, the demon snarled and snapped his wings back in more forcefully than was probably advisable. He didn't know what thoughts Gabriel was hiding from him but he was certain he wouldn't like them. Crowley rotated his right shoulder a couple of times, feeling that everything was correct and stood.

"Gabriel..." he began stiffly, without any idea of what to say next. Demons don't say thank you.

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

"You should rest a while," Gabriel said, in lieu of waiting for Crowley to continue; he didn't need gratitude, and the demon didn't seem ready to express it. "It'll have been wearing, the pain, even if it hadn't been healed by other powers."

Again, he expected no agreement, nor even a response. But there was only one subject he wished to discuss with Crowley, and it seemed unfair somehow to bring up Belial while the Serpent still suffered for his sake. So he filled that void with words that he doubted Crowley would appreciate, but hoped the demon would attend to nonetheless.

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Crowley nodded. He fully intended to sleep for a few days with the dual purpose of healing and avoiding Aziraphale.

Sliding up his sunglasses and expending a little effort to ensure that his shirt and jacket were presentable, the demon walked past Gabriel to pause in the open doorway. There might be one way to thank the angel...

Not looking back, he spoke flatly. "He was in Wales yesterday. Near the ocean." And without another word, Crowley was gone.

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

Gabriel didn't turn when Crowley spoke, nor did he try to respond; any words caught in his throat and died away uselessly. It was more thanks than he had expected from Crowley, and while he was grateful that the demon could see fit to share with him such information, the blunt statement caught him, harsh and cold in his chest.

For a being of such infinite perceptions as an angel, Wales suddenly seemed unspeakably bleak and far away.