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[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

[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.